The Sexiest Thing Pairing: Eddie Munson X Evil Woman Summary: What's The Sexiest Thing A Girl Can Wear?

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 am so sorry but reader talking about robin right before making out with eddie is like absolutely the best thing i’ve ever read i’m obsessed i genuinely can’t wait for anything else in that universe that you do

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | god help the girl

summary: in which you come to terms with the fact that you're hopelessly in love with eddie munson. pairing: virgin!eddie munson x reader word count: 13k warning: phone sex, more discussions of shitty boyfriends, j*son c*rver name drop, talks of unhealthy eating practices, smut 18+ mdni! a/n: this ask has been sitting in my inbox for ages now, but i wanted to save it until robin made an appearance in the series! thank you, anon, for being so sweet! and for the few of you who've been waiting on me to finally post <3 hope you enjoy! xoxo

( PREVIOUSLY ) | ( SERIES MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

They only met once, but it changed their lives forever. 

That’s what the movie cover reads at least, but the words have long blurred into a jumbled mess at your tunnel vision. John Bender stares you in the face, but all you see is Eddie — boyish and brazen and scowling because he thinks it makes him look intimidating, but nowhere near as cruel as he seems. 

He’s certainly got the hair for it, much longer and curls far wilder than Judd Nelson’s measly set of brushed-back locks. He’s got the terribly animated personality down pat, too; the one that either makes you laugh uncontrollably or squirm in discomfort when it’s pointed your way. And the style’s a pretty fine match also, though you’d argue that no one sports a leather jacket quite like Eddie Munson does.

Wallowing in your boredom at the empty Family Video store on Main Street — where your best friends slave over mundane work with aching backs and a lingering sense of gratefulness that no customer has been in in well over an hour — you find yourself analyzing each character pictured on the front cover of The Breakfast Club.

Robin would surely be Allison, you conclude rather quickly, because their deadpanned glowers are eerily identical. They’ve also got this sort of atypical aura to them, too, like a dark storm cloud or the promise of a long night. But strangely it sparkles — strikes of lightning or a sky full of stars. It draws everyone’s attention to them; even when they’re desperately trying to hide in the very back of a room.

And Steve would be Andrew, not particularly because of his affections for this Allison-Reynolds-Robin-Buckley hybrid you’ve concocted, but because "popular guy with daddy issues" is a trope that fits him far too well. He’s way more likely to get detention for trying to look cool in front of his assholes friends than for anything actually malicious of heart. But that would’ve been years ago now. He’s not that kind of guy anymore. 

He’s soft and sweet — a Brian Johnson sort of soft and sweet, if you will. If Brian wasn’t the brains, but the sweetest dumbass anyone’s ever met.

You realize then, that Jim Hopper would make a mean Richard Vernon. He’s impatient to a fault, almost too stern at times, but never enough to make you genuinely fearful of him. You’ve found that it’s virtually impossible for you to take him seriously when he’s so cartoonishly angry. It’s a match made in heaven, you find, though Jim might take offense to the comparison.

And if Eddie is Bender, then that’d make you the Claire Standish of the bunch.

She’s dreadfully stylish, a bit stuck-up at times, and perhaps a little bit more spoiled than the average person; but it’s not like she ever claimed to be perfect. And you wouldn’t either.

You’ll take more pride in your wardrobe filled with pretty pleated skirts and flouncy dresses than your somewhat glacial disposition. And you might not be drowning in daddy’s money, but you’re certainly spoiled in other ways — if only in the employee discount at Enzo’s that got you wine for cheap and your connections at Family Video that meant free movie nights whenever you wanted.

The bad boy and the princess was a tale as old as time itself. It’s a fairytale you wouldn’t mind living in if it ended how it did in the movies — with a kiss on the cheek and an exchanged diamond earring in the calloused palm of another. A soft pink smile and a celebratory fist in the air.

But you’ve met your fair share of John Bender’s and none of them had been particularly kind to you, let alone had fallen in love with you. 

Maybe that’s because you were no Claire Standish. Never pretty enough, never mousy enough, never pure enough.  You try and dissect why you’ve never been successfully loved, and all the signs point to you, you, you.

You hope Eddie’s different. You need Eddie to be different.

“Something’s wrong with me,” you blurt out of nowhere.

Well, it’s not totally out of the blue for you. You’d been stewing over that thought since you got there — since you left the woods with damp underwear and the scent of you on Eddie’s fingers.

But to Steve and Robin, who’d stayed relatively silent and locked eyes only once after they noticed how abnormally hushed you’d gone, it catches them quite off guard.

Steve lifts his heavy head from where he mans the counter. His tired eyes leave the computerized catalog for the first time in forty minutes, and he has to rub at them with the bottom of his palms to see you properly. Meanwhile, Robin crouches at your side, taking returned tapes from the bin sitting next to her and placing them back upon the shelf you lean against. 

She blinks up at you, deep ocean eyes swimming with apprehension, like she can sense the spiral you’ve just about twisted yourself into.

“What do you mean?” she wonders, ever the supportive best friend, as she plucks Heather’s, Pretty in Pink, and Weird Science from the bin and sets them onto their assigned rows in the Teen Drama section.

“Eddie won’t fuck me.”

Neither of them is particularly stunned by the unabashed nature of your admission.

Not only have they both fucked you at one point or another, but they’re your best friends — no one’s ever going to know you quite the way they do. It leaves little left unsaid between the three of you, with secrets you’ve all sworn to take to your graves. Steve once stuck a finger in his ass to see if he liked it (he did) and Robin sometimes gets off on her childhood teddy bear (rather ironically named Mr. Snuggles). 

So this? This was nothing. Especially in comparison to all the other shit you’ve confessed to them because god knows the whore of Hawkins has a plethora of stories to tell.

Steve is more shocked by the name that leaves your mouth than anything else. “Eddie Munson?” he repeats with furrowed brows, like he had to have heard you wrong.

You bring your chin to your right shoulder to look at him, then nod.

“Eddie… The Freak… Munson?”

You nod again, slower for him this time.

“You wanna fuck… Eddie Munson?” Steve reiterates once more, as though the idea was too appalling to be true. “Eddie Munson — The Freak?”

“Yes, Steve,” you huff in irritation.

His face contorts into a puppy-like confusion. A frown settles between his bushy brows and he cocks his head to the side, nose scrunching and his lip quirking slightly. He couldn’t look more disgusted if he tried.

“…Why?”

You groan and tilt your head back dramatically. “That’s not what’s important here, Steve. The better question is why won’t he fuck me?”

The boy’s lack of any actual assistance doesn’t surprise Robin in the slightest — his dumbfounded gaze and innate confusion are actually pretty on brand. It just puts all the burden on her, to help you wriggle out of the mess you’d tangled yourself into. 

It’s not like she isn’t used to it, though, nor does she mind doing it for you. She walks you through your emotions like a professional, squashing out all the burning orange embers for you before they have the chance to burst into flames.

“Well, what do you mean he won’t fuck you? Like… did he actually say that or does he just wanna, you know, take things slow?”

The latter would’ve been way too easy. Eddie’s always been nice enough to you. It’d make sense for him to want to stay unhurried and gentle with you, but those words weren’t exactly in your vocabulary. 

The first time you were alone with him, you were getting yourself off on his thigh after making him come in his jeans. The next time you saw him, after four days of him clinging to your consciousness, there wasn’t as much small talk so much as there were two of his fingers stuffed knuckle-deep inside of you.

You don’t know Eddie’s birthday, but you know how he likes to be touched — squeezed and not rubbed. You don’t know his middle name or how he likes his eggs in the morning or what his relationship with his mother is like, but he’s already made you come. Twice.

You are completely, utterly, and totally incapable of taking things slow. So it wasn’t that. It couldn’t be. So it had to be the other thing. The very scary, terrifying, boogeyman of a thing.

“I mean, I offered to give him a blowjob and he completely turned me down,” you lament in reply.

Robin and Steve wince. Like, physically wince. Their faces scrunch and their heads flinch from something invisible. Audible ooh’s fall from their mouths without them even realizing it, because you don’t get rejected. Ever. Especially not after offering to pleasure someone without much of anything in return.

They don’t mean to react the way they do. The visible shock that coats their features is involuntary more than it is anything, and it only adds to your fears.

“Exactly!” you exclaim.

“I hate to say it, but I think hell might be freezing over as we speak,” Steve half-jokes.

“Well, he was working, right?” Robin asks with raised brows. “Maybe he was just busy.”

“Sorry, Rob, but no guy’s too busy for a blowjob.”

“Real charming, Stevie.”

“Maybe he just has a small dick,” the boy concludes with a shrug.

“I felt his dick,” you shake your head almost immediately. The feeling of Eddie’s hard cock through his denim jeans, all rough and warm against your palm, hasn’t yet left you. “It’s not small.”

“Well, maybe he can’t get it up—”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem either.”

Eddie was rock hard when you left him, throbbing and aching and obviously needing some kind of relief. That’s partly why you’d been so ardent to return the favor, though the other half of it was purely selfish — you haven’t seen a more beautiful sight than Eddie Munson getting off. To deprive yourself of that masterpiece made you feel like you were starving.

