Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Fem!reader

ouroboros

MY MASTERLIST

pairing(s): eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Look, you're only helping him out because your friends have taken pity on him. It's totally not because of his stupid, pretty face and how much you want to kiss it. Totally.

words: 8.1k

tags: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI), smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, mild choking, dom!eddie, smoking, drinking, reader is in college and eddie's age, overuse of the word fuck, i googled motorhomes circa 1984 for this fuckin thing, slight canon divergence ig, also slightly inspired by touch tank by quinnie

additional notes: i am AWARE he doesn't have an ouroboros ring don't look at me. it's about the symbolism

taglist blog: @rosemareblogs

“All right, Munson, it’s me. Don’t fuckin’ attack me with a broken bottle, kapeesh?”

The line is dead for a long moment, and then Eddie Munson’s staticky voice crackles through the speaker of your walkie. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes and clap the antenna down with a small sigh, then cut the engine to your far-too-conspicuous Pontiac. You suppose that the only thing working in your favor is that Reefer Rick’s lake house is surrounded by overgrown foliage that you can tuck the car back into, away from the road. 

As the eldest of the Hawkins crew, you’ve taken on the job of “Eddie duty,” as Steve calls it. As if he could be bothered to leave the Wheelers’ basement to run errands instead. There had been a long discussion, wherein your entire group insisted that you were the choice candidate because you’re old enough to pick up a six pack of beer on a moment’s notice. Plus, you aren’t directly linked to Eddie in any way, so it’s a win-win. You look after Munson, and everyone else works on hunting up this “Vecna” creature that you can’t exactly wrap your head around.

Honestly, you could offer to have Eddie stay at your place for a while. You would, except you really don’t love the idea of being arrested. But the more trips you make out here, the more that seems to be becoming a moot point.

Carrying a paper grocery bag in one hand and a six pack in the other, you trudge up the front porch steps and find the door to the house already unlocked for you. There’s a musty cloud of stale air that hits you as you pass through the threshold, and then your eyes find Eddie’s dark head of hair leaning halfway out the kitchen window. 

“What… are you doing?” You ask as the screen door swings shut behind you. 

Eddie pivots his torso, looking down his nose and smiling brightly at you as he continues fiddling with something on the window frame. He has a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, which bounces up and down as he mutters, “Window’s jammed. Don’t wanna leave it like that, someone could break in.”

“The door was fully unlocked,” you grumble at him as you plop the grocery bag on the counter and rip a beer out of the six pack to crack it open.

“But that’s ‘cause I knew you were coming.” There’s a snap, and the window slides noisily shut as Eddie blows out a cloud of smoke. “Hey- who wrote ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s?’” 

“Truman Capote, why?” 

“I finished Rick’s crossword, I just needed 24 across.” He sidles up beside you, grabs a pencil from the kitchen table and scrawls ‘Capote’ in the only empty space on the newspaper’s crossword of the day. 

“You’ve been sitting here doing crossword puzzles for the last two days?” 

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. High intelligence, low charisma and all.” 

“What?”

“It’s, uh… D&D stats? Dungeons and- you know what, never mind. Point is, I’m no good for anything else at the moment.” Your senses are assaulted by cheap beer and tobacco as you take a sip from your can, and then hold it out to Eddie. He takes it appreciatively, with a quiet nod at you as he trades you his half-smoked cigarette for the can. 

You avert your eyes almost bashfully as you grab the cigarette with your mouth rather than your hands, which are pulling cans of Campbell’s soup out of the grocery bag. Your lips brush the tips of his fingers before you straighten up, and Eddie clears his throat and turns away from you to lean against the counter. You both regress into an awkward, pregnant silence. 

You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been on shift with Robin and Steve when Dustin Henderson came running in and turned the video store into his personal manhunt headquarters. It was the worst case of right place, wrong time. You don’t know what you’re doing at any given moment, but you can say with absolute certainty that Eddie isn’t a killer. And with everything going on, the only moments in the last week that have made any sense to you at all are when you’ve been alone in this dusty ass house with Munson, sharing a beer or a cigarette or both before you have to leave him to his devices again. You find it comforting that he seems just as clueless as you are, and there’s no other expectations that you put onto each other besides that mutual confusion. 

Plus, you’ll admit it: you find him intriguing. Interesting. Eddie was supposed to graduate the same year as you, but while you moved on, got a job and spent a few semesters at community college, he stayed at Hawkins High. You hadn’t paid much attention to him while you were going to school together, but you’d had an idea of him in your head. You figured he would be your stereotypical, cookie-cutter metalhead with a chip on his shoulder. 

You couldn’t have been more wrong about that, it seems. 

“Oh, um, I got you some fancy ass chocolates,” you say, breaking the silence so suddenly that he almost flinches. You pull a gold foiled box out of the paper bag, setting it on the tile counter beside him. “Just figured, y’know. It’s good for morale or whatever.”

Eddie stares down at the box of chocolates like it might explode. He drums his fingers anxiously on the side of his beer before his brown eyes flick up to yours. “You’re serious?”

“Um… yes? They’re just,” you shrug, looking for the right words to offer him, as he’s looking a bit overwhelmed and you aren’t really sure why. “I mean, they’re my favorites. They’ve got this caramel center that isn’t, like, super sweet, so you can eat a bunch and not feel sick to your stomach. I dunno, I just thought maybe it would be good for you to have a little variety. Or something.”

Eddie stares at you for a long time. Then he says, “Were they, uh… expensive?”

“What?” Your eyes widen, and your face feels suddenly hot. They were expensive, as far as candy goes, but you figured it was a luxury he could probably use right about now. But he looks so hesitant to even touch them, almost like he’s horrified that you might have dared to spend more than the bare minimum on him. Which, fuck that. Absolutely fuck that. So, you correct yourself quickly, and you lie, “No, they’re normal priced. I guess. It doesn’t matter.”

It still takes a moment for him to nod, but he still doesn’t move to touch the box. “Thank you.”

You blink down at the paper bag, and figure it would be best to change the subject. “I also got some TV dinners in case you were maybe getting sick of soup. And, uh… I picked up a deck of cards. In case you were getting bored.”

“Because that’s the most important thing on everyone’s mind right now. Whether I’m bored,” Eddie says with a smirk, but takes the unopened deck from you and sets his beer can down, regardless. You see him fiddling with something out of the corner of your eye as you shove the frozen dinners into the freezer, and when you turn back to him, he’s holding a silver ring out to you. 

“What is it?” You ask him with a short laugh, taking the ring from him.

“An Ouroboros. A snake swallowing its own tail. It’s, uh… a symbol of eternal life.” He shrugs one shoulder, and then nods slightly toward the box on the counter. Your eyes follow the curve of his lips as he smiles. “For the chocolates.”

“I told you it’s not a big deal,” you argue, trying to hand him back the ring.

“The ring isn’t a big deal either. It’s cheap metal, I got it for a buck and a quarter from a guy downtown.”

You can’t think of anything to say to that. If it’s really not that big a deal, you shouldn’t treat it as such; but something about him giving you one of his rings in exchange for a box of chocolates is a bit formal. And despite what he says, the ring is a bit heavier than you’d expect from ‘cheap metal.’

Eddie laughs and reaches forward, but instead of taking the ring from you, he plucks the still burning cigarette from the fingers of your other hand. “Do I look like I’d bullshit you about that?”

“Dunno. I’m learning not to judge a book by its cover.” 

His stare lingers on yours for a long time, while he kind of curls inwards on himself as he takes a drag of your shared cigarette. If you were any kind of romantic, you would probably think that now is a good time to smack the cigarette out of his hand and kiss him, or something equally idiotic. Maybe hyperfocus on the fact that you’ve shared that cigarette multiple times, so you most definitely have him in your mouth already. That his lips are ridiculously pink, and look so lush and stupidly kissable. And if you were to kiss him, he’d probably taste just the same as you. Familiar. Desperate. 

But, you’re not. A romantic, that is. You don’t even really like him- of course not, you barely know him. You just… really like his hair. And his neck. And his hands, and fingers, and the way he holds himself, and how you’d really love to see the look in his eyes if you pushed him against the counter and took his cock in your mouth-

You don’t have the time or the energy for wishful thinking, so you let it drop, and you put the ring into your jacket pocket. “Just let me know when you want it back, yeah?”

“Sure. Just as soon as I figure out how to play ‘go fish’ by myself,” he snorts playfully, shaking his unopened deck of cards at you, but his eyes flicker down at your empty hand for half a second. Then, his tone gains a note of seriousness when he adds, “Hey, thanks. For everything. Really.”

“No problem, babe,” you chirp. You clap him on the shoulder, trying to pass off the gesture as just you being friendly, but you nearly stutter when you add, “Who the hell else am I gonna share half a beer with, y’know?”

Eddie nods with a small smile, but you can tell that there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s refusing to voice. When you leave the house, you feel a bit like you’re running away from a bomb about to detonate.

You don’t sleep anymore.

Well, you haven’t slept soundly in about a week. It’s getting more and more like you’re scared to, for fear of getting Vecna’d, or… or whatever the hell the kids are calling it now. You like to think you’ve mastered the art of staying awake, staring at the Aerosmith poster across from your bed and trying not to nod off. 

Maybe it’s a bad idea to deprive yourself of sleep, but until you know that everything’s okay and there isn’t a man-hungry, Freddie Kreuger-ass monster lurking around in the dark ready to crush your bones, you’d rather play it safe. It would be easier if you had someone to stay with you, but your only compatriots are all crashing in the Wheeler’s basement, or in a dilapidated house on the edge of town. You’re on your own. 

Or so you thought.

“Guys? Dustin? Wheeler? Code red, I repeat- ah shit- CODE RED-” 

You nearly jump out of your skin, scrambling up and out of bed to grab the walkie that you’d plunked down on the dresser top when you got home. You frantically tug the antenna up as Eddie continues babbling through the line.

“Eddie? What’s happened?”

“Oh thank Christ, it’s you,” he says, and his relief is apparent in his voice. “We’ve got a problem- A bunch of fuckin’ basketball players are here, they’re in the house, I think they’re looking for me-” 

Your foot catches on your messed up bedsheet as you stumble to grab a pair of flannel pajama pants. Hopping on one foot to pull them on, balancing the walkie in your other hand, you interject, “Okay, where are you?”

“In the boat.” 

“The boat?” 

“The boat, the fuckin’- the boathouse, man, the shed! I’m in the shed!”  

“All right, I’m on my way. Keep the walkie on you, talk to me if anything happens, okay?” You set the walkie down on your kitchen counter to finish pulling on your pants and grab a denim jacket off your footboard. 

“How the fuck did they find me?” 

“I don’t know.”

“What am I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know, Eddie, just-” you trip down your doorstep to your car, fumbling with your keys. “Just try to relax. Is there some place nearby that you can safely go? Can you get to makeout point?”

“I’d have to go uphill.” 

“Can you get there?” You tear out onto the road, pushing 90 as you turn onto a back road and head toward the lake. 

“Yeah, I can- I can try.” 

“Meet me there. Go, now.”

The line goes dead for a solid ten minutes, and in that time you’re trying not to panic. Periodically banging the flat of your palm against the steering wheel, punching the accelerator as hard as it can take the heap of metal uphill toward makeout point. You tear past Reefer Rick’s house to see lights on in the windows, and what looks like Jason Carver’s car pulled up next to the porch, but you have no genuine ability to focus on anything other than getting to Eddie as soon as possible. 

Makeout point takes the form of a gap in the trees right in front of a scenic highway pullout. You jerk the car over onto the shoulder of the road and hit the brakes, lifting the walkie off the dashboard. 

“I’m here, Eddie, do you copy?”

Silence. You sit in it for a minute, heartbeat thudding in your chest and knee bouncing beneath the steering wheel. You start worrying that you might have to get out and hunt for him. You try to take stock of what all you have in the trunk to defend yourself, if Hawkins’ very own basketball playing cult-leader-in-the-making decides to try and attack you, too.

“Eddie, I swear to fucking god, if you’re dead I’m gonna kill you-” 

Eddie barrels out of the bushes towards the car, and fully dives headfirst through the passenger’s side window. 

“You couldn’t just open the fuckin’ door like a normal person?” you splutter, using one hand to try to steady him as he grunts and kicks his way into the front seat. 

“Nothing about this is normal- DRIVE!”  

You whip the car around, flying back down the hill towards town. You brake as you approach Reefer Rick’s, seeing a couple dark silhouettes loitering outside of the house. 

“Fuck, get down,” you hiss, yanking on the lapel of Eddie’s jacket. 

“What?”

“Get. Down.”  

Eddie grunts as he turns and face-plants directly into your lap, his nose digging into the meat of your thigh through your pajama pants. He gives a muffled whine of discomfort, shuffles around a bit, but relaxes once you place your hand solidly on the back of his head to keep him there. You don’t slow as you pass the house. You think you can make out Jason Carver’s blond head moving toward the boathouse, but you refuse to spend any time rubber-necking. 

“What the hell took you so long?” you ask as you release Eddie’s head. Your hand smooths over his tangled hair a bit as he pulls back from you.

He shoulders his way into a sitting position and reaches into his jacket to pull out a mangled golden package. “I knew you were lying when you said they weren’t expensive.”

“You went back for the fucking chocolates?” you wheeze, caught somewhere between absolutely livid and stupidly endeared to him. “You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!”

“Yeah? Well, how do you think I felt?” He tries to adjust his legs on his side of the car, but his knees knock against the glove box, regardless. “I had to launch the fucking boat to get them off my ass. Good thing I fixed that window, I could just slide it open and grab the box off the counter before I ran-”

“You could have just left them,” you argue with a roll of your eyes.

“I didn’t even get to open it! I wasn’t gonna waste them.” He huffs an indignant sigh and remains quiet for a few seconds, before he inevitably asks, “So, what’s the plan? Where are we going?”

“Big Rock Park.”

“The campground?” Eddie scoffs, snapping the sun visor on the passenger’s side up and out of the way so he can see the road, for what it’s worth. “Why would we go there?”

“It’s where I live.”

“You live at the campground?” Eddie turns his head and stares at you incredulously. You shoot him an annoyed glance.

“First of all, it’s a fucking RV resort, I pay monthly rent. Second, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated? Fucking try me, I’ve got a group of jocks trying to hunt me down, the cops after me, a brain-sucking killer monster sonofabitch who crumpled Chrissy Cunningham up like a piece of paper in my goddamn living room-” Eddie’s voice comes out shrill as he ticks off his different points on his fingers, which you can see out of the corner of your eye are shaking with nerves. “Can’t get a whole lot more complicated than that!”

You sigh, refraining from rolling your eyes again and trying to determine the best way to describe your living situation. “Senior year I was saving up for a car, I ended up buying the family camper off my parents so that I could move out instead. I keep it at the RV park, it’s nice, there’s a water hookup and I don’t have my parents breathing down my neck 24/7.” You shrug, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel. “My cousin dumped this piece of shit on me last year so I didn’t have to drive my house around when I needed to get to class at the college. So, yeah. I live at the campground, sure.”

You can feel his eyes on you, heavy like a lead weight on your shoulder. You sit in silence for a few more seconds before you grit your teeth. “What is it?”

“I just… didn’t expect you to do that, y’know. I mean, I always knew you had balls-” He scoffs, and when you glance at him, his eyes are glued to the road ahead. “I remember when you told Jordan Byrd to eat shit in the middle of the cafeteria in junior year for dumping chocolate milk on your shoes, and that was the most trouble you ever got into.”

“That you knew about.”

He shoots you a deadpan look. “I just always thought you were so… straight laced. Never thought you’d rather live in a fucking camper than with your folks, I guess. I mean, I’d love to be able to do that for myself,” he mutters. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, and then gives you a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Except now I actually have to somehow prove I’m not a murderer, or I’m gonna be arrested and then my life is over. So I guess that’s the last thing I should be worried about right now.”

“Fair enough,” you say as you finally pull into the RV park and cut the engine in front of your camper. “But maybe we should just focus on one thing at a time. Like getting you a shower. You smell like shit.”

He dramatically swoons before giving you a shit-eating grin. “Aw. Keep talking like that and I’ll start to think you really like me-”

“Or I could just leave you in the car.”

“Right.” He throws open the door. “I forgot, you don’t have a sense of humor.”

Eddie Munson is in your shower. 

You sit on the floor of your motorhome, back to the built-in fridge and legs sprawled across the floor, feet nearly touching the front door. You can hear the water running in the sad excuse of a bathroom cubicle, and the sound of the spray dulling out occasionally with each move he makes under it. It’s making your skin crawl and the short hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He’s in your shower.   

Your discarded denim jacket hangs off the side of the bench that behaves as your sofa, just across from the booth that acts as your dining table. The gold foil package of overpriced chocolate that he stupidly risked his neck saving lays on the floor beside your hip. You're trying not to think of the fact that he’s naked on the other side of the door, in cramped quarters like this. The water on his naked skin, dripping down his torso and washing away the dirt and sweat from the last week. Him being forced to use the fruit-scented shampoo that you have, because up until this point it’s been only you. 

He’s in your shower. 

You rip your eyes from where they’ve gone a bit foggy, staring off into space at the open window above the microwave. You look down at your hands instead, in your lap, twirling the Ouroboros ring idly back and forth. It had fallen out of your jacket pocket when you took it off, and you didn’t have the heart to shove it away again. The snake is rather ornate, like it serves to prove a point. Even if it’s supposedly made of cheap metal, and it has no color other than its gleaming silver, it insists on standing out.

The sound of the water cuts out and only leaves the quiet noise of the local rock station playing Whitesnake on the transistor radio on your kitchen counter. You perk up a bit, your heart rate picking up speed as you hear a sort of wet rustling on the other side of the bathroom door, and then it pops open a crack. You see one of Eddie’s eyes, a flash of brown hair, and a white towel hung low on his hip. 

“Uh, do you have anything I can wear-?”

You snatch an extra pair of flannel pajama pants from the kitchen booth beside you and awkwardly try to jam it through the crack in the door. Eddie fumbles with it for a second before says a quick, “Thanks,” and all but slams the door shut. 

You try to collect yourself. Your face feels hot and you can almost feel your blood thrumming in your veins, and you go back to twirling the ring back and forth with more urgency this time. Fuck. Is this what it’s like to have a crush? It can’t be. You haven’t honestly had a crush on anyone since sophomore year, and it’s infuriating to think that Eddie Munson would be the one to call an end to your streak. 

Eddie pops his head out of the bathroom. “You don’t have any shirts, do you?”

“I don’t think any of mine would fit you, babe,” you mutter, pointedly not looking at his body. 

“Babe,” he echoes absently, like he’s trying to absorb the pet name. He hauls the wadded up pile of his previous outfit out of the bathroom and holds it up like it’s radioactive waste. “I got, uh… clothes.”

You blink, making eye contact with his knees. “Just toss them anywhere, I’ll do laundry tomorrow.”

Eddie tiptoes across your sprawled out legs and neatly tucks his pile of clothes into the kitchen booth before gracelessly plopping down onto the floor across from you. He lets out a long sigh, tilting his head back against the cabinet behind him and peering up through his lashes toward the ceiling. 

“We are so incredibly screwed, aren’t we?”

You turn your head towards him, and there isn’t a physical way that you can’t stare, now. Eddie’s hair is wiry and retains its curl when wet, long enough to hang down past his collarbone. His dark eyes are still pinned to the ceiling, but his head is tilted back, letting you get a good long look at his neck. His chest is riddled with small, discombobulated tattoos that range in style and color, like he just laid down on a table and told his friends to have a crack at doodling all over him. Which, if you’re honest, you could absolutely see him doing. 

You try to swallow down an uncomfortable dryness in your throat. The ring slips onto your thumb, and circles it with room to spare. “Maybe you are. I’m just the getaway driver, remember?”

His eyes find yours, but he doesn’t change the way his head is tilted, so he succeeds in looking down his nose at you and giving you a cheshire cat smile. “Aiding and abetting is a pretty serious crime, sweetheart. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

You make an ugly snort-scoffing sound, swiping the box of chocolates up off the ground and roughly ripping it open. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Why do you call me ‘babe?’”

“I- hhhh.” You grunt in irritation, digging a single chocolate out of the box and shoving it into your mouth while you try to think of an answer to that. “I call everyone ‘babe.’”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do!”

“You don’t call Harrington ‘babe,’” Eddie points out, a little smirk on his face as he takes the box of chocolates from you to dig one out for himself. “Or Nancy. I think you called Robin ‘honey’ once, but you were being sarcastic.”

“Well, maybe none of them get on my nerves like you do,” you snap. “Why are you paying so goddamn much attention to what I call people, anyways?

He dramatically clutches his hand to his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. “I? Get on your nerves? Impossible. You’re the most patient person I’ve ever met. Why, if I had all the ability in the world, I’m sure I still couldn’t get under that skin,” he proclaims with an over exaggeratedly deep voice. Noticing you shaking your head at a pathetic attempt to argue without saying anything, he outright laughs. “Honestly! If I get on your nerves so much, then why are you the one who brings me shit? Why’d you go out of your way to get me these expensive chocolates- which are really fucking good, by the way- and then save my ass from almost certain death?”

“Not certain death,” you grumble down at the box.

“Certain death,” he insists. “Why? If I’m so incredibly infuriating to you?”

“Because the others didn’t want to, and I’m not heartless.” Your voice is snippy and hinting at your distress. There’s a harsh ache in your chest, and the more you stare at him, the more you want to reach out and grab him. 

“Mhm, and is that why you also stuck around to smoke with me every time?” Eddie asks with a sing-songy tone.

“No, I did that because I like-” Catching yourself about to admit something you can’t take back, you interrupt yourself with a swift breath, and accidentally inhale a bit of chocolate. It takes a few awkward seconds for you to clear your throat, and you try hard to act normal, but he just has this way of not blinking when he’s focused on something, and right now that something is you.

“‘Because you like’ what?” He nudges your knee with his once you stop coughing like an idiot. You lift your eyes to meet his, finding a softness in them that you aren’t used to. “Go on.”