You have a hard time imagining the raging hard-on just… dissipating after you’d left him. That means he probably jerked off in the back of his van and you missed it. And if he came, right after he promised everything was okay, that means he just didn’t want you to do it… right?

Steve seems to be caught in the same inner turmoil you’re currently stuck in; and for good reason. In all the years he’s known you, he can count on one hand how many times he’s had to turn you down. And every time, it was because he’d gotten back together with Nancy. It was never because of you. Not once. And sometimes he felt like it hurt him as much as it did you. 

As far as Steve’s concerned, you’re so out of Eddie Munson’s league that you’re not even in his fucking orbit — so the freak show, turning you down, doesn’t make whole lot of sense to him.

“Huh…”

“It’s me. It’s definitely me,” you conclude with the shake of your head. A bitter, almost hysterical laugh spills from your lips. “He thinks I’m fucking ugly or disgusting or something. It’s totally fucking me—”  

Robin completely abandons her basket of tapes then. She rises to stand in front of you, looking timid as she does so. Her raised brows form wrinkles on her freckled forehead and her blue eyes widen to reveal more of the whites of them. She looks like she’s approaching a wild animal. A bomb that’s about to explode.

“Okay… You’re starting to spiral, alright? So let’s just try and take a few deep breaths—”

You don’t listen to her. 

Actually, you do quite the opposite, as you begin to blurt every fleeting thought that crosses your mind.

“I’ve made out with nearly everyone in this stupid town— I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked almost half— and you’d think Eddie would wanna take advantage of that, the way everyone makes him out to be some sort of freak, right? But he hasn’t and at this rate, he won’t, and I just don’t understand why,” you ramble without taking in a single breath. “Usually being a slut is a huge turn-on for guys, you know? But what if Eddie thinks it’s gross? I mean, it is gross— I’m gross—”

You only stop for air when Robin takes your shoulders in both hands. She looks less apprehensive and more stern, as she forces you to look at her.

“Look. I love you, but you need to get a hold of yourself, alright? I know you’re not used to being told no, and I know how much it sucks, but shit happens. I’m willing to bet all the money I’ve ever seen that whatever is going on with Eddie has nothing to do with you, okay? And if it’s making you this upset, maybe you should just talk to him.”

“But I don’t wanna seem like I’m too eager, that’s gross—”

“Then find someone else to fuck,” she offers with her signature Robin Buckley half-smile. “I’m sure it would take you less than five minutes to find a willing participant.”

“Yeah, right here,” Steve jokes from the counter with the pathetic wave of his hand and a dumb grin on his lips. 

You don’t hear him over the voices in your head — half calling you crazy for letting a boy drive you this mad over nothing, and the other half bitterly affirming each of your deep-rooted insecurities.

Your face screws up, like the thought of being with anyone other than Eddie upsets you — it does upset you.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“Then what do you want?” Robin yells in your face, shaking you by your shoulders.

“I want Eddie!” you shout back without thinking. The words seem to spill out of nowhere. It takes you of all people by surprise. No one in this rat trap town would ever expect the whore of Hawkins to want to settle down, least of all the harlot herself. It’s strange; it’s riveting; it’s really fucking scary. “…Fuck.”

The brunette smirks, proud of herself. “Well. There’s your answer.”

“I hate when you’re right,” you mumble to yourself, pouting as she crouches back down again.

“I know.”

It was a terrifying thought, to know that you were head over heels for someone else. You try to come to terms with what that means. 

Sometimes you think you fall in love with a new person every day. A cute guy holds the door open for you, a pretty girl compliments your outfit — they never think about you again, but they’re on your mind for days. It was so easy to develop such meaningless infatuations, especially when you were bored.

But Eddie was different.

He was a nice guy. A nice guy that was sweet to you just for the sake of being sweet to you; not because he secretly wanted something in return. That made you fall for him at first, but then you just… kept on falling. Eddie Munson was an infinite void you couldn’t crawl your way out of even if you wanted to, even if you tried.

And that’s what frightened you the most.

Because if you really thought about it, you’ve only truly been in love a handful of times. And, sure, it didn’t work out — that was normal — but some of them fucking ruined you. 

You’re still trying to figure out who you are without all of the people that have broken your heart. You’re still fighting like hell every day to recognize the person you see in the mirror, while Billy Hargrove fucks off with a new girl every other week like he didn’t totally destroy you.

But, even still, Eddie was completely different. No one’s ever made you feel the way he makes you feel. And it’s more than the stupid heavy petting — it’s more than anything. It’s never been like this before; not even with the blonde mulleted asshole who ripped your heart to shreds. 

And you’re scared that if you get hurt again, you’ll never be able to come back from it.

“Steve, do you have another copy of Fast Times in the back?” you suddenly ask the boy, tossing him a look over your shoulder.

It’s your last ditch effort to rid yourself of the ponderous, gray doom and gloom surrounding you like some storm cloud. Your comfort movie solves all of your problems — or, at the very least, Phoebe Cates does — but it seems everyone else in town has developed a similar fondness for minute fifty-three of the film and got all the tapes off the shelf before you could get your hands on one.

“You know I keep on in stock for you,” he answers quietly.

He reaches below the counter to pull out a spare copy for you, and your heart swells with the rays of a thousand rising suns and the songs of every morning bird.

Steve told you some time ago that he could change. And back then, all it did was piss you off, because he didn’t want to change for the town slut — for the girl he put through the goddamn ringer. He wanted to change for Nancy. The princess bruised his brittle ego a little, and then he realized what an asshole he’d been to everyone, to you.

But as angry as it made you, you never believed him. “Once the King of Hawkins High, always the King of Hawkins High,” you remarked bitterly.

You wouldn’t say it to his face, for the sake of keeping his ego from inflating all over again, but you could tell he was really changing.

He was kinder, he was softer. He stopped caring about what everyone thought about him, about what not caring would do to his reputation, and started giving a fuck about the people worth giving a fuck about. 

Apparently, you were one of them.

“…Really?”

He nods with a subtle shrug. Like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t one of the sweetest things he’d ever done for you — keeping your favorite movie on hand so you’ll always have a spare, knowing that it’s the only thing that gets you out of a deep, dark funk sometimes.

“Stevie… You’re gonna make me blush,” you lilt with a grin as you saunter over to him, hands innocently laced behind your back. “You need to be careful, Harrington. I’m gonna start to think you actually like me.”

He scoffs. “I do like you.”

“Yeah, when it’s convenient.”

It’s obvious your joke hits him where it hurts. It serves as a bitter reminder of the asshole he used to be, the douchebag he’s trying like hell to grow out of. He looks up at you with a sheepish, honey-tinted gaze before ducking away again.

A year or more ago it would’ve made you feel good, to know that you hurt him just a fraction of the way he hurt you. But you know that that isn’t the same man standing in front of you now, that he’d rather die than make hurt your feelings, and it makes you feel like shit for saying it in the first place. 

“Sorry,” you apologize with a scrunched nose. The palms of your hands dig into the edges of the counter as you lean against it. Your shrug. “It just kinda came out…”

The barcode scanner in his hand beeps as he passes the thing over the back of the tape — never charging you, just getting the movie out of the database.

“So, uh…” he starts before clearing his throat. He focuses his gaze on the computer and types on the bulky keyboard with the tip of his pointer finger. “You really like this Eddie guy, huh?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

“And he’s not, like… a total freak or anything?”

You can’t tell if he’s trying to look out for you or if he just wants intel on what it’s like trying (and failing) to bang the local weirdo. Either way, it makes a smile tug slow at your lips as you joke: “Not in the way everyone thinks.”

“Jesus,” he winces at the obscenity of your words.

“Sorry,” you apologize again, though the laugh that bubbles from your lips after cancels out any hint of actual sincerity. “You don’t need to give me the talk or anything, Steve. I can take care of myself.”

“…Can you?” he half-jokes.

It makes you falter. “Well… With you and Robin and Hopper constantly on my ass, then yeah.”

“Just don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve finally admits, soft and suddenly shy as he hands the VHS over to you.

“That’s rich coming from you—”

He jerks back the tape before you can take it from him, leaving your hand reaching for thin air. His cinnamon eyes glimmer with a foreign seriousness, not completely unkind, but lacking their usual blithe. “That’s why I’m saying it. I just… I want you to be okay.”

Steve is one of the rare ones, you conclude right then in there — in the liminal emptiness of Family Video, beneath fluorescent lights that cast sharp shadows upon his already chiseled features. He was a mythical creature of a man, one who breaks your heart and does everything in his power to mend it again.

He hasn’t forgotten about what he did to you, not like Billy did, and he won’t. Not ever. He saw what he did to you and he never moved on from it, just matured enough to make sure it never happened again. And he won’t let another unworthy douchebag hurt you like he did. Not if he can help it, at least.

And he did try to warn you about Hargrove, to be fair. You were just the dumbass that didn’t listen.

“Well, me and my Phoebe Cates wet dream are golden, Pony Boy,” you promise. He hands you the tape again and lets you snatch it from his grip this time. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Stevie.”

Steve Harrington was right. 

The fleeting thought flashes across your mind for half a second, and you quickly realize that those words have never been uttered in the same sentence before now. But he wasn’t wrong in what he’d said about you, just before you left — you were completely, totally, absolutely, and implicitly unable to take care of yourself.

You nearly passed out in the bathroom after taking the hottest shower of your life, feeling too woozy to slap on anything other than moisturizer because you failed to remember to actually eat something that day. It wasn’t totally your fault, though; if anything, it was because of Eddie and all the butterflies he’d given you that made food the very last thing on your mind.

You half-heartedly dry yourself off, keeping your hair in a towel, while you slip on a cotton set of underwear you’ve had for way longer than what's likely acceptable. Damp and half-naked, you prance into the kitchen to fix Bowie her bowl of dinner before you feed yourself.

You fork a can of wet food onto a flower-shaped plate and let her eat on the counter — because you’re an adult now, and you can do that sort of thing.

The calico purrs while she feasts, but your stomach thunders with negligence. You peek into your mostly bare refrigerator and make a mental note to go grocery shopping when you get paid next week. 

With a lack of food and an even lesser will to cook something, you settle for the half-eaten chocolate bar you keep stashed in the very back of the fridge; kept only for the most special of occasions — when you’re reveling in your loneliness and trying to convince yourself that you can make it on your own.

It was practically the size of your forearm when you first bought the thing at some too expensive candy store in the city. Now it’s no bigger than your hand.

You eat the thing in bed, even though you know you’ll get crumbs everywhere and that it’ll make sleep agonizing for you — if you get any, that is. You’re bound to feel like a total zombie by the time the sun rises and the late-night sweet will likely make its appearance on your skin by then, in a red and raging blemish of a consequence.

You’ll feel empty and starved and surly, a snapping grouch instead of an actual person, until you get some actual food in your system.

And you’re more than aware of all of these things, but you don’t do a single damn thing about them.

You’re nothing but a sulking lump upon an unmade bed, lying in a pitch-black darkness that’s evaded only by the static-y television across your room, trying your best to pretend like you aren’t waiting for Eddie’s phone call. It’s hard to remember to forget him, though, when the movie you’re watching is practically a feature film of him and all the ways he makes you feel.

Spicoli and his terribly inebriated friends slur as they chorus “No shoes, no shirt, no diiiice” and you swear you can feel Eddie’s shoulder bump softly against yours as he laughs, hear every sound of his melodic chuckle in your ear that made you giggle right along with him. The low bass of Moving in Stereo plays in the otherwise empty silence of your bedroom, and every beat feels like the rhythm of your thrusts against his thigh.

Eddie Munson is all-consuming.

Even the thought of him feels physical.

Phoebe Cates all but undresses herself in front of you, but you’re stuck thinking about some guy who lives in a trailer park across town, deals drugs for a living, and can’t graduate high school. You’re a total fucking goner.

Your eyes flutter shut, and instead of the backs of your eyelids, you see Eddie’s trailer. Your lips start to tingle as they kiss his for the first time — hungry, yearning, needing. His thigh is pressed snugly into your cunt, denim jeans rough against your soft cotton panties, and you have to bite back a moan when he tenses every time you squeeze his hard, covered cock.

You can feel it, all of him, like he were here with you now. 

You wish that he were.

His fingers would feel far better, leave far more sparks of electricity in your belly, than the ones as you sneak through the hem of your underwear.

You try and take things slow with yourself, to be as gentle as he had been with you earlier in the woods, but it feels strange to treat yourself with so much tenderness. To touch your pussy like it’s the first time it’s ever been touched. Like it’s a beautiful thing you need to be sweet to.

Maybe you find it so foreign to be careful with yourself because no one has ever been careful with you.

No one, except for Eddie.

Your touch doesn’t rival his. It doesn’t even come close.

No matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut or how hard you try to pretend that they’re his fingers inside of you, you can’t make yourself feel as good as he did.

Your fingers aren’t as rough as his guitar-string-scarred ones and they don’t caress your clit with the same methodical care. They don’t fill you quite the same either, nowhere near as satisfying as his much thicker ones.

And you’re no stranger to masturbation, not by any means. Sometimes it’s the only way you can guarantee an orgasm for yourself when you’ve got a partner who cares so little about your own pleasure. But Eddie was different. Eddie cared — so much so, that he’s gotten more orgasms out of you than you’ve gotten from him, which is something you’ve never said about anyone else you’ve been with.

It’s rare and unfamiliar, a bouquet of all things refreshing and terrifying and strange, tied together with a pretty little ribbon.

You know that you can make yourself come. It’ll just take way too long to actually be worthwhile and won’t be nearly as mind-blowing as you need it to be. You won’t be left with trembling thighs and nearly numb legs — just a pitiful excuse for an orgasm that you could get from any one of your exes with half as much work.

What you need is Eddie. 

And you hate that. You hate how much you need him and you’re terrified of what that means.

As far as precedent goes, right when you start needing someone is usually when they start to leave. It’s like fucking clockwork most of the time — like everyone knows that you’re a ticking time bomb and eventually it gets too risky to stand too close to you. 

You’ll just have to keep Eddie at arm's distance. So he won’t see the grenade that you are.

You pull your fingers out of your wanting cunt, still slick and throbbing with a need that you can’t give it, when the phone rings.

The high-pitched shrill in the quiet makes you tense like it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the damn thing. Your breath catches in your throat, first out of fright and then at the inclination of who waits for you on the other line.

Suddenly, you’re scrambling to collect yourself. As though there was any possibility that Eddie might be able to see you through the phone line.

You wipe your wet fingers haphazardly on the cotton of your underwear and sit up straighter from your ungracefully lazed position. Then you count to five — one mississippi… two mississippi… three — so Eddie won’t think you’re some kind of crazy person who doesn’t have anything better to do than wait for his call. 

So he won’t know that’s exactly what you are.

You lift the ruby red rotary from its hook at your bedside table and stretch the corkscrew cord to press it to your ear. “…Hello?”

“Yeah, hi. I’d like to order a pizza. Half pepperoni, half hawaiian.”

You roll your eyes at his dumb joke, even though the familiarity of his voice makes you smile. It warms you like a home-cooked meal, like you were high-pitched and starving before and now you’re on the soothing comedown of finally being satiated.

“Yeah, sorry, we’re closed.”

“Then why’d you pick up the phone, huh?” he teases back. You swear you can hear the grin in his voice. You didn’t know a smile could be so audible. It makes you wonder if he can hear yours — if you’re doing a real shit job at pretending. You anxiously twirl the cord with the pointer finger of your free hand.

“Because I’ve been waiting for you to call me all night, dummy.” 

Your answer is more honest than either of you were expecting. 

Eddie’s sigh crackles through the shoddy reception. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. I’ve been working all night. I only got home, like, five minutes ago.”

You can hear the heavy exhaustion in his voice. “Rough day?”

“Kinda,” he answers with a shrug. You can hear the grating squeak of his mattress as he plops down onto his bed. “I dealt to one of Jason’s goons today… They always give me a hard time.”

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to answer. 

Eddie’s been the brunt of every joke since seventh grade — people made fun of too big clothes, his too wild hair, his too loud music. But he took it all in stride, laughing with everyone else before volleying a harsher joke back in response. You almost started to think that he liked it. That, somewhere deep down, he was fond of all the attention he got from people who supposedly couldn’t stand him.

But it hurts to know that it hurts him.

“Don’t apologize. It’s not like you did anything,” he assures with a soft laugh. He makes the bold decision to be honest then, too. “You, uh… You made my day a whole lot better, actually.”

You don’t know if he’s talking about the brief fling in the woods or the phone call you’re sharing now or if you particularly care either way. Your heart flutters like it’s been kissed by the wings of a butterfly.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t know— I couldn’t stop thinking about you, you know. And, knowing that I was gonna get to talk to you again kinda got me through the day, I guess… And, yes, I am fully aware of how lame that sounds, but—”

You don’t get to hear the rest of his excuse, of why what he just told you totally isn’t lame, because you’re covering the receiver with your palm and turning to squeal into your pillow. A far more pathetic sight, in your humble opinion.

There hasn’t been a more fulfilling feeling than this one, to know that he’s been feeling the same way you’ve been feeling about him this whole time. It’s better than all the orgasms he could give you combined, to be loved so wholly.

“…You okay?” you hear his muffled voice ask after you’ve gone suddenly AWOL.

You press the phone back to your ear and nod like he can see you. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. The phone… fell— you said you just got home?”

“Uh, yeah. I met with Hellfire for a bit at school. We’re almost at the end of the Cult of Vecna, so they’re kinda on my ass about it. The little shits are obsessed.”

“Well, they should be. It’s a really good campaign, Eds.”

“Thanks to you,” he mutters. You can almost picture the glimmer in his button eyes and the shaky half-smirk he always looks at you with when he gets all shy.