“Because I like…” you trail off, your eyes falling to a tattoo on his shoulder, half hidden by his hair. You lose your train of thought, squinting at the mark. “Ouroboros.”

“What?”

You shuffle onto your knees, shoving yourself forward to get a closer look. “Your tattoo,” you say as you move his hair out of the way and touch the ink on his skin. It’s small, it’s no wonder you didn’t notice it immediately, but it’s very obviously an Ouroboros, a snake swallowing its own tail to match the ring on your thumb.

“Oh.” Eddie lets out a laugh that sounds a touch nervous. “Well- yeah. Eternal life and all. It’s my favorite.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and your hand falls to rest on his chest as you start examining each of his tattoos. There’s a rabbit, a winged skull, a spade; as your fingers trail down his chest, you feel his breathing getting a little bit faster. “I think it’s my favorite, too.”

He sits still for a moment, his dark eyes watching your fingers as they ghost across his skin, outlining each of his tattoos as you scrutinize them. He says your name, quietly; it’s barely even a whisper, but it comes from so deep in his chest that it emboldens you to continue, to shuffle in closer and let yourself explore him. It’s only when you reach one at the edge of his ribs that his hand catches your wrist, and his fingers completely circle it. 

“You’re wearing it,” he observes quietly, his thumb brushing to touch the loose-fitting Ouroboros swinging freely around your own. 

Your gaze snaps to his, and he’s staring at you now, not his hand on your wrist or your hand as it rests against the flat of his stomach. You think you could drown in the look that he’s giving you. 

“‘Because you like’ what?” Eddie asks. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I like you,” you say in a rushed exhale, and once it’s out in the air, the words keep flowing like you’ve opened the floodgates. “I like spending time with you. And your stupid, pretty face. And all your tattoos that I could spend hours memorizing. And the way you blow smoke into my face because you know I won’t say anything, and the way you drink the absolute worst brand of beer, and the way you make me want to kiss you speechless.”

He ghosts a finger across your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “So, what are you waiting for?”

Your mouth hovers over his. His breath hits your lips, and it occurs to you to move into his lap, to straddle him, but you don’t quite manage to get that far before his forefinger hooks under your chin, and he kisses you. 

Or, something like that. Rather, you sort of attack each others’ faces.

There’s something cathartic about it, and not worrying about it being good so much as it finally fucking happening, like you’ve just taken a sledgehammer to that last remaining wall between you. Eddie tastes like tobacco and chocolate and he makes a soft grunt into your mouth, and you don’t think it has to be perfect, because nothing about the situation or the two of you is. 

Your hands scramble up his chest for something to hold onto, to tug him closer or just keep him there against you. They settle around his neck, getting him in a loose-laced chokehold that makes him stiffen and moan into your mouth. His Adam's apple jumps against your thumb. It’s a good thing that you didn’t manage to crawl into his lap at the last second, because Eddie’s hands come up to cup your face, and he lays you down on the floor as you pant into his open mouth. 

His hands adjust the angle of your head, his tongue licking at yours, and it occurs to you that this is Munson- Eddie “the Freak” Munson- and you really shouldn’t like him, or the way he’s absolutely devouring your mouth. But you do. You like him so much, you could scream it. 

“Christ, you’re so fucking gorgeous- and I want to kiss you all over- and I could just fucking- eat you alive,” Eddie rambles at you, staggered between kisses that steal the breath from your lungs. 

Your legs open around his hips, and by some unconscious instinct you tug him further in. Your fingers dig at his shoulder blades until the bulge in his pajama pants presses up against the crux of your thighs. You didn’t realize that your distracted touch on his chest turned him on as much as it did, but you can feel your effect on him clear as day. A desperate whine leaves your throat as you slowly grind your hips up against his, letting the hard length of his cock drag over your clothed pussy. 

Eddie groans, a sharp and dangerous warning sound that echoes in his chest and vibrates on your lips. He breaks away from you with a whispered, “Goddamn it,” and then his teeth graze your neck. 

You hiccup as his tongue drags along the slope of your neck, and his teeth catch on the hem of your camisole at the same time your hands plant themselves on the back of his skull to keep him there. He makes a quiet mmph, but he doesn’t stop, his breath ghosting against your breast and his damp hair tickling your skin. 

Fuck. You don’t even know what you’re doing, just that he makes you nervous. And not in a bad way either, but more in a can’t-fucking-think way. Especially when he’s dragging his lips softly over the lace at the neckline of your top, and his eyes are focused on your face, and his hand is settling on your waistband so you know where he’s going with this.

And his mouth leaves you just long enough for him to yank the neckline of your camisole down, and you barely have time to register the cool air before your nipple is engulfed in heat. 

Air stalls in your chest, an animalistic noise coming out of your mouth as if you’ve become possessed. It takes every last bit of your mental ability to articulate, “I’m never gonna take the ring off, now.”

“Don’t.” Eddie’s voice has taken on the darkest tone you’ve ever heard, so much that you nearly swear it couldn’t come from him. Your hands tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ll give you every one of my rings if it means I can have you like this.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks, and lower, where your body is screaming for him to move his hand away from your hip and inwards. “Eddie, baby-”

“I want to taste you,” he murmurs, then presses a slow, sensual kiss to your exposed nipple. “Do you want me to?”

Hm. Do you want Eddie Munson to go down on you? The question pings around in your skull for a moment due to the absurdity of it, that he would even think to ask- 

“Y-yeah?”

Eddie breaks into the cheekiest grin you’ve seen him wear, one that lights up his entire face and makes his eyes shine like polished obsidian. And then he foregoes any formality, and positively rips your pants down your legs, taking your underwear with them. 

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, jerking your legs to help him get them off. You expect a quip from him in return, something about not being shy, or  relaxing, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s entirely focused on wedging himself between your legs and dipping his tongue through the soaked folds of your pussy. 

Eddie fucking moans . He moans, and you latch onto his hair with an iron grip that you didn’t even realize you had. The world tilts- or maybe it’s just your back arching off the ground and your eyes rolling backwards into your head. Either way, you can’t rip your focus from the gentle sucks and nips he’s giving you. 

His lithe body pushes further in towards you, until your legs are folded over his bare shoulders and you’re crowded up against the kitchenette. You can’t seem to take a fucking breath around all the hoarse cries coming out of your throat. It honestly sounds like you’re sobbing, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you lifted your hand to find tears forming in your eyes. 

Broad hands come up to caress your thighs, giving you almost comforting strokes as you roll your hips against his face. As if he could possibly get you to relax, unless he pulled his mouth away from you- which, you think if he did right now, you might kill him. You can feel how wet he has you already, and his tongue is no better. Slick and hot as fire, and making your toes curl against his back with every small circle he makes over your clit. 

And then. You make the mistake of opening your eyes. 

He’s all rosy cheeks on pale skin, dark hair and round eyes blown wide and black. Staring at you, reading your every microexpression from under his lashes as a flash of pink juts out of his mouth and eagerly laps at your cunt. 

It should be fucking illegal to be this pretty. Somehow, Eddie does it so effortlessly, and you could die trying to fight how it affects you. 

“Eddie, waitwaitwait- hoh fuck-” you gasp, fingers clawing at his head, as he takes his fucking time pulling away from you while you’re spiralling toward oblivion against his mouth. It takes a forceful push against his forehead to get him to pull back just slightly, and he’s out of breath by the time his head rests against your thigh. 

“You all right, sweetheart?” He murmurs from between your legs, and he nearly sounds more aroused than you do. 

You blink dazedly up at the ceiling for a few seconds before you collect your wits. “You were gonna make me come, and I just- I wanna fuck you so bad.”

You can practically hear the smirk on his face when he coos, “You wanna fuck me? Right here on the dirty floor?”

You take a second to think of a response to that. You could move back into the nook where your bed is, but why bother? “You were already halfway there.”

A low noise rumbles in his chest. “I can still finish what I started, if you want.”

The tip of his tongue traces a gentle, teasing line through your folds, enough to make you squirm and dig your heel into his back. “Eddie please-” you whine so pitifully, you’re not even sure the sound came from your own mouth, “god, I’m gonna come and- and I want you to feel it-”

Eddie hisses through his teeth like he’s in pain. “Fuck. God fucking damn it,” he swears, and his hands leave your thighs before you see him run one through his hair. “All right, sweetheart. You win. Dunno how the hell I’m ever gonna be able to say no to you.”

Eddie sits back on his knees, straightening up so that you can admire the entirety of his lean frame. He’s a bit on the willowy side, but he has soft areas where you know just from touching him that muscle lurks underneath. His thumbs hook on his waistband, then reaches within to lift his erection out, and his gaze settles heavily on yours. “Is this what you wanted?”

You blink at him. As if he needs to ask, when your entire body is shaking as you’re biting your lip, staring at him fisting his cock. “I… stop stalling and come. Here.” 

Slowly- too slowly for your liking- Eddie does what he’s told. You can’t help but feel like he’s being a little bit cocky now that he has the upper hand, biting down on his lip before they come level with your own. The huff of a laugh that he makes billows across your skin. “Needy.”

You whimper high in your throat as he presses in, feeling like you could tell him exactly how needy you are, how you have been for him this entire time. If only you could get the words out, but he sinks his cock into you so deep that you can’t think, you can barely even breathe. He stretches you so wide, makes you so full that you swear you can feel him in the back of your throat. 

It’s absolute heaven. 

Eddie grits his teeth, rocking his hips into yours just a bit sharper so that you fling your legs around his waist. “Been thinking about this,” he groans into your shoulder, while you’re naturally unable to answer him. “Thought about fucking you on Rick’s floor- I would have. God, I fucking wanted to. Didn’t think- fuck- didn’t think you’d go for it-”

“Eddie-!” Your voice is too shrill. Is that your voice? You can’t tell anymore, your ability to articulate anything other than his name feels like it's entirely left you. Your hands are tangled in his hair and clawing long marks along his shoulder blade, your lungs punching out hard and hollow gasps each time he reaches the end of you. 

You know that he can be gentle when he wants to be. You know. Which is why you know that he’s not trying to be gentle with you now, and you aren’t entirely sure if it’s a punishment or a reward for finally letting him do this to you. 

And, perhaps his cruelest trick of all- his hand comes up to clasp around your throat, as your head is tilted back against the hard floor. The metal of his rings dig into your skin, not enough to cause pain, but just to let you know they’re there. To remind you that one of them is missing. 

Eddie’s thumb presses into your mouth, until you can taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue. He spits out a curse when you mindlessly close your lips around it, letting your teeth scrape his skin as he drives his hips into yours. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, and his mouth is so close to your ear that you feel his breath fan against it. “That’s my good girl.”

Oh god, he really is a dream. It’s the only way you know that you’re still here, that Vecna hasn’t gotten to you yet. You couldn’t make this up, and you couldn’t imagine any nightmare where this takes place. 

Eddie lifts his head to look at you, and you know you’re done for. Sinful heat sinks low in your gut, ripe and pinpointed between your legs, and you clench desperately around him. He’s so pretty. So pretty, so pretty, so pretty. It plays on a loop in your head like a scratched record, until you’re almost certain he’s ransacked your brain and superimposed every one of your thoughts with it. 

“Oh, she’s gonna come, isn’t she?” He muses, a bit breathless. A smile stretches across his face, dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Go on, sweetheart. You wanted me to feel it- let me.”

You sob brokenly, biting down on his intrusive thumb in your mouth as your orgasm splinters through you. It’s so good, so strong that it nearly hurts. Your hips jolt up to meet his on their own, entirely separated from where your mind is, in the clouds. 

You hear him swear again, this time more of a primal growl than an actual word, and he rips his thumb out of your mouth with a soft pop. You manage to whimper, before Eddie dips down to groan his own release into your open mouth, smothering you in a kiss as he comes. 

Eyes closed, your senses are almost entirely dampened to everything except the feeling of Eddie’s elbow buckling under him, and his body pressing in on top of you. You feel like you’re floating, despite his weight anchoring you down. His breath on your neck and his little mumbled praises that go in one ear and out the other as he rolls off to the left. 

It takes his hand on your face to finally rouse you from the stupor he put you in, and even then, you expend twice as much energy than normal trying to open your eyes to him. 

He lays beside you, head resting on the fake wood floor. Thumb stroking the side of your face, he smiles affectionately at you. “Hey there, pretty girl.”

You can’t really bring yourself to give him much more than a sleepy smile and a weak ‘mm.’ Your legs are tangled in his, the warm, wet mess of his spend seeping out from between your thighs. It feels dirty, and sort of fucked up, and yet…

This was always going to happen. Whether it happened here, or happened at Rick’s, or if sometime in the future it happens at his place. On the dirty floor, in the kitchen. Because that’s just the way you are with him.

“‘Low charisma’ my ass,” you manage to croak at him, your eyes sluggishly refusing to stay open. 

He blinks at you. You watch the wheels turn in his head, watch him connect the dots between your words and the ones he said to you two days ago. Then, he just looks… enamored. Like he didn’t expect you to have been listening to him, to remember whatever nerdy thing he’d mentioned off the cuff. 

Eddie tuts, his fingers soothing over your sticky, hot skin. “We have to get up, baby. Shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep,” you repeat, slurring your words tiredly. “Haven’t been able to for a while… too scared…”

“Well, that’s because you didn’t have me.” Eddie pats your cheek softly, and the quiet timbre of his voice threatens to lull you further, rather than wake you. “C’mon. I tell really good bedtime stories.”

You whine grumpily as he pulls you up, clumsily maneuvering you past the bathroom stall and into the nook at the very back of the motor home that acts as your bedroom. “How the hell’d you get a whole fuckin’ bed in here?” he mutters in disbelief as he packs you into it. At some point you guess he decided he didn’t need the pajama pants anymore, and crawls in beside you entirely naked. 

“Eddie?” you ask, as you feel him tucking your rumpled sheets around you. “Can we do this, like, every night?”

“Depends. Do you want to wake up to me every morning?”

You blink your eyes open at him, so appalled that you almost entirely wake back up. He’s looking blankly back at you, like he doesn’t exactly grasp the weight of what he just said. 

“Eddie, I-” you stammer, looking for the fucking words to express how you feel about him. “I-I didn’t think I was even going to get this far. You have no idea how much I want to… fucking… I want to wake up to you every morning. Yeah. I do. Stupid fucking pretty face and all. Making me lose my mind. Bitch.”

Eddie snorts loudly, and pulls you close to him as he holds in his laughter, pressing a kiss between your eyes. “There’s my girl. I’ll stick around until you get sick of me, sweetheart. I promise.” He picks up your hand and laces your fingers together, letting the metal of his rings clack against the one around your thumb. 

You hum contentedly. “You better.”

“Now, shut up and close your eyes. I’m gonna tell you a story.” You begrudgingly do as he says, sighing as you melt into the warmth of his body. “‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat-’ Why are you laughing? What?”

You crack your eyes open, body shaking as you giggle with your lips pressed together. “Are you reciting The Hobbit?” 

“Yeah.”

“From heart?”

“...Yeah.” Eddie blinks, a rosy blush coloring his cheeks. “I know the first three chapters.”

You choke down another fit of giggles. “Eddie?”

“Mm?”

“I’m in fuckin’ love with you.”

Simmer

welcome to hawkins’ number one diner! where the staff don’t wanna be there and the linecook is a grumpy metal head who likes to argue with his boss and ignore everyone else. but the new waitress can’t hack the rude customers and the regulars can be a little… much.

serving up indiana heatwaves, slow burns, walk in freezer breakdowns, late night talks, shared shakes and food as a love language. order extra spice for $4.

[41K] a linecook!au with eddie munson and shy fem!reader.

CH1. HOME STYLE

CH2. ICE BOX

CH3. SUNNY SIDE UP

CH4. 0800-AWKWARD

CH5. WAKE ‘N’ BAKE

CH6. SPILLED MILK

CH7. SPICE BOX

CH8. BOILING POINT

CH9. SIMMER [EXTRA HOT 18+]

CH10. CHEQUE, PLEASE

THE SNACK BAR 🥡 THE KITCHEN MIX 📻 WWW.JIMSMIDNIGHTDINER.COM 💾

eddie ramblings from my notes app: vol 5

18+, fem!reader

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

“‘looks like your face when you cum."

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

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

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

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

“uh huh.”

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

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

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

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

It’s finally Eddie Munson’s year 

 Based on JC Leyendecker’s “The Graduate”

Something Sweet

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x candymaker!Reader

Summary: Bucky had a sweet tooth and stumbled across a candy shop. He found sweetness inside—but not just from the candy

Warnings: Nothing, really. Just a lot of fluff!

Word Count: 8.0k

—<><>—<><>—<><>—

Bucky had a sweet tooth.

It was a weird discovery he made when he ended up in Romania—broken free of the prison he was lost in, only to stay lost but in an entirely new world. Choosing to hide as a civilian meant learning how to be one. Renting an apartment wasn't the same as breaking into someone’s home; taking the bus wasn't the same as hijacking one; going to bed wasn't the same as going back into cryofreeze.

Bucky learned what it was like to forget to eat because he was too busy doing something else. To sleep in and wake up in the evening. To allow himself a second to close his eyes underneath the sun.

To buy himself a piece of chocolate because, why not?

He had watched a little boy beg his mother to buy a piece, and a sharp memory attacked his mind, reminding him of a time when he had done the same with his mother. It gave him a tight feeling in his chest, his cold heart aching for his family for the first time since he escaped, and he eventually found himself paying for the sweets along with his fruits and vegetables. The candy sat in his pocket for hours, slowly melting away in the wrapper before Bucky finally remembered to eat it.

When the chocolate hit his tongue, something inside him cracked open.

His heart stopped aching, only for it to start weeping, longing for his parents’ embrace and sisters’ laughter. He couldn’t remember how it felt to be hugged or be surrounded by laughter, but his chest embodied a type of warmth that was overwhelmingly comforting. The sugar gave him a spark of energy, but also a brief, wonderful feeling of simply being human.

He went back the next day to buy more.

Soon, the sweet side of his basket—apples, berries, and plums—was joined by chocolate, caramel, and toffee, which all eventually went inside a little jar in his tiny kitchen. There wasn’t much, but it was just enough for him when the weight in his chest became too much—it never went away, but sweets made it bearable.

A few weeks went by, and Bucky finally accepted just how much of a sweet tooth he had. He found it amusing, thinking about how HYDRA would’ve reacted to see their prized assassin obsessing over sweets. Ice cream, cake, pie, tart, cookie—name it, he’d love it.

But candy—small, one-bite treats—always made him feel better. All Bucky needed in life was something sweet. 

When he ended up in Wakanda, he didn’t eat as many sweets as he’d like. It wasn’t that there weren’t any, but readjusting to his own self called for changing his diet, leaving him in the grassy field with fruits and grains, his only company being goats. He didn’t mind, but now and then, he’d just want a singular piece of chocolate. But overall, his craving for sweets became something quieter, less urgent, but still present. Something that seeped into his heart whenever the noise got too loud.

And, to Bucky’s dismay, Brooklyn was so loud.

Of course, he had expected the city to be different from when he lived there. But the abrupt sounds of shouting and honking, lingering scents of exhaust fumes and garbage, and overwhelming sights of people and people and more people were too much for him.

Shoving his gloved hands into his pockets, Bucky grumbled as he walked home from his morning appointment, which only left him irritated as Dr. Raynor was never helpful with…well, everything. The wind blew through his hair, reminding him to get a haircut as it was his homework for a “new start,” but also because a few people had recognized him from his fluffy locks.

He hated being recognized, stopping only to see if the people who caught his attention would praise him as a hero—that he does not find himself to be—or scowl at him for being a villain—which he still agreed with. Which is why, on this particular late morning, when Bucky noticed a group of people far ahead pointing in his direction, he decided to hide. He sharply turned to his left, slipping into the closest shop without bothering to check what it was selling.

The smell of sugar shocked him.

He paused, the sweet smell almost overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It was joined with hints of caramels and…nutmeg? Whatever it was, it worked its way into his chest, making his shoulders relax instantly and encouraging him to take a deep breath. Unlike the outside world, it was quiet.

Bucky glanced around, taking in the small size of the shop that still managed to hold so much life. Walnut wood framed the shelves and counters, giving it a kind of charm that made him feel like he’d stepped backward in time, to his youth, where everything felt simple. The floor was tiled in granite with flecks of cream, and instead of the glaring fluorescents most stores used, the shop favored amber bulbs that cast a soft glow across everything.

On the top shelves, there were bundles of candy, neatly wrapped and named with care—Lavender Twists, Cashew Bits, Honey Drops—while the lower ones carried glass jars full of gummy and hard candies in every color possible, adding brightness to the walls. And at the front of the shop was a main counter where customers would pay for their sweets, but it was also lined with a curved glass display decorated with rows of chocolate, brittles, dipped fruit—all glowing like treasure.

Behind the main counter, Bucky saw movement. Through the window of the kitchen where metal tables, copper pans, and unfamiliar machinery lived, he watched the shop owner pick up a black tray with gloved hands.

You stepped through the doorway, your apron dusted with powdered sugar while you hummed. When you glanced up from the tray, you paused when your eyes landed on Bucky. Then you smiled brightly, as if your lips were sunlight on honey.

“Oh, good morning! Or, I guess—” You glanced at that clock, giggling at the sight of the large hand that had just passed twelve. “Good afternoon now. Sorry, I didn’t know you came in!” You set the tray down by the cash register and brushed your hands on your apron before beaming at Bucky again. “Welcome to Sweet Heavens. Let me know if you need any help with anything.”

Bucky didn't flinch, but he definitely was startled by your bubbly energy. The way you carried yourself seemed effortless, as if you lived on an entirely different plane of existence. He nodded politely before turning his attention to the jars and bundles surrounding him, his taste buds already starting to scream for him to buy something. But still, he pretended to study the labels, debating on whether or not he should actually buy anything.

Because after everything he’d done, he wasn’t sure if he deserved sweetness in his life anymore.

Suddenly, Bucky felt your gaze weighing him down. He was about to turn around when you spoke.

“Wait… Are you Bucky Barnes?”