“That was all you, Eddie Spaghetti,” you retort. “I still have no idea how you did it.”

“Did what?” he wonders, chuckling a bit at the nickname.

“Make something so beautiful out of thin air.”

Lying in the depths of his bedroom, blanketed by the darkness and bathing in streams of moonlight, Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat. 

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have a joke to spew out on the spot. He’s speechless, just for a moment, a quick blink of a second, with nothing to say. Because, if he really thinks about it, that’s sort of what happened with you.

You were just his customer and he was just your dealer.

You were a loyal client and then a girl way out of his league that he developed a too big a crush on. Then you made him come in his underwear and washed the sticky stains out of the denim for him. Now you’re on the phone with him. You let him tell you all about his shitty day and apologize like you weren’t the only good thing about it — like you aren’t the only good thing, period.

It’s not the most cliche love story, nor is it the most beautiful, but it has his cynical little heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird.

Then, when all the mushy mess fades like fog, he finally thinks of something to say.

“It’s the witchcraft, sweetheart,” he shrugs to himself. “Didn’t you hear? I’m a devil-worshipping freak.”

“You know that’s not it, Eds,” you retort with the roll of your eyes.

You know that it’s hard, to be a metalhead from the wrong side of the tracks in the eighties — at the height of the Satanic Panic and all the delusional craze. That shit’s followed him since freshman year. Even still, it nips at his ankles like rabid dogs.

Maybe you were never naive or bored enough to believe all the rumors, but Eddie Munson was always more than that to you.

“No?”

“You can blame it on being a freak show all you want, but I know it’s because you’re one of the funniest, smartest, most creative guys I’ve ever met—”

“You must not know a ton of guys then, sweetheart,” he interjects playfully, like he couldn’t stand to hear you compliment him any longer. You’d give anything to see his blushing cheeks just now.

“…You’re kidding right?” you giggle in response.

“Sorry— that’s— I didn’t mean it like— It was— I was joking,” he stammers, frightened that he might’ve offended you in some way. 

It only makes you laugh harder. Both of you know you lost count of all the guys you ‘know’ a long, long time ago. You do imagine it’s somewhere near ‘a ton’, though.

“I know, Eds,” you assure with a contented sigh. “I was just teasing.”

“Oh.”

“The slut and the freak… Who would’ve thought?” you wonder all dreamily, like it’s a fairytale as old as time itself. That’s what it feels like, sometimes.

Eddie isn’t sure what you mean — who would’ve thought you’d be friends? Two people caught in that in-between stage of platonic and romance that’s complete agony and total, total bliss? A couple of kids falling in love—

“It’s sort of kismet, huh?” he answers.

“I think so.”

“So, uh… What are you up to?” Eddie wonders then, equal parts curious and eager to keep the discussion going. He’s frightened any lapse in conversation is going to lead to saying goodbye. 

He wants to stay on for hours, until both of you are fighting to stay awake, and then listen to the sound of your heavy breathing when you inevitably lose — like that isn’t the creepiest thing anyone’s ever wanted. He’ll fight Wayne about the bill if it comes to that, he doesn’t care, he just never wants to stop being this close to you.

“Do you want the real answer or the fake one?”

“Uh… Both?”

“Well, I’d say I was doing something super productive with my night, you know, catching up on all the boring adult shit, but then I’d be lying. And I don’t wanna lie to you, Eds,” you tell him with a teasing lilt playing at the edge of your voice.

Eddie swallows thickly, fearing he’d somehow been caught in his own lie — or rather, his half-truth. He moves on quickly, though not exactly full of grace. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

“Honest answer is, that the only productive thing I’ve done tonight is shower, and now I’m in bed watching Fast Times and eating all the chocolate in my house, because I can’t cook for shit and I have nothing else better to do with my night,” you admit to him, picking at the thread of your comforter.

“Oh, don’t tell me I missed the ‘Moving in Stereo’ bit,” he agonizes.

“Just.”

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, sweetheart, but it sounds like you’re having loads of fun tonight.”

“I’m having a lot more fun now,” you assure him.

“Glad I can be around to make you laugh,” he retorts like he’s not all too happy to do it.

“You’re a total comedian, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“If I’m the jester, you’re the queen, sweetheart,” he promises, a grin evident in his voice.

Your breath catches in your throat something fierce; you’re almost worried that he’s heard it. His words pierce your heart, a stroke of lightning or a blade of steel. He’s joking, but it’s so strangely profound, the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to you and it’s dripping in sarcasm. 

It’s sort of Eddie’s love language, you’ve come to understand, to say something so sweet but coated in venom to make it sour again. It makes you feel special, loved, almost.

A fire builds behind your rib cage, sharp and distant and all-consuming.

“Are you alone, Eds?” you ask him suddenly.

The sudden curve ball in the conversation takes him by surprise. “Uh, yeah, Wayne’s at work right now… Why?”

“Because I want you to talk to me…”

“Oh?” is all he can say because isn’t that what he’s been doing this whole time?

“And I want you to say things that… maybe other people shouldn’t hear,” you explain slowly to him.

“…Oh.”

He’s heard about this only once before, the whole phone sex thing. 

It was from Andy in the back of Ms. O’Donnell’s class a year or more ago, though Eddie never called him by that name. Andy, in all actuality, was Jason Carver’s right-hand man, and he meant that in every sense of the phrase. Eddie was more than convinced that the guy was so obsessed with the blonde haired, blue eyed douchebag that he was giving him handjobs on the regular.

But it seemed the dick brigade couldn’t function properly without their leader and Eddie had the misfortune of hearing all the mindless bullshit they were spewing behind him — basketball, parties, girls; in true white bread fashion.

His friends gathered around him like he was telling some sort of secret, though it was loud enough for anyone in a three foot radius to hear. Eddie, caught directly in the line of fire, heard all about Chrissy’s older sister, Wendy, who was two years older and off at college. 

He’d gotten her number from some party he’d crashed. At least that’s how he told it, right before telling everyone that she swore like a sailor when she came and that she told him all the dirty things she wanted to do to him while she did.

“It was like her hand was on my dick, dude, I’m serious. That shit was crazy, bro,” he’d laughed after retelling the whole conversation in excruciating detail.

Eddie rolled his eyes to himself then, inwardly jealous that he’d never get to meet Wendy — or any other girl that would be willing to have phone sex with him, for that matter. His phone only ever rang for telemarketers or a rogue Dustin Henderson calling to annoy him.

But, here you are now, the most wanted girl in Hawkins, offering it to him on a silver platter. He wonders if you’ve done this before, surely you have — oh god, he thinks to himself, what if you’ve done this with Andy?

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you assure him after his unusually long silence. “I know you’re probably busy and tired and everything—”

“No! No, yeah, I— I want to. I totally want to.”

“Okay,” you nod. Petals of a flower begin to bloom in your chest as you lie back in bed, settling further into the mattress. The movie, already long forgotten, serves only as light and background noise. “So… What are you wearing, Eds?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he laughs. 

On the other side of Hawkins, in a trailer in the middle of nowhere, Eddie rises from where he’d originally flopped back onto his bed with the notion that it was going to be a semi-normal night. He props himself against his headboard. His fingers twitch at his thigh.

“Beat ya to it, Munson.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that it is very sexy, sweetheart. I’m wearing the same Hellfire shirt you saw me in, I don’t know, five hours ago — except now it’s got a rip in it because I totally ate ass on the way back to the van.”

He tells you this to make you laugh — it works — but he prays you don’t ask any questions. Because he got it while hurrying back to his van mere minutes after you’d left him, so hard he thought he was going to burst, with no more than seven minutes until his next client arrived.

 Thankfully, he only needed three.

“I love that shirt,” you respond in place of saying what you really want to — ‘I love how that shirt looks on you’ — how it clings to his lean torso and reveals his midriff whenever he stretches his arms over his head.

“She’s a lit-tle worse for wear now, sweetheart,” he lilts.

“I’ll stitch it up for you.”

“And I’ve got on a pair of boxers that are so old they’re practically see through because I’m pretty sure they used to be Wayne’s back in… I don’t know… the eighteen-hundreds.”

Eddie was right. It was sexy, though, for the exact reason they weren’t supposed to be. 

There was something so domestic about it all. You can picture him lying in his bed, in the most comfortable clothes he owns, in the one place he can feel at peace. Like a renaissance painting, something familiar and comforting and beautiful — fuck, you’d give anything to be next to him.

“…I think that means it’s your turn now, sweetheart,” he teases.

“Is it?” you mock in return.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hangin’ over here.”

“It’s nothing, special,” you assure. Your eye flits down to peer at your own body — nothing special, indeed, you think to yourself. The lilac cotton set came from the grocery store downtown on the clearance rack you so often frequent. “I just have my underwear on. It’s very boring, I’m afraid.”

It’s not boring. Not to Eddie — the boy who prides himself on his insanely active imagination. He might not be able to pass english with his brain, but he can certainly create worlds with it, and it’s too easy for him to picture you. He imagines you, freshly showered, and smelling of the warm lavender-vanilla scent you always smell like, mostly bare and lazing upon a fluffy comforter.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, that’s— that’s really, uh— that’s really sexy.”

His thankful that you don’t seem to mind his poor excuse for dirty talk.

“It’s only because I was too lazy to get into actual pajamas.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah?” you press, smiling to yourself and caging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Yeah.”

“Can I tell you a secret, Eds?” you wonder, made brave enough by his own admission.

“‘Course you can.”

“Before you called…”

“…Uh-huh?” he eggs on, intrigued at the way you trailed off, sounding suddenly shy.

“I was…” The thought of telling him what you were doing mere seconds before he called makes you nervous. It wasn’t like you were ashamed of touching yourself or anything, nor is the art of dirty talking lost on you, but something about Eddie makes you timid.

“You were… what, sweetheart?” he wonders gently, with a too audible grin.

“I was touching myself.”

That’s all you tell him. The words linger and hang in the air of your separate bedrooms and you cling to the silence — almost mortified and anticipating his reply. Eddie, meanwhile, feels like his tongue has swelled in his mouth and all the air has been punched out of his lungs.

“Oh...” he tries to respond without the breath to accurately do so. “…Yeah?”

“You know what Phoebe Cates does to me,” you try to joke.

His laughter crackles through the receiver. “Yeah. I kinda have her to thank for the other night, don’t I?”

“Give yourself some credit, Eds. The hottest guy in Hawkins was sitting right next to me, what was I supposed to do?”

“No way you think I’m the hottest guy in town,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows you’ve got a thing for pretty boys.”

“Pretty boys?” you echo with a giggle.

“Uh-huh. The Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington type, you know?”

“Well, I think you’re a hundred times prettier than he is.”

“Really?” he scoffs cynically, obviously not believing you.

“He wasn’t the one I was thinking about with my hand shoved down my panties,” you admit, immediately quelling his self-doubt. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

Eddie clears his throat and then stammers, “I— I guess so— yeah.”

“Are you hard, Eds?” you ask in a breathy whisper.

And he just nods to himself at first, too stupid to answer audibly. He can feel himself stiffening in his boxers, only halfway hard now, but getting firmer by the second. Soon, he’ll be aching. 

“Yeah…”

“Can you touch yourself for me?”

Eddie would rather take a bullet to the chest than say no to you — at least, he figures that’d probably hurt less — so he slips his fidgeting fingers through the band of his boxers and takes his warm, stiffening cock in his hand. He squeezes himself just enough to make his stomach tighten.

“Want you to touch yourself, too,” he admits, neither asking or demanding it, just telling you.

“Yeah?” you tease.

“Well, I think it’s only fair, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but notice how breathy he’s gotten — how it shakes on the inhale and hitches on the out. He’s got his hand shoved down his underwear and you’re jealous of the fingers that get to wrap themselves around his cock. You wish they were yours. Both of you will have to settle, it seems.

“Whatever you want, Eds,” you answer playfully. 

You obediently slide your hand back into the warmth of your panties. Your fingers slot between your lips and collect the slick that had gathered there since before you’d even answered the phone. You bring it up to your clit, circling the pads of your fingers there until you twitch, then dragging them down to press into your opening. They slip in with ease. 

Both of you have turned into lovesick idiots, separated by so many miles, and missing the other most ardently. Lying in the depths of your bedrooms, basking in a velvet loneliness, building with a mutual pleasure with nothing but yearning hands and longing sighs.

Eddie’s eyes flutter shut at the sounds of your low moans and fragile whimpers that crackle through the static — beautiful still, but certainly no match to the ones you were breathing in his ear just hours ago. 

His lashes dance across his cheeks as he tries to remember how you’d felt against his fingers, soft like velvet and delicate like silk, weeping and pulsating with need. 

He drags his hand from his boxers and lets the band snap against his pelvis. He spits into his palm and wets his cock with it, sighing as he tugs at himself without much friction.

“Are you wet, sweetheart?” he asks, though the words threaten to get stuck in his throat.

“Yeah,” you whisper back like it’s some kind of secret. 

You work yourself open with your middle finger and slip your pointer in next to it without much trouble. Your walls flutter around them while you fight to find the spot the makes you keen. You’re only able to tease it, fingers not quite long enough to caress it completely. Your thumb keeps working at your clit, though, to make up for the lost pleasure. 

“I’ve been wet since I left you,” you admit through labored breaths. “Haven’t been able to… to stop thinking about you, Eds.”

“Glad I’m not the only one whipped over here, sweetheart,” he manages a laugh.

“No one’s ever made me come that hard before. Not just with their fingers,” you tell him mindlessly, dumb on pleasure, as you feel yourself climbing that peak.

“Really?”

“Never,” you promise, then whine. “Doesn’t even feel as good now… Can’t get as deep as you can—”

Eddie hangs on your every word as he works his palm up and down his stiff cock, squeezing at the base and swiping his thumb over the head with an expert hand. His face scrunches as his stomach starts to tighten, he’s close to coming — too close for his liking. He doesn’t want this to be over so quickly.

“You’ve ruined every other guy for me, Eddie Munson,” you confess, more than pleased to hear how it makes him whine. It sounds like it comes from the depths of his chest, the way it crackles low and needy through the receiver.

“Good,” he grumbles through his pants after he’s gathered himself all over again. “Don’t want anyone else to have you, sweetheart.”

This time you’re the one letting out the most pathetic of whines. It makes a smile flicker at the corners of his lips.

“You like that?”

It sounds so dirty, but you can tell by the sincerity of his tone that it’s genuine. So you answer with a longing truthfulness, a delicate “yes”entwined with a yearning moan.

“You just wanna belong to me, don’t ya?” 

Now, this is dirty talk. The teasing lilt of his tone — it’s almost degrading —  and makes you clench around your fingers. “Yes, please,” you whine, all but pleading for him now.

Eddie’s close, so dreadfully close, with a pleasure so tangible he could taste it. Your words make his cock twitch in his hold as the fire builds in his belly. 

Through your whole-hearted promises and wanting moans, he can hear the sound of your slick through the receiver. The static reception doesn’t do it justice, but the wet click of your fingers working you open was unmistakable.

A moan grumbles in his throat as he digs the crown of his head back into his pillow. “Holy fuck— I can hear you, baby.”

“I’m so wet for you, Eds,” you tell him through fragile slurs, like it wasn’t inherently obvious. 

You were wrong before, about wanting to hide from him. You couldn’t conceal your need for Eddie if you tried. The honey you drip, all sweet and just for him, wouldn’t let you keep it a secret.

“I know, baby, I know,” he nearly coos. “Are you— fuck, please tell me you’re close?”

“Yes,” you promise in a whine. Your thumb presses harder into your clit. It makes your thighs tense until they’re shaking.

“You rubbing your clit for me, sweetheart?” he asks like he knows. “I know that’s what you like.”

You whimper, working at the spongy spot within you as your hips buck off the bed. “Yeah.”

“Keep rubbing yourself like that for me, okay? Want you to keep going until you come for me.”

If he keeps talking to you like that, it’ll come a lot quicker than he’s prepared for. 

It’s too soft to be much of a demand, but you listen obediently anyway, rubbing at yourself though your sensitivity keeps building. It grows like a morning tide, rising and flowing like white waves on an ocean, stirring something fierce in the depths of your stomach.

“Eddie,” you sigh out his name, broken through staggered pants.

You hear his stuttering breaths, too. “Y—Yeah?”

“I’m about to come,” you promise through a whine when the familiar crescendo sends a shock through your body.

“O… Okay,” he responds, pathetically, then whines, even more so.

“Want you to come with me… Please…”

“Fuck— okay. Shit, sweetheart, I’m almost there.”

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him.

“Your pussy,” he answers without thinking — he’s not doing a whole lot of that anymore. “Wish I’d gotten to taste you earlier. Wanna feel you… fuck… Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

“Holy shit, Eds,” you moan at his words, at the vivid picture they paint in your head.

“And you get so… God, you get so fucking wet. Just want you to drench me, baby.”

It feels good, to be complimented for something boys used to make fun of you for, to realize for the first time that’s it’s sexy — that you’re sexy — and that Eddie is more than happy to drown in you. The feeling almost rivals the impending orgasm that’s bound to hit you like a tidal wave.

“I’m thinking about how I coulda took you on that bench… Just, fucking, get on my knees for you. Shove my head between your legs. Hold your— shit, baby— hold your thighs open, keep you exactly where I want you,” he rambles but then cuts himself off to moan at his own words. “Goddamn, sweetheart. Wanna taste you so fucking bad.”

The moan you let out is pitiful. It leaves your mouth in the most delicate cry. 

No picture has ever been clearer than the one of Eddie between your thighs, your hands knotted in his hair to move him to exactly where you need him most and forcing him there. You can feel his fingers digging into your hips, his rings pressed against your burning skin, and the way your legs tremble on either side of his head.