Damn it.

He sighed, rolling his eyes before turning around to face you, his eyes suddenly sharp with practiced disinterest. “Yeah. Why?” 

He expected the usual—fumbling awe, lingering suspicion, growing unease…but you? You didn’t bat an eye. Despite doing his best to seem intimidating, you smiled at him and pointed at a tray of samples. “Oh, you actually might be the perfect person to try this, then.”

“What?” He blinked, genuinely caught off guard, before peeking at the tray, examining the small, golden cubes of peanut-covered caramel. Nothing looked particularly crazy; they were very simple in look and design. 

Left confused, Bucky turned back to you. “Why me?”

You only continued to smile, gesturing to the tray again rather than using your words. Frowning slightly, Bucky stepped towards the tray, his gaze flickering between you and the samples. You gave him a little nod, encouraging him to pick one up and pop it in his mouth.

Home. It tasted like home.

The moment the sample touched his taste buds, it was as if the shop disappeared, leaving Bucky in a place that felt familiar to him. The texture of the peanut mixed with the buttery taste of the caramel pulled him back into a memory that he was only able to grasp at. He could suddenly hear laughter and feel the smiles of his loved ones resting on his eyes. Without meaning to, Bucky shut his eyes, wanting to stay in this place forever.

Eventually, he opened them, meeting your soft gaze as you patiently waited for him to enjoy the moment. He blinked, clearing his throat to hide his slight embarrassment for getting away in his mind, his eyes immediately looking at anything but you.

You brought your hands together in anticipation. “So…what do you think?”

“I’ve had this before,” he whispered.

You laughed, taking Bucky’s attention away from the floor and back onto your smile. “That was the plan! I was trying to remake some sweets from the early 1900s. This one is similar to PayDay—how it actually tasted when it first came out. Not the overly processed stuff we get now. They taste too artificial to me… Or, I don’t know,” you shrugged as you stepped aside, suddenly feeling self-conscious of your particular ways, “maybe it’s just me overthinking it.”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky said, catching your eyes again. “I had a PayDay a couple of years ago. Tastes like shit now.”

You laughed, a hand over your heart like he’d just given you the kindest compliment. “Right? Thank you! I’ve been saying that for so many years!”

Bucky raised a brow at your dramatic gesture, then your eyes lit up. “So…do I have your approval then?”

Your words threw him off, making him frown. “Why would you need my approval?”

“Well,” you began, matter-of-fact, “considering you’re the only person I know who has actually tried PayDay when it was still good, if you say it’s good, then I did something right. Clearly, I have to impress you.”

And yet, you were already impressive to Bucky.

Your tone was playful, but it still did something strange to his chest, like you were letting him be something other than a weapon or a soldier. Just someone with buried memories worth preserving. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this…good.

Bucky took a beat before giving you a curt nod. “Approved.”

You let out a laugh, clapping briefly. “Yes! Guess I’m adding this to my inventory.”

Bucky didn’t laugh, but his lips couldn’t help but slightly curl at your excitement. His eyes were locked on you as you grabbed your notebook. Unlike Dr. Raynor, he enjoyed watching you scribble away in your notebook, reminding yourself to adjust the layout of your display case to make room for the new treats. 

You clicked your pen before looking back at Bucky. “Well, enough about that. I’m sure you came in here for something specific. What are you interested in?”

He didn’t tell you that he didn’t plan on coming here, nor know the shop even existed. Instead, he hummed and glanced around. “Some chocolate would be nice.”

You smiled as you stepped towards your glass display case full of chocolate, Bucky following your movements closely. “Are you looking for something simple or more unique…”

And you kept talking, showing him the different kinds of chocolate you had crafted. Dark chocolate with sea salt, white chocolate with raspberry filling, and milk chocolate with a hint of coffee. Without asking you to, you offered him a piece of every one, letting him savor each tiny explosion of flavor. He took his time with each of them, and you let him take all the time he wanted.

After all, of all people who deserved time to enjoy the moment, it was he.

You continued to let him try whatever caught his eye, even if he didn’t say anything, while you talked about sugar and cocoa powder as if it were the most important thing in the world. And, unlike most customers, Bucky let it be that way.

When Bucky was at the door, you waved at him with a silly wink. “Come back anytime! I’ll save you the best of the batch.”

Bucky grinned, giving you a small wave back before heading back out into the loud, chaotic world, but it didn’t bother him this time. Unlike that morning, when he wandered with a scratch in his heart, Bucky found comfort in the white paper bag he carried, filled with vanilla-cream-filled chocolate and peanut-covered caramel.

He might’ve found his new favorite place in this new world, and it just happened to smell like caramel.

<><><>

“Oh god—” Bucky winced as his eyes shot open, making you laugh as he continued to chew on the gummy candy. “What is this?”

“You’re not a sour candy person, huh?” you said, setting down a cup of water near him.

“No, I do like them. Just…” A shiver passed through his body as he swallowed the candy, making you laugh more. “That was a lot.”

“That was barely anything,” you teased as you wrapped up another order, tying it with a yellow ribbon before writing the name of the customer. “You can try the cherry one. It’s not sour at all.”

“You’re lying.”

You playfully gasped, pretending to be offended. But then you immediately dropped the act. “Yeah, I was.”

Bucky chuckled before taking a sip of water to wash down the sour taste in his mouth. By now, he had stopped by your shop a few times, claiming that he was just passing through, but you knew better. Every visit, he’d lingered a little longer, asking more questions about the sweets you’d made and even learning how to say the names of certain candies. It amused him to see how stunned you were by his flawless accents as he switched languages. After a couple of visits, you stopped pretending he wasn’t your favorite customer, and he stopped hiding himself, hence feeling the freedom to take off his gloves when it was just the two of you.

The sun was getting low, meaning it was almost time for you to close the shop. You were wiping down the countertop, peeking and giggling at Bucky having what looked to be a staring contact with the sour candy—you knew teasing him about his staring problem would not do anything in the end to stop it. Then you heard the door open, and you looked over to see a family of three walk in.

You smiled right away, walking over to them. “Hi! Welcome back!”

The parents gave you a polite smile while their son immediately rushed to the jars of gummy candy. Bucky stepped away to give you space to help them out, and he turned around to quickly slip on his gloves. But when Bucky looked up, however, he froze at the man staring straight at him, hard, as if he saw something vile. The man’s eyes flickered to Bucky’s left hand, making the soldier turn away again. He walked to the chocolate display to act like he was just an ordinary civilian, but cursed to himself when he heard footsteps approaching him.

He looked back to see the man in front of him, his wife in the background, concerned and confused. “You’ve got some nerve, showing your face in public,” he snapped, just quietly enough that everyone else couldn’t hear.

Bucky didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes on the man but also his jaw tight. He learned that silence always worked the best. 

You slightly frowned, walking over to both of them with the woman. “Hi, is there a problem—”

“I don’t care what they all say—you’re a monster.”

You froze while Bucky showed no reaction. The woman reached for her husband and tried to pull him back, but he wouldn’t budge. Their son looked mortified by the jars, feeling extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed. But Bucky continued to stand still, simply waiting for the moment to pass like every other time.

Because, in the end, was the man really wrong?

The answer was yes, according to you, as you suddenly stepped in between the two men, shielding Bucky from your customer.

“Don’t be rude,” you firmly said. “You don’t get to speak like that to anyone in my shop.”

The man scoffed. “You know you’re standing in front of a killer, right?”

“I’m standing in front of my friend, actually,” you quickly responded, your voice stern and hard.

Bucky was startled—your usual warmth was gone, replaced by the sharpness of a knife. He’d only ever seen you golden, full of laughter like maple syrup drizzling over a stack of pancakes, offering him and other customers sweets on rainy days that reminded you of sunrises.

And yet, there you were with your shoulders squared and voice solid. You weren’t angry, but you were unshakable like melted sugar cooled back into a hard shell. This strength was always within you—you just never had a reason to let it out.

And Bucky’s chest tightened, realizing that the reason was him. 

The man looked at you in disgust. “Friend? He’s killed—”

“—Saved half of the universe,” you quickly cut him off. “He’s the reason why you’re back.”

There was no flame in your voice, but it was boiling with conviction, which somehow was louder than if you had shouted. Bucky continued to stay quiet behind you, but his lips were ajar by your ability to go from bubbly and bright to firm and still.

“You’re welcome to buy candy, but as long as you’re in my shop, you will treat everyone with respect.” You crossed your arms, never once breaking your gaze from the man.

The silence was heavy, as if someone had poured molasses all over the shop. The man looked like he wanted to argue, but instead scoffed. “We’re not coming back.”

“Fine by me,” you replied immediately.

The man snarled before storming out of the shop, his wife and son both flustered. The wife looked back at you and Bucky. “I’m so sorry… Uh…”

Not sure what else to say, the two of them left quickly, leaving just you and Bucky in the shop. You exhaled, dropping your shoulders as you walked over to your door, flipping the sign from “open” to “closed.” You then looked back to see Bucky in the same spot, his eyes now finding the floor interesting.

“Hey,” you walked back to him with concern, “are you okay?”

Bucky didn’t look at you, but muttered, “You didn’t have to do that.”

You frowned, shaking your head. “I wanted to, Bucky. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

When he didn’t look up again, you softly sighed. You reached for his wrist, finally getting him to lift his head and see your smile, bright as always, but this time flavored with sorrow. “Don’t ever listen to people like him. You’re not what he said.”

“But I—”

“You’re not what he said,” you repeated, your voice stern yet still soft. “You’re not a monster. You’re my friend.”

Bucky looked at you, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “We’re friends?” he asked quietly.

You let out a giggle. “Of course. That is, if you’re fine with us being friends instead of just a candy-maker and their customer.”

At first, he didn’t reply. He only continued to look at you, and you knew he was even considering whether it was allowed for someone like him to have a friend. So you gave him a gentle squeeze on the wrist, and slowly his lips curled into a small, yet very warm, grin.

You tried to offer him another sour gummy just to mess with him, and his grin turned into a laugh.

<><><>

Bucky was already at your shop before he realized where his feet took him. He knew your shop wouldn’t be open until eleven o’clock, yet there he was at your door at six in the morning. His hands were deep in his pockets—he didn’t even think to bring gloves in the middle of his desperation to get out of his apartment. His shoulders were stiff against the cold air, while the sting on the back of his neck wished he had never cut his hair to begin with.

He kept his eyes shut, letting the silence and memories stained with sugar pull him somewhere warmer.

But then, the door opened behind him. “Bucky?”

He flinched before spinning around, locking eyes with your confused ones. You blinked at him—you were both wide awake, but he looked rough compared to you.

You glanced at the sky, which was still dark. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” Bucky’s eyes flickered away, his cheeks warming up from embarrassment. “I couldn’t sleep, so I…I was just walking around.”

You gazed at him, almost trying to look into his mind, which made him curl away further. But then you smiled and opened the door wider. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”

“Oh,” Bucky shook his head, “it’s okay. I didn’t—”

“Come inside, or I will throw a marshmallow at you.”

He blinked.

“I mean it.” Your smile curled into a bigger one. “They’re really sticky. It’d be a shame if one got caught in your hair.”

At that, Bucky let out a huff tinted with amusement and stepped inside to let the warmth and smell of sugar envelope him. But instead of stopping at the counter, you walked towards the kitchen and looked back at him to silently tell him to follow you. He briefly hesitated, but walked into the kitchen with you, taken aback by the liveliness around him—pots were warming up, trays were laid out, and a new batch of white and pink treats sat near him. He had only seen your kitchen through the window, so it felt like you were letting him into your dream world.

Bucky paused at the new treats and raised an eyebrow. There were small, soft white cubes with pink swirls next to a large sheet of it that had yet to be sliced, all of it smothered in powdered sugar. He stared at them while you put a new pot on the stovetop, turning on the heat and pausing to see Bucky’s puzzled expression.

You chuckled, “Never seen fresh marshmallows before?”

He glanced up at you. “You weren’t kidding about throwing marshmallows at me, were you?”

“Maybe.” You winked as you carried milk and heavy cream back to your stove, quickly yet efficiently measuring out the liquids before pouring them into the pot. “I decided to make marshmallows for once.”

“Have you made these before?” he asked, watching how you moved with such comfort in your second home.

“A few times,” you replied before adding vanilla extract, brown sugar, and cocoa powder to the pot—the aroma slowly melting away the ice in Bucky’s chest. “It’s rare, but I had the sudden urge to experiment last night.”

Bucky slightly smiled, crossing his arms. “When are you not experimenting?”

“On Mondays.” You grinned, slowly whisking the mixture. “Those are my day-offs.”

He quietly chuckled before peeking at the marshmallows again. You noticed his eyes and giggled, stepping away from the stove and carefully grabbing a sliced piece. “Here.”

Bucky went to grab it, but you pulled your hand back. His eyebrows furrowed while you chuckled, “Sorry. These haven't been coated yet—you’ll get it all over your fingers.” You showed him how you held the treat only by its powdered sides.

Then you smiled, raising your hand towards his face. “Open wide.”

To say Bucky was overwhelmed was an understatement. His body froze, yet his mouth opened without thinking, and you popped the marshmallow in. You giggled before turning back to the stove, whisking the chocolate concoction while he continued to stand still behind you.

He couldn’t even process the taste of strawberry and vanilla—his mind was working twice as hard to process what you had just done, his hand sweating over just how close your hand was to his lips. 

He shifted, clearing his throat before swallowing the treat. “Strawberry and vanilla?”

You hummed while grabbing two mugs. “It sounded good in my head.”

“It is good,” he said, finally realizing you had been making hot chocolate.

You poured the sweet drink into the mugs and dropped two marshmallows in each. With the smile that Bucky had grown to find comfort in, you offered him a cup. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he accepted the drink, smelling the chocolate melt away the vanilla and strawberry.

“It’s like Neapolitan ice cream,” you said before sipping your drink. “At least, I hope it is.”

Bucky took a sip as well, and it was the best hot chocolate he’d ever had. The marshmallow was melting into something smooth, joining the silky liquid to welcome some sweetness back into his system. He sighed into the mug, holding it tight to further warm up his right hand. 

He smiled and went to thank you for the drink, but you instead whispered, “Nightmares are rough.”

He immediately stiffened, his eyes widening as he stammered, “I, uh, I didn’t say—”

“You don’t have to lie,” you interrupted gently, swirling your cup a little as you stared into it. “Nightmares are the worst.”

Bucky paused, affected by the sudden change in your demeanor, like you were remembering your own nightmares. Then quickly, you softly smiled at him, not necessarily hiding your own fear, but expressing it clearly to him.

“Hot chocolate helps me. It reminds me that there’s something sweet to look forward to.” You took another sip, letting the silence speak for itself.

Neither of you said anything else—there was no need to. The kitchen filled the silence and comforted the soldier. He didn’t say thank you, but it was because you already knew.

<><><>

You were anxious.

You tried to keep yourself as busy as possible, but no matter how long you’d spent time in your kitchen, interacting with customers, and doom-scrolling on your couch, you continued to stay worried for Bucky.

Bucky came by your shop at least three times a week now, either to satisfy his craving for sweets or exist somewhere he didn’t have to be anything for anyone, where he could just be Bucky, and that would be it. He’d always stick around, chatting with you for however long he wanted because clearly, though he’d never talked about it, he had no one else in his life to casually talk to. 

He was able to do so with Steve Rogers, but then he disappeared. 

You made a note to yourself to ask Bucky where he went, but also knew that it would’ve been a while before you could. He had mentioned Steve only once when you had asked him about other kinds of candy he ate as a child. He talked about Steve’s favorite—butterscotch hard candy—for only a minute before his words fell apart and silence took over. You never asked him about Steve again, and instead offered him truffles and peppermints to cheer him up.

Whatever happened to Steve had hurt Bucky, so when the news broke out that there would be a brand new Captain America, Bucky himself had disappeared.

Not once did he show up at your shop, and now it had been almost two weeks since you last saw him.

Of course, you tried to text him—you said you hoped he was well and to stop by for new experiments to try if he wanted to. But you didn’t get a reply, and he stopped coming to your shop.

You thought about texting him to hang out, but the timing felt off now. You had only now gotten Bucky’s number as you let him take charge of moving your relationship further—you were always afraid of being too pushy, considering some people had told you that your energy was too much for them to handle. You knew it was silly to be insecure about such things, but every person out there always had something haunting them, didn’t they?

But still, you wanted to text him and see if he was okay. You sighed, telling yourself that you’d contact him after work. Your customers, a loving, elderly couple, approached the counter, and you smiled, ringing up their little bag of hard candy when you heard the door open.

You glanced up, and your breath hitched.

Bucky stood in the doorway, his eyes already locked onto you. You could tell by his eyes alone that he was tired—and maybe a little guilty—but he still smiled at you.

For the first time in two weeks, the glow in your smile returned. 

You finished checking out the couple as if everything was fine, though your hands moved a little quicker as you handed back their credit card and waved them goodbye. Bucky gave them a little nod as he walked past them, and the moment the door closed, you marched right toward him.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” you teased.

Bucky raised his hands in surrender with a chuckle. “Sorry. It’s been a minute.”

“A minute?” You crossed your arms with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. I was about to call the police on you.”

“It takes you two whole weeks to do that?”

You both laughed, the shop feeling more cozy than it had ever been since you’d first opened your business. Then your laughter softened as you took in his face, noticing a faint scar on his nose. Your smile remained, but you stepped closer to get a better look, making Bucky’s cheeks slightly red.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Bucky nodded. “I’m fine. I got busy.”

“Okay, but like…” You stepped back, but continued to stare into his eyes. “Are…are you really okay? After…the news, you know.”

This time, Bucky didn’t respond right away, though you noticed a shift in his stance. He stared back at you for a moment before humming, his lips curling into a soft smile again. “Yeah. Had to take…a minute to figure that all out.”

You nodded, not pushing any further as usual, which Bucky always found charming. “Good. Well, while you were gone, I made something for you.”

Bucky’s smile immediately faded, but he didn’t hesitate to follow you to the jars of candy. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You opened one of the jars and took out a golden, circular hard candy, wrapped in clear plastic, and then held it out for him.

The shade of gold made Bucky freeze in his steps.

It was beautiful. Not shiny in the way actual gold gets in the form of jewelry or bars, nor light like sunlight hitting thin curtains. It was as if amber glowed within the treat, chasing the darkness around them away.

It was a beautiful color, embraced by the hand of the most beautiful person Bucky knew.

You lightly chuckled at Bucky’s awe, “Butterscotch candy. I figured…you know, with the whole new Captain America thing, you could use a little—”

For the first time in a long time, you felt a different kind of warmth. Not the one you felt when you stood near a pot of melted chocolate, or when you poured liquid sugar onto your metal countertop, or when you stepped outside briefly when you opened your shop, letting the sunlight hit your skin.

You blinked, inhaling Bucky’s cologne as he hugged you close. The butterscotch candy nearly slipped from your hand from shock, but you quickly gripped it tighter before gently wrapping your arms around him as well. The warmth you felt was the kind that only appeared when you realized how much someone trusted you.

It felt nice.

Bucky had his eyes closed, holding onto you like you were the only thing left in the world. 

The past two weeks had been too much.

Learning that Sam had given up the shield. Meeting John Walker. Fighting the Flag Smashers. Pretending to be the Winter Soldier.

Losing the trust of the Wakandans. Losing his arm. Losing the symbol of the shield to a man who lost a friend and himself due to the serum.

Recapturing Zemo. Apologizing to Sam. Learning to embrace his fears rather than fight them.

So, there he was, welcoming fear as he held you—something he had wanted to do for so long, but was too scared to. But after everything that happened in just two weeks, he found that fear couldn’t stop him from understanding that you were just what he needed.

Something sweet.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, and you could hear a slight tremor in his voice.

Hugging him tighter, you smiled into his shoulder and exhaled. “You’re welcome.”

You only let go when Bucky pulled away first, and you both locked eyes once again. You grinned, holding out the piece of candy again, and he took it happily. And when you watched as his shoulders relaxed at the taste of nostalgia, you lit up. 

You didn’t realize how seeing him made you feel at ease.

Glancing at the clock, you hummed as you walked to the front door. “Wanna go on a walk?”

Bucky paused, raising an eyebrow at you. “Doesn’t your shop stay open for another hour?”

You flipped your sign over, letting the outside world see that your shop was now closed. With a smirk, you winked at him. “Nope.”

He chuckled, shaking his head while walking towards you. “Sure. A walk sounds nice.”

Neither of you acknowledged aloud that this was the first time you decided to spend time together outside of your shop. You both knew and just let the moment speak for itself. Bucky took a few more pieces of the butterscotch candy before you two stepped out, and you let him talk about his chaotic two weeks.

<><><>

The lights in the front of the shop were dim, toning down the bright colors of the candy jars and signifying that the shop was closed. Only the kitchen was bright, as you decided to spend another night messing around with some leftover chocolate.

You sprinkled sea salt on your dark chocolate caramel swirls. It wasn’t necessarily a brand-new recipe, but it was a good one. Picking one up, you went to try it, but instead jumped from a loud knock on the front door. You blinked, feeling a bit nervous because who would knock on your door at this hour? For a moment, you wondered if you should even open the door, but knowing that your kitchen light was visible to the outside, you couldn’t pretend no one was there.

Maybe it was ridiculous for you to check the door—what if there was just bad news waiting for you? But when you stuck your head out of the entrance of your kitchen, you saw a familiar silhouette standing at the front door. Even the window’s glare couldn’t stop you from recognizing the figure outside.

“Bucky?” You smiled, jogging to the door and unlocking it quickly. “Hey! What are you…”

You stilled when you saw a smear of red on the left side of his face.

“Oh my god—” You immediately grabbed his upper arms, standing straighter to get a better look at him. “What happened to you?”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched the way you looked, so concerned for someone like him. Soon, he smiled. “I was in a little fight.”

“A little?” You shook your head, gently pulling him into your shop by his metal wrist. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

Bucky blinked. “Oh, I didn’t come here to—”

“Nope!” You huffed, not exactly angry but definitely not happy. “C’mon.”