“Yeah. Keep— Keep doing that. Keep moaning for me,” Eddie tells you. “I’m about to… holy fuck, I’m about to come.”

“Wanna feel your tongue in me so bad, Eds,” you whimper, egged on by the moan he lets out. “Want your cock even more.”

That’s what does him in, the assurance — the promise — that you want him just as bad as he wants you. 

He tightens his fist around his cock, achingly hard and raging a crimson at the tip, trying to imitate the way you’d feel around him. It’s not all that close, not nearly as wet as the honey you’d be dripping for him, but his imagination does the rest of the work for him. 

All at once, you’re on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, your pussy threatening to swallow him whole. You’ve drenched him, just like he’d begged for, and that wet schlick noise still echoing from the receiver is the evidence of each of your assured thrusts over top of him. 

You’re still pleading for him anyway — for more, for his tongue, for his cock — and he wants so desperately to give everything to you.

“Oh god, baby—” he sputters. He grips the phone in a white-knuckled, fist trembling. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming, baby.”

“Please, Eddie. Please come for me,” you plead over the low sounds of the forgotten film playing across the room and all the dirty wet sounds your pussy makes against your fingers. You sound like you need it, like you want his orgasm more than your own.

“Want you to come with me… Can you— Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Please?” It’s not dirty talk anymore. He’s actually fucking begging you and doesn’t feel the least bit ashamed to do so. 

He wants to hear all the pretty noises you make when you come — that initial cry that stems from the depths of your soul, the high-pitched whimpers that come when the sensitivity builds, and the whines that leave you when it ebbs.

He wants to hear it over and over and over again, like a worn cassette, and play it until the tape spins out.

“Yes…” you promise through a set of stuttering breaths.

There’s no talking when either of you come. Eddie’s long forgotten to talk you through it, but you would barely hear him if he had. The phone slips out of your hand when your grip slackens and it falls to the pillow beside your head.

You chase your orgasm full throttle, working through the crescendo and the strikes of lightning, focusing only on his muffled moaning and the pretty sounds he makes as he comes. 

The breath of your name whimpered through a tight throat is what does it for you. Your body has hardly any time to warn you before you’re gushing all over your fingers, twitching every time the pad of your thumb rubs over clit.

That cry, the one you always let out as you come — all wet and full of need — makes Eddie orgasm right alongside you. 

He swipes his thumb over his head again, collecting the pearls of precum gathering there and sliding them down the base to squeeze himself there like he’d been doing this whole time. He clutches harder this time, imagines it's your cunt locking him in a vice-like grip, and whines in his throat when he comes.

Several loads of it spill onto his cotton boxers, most of it gathering along the side of his hand and dripping down his knuckles. His breath staggers as he works himself through his high, praising you through the phone like you’re the one who brought him to it. 

“Fuck, baby… You’re so good… So fucking good.”

You’ve long settled from your own orgasm, still tingly and numb in some places, but not as gone as you had been just moments before. You still float on a cloud, getting lost as you stare through your window at the half-hidden stars sprinkling the night sky and feeling as though you could reach out and touch them.

You can feel the satin moonlight bathing you, and the jittery static of the neon of the television screen. You can feel everything and somehow nothing at all. 

“I don’t know how you do it, Eds,” you confess, hardly thinking about the words spilling from your mouth when you lazily bring the phone to your ear again.

“Do what, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know… You always make me feel good. Even when you’re not here… Even when we’re not getting each other off.”

“I feel the same way,” he promises you, all mushy, even though he feels like a slob for wiping his hand off on his discarded jeans on his bed. “Just… wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there, too… Wish I could clean you up.”

Eddie’s eyes shut tight as his head tilts back to his pillow at the thought. “Fuck… You’re gonna make me hard again, sweetheart.”

You perk up suddenly as an idea sprouts like a flower in your head. A smile blooms on your lips, and you rise up onto your elbows, glowing with an unanticipated excitement. “How long would it take you to get ready?”

“…Get ready?” he echoes.

“Yeah,” is all you say.

“I mean, I— I don’t know. I figure if I put on some new underwear and a fresh pair of pants, I’ll be good as new... Why?”

“You wanna do something?” 

“Yeah. Sure. Anything,” he answers clumsily in place of saying, ‘Anything to not have to be without you.’

“I wanna go to Skull Rock.”

“Skull Rock?” he repeats. 

Legend has it, you and Steve made that place a local landmark. People have always said that Hopper caught the both of you one too many times up at Lover’s Lake and the Quarry, that you needed a more hidden place to fuck. So you’d stumbled around in the middle of the woods until you found a place the chief wouldn’t think to look for you.

You’d certainly found it. Then every other horny high schooler did too.

It’s the place you go to fuck, the most private place in all of Hawkins — hell, maybe even Indiana entirely for teenagers who can’t get the house to themselves. And as appealing as it sounds, to take you beneath a sky of twinkling stars, Eddie doesn’t want his first time with you to be on dirt or in the middle of the woods. That’s how all the horror movies start, don’t they?

So, needless to say, your answer takes him by surprise.

“Yeah! You can see all the stars really good from there. It’s too hard to see them so close to town.”

Eddie’s heart swells all at once at how sweet you are, like sugar poured directly onto his tongue. You’re not eager to be without him either, it seems, and that thought is as gratifying as it is thrilling. 

You’re an adventure he’s about to go on, without a map or a way out, a journey he’s happy to go into blind as long as you’re holding his hand the entire way through it.

It breaks his heart to hang up the phone. He practically begs you to do it for him, and it makes you laugh — a kind giggle entwined with a tease ‘you’re such a baby.’ It rings in his ears long after the receiver clicks.

Most of all, he hates all the stoplights that separate your place from his. He hadn’t known where you lived before now, not until you uttered it over the phone. He makes a mental note to figure out a quicker way, somewhere through the winding back roads that his old van can speed through to make the distance less daunting.

He pulls into your apartment complex, a quaint two-story thing on the quieter side of town, where the woods are plentiful and the street lamps far fewer. He turns his radio down out of respect for all your neighbors that he’s sure he’ll never meet and spies you through the neon orange porch lights. You shut and lock your door in quick succession, then scurry across the way to meet him.

Eddie leans over to unlock the passenger side door for you, already beaming, and finds you’re smiling too when you climb in next to him. The grin you shoot his way outshines the night sky and makes a bright yellow sun of the girl sitting in his passenger seat.

“Hi,” you’d greeted him, all shy like you didn’t just make him come all over his hand thirty minutes ago.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he volleys back like he always does, with that big ol’ smirk and teasing lilt as he cock his head to the side — using his playfulness to cover up the bashful mess you so easily reduce him too.

Neither of you had gotten particularly dressed up to see each other. All he did was put on fresh under and pajama pants. You succumbed to a smilier laziness it seems, haphazardly brushing through your half-damp hair, throwing on a too big t-shirt, and calling it a day. 

The cotton hangs low at your chest, stretched out and obviously well-loved. It falls well past your thigh, though you spend much of the drive anxiously tugging it down. 

It makes him wonder what you’re wearing beneath it. If you’ve tugged on a pair of shorts or if you’re in the bra and (undoubtedly wet) underwear you’d told him you were wearing over the phone. 

Eddie winds himself up all over again while you sift through the flimsy case of endless cassettes he keeps tucked in the glove compartment that never quite shuts all the way.

“How do you now have any ABBA tapes?” you wonder like it’s baffling, with an Iron Maiden tape in one hand and Cinderella in the other. Metallica plays lowly, nearly inaudibly, from the stereo.

Eddie laughs and darts his eyes from the darkened back roads to look at you, all smiley and bathed in moonlight, before turning back to the road again. “Uh, because I’m not a thirty-year-old woman. That’s the shit moms listen to.”

“Moms and hot girls,” you retort jokingly.

“Right, moms and hot girls listen to ABBA — of which, I am neither, sweetheart. Sorry to be the one to break it to you… Besides, it’s not like you walk around listening to, fucking, I don’t know— Van Halen or whatever.”

“Hey. I listen to Van Halen,” you shoot back.

He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s got what it takes!” you sing suddenly, not quite catching the rhythm of the song, but smiling anyway as you reach for his forearm resting on the center console. “So tell me why can’t this be love!”

“Oh, my god— that’s literally their worst song,” Eddie chuckles through the widest grin you’ve ever seen from him. 

It makes you smile big too, looking like an idiot who’s totally head over heels for the boy next to her. And of that, you’re happily guilty of.

“Not true,” you shake your head defiantly. “I love that song.”

“So that means it has to be good, right?” he retorts playfully, shooting you a teasing look, though his beam is more than sincere.

“Obviously,” you answer with a scoff that makes Eddie roll his eyes.

He knows he’s going to start to love it, though, if only because it’s the only Van Halen song you halfway know.

He’s going to hear that song on the radio and he’s going to want to turn it, but he’s going to remember this moment now — the one with you reaching for him while you sing the lyrics to a song he can’t stand, sitting pretty in his passenger seat, while the moonlight blanches your smile and the bare skin of your thighs.

Eddie Munson is going to love that goddamn song for the rest of his life.

He parks as close as he can to Skull Rock, knowing his van can’t work its way that far into the woods. The two of you are forced to walk the rest of the way, not exactly minding it, though Eddie’s incessantly worried you’re going to get cold. 

He’s already forced his jacket upon you, which you took with little fight. It warmed you almost immediately — with his cozy heat and musky cologne.

You make mindless conversation the entire way there, about music and then about his band and then what animal you’d want to be in your band if that were the least bit possible. Eddie chooses a sheep without any hesitation, though you’re confident that a penguin would be far cooler. 

You keep a careful distance between you, at first, like both of you are too scared to initiate the first move. That is, until you trip over a raised branch and nearly eat ass on the forest floor. Then Eddie’s holding your hand the entire way, keeping you close.

“If you wanted me to hold your hand, you coulda just said so, you know?” he jokes. “Didn’t have to go through all the dramatics, sweetheart.”

You try and yank your hand out of his grip in protest then, but he doesn’t let you. In fact, he pulls you closer and twirls you into a bear hug that you happily relax into.

He feels your sigh fan against his collarbone as you rest your head at the nape of his neck, his arms wrap around your shoulders as yours settle at his waist. He rocks you back in forth, in a moment that’s too almost sweet to make fun of.

Eddie finds a way, of course, “See?” he singsongs. “I’ll hug you like this all the time, if you want. You don’t have to almost kill yourself to get my attention, babe.”

“All I did was trip,” you laugh at his theatrics.

“Death by tree root… What a gnarly way to go.”

He holds your hand the entire way to Skull Rock. 

He doesn’t let you go once, not until you’re ascending the large boulders to plant yourselves at the very peak of them. He’s grabbing you again once you settle, though, and the two of you just sit there, for several long moments, just gaping at the stars that dance with life above you. They sprinkle an infinite void with enough light that manages to touch you, trillions of miles away.

There’s a subtle beauty in that Eddie never would’ve appreciated before now.

“Shit, babe,” he breathes through a whimsical existential dread. “You were right. The stars are really fucking pretty out here.” 

You love how much he loves this, to come to Skull Rock with you and count the stars. Any other guy would’ve had their tongue down your throat by now, stuffing your hand down their unbuttoned jeans.

But not Eddie.

He just holds your hand because he likes the feeling of his fingers entwined with yours, grasping tightly onto you while he gazes at an infinite universe — like you might float off right along with it.

His neck is stretched to gape at the night sky. You catch his adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallows. You want so desperately to kiss his milky white skin and sprinkle blotchy red bruises there.

His curly locks fall over his shoulders. He shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes while the chocolate buttons of them dart around the endless void.

He’s more beautiful than every star in the sky combined. You can’t be sure of how many that is, of course, but it’s a whole bunch if you had to guess. It makes sense, though, for the prettiest boy in the whole damn galaxy.

“Told ya,” you answer with a smile, leaning over to nudge his shoulder with yours. “You come out here often?”

You’re asking if he takes girls here and he knows it, but it’s not like you’re being inconspicuous about the whole thing. Eddie gauges it almost immediately, the subtle jealousy hinting at your tone — something no one else would’ve caught — and he squeezes your hand in reassurance.

He shakes his head. “No… Never.”

“Never?” you press with raised brows, like his answer shocks you.

“Ever. It’s not really my scene, I guess… But what about you, sweetheart? Never seen you around these parts before.”

You knock his shoulder again, harder this time.  “Shut up. You already know the answer to that.”

“Yeah…” he nods to himself, eyes darting back and forth as he reminisces on something. “You and Harrington, you and Hargrove. Hell, I think I heard about you and Jason one time—”

“That was a long time ago,” you argue. “Before I even knew you, okay?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs in defense. “You totally have a thing for pretty boys, sweetheart.”

“I never said I didn’t, Eds. Just that you were pretty, too.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs and rolls his eyes like he isn’t glowing red beneath the moonlight.

“You’re better than all three of them, Eds,” you confess with a sudden softness that catches his attention almost immediately. He turns his attention from the sky to look at you properly again. His breath catches at you sad you look — all beautiful and coated in shades of blue.

“…Yeah?”

You nod and drag his hand into your lap to fidget with his fingers. You trace the skeleton heart on his middle finger, subverting all your attention there because it’s easier than having to look at him now. “Better than all of them combined— not even just them, you know? Out of everyone. No one’s ever been this nice to be before.”

“Me neither, sweetheart,” he confesses with a morose grin. “The freak of Hawkins High attracts a lot of assholes, believe it or not.”

“Is it bad?” you wonder cautiously, like you’re scared to hear the answer. In some ways, you are. 

You hadn’t known him in high school, not really. For obvious reasons, you ran in very different circles. You never even had classes together. There was never any excuse to be close to each other before now, never a reason to become friends. So you didn’t.

You grew to know him as a freak, and he knew you as the town slut. Then somewhere down the line, he became your dealer and now… here you were. 

But you’ve graduated now and he’s still army crawling towards a diploma. You couldn’t save him from the hell of Hawkins High even if you wanted to.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he shrugs. “Jason and the dick brigade just wanna make my life hell, that’s all.”

“I hope they aren’t,” you respond shyly.

Eddie scoffs then shoots you a smile. “Oh, of course not. Look at me. I’m at Skull Rock with the most wanted girl in Hawkins. I’m living the dream, sweetheart.”

“So you don’t care?” you wonder, peering at him through your lashes, as you twist the silver cross around his finger.

“Care about what?” 

“That I’m a slut,” you laugh like it’s obvious.

Eddie doesn’t think it’s all that funny. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s not like it isn’t true, Eds,” you retort with a trembling smile. “I mean, that’s literally what people call me — most people don’t even care to call me by my real name anymore.”

“I don’t care,” Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t care about that. I don’t give a shit about what people say about you. If everyone cared about what everyone said about everyone, neither of us would be here right now… Because you’d think I was some devil-worshipping freak and I’d think you were too busy getting it on with Chief Hopper.”

You screw your face up immediately at the thought. The mere idea was repulsive. The asshole was practically your father these days. Jim Hopper was in that small bunch of available people you would never fuck, and happily so. 

“I’d never stoop that low,” you joke.

“I like you, how you are, right now,” Eddie promises. “Don’t want you to change a damn thing.” 

His brown eyes twinkle with a sincerity that rivals the stars above you. All of a sudden, you don’t care about a bunch of heavenly bodies light years away from you — you care about this man, the one sitting beside you now, holding your hand even though your palms have gone all sweaty.

It’s too good to be true — the way you looks at you, the way he talks to you, the way he treats you. You’re scared that it’s a dream, that you’ll wake up and find that none of this was ever real. Or worse, that he was, and that he just didn’t care about you the way you cared about him.

It’s almost irrational. Almost. 

But it’s happened before. 

And it’s left you a scarred and mangled mess.

You shake your head to yourself and scrunch your face as you turn to look him. “Have you ever done this before, Eddie?”

“Don’t what?” he wonders with furrowed brows.

“I don’t know…” you shrug. “Any of this? With anyone else?”

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to lie. Or tell some clumsy half-truth for the sake of saving his own skin. He realizes tonight is perhaps the most honest he’s ever been with you, baring his pale soul beneath a silver moonlight. 

“Never,” he answers, unwavering, with a firm shake of his head.

“Really?”

“Really,” he nods, then swallows thickly at a gut-wrenching realization. “I’ve never felt his way about anyone else before.’

“Me neither,” you promise. 

It’s a tad more meaningful coming from you than from a boy who’s never had someone to love and to love him back.

You’re experienced, you’ve found what you like and what you don’t like. You’ve been with guys who have given you the world and guys that have ended yours altogether. And out of all of them — all of the assholes in Hawkins you could’ve picked — you’ve chosen the freak. 

You want him. 

You want Eddie.

The revelation makes him grin. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart, Eddie Spaghetti.”

---

MOB!BUCKY MASTERLIST

18+ | Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader

the adventures of bucky and his little fairy.

recommended to be read in order, but most can be read as standalones.

just let me see them

your best friend, bucky, has done some research about makeup for you. it's imperative that you show him your boobs.

look at me forever

continuation of just let me see them.

watch me cry

request: can you write some with mob!bucky x best friend!reader where he makes her cry and they stop talking for awhile? please make it angsty!!

big mouth

you have a bad habit of running your mouth when you're tipsy. luckily, your best friend is always prepared to help you out of any trouble that big mouth of yours gets you in.

tug of war

ex!pietro wants you back, but bucky will never give you up. you're his, and his alone.

just like a fairy

the start of the most loving friendship in history.

one of mine

bucky and fairy's second meeting; a chaotic gunfight.

how you love me

bucky's high out of his mind, and paranoid about saving you from apparent danger. taking advantage of the fact that he won't recall any of this, you reveal your true feelings to him.

a fairy's beloved object

never steal from a fairy. the consequences could be deadly.

clingy as fuck

you overhear bucky telling sam about how clingy you are, which breaks your heart.

play pretend

in order to appease his uncle, bucky needs to prove that he's a family man. what better way to get that image across than with a loving wife? there's only one problem: bucky doesn't have a wife. he does, however, have a little fairy.