You led him to the back room where you kept your first aid. He sat down on a stool while you rummaged through the kit, pulling out ointments and gauze that you only ever used whenever sugar hurt you. None of what you held was meant for battle wounds, but they would have to do.

“Who exactly were you fighting?” you asked, grabbing a clean cloth and wetting it.

Bucky couldn’t help but huff out a grin. “You didn’t hear about the Flag Smashers at the GRC voting?”

“What?” You shook your head as you sat down in front of him, pressing the cloth to his head. “You know I don’t go on my phone when I’m in the kitchen.”

He nodded, his face slowly turning red as you cupped one cheek with your hand while the other wiped the blood off his face. For someone who worked with boiling sugar and metal tools, your hands were incredibly soft, gentle, and steady, just like you.

“So…they finally showed up, huh?” you said, setting the cloth aside and grabbing the ointment.

“Yeah. Sam gave me the heads-up, and next thing I knew, I was already in a fight with them.”

“Hm.” You paused, eyeing him down before smirking. “Did you win?”

Bucky chortled. “Of course we did.”

“I don’t know. This wound says otherwise.”

“It’s the most minor wound I could’ve gotten.” Bucky then grinned, almost proudly. “But hey, it was worth it… We got the Captain America we deserve to have, now.”

You widened your eyes with a wide smile. “Really? Sam did it?”

Bucky nodded, closing his eyes while you pressed a bandage gently against his temple. You dropped your hands, briefly admiring your little handiwork before taking in Bucky’s face. There was exhaustion under his eyes again, the kind you saw frequently, but you had since come up with a solution for it. 

“One second,” you said while squeezing his shoulder, quickly walking to your kitchen.

Bucky watched you leave and exhaled, bringing his hand to the bandage. His heart raced and fingers slightly trembled, but not due to the fight he had just returned from. He inhaled deeply, letting out the strained breath as you returned.

You sat down again and held out a piece of chocolate. “Dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt. Sugar is the best medicine.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, though his smile was still present as he took it from you. “No doctor would ever say that.”

“That’s why I'm not a doctor.”

He gently laughed as he examined the chocolate. “Experimenting again?”

“Not this time. I was just messing around with leftovers.”

Bucky tossed the chocolate into his mouth, immediately humming in glee. “And it still tastes great.”

You softly laughed, your cheeks getting redder. “Thanks.”

Then you both went quiet and stared at each other.

Because it seemed like the only place they could go now was into each other's eyes.

There were no words Bucky could’ve used to describe the color of your eyes—the shade was of pure beauty, just like you. Despite already being alive for over a hundred years, he could get lost in your eyes—your warmth—for a hundred more.

And the way you looked back at him made something in his chest bubble.

So, casually, Bucky broke the silence. “You know, there’s this new Thai restaurant that opened near my apartment. I never had Thai food before…so I was thinking about trying it.”

You tilted your head, your voice now gentle and full of care. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his smile getting a bit wider. “Yeah. And…I thought it might be nice if…you know…if someone came with me.”

You blinked, then quickly leaned forward. “James Bucky Barnes… Are you…” you grinned with a hint of amusement and mischief, “asking me out on a date?”

He smiled back just as wide. “It can be, if you want.”

You giggled before continuing to tease him, “Depends… What’s with the timing? Why now?”

He gave a half-laugh. “Figured if I’m brave enough to go fight an entire group of super-soldiers…then maybe I should be brave enough to ask you out for dinner.

Your eyes stayed on him, filled with something tender, something amazed. Then you hummed, leaning back with admiration in your eyes. “Well…I’m glad you’re brave enough for both of us.”

Immediately, Bucky lit up, his smile wide as he went a little breathless, almost relieved that he had been right in feeling your warmth for him.

“But,” you added as you tapped his knee, “we’re only going when you’re all healed up. No earlier than that.”

He lightly shook his head. “I’m really fine—”

“No earlier than that!” You pointed at him with a grin, pretending to scold him. “If you try to pick me up before that wound is gone, I won’t have it!”

He chuckled, raising his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine.”

But his eyes stayed on you, full of something deep and steady—something that made the ache in his temple fade just a little. And he thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the safest he’d ever felt.

<><><>

Your laughter carried Bucky’s heart.

The sun was dipping low as you shared stories about humorous interactions you’d had with customers. The golden hues radiated off the water and your skin, making you glow even more than Bucky thought was possible. He watched you wave your hands around, making everyone around you laugh, their shoulders sagging out of relaxation and peace.

Peace. It was so peaceful.

Bucky smiled softly, then turned to his side when he felt someone hit his shoulder.

“Careful, man,” Sam smirked, “you might fall over there.”

“Shut up,” he chuckled, standing up straight while putting down his empty bottle.

“Is her laugh making you weak in the knees?”

“I wasn’t gonna fall, Sam.”

“Sure.” Sam began to laugh. “Seriously, though, she’s the sweetest person I have ever met. Literally.” His smile grew larger. “How the hell did you wrangle her?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, though his smile still lingered. “She wrangled me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, amused by his friend’s answer. Then Bucky grabbed his bottle and gave him a little nod before walking towards you. Tossing the bottle in a bin, he made his way to you. When you saw him approaching, you smiled brighter than the golden sun itself.

“Hey,” Bucky grinned, “walk with me?”

You blinked before giggling. “Sure thing.”

You both waved at the others before stepping away, your arms brushing as Bucky led you down the dock. Then, when you two reached Sam’s boat, you smiled once again. It was a peaceful spot, not entirely quiet as the cookout was still bursting with energy, but still calming. Bucky climbed aboard first before offering you his hand, and you took it while appreciating the coolness of the metal. The boat gently rocked as you walked to the other side, leaning over the edge to laze in the sunset. Bucky followed your lead, deeply exhaling at the smell of the water that radiated the sunlight.

“I have to say,” you started with a smile, “you can’t get a view like this in Brooklyn.”

Bucky hummed in agreement and moved closer to you. Even though it wasn’t the first time he’d done so, you couldn’t help but blush. You looked at him and smiled while rummaging through your pocket.

When you pulled your hand back out, he laughed. “Really?”

“What?” You giggled as you handed him a piece of caramel. “You should’ve expected this.”

He lightly shook his head while his smile widened. “I guess I should’ve.”

As you slowly peeled away the wrapper, you watched the sunset and softly grinned. “Everyone always needs something sweet in their lives, you know? Caramel’s a good choice for that.”

For a moment, Bucky didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at his caramel, and then back at you. And without realizing, he was already speaking before his body could stop it. “Maybe caramel isn’t the only choice,” he said quietly, almost like a confession.

His cheeks immediately flushed as you froze before slowly turning your head, meeting his widened eyes with your own. Then, slowly, an amused grin began to appear on your face. “What are you implying, Bucky?”

“I— Uh—” He cleared his throat as he looked back at the water, unable to meet your playful expression. “I mean, I—I didn’t mean it like— You know, you— Uh—”

His words melted against your lips.

Was he surprised that you tasted like caramel? No, not at all. It was a given that you’d be sneaking in some sweets between conversations and meals whenever you could.

But he was surprised that the caramel on your lips grounded him. That, while his words disappeared, his heart still hummed against your hands on his chest. That you allowed yourself to drop the caramel—a piece of your creation—onto the floor to rest your hands on his chest to begin with.

That you touched him as if his heart belonged to something you’d made, but always wanted for yourself.

Something sweet.

All Bucky needed in life was something sweet, but like as you said, everyone needed it.

And you needed him the most.

His hands that hovered around your body finally found their way to your face, securing you to him as if you already hadn’t linked his heart to yours months ago. The kiss was not hurried, but rather slow like tempering chocolate—delicate and balanced. It was as if you were each following the other’s recipe with care, only to try to let your bodies memorize every detail of it.

When you both pulled away, eyes still closed, the silence between you two carried the weight of your feelings for one another. Finally, you looked at him and met his blue eyes, and you gave him a teasing smile.

“Well,” you tilted your head, “I’m assuming I’m one of the other choices.”

At that, Bucky softly laughed as he adjusted his hold on your face, his thumb tracing the edge of your lips. “You,” he quietly began with a smile so gentle that it felt the world around you was smaller, “are my first and only choice.”

It was a simple phrase, but the depth of the emotions behind each word made you speechless. You felt warm, but it wasn’t just the sunset that showered you with light and comfort. 

Your face softened, shocked by what he said, while your smile grew. “Bucky… Do you mean that?”

“Every bit of it.”

The boat rocked slightly underneath you both while you looked at him. You stared at the man who stumbled into your shop and stuck by your side like sea-salted taffy that’s been slightly melted—the man who took your kitchen tools and carved into the empty spot in your life, and you realized that it fit him perfectly.

“I love you,” you quietly said, almost carefully as if you didn’t know what he would say back. “I’ve loved you for a while.”

His heart swelled as he leaned in closer, trying to look at you closer than before. His eyes were wide at your confession, and you could feel—hear—his heart pounding at a fast pace.

And then, softly and gratefully, as if he still believed he wasn’t allowed to have something as wonderful as you, he whispered, “I love you too.”

Then he pulled you into another kiss, and you two lingered in each other’s presence for the rest of the evening.

Bucky had a sweet tooth. That, he knew of. It took a while for him to accept how much he loved sweets—how much he needed them to feel human. He loved all kinds of sweets.

Out of all of them, candy always made him feel better. 

But you? You made him feel the best.

—<><>—<><>—<><>—

Thanks for reading :)

i’m in the water.

summary. | He’s in the wind, and you’re in the water. Nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter.

warnings. | non/dubcon, smut, angst, protectiveness, kidnapping (implied), stockholm syndrome, obsessiveness, death/violence, dark themes, DDLG undertones, creampie kink, choking, piss kink (both pee), degradation, pet play undertones, p in v sex, Master kink, dacryphilia, crawling, slapping, hair pulling, face fucking, boot riding, orgasm denial, spitting, gagging, manhandling, praise, and more. 18+ MINORS DNI.

word count. | 8.5k

pairings. | Dark!Winter Soldier x Naive!Reader.

a/n. | please heed the warnings! i hope you enjoy, and please don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (and i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know. they’re both very hydrated! this takes place in the 90’s! thank you so much @asadmarveltrashbag and @mypoisonedvine for proof reading for me ilysm!!

From the day you were born, you always felt as though your legs are broken. Always needing crutches throughout your life to hold you up, always needing support. But you never really had these crutches, so you'd always drag your hands against the brick walls to support yourself. Vulnerable, breaking away at the edges, falling down. Nothing kind ever came, and it stays the same for a while.

So maybe that’s why you lean into his icy cold touch. So abrasive and yet so caring. His aspects are juxtaposed to each other, just like in those Magritte paintings your art teacher would show you. She was always a kind lady, but you don’t care enough about her to wonder where she is in life now. She was kind to you, though, so you hope that she isn’t suffering like you are.

Your goosebumps raise for the fifth time in this painfully slow hour.

“Are you cold, кролик?” he asks even though he knows the answer. You hum. You always do. Your voice doesn’t raise in an affirmation. It stays flat; he knows what that means. “Thinking again?” he gruffly presses, squeezes your bare arms. The thin, grey shirt with torn sleeves does nothing to protect your body. But why do you ask for protection against the man who has done everything for you?

“Why… Why do people believe that grey is a boring colour?” you ask him, looking around the dark cell that surrounds you. Soldat grunts, not knowing what to say. “I think it’s quite beautiful. All colours have different shades, yes, but there’s something about grey. Each shade comes with a different emotion. Don’t you think so?” you ask him, looking down to your lap.

A carrot toy sits there. It’s filled with cotton balls from the medical room, by his request. “Yes…” He bites the tip of his tongue, not sure what to say because the Soldat only has a few emotions and a few words. “Why can’t we get a different wall colour?” you question him, turning around to face the man.

“It’s not allowed,” he reminds you. You feel like you’re experiencing déjà-vu, but then again, the days have blurred together so well that you can’t tell if the tape is being put on rewind already. You have to assume that your celluloid scenes are fading away along with your sanity. It’s torn at the seams. Threads hanging that just need to be ripped or cut out.

“Beige would look lovely…” you point out solemnly. The Soldat doesn’t know what shade of beige you’re thinking of, but he believes it would be beautiful nonetheless. “I… have a mission,” he tells you after a while. You hum in that same monotonous tone again, so he squeezes your arm even tighter. “When, Master?” you curiously ask, only now taking in his words.

“Tonight. Approximately at twenty-one hours,” he informs you in that mechanic voice of his that you hate. It makes you feel more trapped and vulnerable, even though there’s quite literally a chip in the back of your neck. “How long?” you ask him softly, a frown already beginning to display itself on your face.

He doesn’t like it when you frown. He prefers the lines that your smile provides over the lines your frown forces. That innocent glint in your eyes shines a bit, flickering like a dull light on the verge of completely blowing. Though it’s not much, it’s still something. And when it goes away, his entire being is filled with darkness.

You’re the light of his life, the fire of his loins.

“Not sure. Extraction of information. Senators and mayors…” He begins to ramble, and you shake your head. “Sorry, кролик,” he apologizes as he notices how uncomfortable you’re starting to get. You hum again. He wonders if you were a bird in your past life, perhaps a hummingbird, to be more exact. Or maybe even a swan or a dove because you’re just as beautiful as they are, if not more.

“You know how to behave, right? Потому что ты мой хороший маленький кролик?” he asks, and you don’t understand the second question, but you understand the former. “I know, Master,” you breathe, an airy ending to your words. “You’ll be good, кролик?” he questions one more time, and you lazily nod. You’re tired. Your body moves at a drowsy pace, and you don’t like it.

You don’t want to sleep, though. Scared that if you shut your eyes for too long, the monsters will come back, and Soldat won’t be able to save you. He always saves you. You’re his damsel, constantly in distress, locked away in a gilded cage. But he tells you it’s not a gilded cage. It’s not a run-down cell built in the fifties. It’s your home, even though you haven’t known what home is like for a while.

“I’ll always be good for you, Master. Please don’t leave for long. I get lonely easily,” you express in small bits of sadness and distress. “I know, кролик, я знаю,” Soldat says as he hugs you closer. You tilt your head backwards and let it lull on his shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promises, and you know it’s not true because he never fulfills it. “But my carrot can’t keep me company for all those hours… Please stay? Please?” you plead with tears welling in your eyes.

“Я могу составить ей хорошую компанию,” the soldier standing outside the cell mutters under his breath, earning a few snickers from his coworkers. I can keep her in good company, is what he said. And it’s truly unfortunate that the guards have forgotten that the Soldat — the Asset — has super-hearing. Their laughter dies down into sighs, and Winter’s chest begins to heave.

He puffs up like the big bad wolf he is, and he tosses you to the side like a rag doll. You watch him as he strides his way over to the guards. Each step carries the weight of the Winter Soldier, the one who’s ready to kill whoever is in his sight. Except for you. His bionic hand reaches through the metal bars that separate him from the outside world.

He wraps his fingers around the guard’s neck, and he squeezes his throat tightly. As Winter crushes the guard’s windpipe, you watch him behind slightly squinted eyelids. Tears blur your eyesight, and you remember that time when you were holding off the tears so well, you couldn't see the HYDRA van driving ahead of you.

Maybe if you could control your emotions a little better, you wouldn’t be here.

But then again, where would you be without the Soldat? Miserable, stuck in the worst parts of town without anyone. Having to drag your hands across those brick walls, again and again. Surviving on your own, teetering on the edge of death. Just like these men at the hands of the Soldat.

The crunching of bones and the screams of men are all blocked out for you. You focus on Soldat’s arm whirring in the most satisfying harmony you’ve heard in the past two years. Other than the orchestra you both have managed to make almost every day. But you still cup your hands over your ears.

Winter pulls a knife from the guard’s limp body. That very same knife ends up inside his heart, stopping it from pumping. The guards begin shooting at Winter, but he easily shields himself with the metal arm. It goes silent, but you keep your hands over your ears. Muffled talking steps in place of the silence, and you look up to see members of HYDRA staring at your Winter and you.

“Солдат, Что ты натворил?” One of the head agents asks. You believe his name is Vasily Karpov because that is what Winter has told you. “The… The guard said something about my кролик. He’s not supposed to,” Winter explains, looking to the ground. Karpov mutters a chain of curse words under his breath that you’re not too happy about. One of the other agents asks him to speak up, and he snaps.

“Just get him to the armoury! We need to prep him,” he shouts before stalking away from the scene. They all stick around a few more seconds before scurrying off like little mice. The dead bodies still lay on the floor, but nobody seems to really care. What’s happened has happened, and there’s no changing it.

“Привести с собой солдата!” A rough voice blasts through the intercoms, and suddenly, more guards show up at your cell. You curl up into a ball and rest your forehead against your knees. You can’t bear to watch them take him away. You wait until the cell door swings shut, and then men stomp away. But even then, you cannot look up.

Bring the Soldat.

He wears that mask of his. The last time you saw it, it was caked with dirt and blood. You can hear his hard breathing behind it, almost sounding as though he’s just run a marathon. He sits in the edge of the cot — the left corner, to be exact — and he watches you. The Soldat states as you look down at the array of snacks he’s provided you with.

“Kролик,” Winter gruffly calls, and you turn around. You hum and your voice raises at the end. You haven’t done that in a while, so it startles him a bit. “Which one?” he asks, stretching his neck out just a bit to see what snack you’ve chosen. “N… Not sure,” you shyly whisper, ducking your head down in fear.

“Green one,” he says after a while, and you place your hand on it. “I don’t know what it is?” you confusingly say. The Russian text on it confuses you, so you hand it to Winter. “ Sour Patch Kids…” Winter reads out loud, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. “Oh, I like those!” you eagerly cheer, sitting up on your knees. You turn around and reach your hand out for him to give them to you.

They’ve wiped him. You know it, and you hate it. They’ve taken all emotion away from him, and now he’s just an empty shell of a man. His softness from just a few hours ago has now gone away, and you don’t know what to expect of himself. But then again, you never do.

Hesitatingly, he hands it over. “Don’t eat now. Sugar will keep you up,” he warns, and you nod. Your father would say the same thing when you were younger. The only difference is that your father had more love in his voice than Winter ever will. “We need to go over the rules,” he speaks up after a few seconds. You hum again, and he continues. “Do you remember your rules?” Winter asks, and you hum once more.

“Кролик,” he growls, and you look up. “Do you need me to repeat the rules?” Winter questions and you shake your head in objection. He doesn’t listen, though, because he knows you don’t remember them. You never seem to remember the big, important parts of the puzzle. Only the small corner pieces that don’t really matter. “I’ll tell you them anyway, and you’re going to listen to every word I say. Understood, кролик?” he raises his eyebrow, not leaving any room for protesting.

You gulp thickly and nod. “Don’t make any noises, don’t touch yourself, don’t talk to the guards, don’t let anyone touch you, don’t hurt yourself and don’t even think of escaping,” he lists, and the last one makes tears sting your eyes. “I won’t escape. ‘S not like I can even do anything in here,” you whisper under your breath, and he stands up. Metal fingers grip your chin tightly, and Winter slowly kneels down in front of you.

You’re watched like a pet. You always have been. Not even a pet, more like a possession. Seen as an object with no feelings and no emotions. As though you don’t have a heart that pumps crimson blood and lungs that expand with each breath you take. “Don’t ever speak like that again. I can easily stitch those pretty lips of yours shut, кролик,” he threatens, and you feel your tears beginning to leak.

No, no, no, no, no. Not now.

He laughs. He fucking laughs, and you want to cry even more because you need him. You need your support, but he doesn’t want to give it to you. You should’ve just kept your mouth shut. “You’re so fucking… precious. Especially when you shed those tears of yours,” he tells you with a hidden smile behind his mask. He squeezes your jaw even tighter, and you whimper out a small ‘thank you, Master’ to him.

“I wasn’t finished listing the rules, so keep your fly shut,” Winter sneers, and you nod your head slowly. “When I get back, which will be in around three hours, you have to finish drinking all those bottles of water,” he stays, snapping his fingers to grab your attention. Your eyes follow those very same fingers as they point at the four bottles of water sitting by the bed.

You never noticed them until just now. “Oh, and you can’t go to the bathroom until I say so,” he adds with a slight humorous chuckle to his voice. Your eyeballs nearly fall out of their sockets. “Don’t worry, кролик, I’ll be back so quickly, it’ll feel like a few minutes,” he promises, and you feel a wave of relief wash over you. It reminds you of when you were young, and your parents would take you to the beach.

Your parents would build sandcastles with you until they got tired. You would beg your father to piggyback you into the sea, and he would do exactly that. Your mother would carry her disposable camera with her just to take photos that would end up in the green photo album from the thrift store.

And when you got a bit older, you’d go by yourself—older in the sense that you have to start paying the bus fare of $3. You’d head to the beach after dinner and before your parents came home from work. The sky would either be a dark, dark grey or a lovely mix of pastels. The water would wash beneath your feet, pulling and loosening clumps of sand.

Taking it away the same manner Winter took your innocence.

“And remember, if you break any of these rules, I’ll know. And the outcome won’t be as pretty as your face or that pussy of yours, кролик,” Soldat warns, and you nod your head. “Yes, Master,” you shyly say to him. You want to look down at the concrete flooring so badly, but his iron-clad grip on you doesn’t loosen until a minute after your words. He looks down at you, and you look away. His strong gaze is just as powerful as the summer sun that would beat down on your skin.

“Прощай, кролик.”

You never realized how thirsty you were until just now. You’ve finished all four bottles in the span of two hours, and now you’re counting down the minutes until Soldat arrives. There are no guards standing outside your cell, so you’re all alone. Not even your intrusive thoughts have visited, and you wonder if the water was spiked.

You were never that good at telling time. It would always take you a few seconds to find the minute hand and the hour hand. But the digital clock that is on the wall across from your cell is quite helpful. It even has seconds on it, too. So you count down out loud, trying to ignore the full feeling in your stomach.

Stomping echoes down the hallways, and you don’t know if he’s close by or meters away from you. You never could tell. Russian words fall off the agents’ tongues, and sometimes you wish you could understand them. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel like such an outsider even though you’re trapped in their home. “Ты свободен, солдат,” one of the agents say, and you can hear Winter grunt.

You’re free to go, Soldat.

His big, heavy feet stomp down the hallway. The sounds bounce off the greyish-green walls, stained with different things such as blood and dirt. You can hear his metal arm whirring, and your heart jumps with fear. You’re not scared of him; you’re scared of what he’s capable of.

Oh, who are you kidding? You’re terrified of him.

The guards open up the cell door, and you look up, locking eyes with his. They’re dark and empty as they usually are. “Кролик,” he growls, and you whimper. You run up to him and hug him, feeling the water slosh inside of you. You slow your breathing down the same way your elementary school nurse told you to when you were younger and try your hardest not to throw up.

“Missed me, hm?” Winter questions and you nod meekly. Though you didn’t want to admit it two years ago, you do now. “Missed you lots, Master,” you tell him. The leather is cold against your warm skin. If you focus just a bit more, you could feel the creases of the fabric as well. But you’re too busy with him, so you ignore it. “W- Was the mission good, Master?” you nervously ask him, only out of curiosity and nothing more.

“As always. Were you good, кролик?” Soldat questions in return, rightfully so. You nod eagerly and fiddle with your fingers behind his back. He acts like he can’t feel it, just for you not to stop hugging him. “Good girl… You seem like you want something. Out with it,” he orders, and you gulp in fear.

“I… I was wondering if I could go to the bathroom,” you meekly tell Winter, looking down to the ground. His boots are shiny and polished. Cleaner than anything you’ve seen before, and it’s confusing. He usually comes in covered with dirt, sweat, tears and blood. “You need to go to the bathroom, кролик?” he asks as if he didn’t hear you beforehand.

You shyly nod and unwrap your arms from around his broad torso. You wonder if he left the mission unscathed or not. Winter chuckles. It’s breathy, airy, sly and dark. “Aw, кролик, you’re adorable, the cutest кролик of them all. It’s too bad I’m not going to let you,” he sneers in that faux fantasy tone of his. You furrow your eyebrows and so desperately want to beg him, but it’s out of line, and he never asked, so you stay quiet.

Winter grabs your hand and drags you to the cot, reminding you of the way you’d pull your parents to the shore so they can play in the water with you. They’d both laugh before your father would tackle you in the water, and your mother would push him down in retaliation. You’d always resubmerge from the water with a smile on your face and laughter bellowing throughout the beach.

You miss those times.

You let him guide you to the bed you wish wasn’t yours. “What did you do while I was gone, кролик?” Soldat questions, sitting down on the canvas of the bed. You’re placed on his lap, almost as though he’s forcing you to reclaim a throne you need. And it’s true; you need him. His hands fall to your waist, and Winter holds you in place. “I drank all the water as you asked, and I just sat here, Master,” you recount to him, leaving out the parts of the past three hours he doesn’t need to know.

He hums in the same manner as you. “That’s all?” he questions, and you slowly nod your head. “Good, I’d hate to have to punish you this late in the night,” he says, pinching the skin on your torso. You don’t whimper because you’re used to it. He calls it affection, and so do you. Winter’s hands move from your sides to the front of your stomach, caressing you with a bit of pressure being put on your bladder.

You whimper and try to play it off with a cough, but you know deep down he doesn’t buy it. Soldat continues to run his hand against your stomach the same way you’d run across the shore. Slow, wary, yet with care from the ground beneath you. You like to think of the simpler, more happier times. You know if Winter pushes a little harder, you may not be able to control yourself any longer.

The pressure in your bladder grows every few seconds, so you squirm around in his lap. Your weight shifts from his left thigh to his right thigh, over and over, and he knows exactly what’s wrong. “Кролик… Are you feeling all tingly?” he asks you. You nod your head, but you take in his words. Meanings and implications are always lost with you. They fly over your head the same way birds do, and you only see them with someone's direction.

“N- No, Master, I just have to pee really badly…” you clarify to him, and he nods his head in understanding. You smile as a spark of hope lights inside of your heart. “I don’t think you do, кролик, I already told you,” he assures, and you sigh. “I- I know, Master, I’m sorry,” you apologize and drop your head down. “I think you’re having those tingles, кролик, is your little cunt wet?” Soldat questions even though you don’t have to answer.

His hand travels between your legs and to your pussy, cupping it tightly. You whimper and involuntarily grind against his hand. “You’re absolutely soaked, кролик! Were you thinking of me?” he interrogates, and you just go with it. “Y- Yes, Master, was thinking of you all the time,” you whisper to him. He squeezes your cunt tighter and purrs in your ear. “Then why didn’t you tell me beforehand, кролик?” Winter presses, and you feel fear pump through your veins.

“I- I knew you were tired from the mission, so I didn’t want to bother you, Master. I’m sorry, please forgive me!” you plead, and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. Your heart sinks to your stomach with each sound he makes, and you want death to take you right here, right now. The Soldat pushes you to the ground, and you fall with a loud ‘thud!’. Your knees hit the concrete hard, and you can feel your old scars open up a bit.

One was from a poor fall at the beach. Your father carried you home, and your mother tried to soothe you. You were only six at the time, but it felt like your world was ending.

Winter’s metal hand grabs your hair and tugs on your locks painfully. You bite back a pained moan as he yanks your head back. It’s not the first time he has nearly given you whiplash. He changes moods faster than anyone you’ve ever met. The Soldat walks around you, and you follow him with your eyes. “It’s okay, кролик. I’m not mad at you. I’m gonna treat you so well; you’re gonna love me even more,” he promises with a dark glint in his eyes.

He wedges his boot between your legs and underneath your cunt. “Get comfy, шлюха,” he orders. You shift yourself a bit, trying to alleviate any aches you feel, but it seems as though he wants you to be uncomfortable. Your pussy rests on his foot, and you wonder what he’s up to. His hand tilts your head to look up at him. You want to look away, just like when you’d look at the bright sun on a hot summer day. It was always too much to look at, but the sight was so captivating you couldn’t turn away.

“You said you wanted to go pee, right, маленькая потаскушка?” he questions, and you confusingly nod. “Then go ahead, do it,” he orders. You gasp, quite loudly, in fact. The reaction doesn’t please your Master, so he yanks on your hair a little tighter. “What’s wrong, сука? I thought that’s what you needed?” he interrogates, and you nod. “Yes, Master, but not like this,” you reason, and he growls. “I give you protection, I give you food, I give you my cum, I give you everything you need. What’s wrong now? Don’t you love me?” Winter asks.

Your heart quite literally breaks in two.

“I do, Master! I love you so much!” you promise, feeling those stupid tears of yours starting to well up. “Then why aren’t you listening to me, you dumb baby? Hm?” he presses, and panic begins to rise in your chest. The tears stream down your face the same way the waves would engulf you at the age of 7. “It’s just uncomfortable, Master, that’s all…” you reason with him. “Well, I don’t care. You’re gonna do it anyway, okay? I thought you were a good bunny for me…” Winter trails off as if he’s lost all hope and cause.

It makes you want to cry even harder.

Sniffling, you wipe your tears and try not to give up. “I am your good bunny, Master. Please don’t make me do this. I don’t want to!” you beg once again, and he grows weary of your patheticness. Winter bends down, and his flesh hand goes to the front of your flimsy shirt. Thin cotton rips away easily, with barely any strength coming from his behalf. The grey cloth is in two pieces, and he pushes them off your shoulders.

Your nipples harden as soon as the cool air brushes against them. Winter’s hand leaves your head, and you feel alone without his touch. “Seems like you forgot your place, кролик… You don’t get what you want; you get what you deserve. And what you deserve is to be put in your place,” he tells you, and your bones rattle with fear. The sound of a belt clinking and a zipping being pulled down grabs your attention, and you hold back a hearty sigh.

The Soldat stares you down as he throws his belt to the side just like he did you a few hours ago. “I can’t believe you, honestly. Думая, что ты так выше меня, пытаясь помешать мне делать то, что я хочу. After this, you’re going to regret ever talking back to me like that ever again,” he rants under his breath like the mad man he is. Your tears have dried up, but your bottom lip starts to wobble again. He huffs, tired of seeing you cry.

Winter halts his movements and goes to remove his mask, the one thing that’s been hiding that sinister smirk of his. The dark, matte material is clutched between the tips of his cut-up, bruised fingers. He carefully places the mask on your face, covering your mouth and nose. The action shuts you up, just like how he wants. You look up at him without blinking your tears away. You let them fall and soak the mask, staining it with your waterworks.

The Soldat pulls his big, thick cock out of his tactical pants. His cock is as hard as a rock, blooding pumping down to it, and his veins throb on the side of his shaft. Beads of precum drip down from his tip, rolling down his cock. He’s a raging red, desperate to be inside of you. His metal head returns to your head, and he brings you higher up in your knees. Your neck cranes at such a painful angle that the ache in your knees is ignored.

“You better fucking look at me while I teach you your lesson, шлюха,” he warns, and you listen to him easily. Through your haze of pained tears, you manage to look into his eyes. You’re not sure what he wants to do and what he’s going to do. You never do. The Soldat is unpredictable, and even in your two years of knowing him, you’ll never understand how the gears in his mind turn.

“Not so dumb after all, huh,” he chuckles before shaking his head. Winter sighs and smiles down at you. “One last chance, шлюха,” he tells you in a sing-song voice. You don’t say anything, and the Soldat clicks his tongue. Suddenly, instead of the delicious precum, he would usually make you lap up like a kitten, clear streams of warmth hit your chest. You gasp behind the mask, but it comes out as muffled nonsense to him.

“Stop!” you cry out to him, but your words are once again muffled. His pee soaks your chest as he relieves himself from the pressure in his bladder. Your hands bat at his stiff thighs, hitting them just so that he can stop humiliating you and treating you like you’re all but human. Winter growls, and his metal arm drops your head, and he slaps your hands away. His pee covers your tits and drips down your skin, staining you with disgust and humiliation.

The streams soon stop, and you’re sobbing even louder now. “Oh shut it, this isn’t even as bad of a punishment. I’m going easy on you, шлюха, I could easily do worse,” Soldat growls as the slightly tinted liquid drips from the tip and onto the ground. Your chest stutters with sobs, and you can barely breathe. You’re covered and coated like a freshly bought canvas, and Winter’s just ruined you. Almost in the same manner that you’d destroy your father’s canvas with your cheap, dollar store paint.

Winter bends down and grabs what was once your shirt and is now just a piece of cloth. Kind of like how your mother would give you any leftover scraps of fabric to make something for you. She’d never let anything go to waste. He uses it to wipe the drops of urine that still drip from his cock, and then he throws it at you like you mean nothing to him. You let it fall to the ground because there’s no possible way a piece of cloth that was once on your back can fix your honour.

But who are you kidding? You lost your honour the moment you gave into the Soldat, just like you always do.

You stretch your arms out to him, silently pleading for comfort from him. But he shakes his head with a sly smile on his face. “Aw, you want your Master to help you out, мой питомец?” Winter questions, and you eagerly nod your head. His metal hand goes to remove the mask, but he stops as soon as he touches it. “Say please,” he orders with faux sympathy in his voice. “Please, Master,” you beg to him, and he smiles.

Winter places his hand back on the mask and yanks it off of your face. The sides scratch your cheeks a bit, but that’s not what matters. “T- Thank you, Master. I love you so much,” you tell him before struggling to put a smile on your face. At the end of the day, no matter how brutal he is with you, you’ll always love him. ...Right? “You’re welcome, кролик,” he says as he throws the mask to where his belt lies.

Your cheeks are sticky and stained with tears, much like your chest. Winter’s flesh hand cups your left cheeky lightly, and he’s back to being the gentleman who has killed for you on numerous occasions. He wipes away the wetness on your cheek as his other hand goes to his cock, grabbing the base of it. “Say ‘ah,’ моя маленькая шлюшка,” he orders before you can even register his signature Cheshire smirk.

His cock is shoved inside your mouth without any warning. He always does that. No heads up, no preparation, nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Winter wiggles his foot that’s underneath your cunt, and the sudden friction is startling. He calls you bunny because of this reason. You can get off on anything, and you’re always needy for him. “I can see how wet you are, шлюха. You’re soaking my boot with that little pussy of yours,” he coos.

You don’t realize how wet you are until he points it out. You’re absolutely soaking, and you’re not sure why. But for the utmost incomprehensible reason ever, you don’t care.

His cock slides down your throat until your nose nuzzles against his pubic bone. His balls touch your chin, and your saliva coats his cock thickly. Your throat and side of your kissable mouth both hurt horribly, but you ignore the pain just for him. “You’re my good little bunny, right?” he questions, and you nod while his cock rests on your tongue. “And good little bunnies like you always listen to their Masters, right?” Winter asks, and you nod again.

He smiles. His hand on your cheeks moves to the back of your head slowly, returning to its newfound home. “I bet you want to come, don’t you, кролик?” he interrogates, and he’s not wrong. You really do want to come, and you’re a bit ashamed of it. “Master will let you come, don’t worry. I’m gonna let you have cummies, кролик,” he promises, and you happily giggle around his cock.

“Go on, hump my boot like the little bunny you are,” he pushes, and your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. You want to protest so badly, but the memories of what he just did to you freshly flood your mind like the memories from when you were younger. “Are you that stupid that I have to explain how to get yourself off? Or are you just not listening to me, кролик?” he asks in a tone that reminds you of subdued thunder.

You shake your hand and try to move your hips around a bit. Your soaking wet pussy grinds against the leather of Winter’s shoe, and your clit throbs at the feeling. Winter’s cock slides out of your mouth until the fat tip of it is all that’s left, and then he quickly shoves it back in. Your loud gags and his moans fill the room like music. Your loss of oxygen makes you see stars, and you can recall how much your father loved to paint the midnight skies until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Your old toothbrushes would serve as the home of the clouds of dust that the stars would be born from. His fingers would be covered in white paint that would fall off in the water and swirl down the sink. His black t-shirts would have white freckles on them, and your mother would always suggest for him to turn the cloth into a galaxy. He’d always tell her one day, and you’d always remind him of that day whenever you’d catch him painting.

“Fuck, you always do look even prettier with my cock in your mouth, кролик,” he swears, and you smile around his cock. Oh, well, you at least try to smile. You continue to rub yourself against his boot as he uses your throat as he pleases. Your hole drools with want, and your slick gives his shoe a shine that is unmatched by any other substance. The burning, fiery feeling on your clit spreads to your abdomen, and you can feel yourself being brought closer to the edge.

You’re moaning around his thick cock, sending sinful vibrations throughout him. “Fuck, are you gonna come, кролик?” he questions as he feels you hug his leg. You nod around his cock, and he begins to push your head back and forth of his cock, matching your desperate movements. He uses you like a fleshlight, and you’re used to it. “Well, too fucking bad, шлюха, you’re not allowed to come,” he spits, and your hips freeze in place.

“I didn’t say stop, did I? No, I didn’t, continue, шлюха,” he sneers, and you listen to the Soldat. You’re not sure how you’re going to stave off your orgasm, but you’ll do anything for him. You slowly begin to grind your hips back and forth on his boot again, trying to slow your breathing down, and Winter fucks your face sloppily. “Fuck, you want my cum, don’t you, кролик?” he questions, and you squeeze his leg tighter.

Winter pulls his cock out abruptly and pinches the base, staving off his release only for a few seconds. “I said, don’t you want my cum, шлюха?” he asks once again, and you nod. Saliva coats your mouth, and you can barely catch your breath. “I- I really want your cum, Master, please! Please give me your cum,” you plead to him with a ditzy look in your eyes. You wiggle your hips side to side just to give off the impression that you’re getting yourself off.

But you can’t fool the fooler. Nobody can.

“I’m going to give you all my cum, шлюха, and you’re going to take it all like a good girl,” he moans as he shoves his cock back into your mouth. Winter shoves himself deep inside your throat until you can’t take any more of his length. You swallow around his cock, and he moans loudly, swearing in Russian. The words roll off his tongue skillfully, and you feel yourself getting even wetter.

He grabs your head even tighter and bobs your skull up and down his cock a few more times before finally hitting his release. His balls tighten up, and a deep, throaty moan leaves his mouth in the best way ever. Hot, sticky ropes spurt down your throat before you can even register the way he throws his head back. Winter’s long hair spills on the sides of his head as his cum spills down your throat. You have no choice but to swallow, but it’s not like you want to spit his seed out anyways.

Winter lets out a deep moan that goes straight to your core, and his hand pats your head in a praising manner. “Good girl, such a good fucking girl,” he praises as he slowly pulls his sensitive cock out of your mouth. Your cunt flutters with sensitivity, and you want to come so badly, but you just can’t. The Soldat takes a few steps back, slipping his foot away from your aching pussy. You let out a whimper, and he smiles.

“I’m not done with you, маленький кролик,” he tells you, and your heart flutters. You’ve managed to ignore the building pressure in your bladder, but now it seems to come back stronger. “C- Can I go pee first, Master?” you politely ask him, still on your knees. Even that ache has returned, but it’s the least important thing as of now. He ignores your question as he works on the numerous straps on his battle uniform.

Skillful fingers take off the leather vest he wears, revealing a bulletproof protectant that saves him from certain dangers. “Get on the bed, кролик,” Winter orders as he continues to strip himself. You begin to stand up on your wobbly, scarred legs, but he tuts. “Uh uh, not like that,” he interjects, walking back to you. He pushes you back onto the floor, and you fall with a sob. “On your knees, because that’s what you deserve. Nothing more, шлюха,” he sneers, and you sniffle.

You slowly crawl to the bed. Each time your knees touch the ground, you burn up with both arousal and humiliation. And it’s not like the action is making your need to go to the bathroom any better. The abrupt movement makes the liquid slosh inside you, and you want to burst out in tears, begging Winter to just let you relieve yourself. Your hands have slight scars from your nails, and it reminds you of when your father would encourage you to do the monkey bars.

You’d always try to swing yourself to the end with all your might. But you never could do it. You’d fall down to the ground and leave the park wailing. The scars and blisters on your hand would make your parents so upset, but that never stopped you from wanting to go back and try again. Eventually, you got too old to try, and it would always upset you. Maybe one day you’ll be able to try again— one day.

You hear zippers unzipping and velcro cracking behind you as you get on the bed. The coolness of the sheets is so refreshing against your hot skin. It soothes you for a few seconds, but it eventually loses its worth. You turn around and face him with a sort of dumbfounded look on your face. He fucking loves it; Winter always does. He’s naked, fully naked, and even his signature tactical boots have been discarded.

If you squint, you could see the way your wetness shines on his boot. “Good girl, such as good little bunny,” he praises, and you can feel yourself get flustered. Winter climbs onto the bed, staring you dead in the eyes. He kneels in front of you with a wicked smirk, and he brings his flesh hand up to your throat. You let out a gasp as he squeezes your neck tightly before he leans in closer to you.

The Soldat’s face is just a mere few centimetres away from yours. You can feel each breath that he takes against your skin. His hard cock rests against your sticky chest, and he’s still hard as fuck. “Open your mouth, кролик,” he orders, and you instantly do so. You wait for his cock to be stuffed in your mouth once again, but it never comes. You watch as he puckers his lips up before spitting right by your mouth.

You choke in surprise as his saliva slowly drips into your mouth, landing on your sore tongue. You whimper at the feeling, and Winter has a proud smile on his face. He pulls his head away from yours, in the same manner your father would whenever he’d finish one of his masterpieces. “Swallow it all, кролик, I know you want to,” he orders in a sing-song voice.

You follow his demand obediently. You can’t lie; the sheer act of him spitting in your mouth and forcing you to swallow it makes you even wetter. You’d take anything he gives you. “You’re such a good girl, you know that right?” he questions, and your chest heaves. Winter’s cock twitches against you, and you so desperately want him inside you. But there’s nothing you want more than to go relieve yourself.

His metal hand comes up to your face, and you think he’s going to lovingly hold you. You absolutely adore it when he strokes your cheeks. The Soldat’s thumb touches the soft yet slightly sweaty skin of your face and moves back and forth. Chills run down your spine, and you smile into his touch. He suddenly pulls his hand away, and he strikes you roughly. You let out a cry as your skin stings and prickles from the hit.

He does it again and again until your tears soak his hand. Your cheek is practically numb from the pain. You can feel his cock leaking with cum, and you know that he’s going to fuck you, just like you want him to. “Did you forget your manners?” Winter harshly questions, and you quickly shake your head. “T- Thank you, Master,” you whisper to him, and he smiles.

“Master… Can I please go to the bathroom? Please, it hurts,” you beg to him, but he just shakes his head. “P- Please, Master? I’ll be a good girl, I promise!” you plead to him as your tears run down your face even quicker. He ignores your cries for relief, and he instead slams you onto the bed. Your mind is a mess as he combs on top of you, and the aches you have only get stronger.

The hand that was slapping some sense into you finds a new home on your stomach, right above your swollen bladder. He pushes down on your stomach slightly, and you kick your legs. “Shh, none of that, no, stop it,” he shushes, and you try your hardest to not let go right there and then. “Master knows what you need, okay? And right now, you need my cock, маленький кролик,” he tells you, and you sob.

The hand on your throat moves to his cock, and he grabs his thick base. The veins on the side throb with need, and in one thrust, he bottoms out inside you. You barely have the time to register what’s just happened. The painful stretch of his cock radiates throughout your core, and you dig your nails into the scarred skin of your palms. His tip nudges against your g-spot, and you coat his cock with your wetness.

Winter is buried inside you to the hilt, filling you up to the brim. His swollen, heavy balls rest against your ass, and you both try to get used to the connection. The painful stretch dulls down to an exquisite pleasure, and Winter loves the way your tight cunt gets used to his thick cock. He’s splitting you in two, but he simply does not care. His hand returns back to your throat, and this time, he squeezes the sides of your neck even tighter.

Winter pulls his cock out until his fat tip is the only thing resting inside of your pussy. He slams back into you roughly, and you let out a cry. Your jaw falls slack as the Soldat begins to fuck into your relentlessly. His balls slap against your ass, and your loud, short-lived moans fill the cell that you’ve grown to love. “Fucking hell, кролик, your pussy feels so good,” he growls, slamming into you even harder.

Your tits bounce with every movement he makes. The pleasure sears through your body as Winter hammers against your poor g-spot with each thrust he makes. “Master, please, I need to go really badly,” you beg to him as he continues to fuck you. He shakes his head in objection before pushing down on your stomach even harder. You let out a wail and try to squirm away, but you only worsen things for yourself.

“No, you don’t, кролик. The only thing you need is my cock,” the Soldat tells you, and you upsettingly toss your head back. “No, Master, please, I don’t wanna make a mess,” you reason with him, but he just doesn't seem to want to listen. “I know that, кролик, but you need to listen to me, okay? You don’t need to go; you just need me,” he growls lowly, and you can feel him pushing harder on your bladder.

“No- Wait, Master, please stop pushing on me,” you implore to him as a moan follows your words. Your silky, wet cunt hugs his cock as the tingly feeling in your bladder becomes stronger. You want to cross your legs and stop it from growing, but you can’t. Pressure builds up in your core, and you’re not sure if you’re going to come or if you’re going to make a mess and humiliate yourself.

“Let go, мой тупой ребенок, I know you want to so badly. You can make a mess, do it,” Winter urges, and you shake your head. “No, Master, please stop it,” you cry to him, but he only fucks you harder. One specific thrust hits your cervix, and you yell out in pain before even realizing what’s happened. Warmth trickles down your thighs and onto his cock. You let out a wail as humiliation blossoms from your soul.

Though there’s nobody else watching, you’re still embarrassed. And that wicked smirk on Winter’s face does nothing to help you out. The sound of it makes your back sweat, and you want the ground to open up and take you home. Your urine wets the sheets beneath you, and your tears wet your face. “God, look at you. You finally got what you wanted, and here you are, crying like a fucking brat. You’re so ungrateful. Do you even deserve my cum?” he questions with disgust on his tongue.

You struggle to nod, but you do it anyway. The last thing you need is to have your Master upset with you. “‘M sorry, Master, please forgive me,” you plead to him. You continue to relieve yourself, and he continues to fuck you despite the mess you’re making in his shaft. “Такой грязный, глупый малыш. Ты такой жалкий, ты же знаешь это, да?” he questions even though you only know one simple word of Russian. You moan loudly as you slowly stop making a mess and begin to feel your orgasm building up.

“Aw, are you gonna come, кролик?” Winter asks you in a condescending tone, one that makes you even wetter. The lewd sounds that come from your pussy as just as humiliating as what you’ve just done, but you don’t care. You’re too busy getting fucked stupid. “Fuck, I can’t wait to fill this pussy up with my cum; watch it leak out of you. You always do look prettier when you’re filled up with my cum,” he moans as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“Master, ‘m gonna c- come,” you whimper to him, laying in your own piss. “Go ahead, шлюха, come on my cock. You already made a mess on me twice, might as well do it for the third time,” Winter growls, moving the hand that lays on your stomach. He grabs your hips roughly and pulls you closer towards his cock. Hot flames lick at your abdomen as you hit your climax, seeing stars in your vision.

Your reality is warped as you can barely make out the look on Winter’s face. Darkness takes over your vision in the same manner as the clouds would take over the skies on those hot summer days. They would hide the pretty sun for a few minutes, and then they’d leave eventually. Your pussy clamps down on his cock tightly as you coat him with your juices, making him moan.

You wail loudly as you clench around him, making him groan. “Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” he asks without waiting for an answer. You nod as he fucks you through your orgasm, not even caring about how overstimulated you are. His cock slips in and out of you with ease and his thrusts begin to grow sloppy. “Tell me how much you want my cum,” he demands, fucking you even slower.

“I- I want your cum really badly, Master. I need it so badly; please fill me up with your cum!” you politely beg to you as you come down from your much-needed high. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so nicely, кролик, you’re gonna beg me to fuck you again,” Winter husks as his balls tighten up. A string of Russian words leave his mouth, and you have to assume that it’s all foul language.

Warm, white ropes of cum paint your walls as he pushes deep inside your cunt while coming. Winter’s blue eyes squeeze shut, and you both moan at the feeling. He fills you up just like he promised, and you bite down on your lips. Everything has dried, and you feel disgusted, so you try to focus on the way his cum pumps inside you. His cock stays inside you, but he doesn’t soften at all, and you know what that means. Winter falls on top of your sticky chest with a sigh, and tears sting your eyes.

Though he says you need him, you wonder if that’s really true.

Foundations (#1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 8.1.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Next Chapter

Two years ago.

Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint hum of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.

Each pod told a story of Hydra’s grotesque obsession with human experimentation. Steve’s sharp gaze scanned them uneasily and when he reached the last chamber, he froze.

Encased in cryogenic suspension, there was a small boy, no older than three, with his delicate features eerily serene within the frosted glass. The sight made his stomach twist.

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Steve, what did you find?”

He pressed a hand against the glass. “It’s a boy. About… two or three years old. Cryostasis. We need to get him out of here.”

His eyes darted to a nearby desk, where he eyed a weathered folder with its corners curled with age. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents, and his stomach churned with every line. “This- he is not a kidnapped normal human boy… they’ve been using fertilization methods here. Thirty samples and only this child lived after birth. The mother died in labor. Nat-” Steve’s voice got strained. “He’s… he’s Bucky’s son.”

The line remained silent for a moment before Natasha answered cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. There’s… documentation here, DNA confirmations. God, he doesn’t even have a name. Just a designation: A-25.”

A beat of silence passed again, heavy with the implication before Natasha’s voice softened. “What do you want to do?”

Steve exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the icy air. “We can’t just leave him here.”

-----

Back on the Quinjet, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The cryo-pod rested in the cargo bay, its faint orange light casting an otherworldly glow over the steel walls. Steve sat on a bench, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands pressed on his face, wrestling with the enormity of the decision he’d just made. Across from him, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood stiffly, with palpable apprehension.

“Captain Rogers,” one of them began, breaking the tense silence. “Moving him to the tower isn’t viable. We don’t know what kind of conditioning Hydra implemented, or if the kid is enhanced. He could be dangerous.”

Steve’s head snapped up, pinning the agent in place with his gaze. “He’s a child. And from what I read; he didn’t inherit the serum properties. Whatever Hydra did to him, it’s on us to undo it. Leaving him here or handing him over to a government lab isn’t an option.”

The agent shifted uneasily. “And if he’s unstable? Wha-”

Steve set his jaw, leaning back against the cold metal wall with determination. “Then I’ll handle it,” he cut firmly. “But we are not abandoning him.”

----

Two nights later in the common room, Steve, Natasha, and Tony gathered to discuss the next steps. The atmosphere was heavy. Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression.

“Look, I’m not saying we keep this from Barnes,” he pointed out with a little hesitation. “But you’ve seen him, Steve. He’s barely keeping himself together most days. Throwing a kid into the mix?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, and he hardened his gaze. “That’s not your call to make. He deserves to know.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Even if it sends him over the edge?”

“He’s stronger than you think,” Steve countered firmly. “And he’s not alone, even if sometimes he thinks he is. If he decides to step up, we’ll help him. All of us. That boy is his only family, Tony. Bucky deserves the chance to decide what kind of relationship he wants with him.”

----

Present.

Two weeks into the new school year, she stood at the kindergarten’s gate, greeting the kids with a warm smile. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves, and shades of orange and gold framed the cheerful faces of the kids as they laughed and ran to their friends. Each day, they’d formed a routine, walking together through the small park leading to the school hall.

Nearly everyone had arrived when, just as she was about to close the gate, she noticed a figure approaching. Her gaze landed on a tall man with strikingly beautiful yet tired blue eyes. His hesitant steps betrayed a certain nervousness. Beside him walked a boy, the spitting image of him, with the same dark hair and soulful eyes. They were unfamiliar to her, but she knew immediately who they must be.

Thomas Barnes and, presumably, his father.

The director had informed her about the new student, explaining that, for personal reasons, the boy would start a bit later than the others. Now here they were, standing on the threshold of a new chapter.

She stepped forward with a warm smile. “You must be Thomas,” she said gently, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s gaze. Then she looked up at the man, her voice equally kind. “And you must be his dad. Welcome.”

The child hugged his father’s leg when he realized he had to go in alone. Bucky bit his lip, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Kiddo, we talked about this. I’ll pick you up at three, and then we’ll go to Uncle Steve’s,” he said softly.

Then he gave her an apologetic look. “Also, what do we always say? Manners. You didn’t even greet Miss...”

Oh. She got so distracted by the pair that her clouded mind didn’t even consider the basic introductions. “Sorry! I’m Miss Y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you two.”

The boy separated one hand from his father’s leg and, straightening his posture but with a quivering lip, offered his hand like a little gentleman. “I’m Thomas. I’m five years old, and… and I will be in your care.”

She shook his hand, surprised and delighted. “Well, aren’t you a little gentleman,” she said warmly.

The bell rang, and she straightened up. “Well, that is our cue. Would you like to come inside? There are lots of boys and girls who would love to meet and play with you,” she reassured. Then she looked at Bucky. “And, as your papa -Mr. Barnes- said, he’ll be here when we finish.”

“James,” Bucky said promptly, stretching out his hand firm but gently to shake hers. She felt a traitorous warmth rise in her cheeks when their gaze met at closer range. His tired blue eyes held more than exhaustion; something softer and more vulnerable lingered there, though it was quickly masked. Apprehension, perhaps? He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and yet, somehow, he was effortlessly handsome.

“Nice to meet you, James,” she managed, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, your little one will be fine, you’ll see.”

Bucky nodded once, briskly but slightly hesitant. “Yeah, I-I know. Alright, Kiddo,” he said, crouching slightly to Thomas’s level, in a low and encouraging voice. “You listen to your teacher and... have fun, alright? Just like we talked about.”

Thomas clung to his father’s jeans for a moment longer, small fingers clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline. His lip quivered, and he glanced back at her with uncertain eyes. For a brief second, she wondered if he might refuse to let go, but then, slowly, he released his grip. The boy stepped toward her, tentative but brave, and positioned himself by her side.

She crouched again, offering him an encouraging smile. “You’re going to have a wonderful day, Thomas. I’ll be right here with you.”

The reassurance seemed to help. Thomas nodded shyly, though he didn’t speak. When she stood again, she noticed Bucky watching his son with an expression that tugged at her heart, equal parts pride and pain.

With a single nod of acknowledgment toward her, he straightened and turned on his heel, walking away without looking back. She couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer than she should have, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he disappeared down the path. She exhaled softly, turning her attention back to Thomas.

“Shall we?” she asked gently, holding out her hand.

Thomas hesitated, but then his small hand slid into hers. Together, they walked toward the classroom, the sound of children’s laughter welcoming them into a new day.

----

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Two years. It had been two years since Thomas came into his life, and now, for the first time, he was entrusting his care to someone else’s hands, strangers, no less. It might have seemed like an ordinary milestone for any other parent, but ordinary wasn’t a word that had ever described his life.

Normalcy was a foreign concept in their household. From the moment Steve had walked into the tower with that cryo-pod and the revelation of Thomas’s existence, everything had shifted. Even in the haze of his own self-doubt and fucked up brain, Bucky had known there was only one choice to make. Despite the murmurs of alternatives offered to him -guardianship through S.H.I.E.L.D. programs, adoption options- he hadn’t hesitated.

Responsibility. He owed the child that much, even if the idea of raising him terrified him to his core. How could he possibly be a parent when he was barely figuring out how to be himself? A walking mess trying to navigate a world he no longer fit into, burdened by guilt, memories, and nightmares. But Thomas wasn’t just a child, he was his child, a fragile thread tethering Bucky to something tangible and real.

The first months had been the hardest. Thomas, scared and silent, flinched at shadows and refused to speak more than a handful of words. A traumatized child by his earliest experiences, molded by Hydra’s cruel hands, and burdened with a fragility that made Bucky’s heart ache almost everyday. He could barely bring himself to imagine what might have happened if Steve hadn’t found him in that lab.

It wasn’t a journey he could have managed alone. Living at the Avengers Tower, he had been reluctant at first to accept help from the team. Steve, of course, had been steadfast and supportive, as expected. But what surprised Bucky the most was how the others had stepped in. Natasha’s guidance when words failed him, Wanda’s ability to soothe the boy, and even Tony’s seemingly endless stream of resources, like the top-tier child therapists he’d hired without hesitation.

Thomas was lucky, in a way, that Hydra’s experiments hadn’t left him with the serum’s super-soldier effects. The organization had tried, forcing serum-adjacent treatments to awaken something dormant, but to no avail. It was a relief Bucky carried deeply, though it did little to soften his guilt for not being there to stop it sooner.

Over time, they found a constant rhythm in their lives. Bucky wasn’t perfect -far from it- but he learned how to be there for Thomas. He showed him that food wasn’t a reward to fear, that adults could offer love instead of pain, that bedtime stories were for comfort and not to kept teaching lessons until he closed his exhausted eyes. Slowly but surely, the child started to blossom, inching out of his shell, exploring the world with a tentative kind of hope.

Still, Bucky knew they couldn’t stay in the protective bubble of the tower forever. Thomas needed more: kids his age, a chance to experience life outside their small, cloistered world. It had taken time, but Bucky finally worked up the nerve to rent an apartment for the two of them and begin the daunting process of finding a kindergarten.

The search was harder than expected. On paper, the process was simple: call, inquire, and enroll. In practice, things unraveled quickly. Many schools initially expressed enthusiasm, but the moment they learned Thomas was the son of that James Barnes, things changed. “Administrative errors” cropped up, classes mysteriously filled to capacity, or calls simply went unanswered.

When Tony offered to pull strings, Bucky refused. He wasn’t about to force his son into a place where the only motivation was Stark’s money. He didn’t want Thomas in an environment where whispers followed him down the hall, or where teachers tiptoed around him out of fear or prejudice.

So, he kept searching. Two weeks into the semester, he finally found a place. It was modest, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, with no interest in his past beyond the necessary paperwork. No judgment. No lingering stares. Just a promise to give Thomas a chance, and that was all Bucky needed.

As he walked away from the schoolyard, leaving Thomas in the care of his teacher and her warm smile, he tried to shake the tension in his chest. Rationally, he knew it was the right step. Thomas deserved to experience childhood, and this was the first of many milestones.

Still, the ache of leaving was sharper than he’d expected.

----

Thomas’s first day could have been better, but it wasn’t terrible either. As expected, the transition wasn’t easy. He seemed overwhelmed by the number of children around him. Though the school was small, nine energetic five-year-olds in one room was a stark contrast to the quiet, adult-dominated environment he’d grown up in.

The morning began with a formal introduction, as she guided Thomas gently to the front of the room. “Everyone, this is Thomas. Let’s all say hello!” she announced with her ever-patient smile.

A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him in unison, and Thomas blinked, wide-eyed, shifting closer to her side. Throughout the day, he stuck to her like a shadow, quietly observing the other children. His curious gaze darted from one group to another, watching how they played together, laughed, and squabbled.

The first hiccup came when two boys got into a brief tug-of-war over a toy truck. Thomas visibly tensed, his small shoulders stiffening as he clutched the hem of her skirt. She quickly diffused the situation and offered Thomas a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Thomas, sometimes there are quarrels, but nothing to worry about,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didn’t move from his spot.

Flora, one of the more outgoing girls in the class, made several attempts to coax Thomas into playing with her. Each time, she would approach with a bright smile and an outstretched hand, only to be gently refused as he shook his head and clung to his teacher. “Thomas is feeling a little shy today,” she explained kindly to Flora. “But I bet he’ll join you soon.” Flora nodded enthusiastically, skipping back to her friends, undeterred.

When the day finally wound to a close, the children were picked up one by one, their parents ushering them out with cheerful waves and chatter. Soon, the classroom emptied, leaving only her and Thomas. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past pick-up time. Not late enough to be alarming, but enough to notice the change in Thomas.

The boy sat stiffly on a bench near the gate, his small chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She crouched down in front of him, “Hey, Thomas, it’s okay. Your dad will be here soon, I promise. While we wait, want to learn a game?”

The child blinked at her, with glassy eyes by unshed tears and then nodded hesitantly.

She held out her hands and showed him a simple clapping game. The rhythm seemed to distract him, his and his breathing slowed down as he focused on mimicking her motions. They repeated the sequence a few times, and she rewarded him with a bright smile each time he got it right.

Then, footsteps approached the gate, and she looked up to see James Barnes hurrying toward them, with a concerned expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his blue eyes flicking from her to Thomas. “Traffic was worse than I expected-”

“Papa!” the small voice broke through as he bolted toward his father, tears streaming down his face now that the wait was over.

Bucky crouched and scooped him up immediately, cradling him close with his gloved hands. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he murmured with guilt. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I won’t be late again, I promise.”

As he held his son tightly, he turned toward her, ready to apologize again. But when he met her gaze, something in his chest shifted, just a flicker, something too fleeting to name.

She was smiling, kind and patient, with a softness in her expression that made it painfully obvious she wasn’t upset about waiting.

That shouldn’t have stood out. But it did.

“I’m sorry for making you wait and... taking up your time. It won’t happen again.”

She shook her head with a kind smile. “It’s alright. He was fine, really. And the game helped. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky gave her a grateful look, softening his features just enough to show how much he appreciated her patience. “Thanks... for everything.”

She was about to respond when something crossed her mind. She hesitated briefly before speaking. “Um, Mr. Barnes -James- do you think we could schedule a meeting sometime this week? I usually interview families during the first days to get to know them better, but since Thomas started a bit later, we haven’t had the chance. If you’d like, we can arrange a time that works for you.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she quickly added, “Of course, if you need to check with Mrs-”

“It’s just me,” he interrupted, firmer than intended but not unkind.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Just him.

Her expression didn’t change much, she simply nodded, adjusting quickly, but something about her expression made his throat go dry.

“Alright,” she said smoothly, “how does tomorrow at 1 PM sound?”

Bucky knitted his brows, working through something in his mind. She took the hesitation as doubt and quickly reassured him, “The interviews take place during school hours. Another teacher covers my class while I meet with parents. It’s all planned out.”

He nodded after a moment, letting the arrangement settle.

“Then it’s a date.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Silence. His own brain screeched to a halt.

Shit.

The second the words left his mouth, he froze. Why the hell did he have to use that word? He shows up late on the first day, and instead of keeping his shit together, he throws that word in her face like some creep. What is she going to think? That he’s hitting on her? That he doesn’t take this seriously? His mind started spiraling as always, and he glanced at her, waiting for her reaction, expecting something-anything- that signaled she’s offended or uncomfortable.

But she only smiled. Not a smirk, not teasing, just… warm. Like she hadn’t even registered the slip, or worse, like she had and found it endearing.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes. See you tomorrow. Bye, Thomas! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked toward the gate with Thomas in his arms. The tension in his shoulders was killing him, and his mind kept spiraling. Why couldn’t he have just said meeting like a normal person?

-----

He arrived five minutes early. Pressing the doorbell, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, exhaling quietly as he waited.

A moment later, a soft buzz hummed from the side gate, signaling that he should push to enter. The latch clicked open under his touch, and he stepped through, strolling into the modest front yard where tiny footprints were imprinted into the damp soil, remnants of an afternoon spent playing.

As he neared the entrance, the building’s front door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold to receive him.

She hadn’t expected him to be so… put together.

Her breath hitched for half a second as she took him in, her brain momentarily short-circuiting before she caught herself. He was overdressed for a simple parent-teacher chat. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, keeping the strands away from his sharp, striking features. The crisp black shirt he wore, fitted just right, framing his broad shoulders like a second skin, the mother-of-pearl blue buttons subtly gleaming under the soft afternoon light. The contrast of the dark fabric against his fair skin only made his blue eyes stand out even more.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring, like an absolute idiot, at that.

Her own reflection in the glass door made her painfully self-conscious. She had thrown on a comfortable jumper that morning, warm and practical, paired with an open wool jacket she hadn’t given much thought to. Now, under his gaze, she felt underdressed.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, she straightened her posture and smiled, keeping her voice even. “Mr. Barnes, right on time.”

His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, but not quite. “James. Figured I shouldn’t be late twice in a row.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Come on in. Would you like some tea or coffee before we start?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Tea, if it’s not a hassle.”

“No hassle at all,” she assured him, leading the way inside.

As he followed her down the hallway, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was just a meeting, a standard conversation about Thomas. That was all. She led him into the small office and closed the door with a soft click.

With him inside, the space suddenly felt even smaller, almost claustrophobic. As he settled into the chair, she turned toward the small counter, flipping on the electric kettle. With her back to him, she absently tugged at the neckline of her jumper, then glanced down, frowning as she noticed a faint smear of green tempera near the hem. Great. Just great. She tried to rub it away discreetly, but the stain refused to budge.

Forcing herself to move on, she turned around, offering a professional -and hopefully not too flustered- smile. “So, Mr. Barnes.”

“James is really alright,” he repeated. Then he asked himself if there was a rule to use the last name, and she was trying to make him notice that fact politely by still addressing him with formality.

She nodded. “Alright, James.” The name felt different on her tongue, more personal somehow, and for some reason, it flustered her to use it. She cleared her throat, refocusing. “I’m going to ask some questions about Thomas’s daily life and family status so we can start building his file.”

At that, she caught the way his gloved hands tensed over his knees. It was subtle, just the smallest tightening of his fingers, but she noticed. His expression, however, remained unreadable: calm, polite, the perfect picture of an agreeable parent sitting through a standard school procedure.

But she knew better.

Not wanting to push too soon, she offered an alternative. “Also, if you’re interested, I can tell you briefly about yesterday and today’s steps in his integration.”

Something shifted in his posture at that. Not much, but enough. A small breath in, a glance toward her, like a man bracing for news he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “I’d like that.”

----

Bucky felt little beads of sweat trickling down his spine. Was he trying too much?

He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers over his knees as he stole a glance at himself, just a quick, discreet look. Then, at her, and then, at the tiny office around them, shelves stacked with colorful folders, walls decorated with cheerful crayon drawings.

Back in his time, people dressed better. If a parent had to meet with a teacher, for whatever reason, it was treated as a formal occasion. A suit, a tie. The respect was shown in one’s presentation. So, naturally, he thought the right thing to do was clean up good.

Now, sitting in that too-small, squeaky green chair, with that attractive lovely lady making him tea, he felt like a goddamn wedding cake doll.

Her jumper was slightly wrinkled, her open wool jacket practical and cozy, and there was that stubborn little stain on the hem that she’d tried to wipe away when she thought he wasn’t looking. She belonged in this space, warm and natural, while he looked like he had an appointment with a boardroom, not a kindergarten teacher.

He swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Alright," she said, settling across from him with a patient smile. "Where do you want to start? The interrogation about personal matters or how Thomas is adjusting to his partners and environment?"

Bucky barely hesitated. "The second one."

She smiled knowingly as if she had expected that answer. “He was a little introverted at first, which is completely normal for a child his age in a new group. Most of the kids already knew each other, so he’s still figuring out where he fits in.”

Bucky nodded, listening intently.

She hesitated for a second before continuing, careful but warm. “He’s also a bit… dependent.”

That made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.

“Which, again, is perfectly normal,” she reassured quickly, reading the shift in his expression. “Especially considering his background. I have no problem giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs throughout the day. But maybe, with time, we can work on building his independence a little.” She offered him a gentle smile. “But overall, James, he’s a lovely kid. Really.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. Lovely. Not a problem. Not difficult. Just… lovely.

She turned to retrieve the tea, and as she was about to place his mug on the table, the sleeve of her wool jacket caught on a rough splinter in the wood. The movement sent the cup tipping, and a small splash of hot liquid spilled onto her hand and the table.

“Oh, fuc-” She caught herself just in time, trading the curse for a flustered, “Oh, dear.” She hastily set the mug down, shaking her wrist slightly as she clutched her burned fingers.

Before Bucky even registered the thought, his body moved on instinct. Old chivalry, muscle memory, -maybe both- he reached out, pulling off his glove in one swift motion and gently cradling her injured hand in his own. He wrapped his cool metal fingers around hers, as an automatic attempt to soothe the burn.

She tensed.

The reaction was so small that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he did. The slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, the way she froze beneath his touch for a fraction of a second.

His brain caught up with his actions.

Shit.

This was something he did all the time with Thomas, an instinctive, unconscious movement, one that made sense when it was his son crying over scraped knees or bumped elbows. But this wasn’t Thomas. This his son’s teacher. A stranger, technically. And here he was, holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He winced inwardly, twitching his fingers slightly as if preparing to pull away, to apologize, to-

But then, she relaxed.

Just enough for him to notice. Her grip eased slightly as her fingers rested in his palm, still warm from the tea. And then, to his utter surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess that’s one way to handle it. Thank you,” she said, sincerily.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He wasn’t accustomed to people thanking him. Hell, he wasn’t accustomed to people wanting to share a space with him. The proof of that was in how damn difficult it had been to find a school willing to take Thomas in without judgment.

Was it always so hot in here?

The stupid shirt Steve had lent him to look presentable felt glued to his skin, clinging uncomfortably as a fresh wave of heat crept up his neck. He let go of her hand -reluctantly- and with a quick movement, he popped open a couple of the top buttons, trying to breathe. His fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair in the process, loosening a few strands from the short ponytail.

She blinked.

Hard.

His deep voice cut through the charged moment. “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” He murmured the words as he hastily pulled his glove back on, as if reestablishing some invisible boundary he had accidentally crossed.

It took her a second -maybe two- to remember how to speak after that sight.

“Oh, not at all,” she finally managed, waving her hand nonchalantly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, so you are perdoned.”

“Oh, good,” he added promptly.

“Yeah, good,” she echoed.

And then- silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that stretched for just a few seconds too long, making the air feel thick and awkward. It was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to be having a professional conversation, and yet here she was, staring at him like a flustered schoolgirl while he sat there, stiff and unreadable, probably wondering if she had a single functioning brain cell left.

Snapping herself out of it, she straightened in her chair, clearing her throat as she grabbed a folder and a pen. Professional. Focused.

“Let’s start with the questions,” she stated, determined to get back on track. “How is the family group composed?”

A faint tick appeared in his jaw. “Just the two of us.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “Do you receive any kind of support from extended family members or close friends?”

Bucky hesitated. “I have… friends.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “Oh, um… my friend Steve is like an uncle to him.”

She froze for half a second, pen hovering above the paper. Steve.

As in Steve Rogers.

And suddenly, the fact that James Barnes -Bucky Barnes- was sitting in her tiny office, answering questions about kindergarten pickup times and playtime habits, felt almost surreal.

But she pushed past it, nodding as if it was just any other answer. “Tell me about a normal day in Thomas’ life. From the moment he wakes up until bedtime.”

The questions continued, one after another. But to his surprise, none of them were invasive.

Nothing about him. Nothing about his past. Nothing about the child’s mother.

She was only interested in Thomas, his routines, his favorite activities, the people who cared for him. What made him happy, what calmed him down, what sparked his curiosity.

And he just felt… like a normal Dad.

She tapped the pen against her lower lip, scanning the notes she had just taken, furrowing her brows slightly in concentration.

Bucky tried to keep his eyes anywhere else; on the folder, on the damn splintered table, but somehow, his gaze flickered back to her.

Her lips were slightly parted. Soft. That translucent lip gloss she wore caught the autumn light just enough to glisten innocently. She didn’t seem aware of it, of the way the movement drew attention, of how effortless it was.

He clenched his jaw. Pathetic.

Maybe Sam had a point. Maybe he really did need to -what was how he had said it?- "get some." Because sitting here, staring at his kid’s teacher like the virgin Steve used to be back in the day, was not normal.

Especially when she was just… there. In a damn tempera-stained jumper, flipping through papers, completely unaware that his brain had short-circuited over something as simple as the way she absentmindedly pressed the tip of the pen to her lip.

He shifted slightly in his seat, making the little chair squeak under his weight. He needed to get a grip.

She looked up then, extending the forms she had just filled out. “Here, read it, and if it’s fine for you, please sign it, and we’re done.”

He reached for the papers, his fingers briefly grazing hers. She was already moving, sorting through more documents, rummaging inside what looked like her purse as he scanned the form.

A moment later, he signed it, handed it back, and stood up.

The room somehow felt even smaller with him standing.

She tucked the papers into a folder, then hesitated for the briefest second before extending something toward him. A small, brightly wrapped raspberry lollipop.

He just looked at it.

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, um- it’s just a thing we do,” she explained, feeling a little ridiculous. “Teachers give a sweet to the parent who comes in for the visit. A friendly token.”

Bucky glanced at the candy, then at her.

Slowly, he reached out, taking it from her hand.

“If you feel too old to try it, give it to Thomas,” she teased lightly. “Though I must say, they’re pretty good.”

Bucky barely managed to keep his expression neutral as an entirely inappropriate image flashed through his mind involving her slightly parted lips against the bright red lollipop, swirling her tongue over the slick, glossy-

Nope. Absolutely not. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his brain and slammed the door shut.

Clearing his throat, he glanced at the candy in his palm. He was pretty sure the last time he had something like this was in the ‘20s, running through cobblestone streets in short, ragged pants and scraped knees. It felt oddly foreign now, a relic of a time buried long ago.

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” he muttered, tucking the candy into his jeans pocket, trying to expel the compelling thoughts swirling at the back of his mind.

Her smile lingered a moment as she straightened the papers, and again, the moment stretched just enough to make the air feel heavier than before.

She cleared her throat. “Well, the institution will be asking for another meeting in about three months to give you an update on how he’s doing. It’s the same for all the kids,” she explained, slipping back into professional mode.

Bucky nodded, adjusting his stance slightly, like he was grateful to have something to focus on.

“I’ve also added you to the parents-teacher WhatsApp group," she continued, "as a way to communicate news, the things kids should bring, upcoming events, that kind of stuff.” She hesitated, glancing at her notes before adding, “Um… it says you don’t have the app installed, so it would be great if you could download it.”

And then, silence.

Bucky barely moved, but something in his posture changed. His gaze flickered toward the small table, where his old clamshell phone rested near his keys.

She noticed.

That was not a smartphone, and it was definitely not suited for a parent-teacher chitchat group.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “It’s a policy here, since, well… it’s assumed everyone has it.” She smiled, small and reassuring. “But don’t worry, I can send you a normal text separately with the same information. Just… without the cool emojis, I’ll have to stick to ASCII.” She winked.

That got something out of him, a faint huff, not quite a laugh, but close. His shoulders relaxed just slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Appreciate that.”

----

After a couple of months, Bucky was relieved -no, grateful- to see Thomas flourishing in his new environment.

The once-quiet, wary boy had slowly started to open up. He was more talkative now, his voice no longer a whisper but something steadier, stronger. He laughed more, flinched less. When he came home from school, he actually talked about his day, about the games they played, about Flora and Matthew, about how Miss Y/n read the best stories and always did the funniest voices.

Bucky didn’t know if she realized just how much of a difference she had made.

One afternoon, while Thomas was scribbling dinosaurs at the kitchen table, Bucky’s old clamshell phone vibrated against the counter.

He flipped it open. A general message from her number.

Dear families, our annual fundraising event is coming up! Each grade and nursery group will participate by preparing goodies to sell, baked treats, crafts, and more! We encourage everyone to take part and help make it a great day for the kids!

Bucky was already closing the phone when it binged another time. It was her again.

Don’t know about your culinary expertise, but we could really use some strong dads to help build the booths this saturday ;)

He blinked.

A just-for-him message.

For a second, he only stared at it, like his brain needed to catch up. The winking face at the end nearly made him short-circuit.

Clearly, she was recruiting him for his enhanced strength.

It wasn’t like the other parents would be thrilled to have him around. He rarely talked to them, never lingered after pickup, never engaged in small talk about school trips or birthday parties. The most interaction he got was a nod or a hesitant smile. Acknowledgment, but never an invitation.

And he understood why. He wasn’t the kind of dad people naturally gravitated toward. He wasn’t friendly like Steve, or charming like Sam. He was… him. Quiet. Intimidating. A man with too much history and too little practice in fitting into normal spaces.

So why would anyone want him there?

He exhaled sharply, glancing at the message again. Maybe she’d sent the same thing to a few others. Maybe it wasn’t just for him.

But… she had sent it. With a winky face.

And despite the self-doubt crawling at the back of his mind, he couldn’t ignore the small, reluctant warmth blooming in his chest.

Because for whatever reason, she thought to ask.

-----

When the Saturday came, Bucky was sharp on time at the open kindergarten gate, with Steve.

Not that it had taken too much to convince him. Steve, being the charitable man he was, never missed an opportunity to help. But Bucky also knew his friend well enough to recognize the other reason he had agreed to come so quickly, curiosity. Curiosity about the place Thomas spent his days. And curiosity about the “winking emote teacher.”

Bucky had two reasons for bringing Steve.

One: With two super soldiers on site, setting up the booths would take a fraction of the time.

Two: He didn’t want to come alone. Not that he’d admit it outright, but walking into a social setting full of parents and staff -people he knew saw him as an outsider even if they tried to mask it- felt a little too exposed. At least with Steve there, the focus will be put elsewhere, and he knew his level of self-consciousness will drop.

Of course, Steve suspected as much. But to his credit, he had the courtesy of not saying anything.

They hadn’t been there long enough when he spotted her across the yard, balancing a few wooden planks in her arms as she walked toward the setup area. She was focused, navigating carefully, until a rogue Lego piece nearly sent her sprawling.

In an instant Steve was there, supporting her before she could hit the ground.

She let out a startled gasp, gripping his forearms instinctively. And then, the realization showed all over her face. Because holy shit, Captain America was in the kindergarten.

“Uh- thanks,” she said, letting go of his forearms, looking a little flustered.

Steve, ever the gentleman, just smiled. “No problem.”

Then, as if remembering there were other people present, she glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, looking slightly out of place.

Her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hey! You made it. and with backup! That adds points, you know” She grinned, tilting her head playfully. “More help means more credit when it’s time to take home the leftover cakes and pies.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s a thing?”

“Absolutely.” She crossed her arms, pretending to be serious. “Hard work should be rewarded. And what better prize than free dessert?”

Steve chuckled, throwing Bucky a look. “See, now that’s motivation.”

Bucky shifted slightly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Um I thought some extra hands would come in handy, anyway.”

She nodded, rocking back on her heels slightly. “Well, I’m glad you did. We can definitely use the help, some of these booths have been in storage forever, and let’s just say… they’re not in peak condition.”

Steve smirked. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll make sure they stand up straight.”

She snorted. “That’s the bare minimum we’re hoping for, yeah.” Then she proceeded to give them a quick rundown of what was needed: booth assembly, structural support, and general heavy lifting. After making sure they understood, she left them to it, moving to a shaded corner where a group of teachers and moms were busy painting banners.

As Bucky grabbed a plank, Steve picked up another, glancing over his shoulder toward her. Then, with a knowing half-smile, he turned to Bucky.

“So… I assume she is Tommy’s teacher?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just gave a curt nod, with an unreadable expression.

Steve hummed. “She’s cute.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept his gaze firmly on the plank in his hands, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Steve pressed a little more. “Real cute.”

This time, Bucky gave him a noncommittal grunt. No eye contact. No reaction.

"Do you think the teachers might do a kissing booth?" Steve asked nonchalantly, setting a plank into place like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade into the conversation.

That got a reaction.

Bucky’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shot him a side glance. “…Is that still a thing nowadays?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Dunno if it’s as chaste as it was in our time, Buck, but it’s still runnin’. Clint told me sometimes they have them at his kids’ school.”

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, gripping the hammer a little tighter.

Steve chuckled, sensing an opening. “I mean, it makes sense, you know. A lot of divorced dads…”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Bucky cut him off, hammering a plank into place with maybe a little too much force. The loud crack of wood echoed through the yard.

Steve just smirked. “Touchy subject?”

Bucky ignored him, grabbing another nail.

"You know, Buck, I think you should ask her out."

"Shut up, punk."

"I'm serious. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Bucky turned to him, giving him a look so dry it could’ve drained the Atlantic. His next words were slow, like he was explaining something to a mentally impaired person.

"Let’s see. First of all, she’s my child’s teacher. It’s unethical."

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky steamrolled right over him.

"Two, I can barely deal with myself most days. I can’t trust my own mind sometimes. I’m trying to put my shit together because of Thomas, but you know there are days I can barely get out of bed. So adding another person into our lives right now?" He shook his head. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Steve stayed quiet, watching him.

"And three," Bucky exhaled, returning to the plank, "I don’t think she’d be interested, damn I even don’t know if she is seeing someone. And I don’t want to make our interactions weird."

Steve tilted his head, giving him a look that was both skeptical and amused but, to Bucky’s relief, he kept his mouth shut didn’t press further.

-----

After a couple of hours, Bucky and Steve eventually split up, taking on different tasks. As expected, Steve had a small crowd of parents ‘casually’ gravitating around him, helping with his station while subtly asking for pictures and sneaking in questions between hammering and measuring.

Bucky, meanwhile, retreated to a quieter corner, bending some metal pipes to straighten the framework. It was a stark contrast, really. Steve walked into a place and illuminated it, drew people in without even trying. And Bucky… well.

He worked alone, unnoticed. Or so he thought.

A sudden hand on his shoulder broke his trance, and he startled just slightly.

“Sorry!” she promptly removed her hand. “I called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

Bucky just blinked, “It’s fine.”

She smiled, holding up a thermos. “Thought maybe you’d want some coffee?”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the momentary stiffness. “I, uh… yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.” His voice came out a little rough, and his eye contact was fleeting at best.

Fucking Steve. Bringing up his nonexistent love life like an asshole, and now Bucky was hyperaware of her presence. Every small shift of her stance, every little tilt of her head. It was funny -no, it wasn’t- how their roles had completely reversed.

Once upon a time, Steve had been the one fumbling, awkward, struggling to find his footing with women. And now? He was Captain America, confident and magnetic, while Bucky was… whatever the hell this was. A fucking mess.

“Thank you for coming, James. Really,” she said as she poured coffee into a small cup.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“And thanks for bringing help with you,” she added playfully. “It seems everyone is livelier since you two got here.”

He grumbled something under his breath, bending the pipe back and forth absentmindedly, like someone fidgeting with a strand of grass.

She caught the movement and grinned. “Showoff.”

Bucky huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line to stop the small, unwilling twitch of amusement threatening to surface.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said suddenly, looking at the thermos handle. “The community here is really nice. Luckily, I’ll still be around for the event.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to her “What?”

She blinked. “I said, I’m going to miss-”

“Are you taking a vacation?” he interrupted, unable to stop himself.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “What? No-” Then, she realized. “Oh. James… Jane is coming back.”

Bucky just stared at her, the words not quite clicking in his brain. “Who?”

She tilted her head, looking almost apologetic. “Jane. The actual teacher. I thought you knew, I’m just a substitute. The real teacher was on medical leave, but she’s ready to return now.”

The words settled like a slow drop of ink into water, spreading, tainting something that had been perfect moments ago.

“I didn’t- didn’t know,” he admitted, quietly. Maybe because Thomas had entered late in the school year, they’d missed that little piece of information.

She seemed to notice the shift in him, the way his grip tightened around the empty cup. There was a certain distress in his expression, subtle but there.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently, trying to reassure him. “Jane is an excellent teacher and person. Thomas will be thrilled to have her in the class.”

Bucky nodded, curtly, handing the thermos cup back.

In all the interactions he’d had with her, the drop-offs, their little conversations, the parent meeting, the fact that she was just a substitute had never popped up.

"When’s your last day?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the twisted pipe in his hands.

“The Friday before the event,” she replied. “I’m still going to participate since I helped organize it, but by Monday, Jane will be here.” She paused, as if anticipating his reaction. “I can assure you, It won’t be a sudden change for the kids. This week, she’ll come for a couple of hours every day to introduce herself so they can get used to her.”

Bucky gave a slow nod, gripping the metal a little tighter than necessary.

It shouldn’t have really mattered. It shouldn’t have made him feel anything at all.

And yet, the news bothered him.

Because things had been fine. He wasn’t close to her, not in any significant way, but she was a constant. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes wasn’t fond of, it was change.

It wasn’t like he had been expecting anything more than what he already had, which wasn’t much. Just crumbs, really. Small moments of connection. Casual chats, occasional teasing remarks that made something in his chest pull in a way he ignored. The way she talked to him like any other parent—like a man, not a reputation.

But it wasn’t just that, was it?

There were other things, little details that had wormed their way into his awareness without permission. The way her voice softened when she spoke to Thomas. The way her soft body looked like it would fit perfectly against his if he just- no. The way her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary sometimes, making him wonder if…

Bucky exhaled sharply, straightening his pose, forcing the thoughts back.

It was comfortable. And, somehow, warm.

And now she was going to leave.

And maybe it was stupid, but it affected him more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter 2

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

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! ✨✨✨

the curse of the designated driver

eddie munson x waitress!fem!reader

Eddie is less than thrilled when you get invited to tag along to an outdoor concert with him and his friends.

WC: ~5.6k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Eddie and Reader are in their 20s, mostly Eddie’s POV, light angst, smut, swearing, reader gets harassed/groped at a concert, weed and alcohol use, brief piv sex, sunshine x grumpy, one-sided enemies to lovers

A/N: Been thinking about going to a concert with Eddie and how he’d probably find me annoying ;)

Eddie couldn’t explain it.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about you that bothered him so much. All he knew was that life had been better before you’d shown up back in town and taken a summer job at his favorite diner.

Before then the place had been dull and quiet, staffed with only a short order cook and an ancient waitress who hardly spoke a word other than the odd grunt here and there when the boys asked for a refill of their drinks.

But just as the snow and ice began to thaw, you’d arrived as if carried on the warm spring breeze, infiltrating the drab space with your exceedingly sunny disposition.

Eddie had never been a big fan of change and your sudden appearance in the diner irked him — your presence like an invasive tendril that wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tight until he couldn’t breathe.

Like all creatures of habit, the boys had their favorites.

Their favorite booth in the back where they could be as rowdy as they wanted without eliciting angry glares from the old men who sat at the counter reading their newspapers and nursing endless cups of coffee.

Their favorite dishes — the exact same food order every week, cooked to greasy perfection and served piping hot on sturdy white dinner plates that had seen better days.

And to Eddie’s dismay, the boys had recently discovered their new favorite waitress — one who was assigned to their preferred booth with an infuriating regularity.

Every Friday evening you greeted their group with a smile so bright that it lit up your whole face, almost as if you were genuinely happy to see them. Then you’d proceed to chat and joke around with the guys like you were all old friends, asking them questions about their lives as though you actually cared.

And every single traitorous member of the Hellfire Club bought into your cheerful facade.

Well, all except one.

Before long, Eddie stopped looking forward to the outings that had once been an enjoyable post-Hellfire tradition, dread sinking like a lead weight in his stomach every time he pulled into the diner parking lot.

Sometimes he would sit outside in his van for a few minutes and watch your silhouette in the restaurant’s front window. The outline of your body backlit by fluorescent light causing his heart to race and his palms to get sweaty — an obvious stress response to an unwanted intruder.

And you were an intruder.

He hated the sweet way you smiled down at him every time you asked him what he wanted, even though you had to know by then that he never ordered any food. Since you’d come around he barely had an appetite.

He despised how you’d stand there waiting for his answer with a teasing smirk on your perfect lips, forcing him to play your little game while your eyes twinkled and danced with mischief; pen in hand, nose crinkled in amusement.

Detested the way you said his name in a voice that was as soft as the down of a dandelion before it’s stolen by a gentle summer breeze.

“Do you want anything, Eddie?”

A loaded question. He wanted so many things in life, but most of all he wanted to be free. Free from his agony. Free from the curse of your suffocating presence.

But he couldn’t exactly say that to you, could he?

You always listed off the daily specials to the table in a pointless exercise, the soothing lilt of your voice making Eddie’s stomach twist in knots of discomfort.

“Escargot. Chef Salad. Foie gras—”

“Those aren’t on the menu,” he’d interrupted one day, glaring up in annoyance at your smiling face.

“I know.” You had grinned, eyes alight as you gave him a saucy little wink. “Just wanted to check if you were listening.”

Since he never ordered anything, you’d gotten in the habit of bringing him a tall glass of ice water and teasing that it was on the house for being the designated driver.

You giggled every damn time you set it down in front of him and he’d sigh and roll his eyes, never once giving you the satisfaction of taking a sip.

He would have rather died of thirst.

Eddie wasn’t sure who you thought you were, but you weren’t going to just waltz into his life and win him over with some cheesy jokes and mindless chit chat like you had with the rest of the Hellfire crew.

He wasn’t so easy.

The trouble with the concert had started the same way everything always did with Henderson — he just opened his mouth and the words had poured out without any forethought or consideration for their implications.

While the teen’s impulsiveness was normally seen as an endearing quality by his friends, Eddie hadn’t been impressed. Not at all.

The guys were extra wound up that night, talking non-stop about their upcoming plans — an outdoor rock concert that was taking place the following evening in a field about an hour outside town.

Eddie had organized the road trip and even though the lineup only consisted of a few metal cover bands, it still promised to be a fun way for them to kick off the beginning of summer. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but it was enough to keep Eddie satisfied until he could afford to travel and see real metal bands in the city and beyond.

The boys had been excitedly filling you in on their plans while you took their usual food orders, and your reaction to their news had taken Eddie by surprise.

“Oh, I’m so jealous! I wish I could have gotten a ticket but they sold out before I had a chance.”

You stuck out your lower lip in what Eddie imagined might have been an adorably playful pout — if it had been anyone but you.

“No way!” Dustin had smiled, his clever mind working a mile a minute. “Our friend Steve just found out he can’t make it, so we have an extra ticket. You should come!”

Eddie’s heart pounded in his chest, pumping hard and fast as his eyes darted to his friend in a silent plea for him to shut the fuck up for the love of all that was good and holy.

You gave a quick shake of your head. “No, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

But Dustin insisted.

“The lady said she can’t,” Eddie hissed under his breath from between bared teeth. “Let it go.”

But Dustin had never let anything go in his life and he certainly wasn’t about to start when someone was in need. A damsel in distress? Forget about it.

“What about the ratio?” Dustin asked, looking over at Eddie with bright-eyed innocence.

Dustin then looked up at you to explain. “Our friend Steve always insists on a one adult to three teen ratio whenever we travel anywhere together, ever since we had an incident last summer.”

“Ratio, huh?” You held back a giggle as Eddie ran a hand down over his face in exasperation. He was finished fighting. He knew Dustin would never give it up.

“Eddie’s driving us all there in his van. He can pick you up,” Dustin offered as Eddie shot him another deathly glare that went unnoticed by the overly helpful teen.

“Well, if it’s okay with Eddie.” You glanced at the grumpy metalhead who gave a reluctant nod without meeting your eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of resignation.

You wrote your phone number down on your notepad and tore off a little strip of paper and handed it to Eddie. “Here’s my number. In case you need to call.”

He tucked it into his jacket pocket, not because he ever planned to use it, but because he didn’t want to toss it away right in front of you. That would have been rude.

“Gates open around eight, so we’re leaving town a a little early. Where do you live?” Eddie asked, looking down at the ice cubes floating in his glass. His mouth was suddenly much too dry, but he refused to give in and take a drink. Refused to let you have that little victory.

You told him the address to your apartment building and he nodded in recognition. “Yeah, I know where that is. We’ll be there at six-thirty. Don’t be late.”

After leaving the diner and dropping of the guys, Eddie grumbled to himself the whole drive home, hands clenched on the steering wheel as fumed about the fact that you were going to ruin everything.

Living in a small town meant he didn’t get many chances to see live metal shows and now instead of enjoying himself he was going to be stuck babysitting you, all thanks to Dustin and his big mouth.

Steve Harrington may have had his faults, but the prospect of hanging out with him for a few hours at a concert was much better than the imagined hell of being trapped with you.

Anything would have been better.

Fuck.

The next evening when Eddie pulled up outside your building at six-thirty sharp, he was surprised to see that you were already outside waiting.

You were leaning up against a lamp post looking like a vixen straight out of a heavy metal music video — your bland diner uniform replaced by a pair of frayed cutoff jean shorts, a red bustier and black leather jacket adorned with shiny silver zippers.

When you saw the van approach, you waved and bent down to grab the backpack that was sitting at your feet. As you walked towards them, Eddie couldn’t help but think you looked just like a real life rock n’ roll goddess, all legs and cleavage and blinding smile.

“Holy shit.”

One of the guys in the back let out the exclamation in wonder as they watched you approach the vehicle with their mouths hanging open, and Eddie turned his head over his shoulder to issue a stern warning.

“Shut the fuck up. Not a single word about it.”

Eddie had made the guys all sit in the back, leaving the passenger seat free for you — something that he’d told Dustin was punishment for his blabbermouth the night before. He’d never intended to make you sit in the back, but it helped him get his point across. Not wanting to piss Eddie off any further, the guys heeded his curt command.

The van was silent as you opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

“Hey, guys.” You ignored your cold reception from Eddie and turned to speak to the teens in the back, lifting your eyebrows up and down and giving them a wicked smile. “Ready to have some fun?”

They all grinned and nodded, while tossing worried glances in Eddie’s direction. You noticed how none of them looked directly at you or said a single word.

You scrunched your nose at the strange behaviour of the normally rambunctious group, then turned and fastened your seatbelt as Eddie put the van in gear and headed out onto the road.

The whole drive out of town Eddie was silent as you chatted with the younger guys. He kept an iron grip on the steering wheel while telling himself over and over not to look at you. Told himself not to steal a glance at the way your chest was pushed up in that top or at the smooth skin of your legs revealed in your cutoff shorts.

It was the worst hour and ten minutes of his life.

When you finally arrived at the gate to the venue, he pulled the van into the improvised parking lot that had been cordoned off in the field just to the side of the main road.

“We’re going to have to walk a little ways in to the concert site,” he said turning to you. “Hope you don’t mind a hike.”

“Nope, that’s why I’ve got these puppies.” You pointed to your high top sneakers. “I always dress prepared for an outdoor concert. Cute on top and functional on the bottom.”

He heaved a sigh as he opened his door. The night had barely even begun and he could already tell it was going to be unbearable.

As you walked up the dirt road that lead to the site, the younger guys started to rush ahead and mingle with the different groups of people they recognized from school.

Eddie called out to their retreating backs for them meet him back at the van after the show if they got separated. Gareth gave him a thumbs up before he and the other boys disappeared into the crowd.

So much for the ratio.

“I guess I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay?” you asked and Eddie nodded while looking straight ahead, his heart filled with the hopelessness of despair.

“So you’re a big fan of Dio, huh?” You asked gesturing to the back of his battle vest.

“Yeah.” He nodded, certain you had no idea who that was.

“He’s a better vocalist but I still prefer Ozzy with Sabbath,” you said ever so casually and Eddie had to fight hard to play it cool.

“To some that’s a controversial opinion. Not to me, but to some.”

You hummed in agreement and he let out an impressed chuckle despite himself.

As the two of you walked on, you continued to talk about music and to Eddie’s surprise your taste wasn’t completely horrible. You actually knew a lot more about metal than he’d expected.

“Metallica are my favorite, but I really like Iron Maiden and Accept,” you told him. “There's just something about a guy with a deep, raspy singing voice, you know?”

He nodded, unsure of why hearing you say that made him feel funny.

“Do you still have a band?” you continued. “ You had one back in High School. Corroded Coffin, right?”

He sucked in a harsh breath, trying to reign in his surprise that you knew about his band.

He remembered you from high school, one of the cute and friendly girls who never would have given him the time of day, or so he had assumed.

“Uh yeah, we play at the Hideout every week. You should come see us sometime.”

Instant regret curdled in his stomach as soon as the thoughtless words passed his lips. Why the fuck had he said that?

“We’re not very good or anything, so don’t get your hopes up,” he rushed to add as you giggled at his modesty.

You looked over at him with a playful grin. “I’d like to see you play. Sounds like fun.”

He breathed a deep sigh of relief even though he knew you were just being nice.

You were nice.

When you reached the concert site at the top of the hill, the field was already swarming with people. After you went through the gate and before you headed into the thick of the crowd, Eddie turned to you and held out his hand.

“Hold onto me okay? So you don’t get lost.”

You held on tight as he led you towards the front of the crowd, weaving through the writhing sea of bodies until you got to a spot to the side with a good view of the stage.

As Eddie looked around to get his bearings, he realized that he was still holding onto your hand and quickly dropped it, shoving his into the safety of his jacket pocket.

Dusk was just starting to settle on the horizon and the smell of weed and cheap beer permeated the noisy crowd.

The roadies were on stage doing a final tune up when you pulled out a joint that you’d concealed in your top, one place that the guy at the gate had the decency not to search. You held it up and your lips curled into a grin. “Care for some refreshments?”

Eddie smiled despite himself as you placed the joint between your lips. He pulled out his lighter and lit the end as you inhaled deeply. Then he watched as you exhaled a perfect smoke ring up toward the darkening sky before passing him the joint.

“Just hold it like a cigarette and no one will notice,” you instructed.

Maybe you weren’t as terrible as he’d thought.

The first act was a Metallica cover band and when you heard the opening notes of Master of Puppets you bounced up and down, then turned and grabbed onto his arm. His cock twitched when he felt your nails dig into the leather.

“I love this song!”

He gave you a knowing grin, resisting the urge to tell you that he could play the whole song from memory. Maybe someday he’d surprise you and play it for you.

He let his mind wander for just a second and thought about what it would be like to play for you in his room, with you sitting on his bed looking up at him the same way you were looking at the musicians on the stage.

It was strange how easily he could picture it.

“They’re fucking amazing,” you yelled over the noise and he smiled, bobbing his head along to the music. Glancing over every once and while during the show to watch the radiant joy on your face.

Fucking amazing.

A few hours later when the show was over, you both trudged back to the van, staying close as you moved through the throngs of people heading down the path from site, still high on the excitement of the show.

Seemingly out of nowhere an inebriated guy with a shaved head came tumbling through the crowd behind you and snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You looked over at Eddie with a helpless expression as you struggled to wriggle free of his grasp, jamming your elbow into his side to no avail.

“What’s your name sweet thing?” You registered the scent of stale beer on his breath as it fanned over the side of your face.

“Hey, asshole! Get your hands off my fucking girl.”

Eddie’s eyes were alight with a fire you’d never seen before, his jaw set in determination as he gripped the man’s collar and shoved him backwards away from you, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The man chuckled as he backed off and threw his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Thought the little lady was alone.”

Eddie moved to push him again, but you stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest and the drunk guy wandered off, patting Eddie on the shoulder with a chuckle as he passed.

“Good for you, man.”

Eddie watched him walk away with an indecipherable expression on his face before he quickly turned to you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. The sight of that guy grabbing you had made him feel out of control, his whole body wired like a coil under pressure.

“Yeah.” You sounded a little shook up, but you gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s not easy at these shows sometimes…too much macho energy, you know?”

He nodded, ashamed that you had to deal with bullshit like that just to enjoy live music.

The rest of the way back to the van you kept close to each other, your shoulders nearly touching as you walked.

When you got back to the parking lot the others still hadn’t arrived, so you waited outside the van together. Eddie had a smoke and you drank some water from the thermos you’d left in your bag.

“Want a drink?” You offered, and he gratefully accepted, taking a long swig and sighing with relief. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

“Thanks, I needed that.” He handed it back to you.

You nodded as you took it from him and twisted on the cover. “Well, I kind of owe you for helping me out back there.”

He looked at your face lit only by moonlight, your eyes so soft and sweet. The way you were looking at him made him start to feel a little dizzy.

“Anytime.” His gaze lowered to the ground and he kicked at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, unsure of why it was suddenly so hard to look at you.

“It’s funny because nobody who knows you would ever believe it, would they?”

“Huh?” He glanced up with a furrowed brow, not quite following your line of reasoning.

“That I was your girl.” You leaned back against the van, speaking with such carefree ease that your words caught him off guard. “I know you think I’m annoying. You don’t hide it very well.”

Underneath the breezy delivery Eddie detected a note of something else. Was it hurt? Fuck.

Fuck.

“I’m not—I don’t think that.” He moved a little closer, as if decreasing distance between you could somehow bridge the dejection in your voice. He caught a whiff of your perfume, a scent that had haunted him for so long but that he hated a little less in the moment.

“You don’t?” You sounded surprised.

He leaned in close enough that his battle vest brushed against your chest and you straightened up slightly, your breath coming out a bit faster as your back pressed against the cool exterior of the van.

“No.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip while his eyes dipped to your mouth. “I actually really—”

Before he could say anything else your head turned toward the sudden flurry of activity over his shoulder as the younger guys arrived back at the van.

“Holy shit! That was crazy, right?” Dustin slapped Eddie on the back, his voice still at top volume due to the ringing in his ears.

Eddie stepped back and in an instant the moment between the two of you was broken, shattered like the glass that shone on the surface of the parking lot.

You gave Eddie a wry grin before you turned to walk around the van, then opened the passenger door and got inside.

During the ride home in the dark you were quiet, eventually lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the van. Eddie glanced over at you and saw that you had kicked off your muddy sneakers and curled your bare feet underneath you.

He turned down the radio and told the guys in the back to keep it quiet.

About twenty minutes outside town he stopped for gas and before he got back in the van, he took off his battle vest and gently laid it over you.

When he got back to Hawkins, he took the guys home first, making the longer trek through town to drop them off and then circled back to your place.

When he pulled up outside your building he lifted his battle vest and shook your arm to wake you, stirring you from a dream that faded as soon as you opened your eyes.

“Oh, we’re already here?” you asked fuzzily, looking around the empty van as you realized you’d slept the whole way home. “Sorry, the weed must have really knocked me out.”

He chuckled softly and told you that you had no reason to be sorry.

You slid your sneakers back on and grabbed your bag, then reached out to open the door. But you hesitated, your fingers flexing on the metal handle.

“This was really fun. Thanks for letting me tag along,” you said and he nodded, unable to find the right words to fit the moment.

You paused a little longer and he kept his eyes locked on your hand that still rested on the handle. He held his breath.

“I know it’s late, but would you like to come in? I have some beer,” you offered hopefully.

He quickly shook his head and frowned. “Nah, I’m good.”

Eddie wasn’t sure why he said what he said. He wanted to go inside with you. He’d never wanted anything so badly in all his life.

You looked a little embarrassed and he knew that he should say something to explain why he couldn’t stay. A little white lie to soothe the crinkle in your brow.

Instead he just sat there as you opened the door. You gave him a weak smile. “Ok, then. I guess I’ll see you around.”

He watched you walk inside your building, regret exploding like fireworks in his chest. You never looked back, but he waited until you were safely inside the front door before he started up the van.

He turned the stereo back up. Iron Maiden to soothe his nerves.

Then he drove out onto the street and headed towards home. He only made it a few blocks from your place before he pulled the van over to the curb and slammed on the brakes.

He dug around in his jacket pocket until he found the slip of paper that you’d given him the night before.

He turned it over in his hands, wondering how long it would take to find the nearest payphone. There was no way you’d already be asleep. It had only been a few minutes since he dropped you off.

He almost gave in to the urge to call you before self-doubt settled in like a heavy fog, clouding his thoughts and convincing him that you’d only asked him to be polite. You didn’t like him in that way. A girl like you was an impossible dream and he needed to wake up.

He shoved your number back into his pocket and pulled the van away from the curb. Heading towards home and away from the thing he really wanted.

For an entire week Eddie was tormented by that little piece of paper. He spent hours tracing your number with his fingertips and wondering if he should call.

He picked up the phone a few times and got close to dialing, but could never bring himself to go through with it. He felt like a nervous teenager at the prospect of talking to you.

It was ridiculous.

When Friday night finally rolled around and the Hellfire Club headed into the diner, Eddie had a pep in his step and felt lighter as he headed through the door. He wouldn’t have admitted it to any of the guys but he was excited to see you.

You approached their table with your usual smile, but when it came time to ask for everyone’s order, you skipped over Eddie before tucking your notepad away.

“I won’t bother you guys with the specials tonight.”

When you brought out everyone’s food, Eddie waited for your little water routine, but it never happened.

He cleared his throat as you turned to walk away and you paused, an eyebrow arched.

“Is there something else?”

He stared back at you with wide brown eyes, unsure of what to say. That he wanted you to tease him? That he wanted your attention? When he saw the slight annoyance on your face he shook his head and you walked away.

Well, that hadn’t gone as well as he’d expected.

As the guys enjoyed their food while loudly recounting the night’s campaign, Eddie was only half-listening, distracted by a sickly feeling that crept up his spine and settled in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strange. He’d finally gotten what he’d always wanted— to be left alone. For you to stop your little cheerful charade. But for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

When it came time for the bills, you handed them out to the other guys, once again avoiding Eddie’s heavy gaze.

“See you next week,” you said sweetly as you walked away.

Once outside, the guys all piled into the van, stomachs full and ready to head home for the night. Eddie sat there for a minute with his hands braced on the steering wheel, staring up at the moving shadows in restaurant’s window.

He turned his head over his shoulder and told the guys he had to run back inside for a second. Mumbled out barely coherent words about how he’d forgotten something as he slammed the driver’s side door.

When Eddie walked inside, you were still busy wiping down their table. You looked up in surprise, confusion written all over your face.

“Why are you here?”

Eddie walked up to where you stood, close enough that the denim of his vest almost touched your name tag. “I don’t think you’re annoying. That night after the concert, I just…I wanted to come in. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Your eyes grew wide but you didn’t say anything, so he kept talking to fill the silence. “I’m sure you hate me right now, but I don’t think I can live with that.”

He reached out to cup your cheek, and you didn’t flinch or turn away.

Instead, you smiled. “I don’t hate you, Eddie.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he brought his lips next to your ear so that the old men at the counter couldn’t overhear him, his warm breath raising goosebumps on the bare skin of your arms.

“Let me make it up to you. Tonight. I’ll do anything you want.”

A warm light rekindled in your eyes as you nodded. “I get off at ten.”

When Eddie followed you into your apartment his first impression was that it was cozy, with walls and shelves filled with a hodgepodge of plants and posters and art. Your home was colorful and unique, in a way that reminded him of you. Even your mismatched furniture seemed to fit together perfectly.

“I’m just going to go change out of this.” You gestured to your uniform. “Help yourself to the beer in the fridge.”

So he did. As he closed the refrigerator door, a small tabby cat came and rubbed up against his leg.

“I see you’ve met Stevie.” You giggled when you saw him holding your kitten and scratching a finger under her chin as she purred up a storm. She was such a flirt. You smiled as you watched them, radiant in just your cotton t-shirt and old sweatpants. Seeing you dressed so casual felt strangely domestic to Eddie. In a good way.

He followed you into your living room where he saw your impressive collection of records. He slipped one out of its jacket and put it on the turntable. “This one really wails.”

As you sat close together on your couch, your beers were soon forgotten as Eddie told you a little about his past, and how he’d ended up living with his uncle. You told him about how you’d left Hawkins for college right after high school, but how that didn’t quite work out. That you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with your life.

He finally had to ask the question that had been on his mind for days.

“The other night you said you remembered Corroded Coffin from high school. How?”

You shyly admitted that you’d had a bit of a crush on him back then, but he didn’t believe you.

“Nah,” he scoffed, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“Hmm, I did.” You nodded. “I thought you were really cool.”

He gave you a bashful smile, blatantly ignoring your use of past tense. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You were older and in a band. You had long hair and you were so….out there. I figured you wouldn’t give someone like me the time of day.”

In that moment Eddie wished he could find a time machine and do it all again. He wondered how different his life would have turned out if he’d had that knowledge.

Then he thought of how he’d treated you when you started working at the diner. Knowing what he did, it made him feel even worse.

“Do you think you’ll stay in Hawkins?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual voice.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I know someone who really hopes you do,” he said softly, his eyes impossibly big and brown.

You bit your bottom lip and moved ever so slightly closer on the couch. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his eyes glued to your lips. “Uh huh. Dustin’s a really big fan.”

He let out a wild, throaty laugh when you playfully slapped his arm. He grabbed your hand to stop you and leaned forward, impulsively pressing his lips to yours and then pulled back after a few seconds to give you a searching look.

“Sorry. Was that okay?”

When you nodded, he kissed you again, deeper than before, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to pull you close.

“I want to make you feel good. Can I do that?” he whispered in your ear, and you stood up and wordlessly led him by the hand to your bedroom.

And he kept good on his promise, pushing you down onto your bed, his warm body over yours like a missing piece finally falling into place.

He worshipped every inch of your body using his skilled hands and his mouth, taking his time to pull each pretty sigh from between your lips.

When he finally pushed inside you, to him, it felt like the very first time. All of his past forgotten, like nothing had existed before you.

He’d been given a second chance to make things right and he wasn’t going to waste it. He was done running from what he wanted. Was finished running away from you.

He murmured soft words of praise as his hips rolled over and over into yours, your nails running down his back, sighing with every deep thrust. You felt so good around him and the way you cried out his name was like music to his ears. Like a song written just for him.

Afterwards as you lay there wrapped together in the pale light streaming through your window, he looked over at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes and smiled.

He knew in that moment that he’d do anything he could to keep you by his side — promise you the moon and the stars if you’d say you’d be his girl.

Thank you for reading! 🖤

Eddie Taglist 🏷️: @madelynraemunson @mrsjellymunson @hippiegoth97 @princesssunderworld @kellsck @hiimjulie @theold-ultraviolence

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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