---

Eddie is the opposite of a nonchalant boyfriend

Masterlist

Context: Nonchalant boyfriend was an internet phenomenon where girls were talking about their, you guessed it, nonchalant boyfriends avoidant attachment style lowkey saying things like, "when he's nonchalant and u never know if he actually likes you or if he doesn't even care abt ur existence" and, "pov: dating a nonchalant guy who never compliments you when you're a words of affirmation girl"

Asks are open, please for the love of god talk to me about Eddie.

Warnings: mentions of a period, a pinch of spiciness, that's it.

WC: 1.8k

A/N: Have this thought that turned long while I continue writing my magnum opus, it is an Eddie x Popular!Reader enemies to situationship to lovers based on the song imgonnagetyouback by Taylor Swift. It's currently at 14k words and I haven't even hit the real drama yet lmao. If anybody applies the slightest bit of pressure on me I will fold like a wet noodle and give you guys an excerpt. I've been planning it out and drafting it this whole week so it should be a well-structured story unlike my other long one.

Eddie declares war on all nonchalant boyfriends. 

He’s never been nonchalant about anything in his entire life, and he’s not gonna start now, not with you. 

No longer will you wonder if your boyfriend thinks you look pretty or if he thought about you that day. 

With Eddie, he thinks about so many things during the day, you included, that he has to write the ones about you down so he can tell you later when you both get home from work. 

He runs down the paper like it’s his grocery list, “Okay, first of all Joe was playing the radio in the shop today and Queen came on and it made me think of you.” 

Your heart flutters at the sentiment, “Aw, what song was it?” You’re curious to know what it was so you can go listen to it, even though you’ve more than likely heard it a million times. You just want to listen to it from his perspective, imagining what lines made him think of you. 

You giddily wonder if it was Killer Queen, you do have an insatiable appetite for him. Or maybe it was Somebody To Love, you swoon at the thought of Eddie hearing the choir-like chanting, ‘Find me somebody to love,’ knowing he’s coming home to you. His somebody. 

Your rose-colored thoughts are dashed when he quips his answer. 

“Fat Bottomed Girls,” he’s got a proud grin stretched across his face before he looks at his lengthy list once more, quickly moving on. 

Your eyes deaden, lips pressed into a thin line, “Okay.” A tone of defeat saturating the word, you should’ve known better. That’s about right for Eddie, your perpetually horny boyfriend. 

He continues as if he’s presenting on a time limit, too much to say, please hold all questions ‘til the end. 

“Okay, up next, I stopped at Bradley’s Big Buy on the way home and bought you a new bag of tootsie rolls.” He reaches into the paper bag on the chair beside him and plops the huge bag of the sugary treat on the counter. “I checked the pantry this morning and saw we’re running low. Plus, your period is supposed to come this week and I can’t be without my greatest allies.” He finishes by patting the crinkling bag. 

You furrow your brow, jerk your head back, eyes flutter-blinking in a questioning manner, how did he know you’re supposed to get your period this week?

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he waves off your confusion as if it’s preposterous, “I keep up with my girl, and my girl’s girl.” He gestures vaguely to your lower half, it makes you snort. 

“Did you just refer to my vagina as sentient?” Your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes alight with mirth. 

He shrugs, “You know me.” He’s so blasé with it, as if those three words explain everything. 

What you don’t know is he keeps a little pocket calendar that he uses to mark your menstrual cycle. He wants to know when his girl isn’t feeling very good, but he also wants to know when his girl is feeling extra good. 

“Moving forward,” he shouts with a finger up in the air, turning his nose up as if frustrated by your incessant interruptions. Such a drama queen, you think. 

“Gareth asked me if we want to go on a double date with him and Jenna this Friday, I told him I’d ask the old Ball & Chain.” He’s grinning when he says it, preparing for your inevitable smack. 

And you do smack him, right on his shoulder. “Hey! I’m not a Ball & Chain until you lock it down,” is your only response, you can’t help but smile at the glee in his eyes when you mention being his forever. 

“You’re so right, my dearest, how very silly of me.” He says it in a stilted overly-formal voice like he’s a 1940s business man puffing on a cigar. “But mark my words, you will be my Ball & Chain,” he says in a playful threat, “When you least expect it, that’s when I’ll strike.”

You shake your head, smiling at his stupidity. He’s smug at the fact that you don’t know he’s been wearing the engagement ring he bought you around his neck, beneath his clothes, for the past four months just waiting for the perfect moment.

“Yes, let’s do dinner, what’s next,” you question, craning your neck forward to get a glimpse at his chicken scratch writing. 

He jerks the paper away from your view, it’s then that you realize he’s written all of this on the back of a purchasing request from the shop. You see the logo for ‘Joe’s Cars’ at the top of the page, god, you hope they didn’t need this document for their files. 

He holds the paper to his chest, reprimanding you like you’re a nosy kid, “No peeking!” 

You laugh as you settle back into your stance in front of him, waiting for what he has to say next. 

“On my way home I saw a banner on the mall advertising a sale at the Gap and I figured we could go get you that dress you saw in the catalog the other day. Maybe you can wear that to dinner with Gareth and Jenna,” he suggests. 

It’s so straightforward the way he says it. He’s waiting for your response, but you’re nearly choking back tears at the way he loves you. The way he sees you.

You had shown him the dress last week while he was building you a shelf for your joint bedroom. The shelf would be a place for you to put your romance novels, a lot of Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins, something your ex would’ve never done. He always made you feel bad for reading those types of books, but not Eddie. Eddie built you a place to display them proudly in your room, no longer having to dig under the bed to reread them. 

When you showed him the dress, you didn’t think he actually remembered the interaction. He gave you his attention when you talked about how pretty it was and how much you liked the pleated skirt, but you just thought it went in one ear and out the other. You thought that he was probably nodding, ‘oo’-ing and ‘ah’-ing until you’d go away, leaving him to work. 

But here he was a week later, having remembered the exact dress and the exact store, offering to buy it for a silly little dinner. 

You smile at him with watery eyes, nodding, “Yeah, I’d like that very much,” you move to kiss him, but he holds up his hand to stop you. A pinch of worry squeezes your heart before he says, “Hold on I’m not done yet!” 

His hand still held in the air, he dutifully looks at his list as if he’s reading something lengthy, preparing to recite the next thought he had at work that he needed to share with you. 

He takes a big breath in before turning to you to share the last thing, “And- I love you.” He says it with the sweetest smile on his face, just happy to talk to you, happy to come home to you. 

It takes you a minute to grasp what he said. That was it. That was the last thing he thought at work that he needed to tell you. Wrote it down and everything. 

He stopped your incoming kiss and affection to tell you that, he gave you pause thinking you rudely cut him off again. But he just wanted to tell you he thought about how he loves you while at work.

He’s so stupid, you think fondly. He’s your stupid, silly, dramatic, lover boy. 

Your close-mouthed smile is so big it makes your eyes squint shut, nose scrunching as you shake your head at his antics. A huffing laugh leaves your nose as you reach for him, his arm pulls you in for the sweetest kiss, the one you get to have every day with him. 

“I love you too, stupid face.” 

You love your non-nonchalant boyfriend. 

Bonus: 

On Friday, you’re getting ready for the double-date in the bathroom, touching up your makeup in preparation to show Eddie. 

“Teddie!” You call out the fond nickname, he loves when you call him that, it liquifies his insides. You always make him melt. 

You can hear his soft thudding steps into the bedroom, a slight squeak of the bed as he sits down. 

“You ready to see?” Your voice echoes from behind the door, he can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him smile. 

“So ready,” he grins, “Gimme my prize, baby. Show me what’s behind door number one!” His imitation of a game show host is weirdly good, he blames it on Wayne’s addiction to old reruns of Let’s Make A Deal.

You open the door, stepping out, nervously brushing the nonexistent wrinkles out of the skirt with your hands. You look up at his face, asking a hesitant, “How do I look?”

He’s frozen in his spot, his eyes are wide as they take in the angel in front of him. He finds you sexy any way you come, but he does love when a gift is covered in pretty wrapping. 

Your confidence grows at his speechlessness, you know him well enough to know it's good speechless. 

He stands up abruptly, “Excuse me- I gotta-hold on-,” and he’s out the front door. You have no idea where he’s going, but knowing him, this is for dramatic effect. So you sit down on the bed and wait, crossing one healed leg over the other, leaning back on your arms, bobbing your foot idly. 

When he comes back in thirty seconds later his black suit is disheveled, his hair no longer neat in a ponytail. The shorter curls are windswept as they frame his face, he’s unbuttoned his dress shirt to his sternum, he’s breathing hard and ragged. You stand at his entrance, hands on your hips, an amused glint in your eyes. 

His cheeks are pink with exertion and sweat beads at his hairline, “Sorry, you’re so hot I literally had to take a lap, I’m back now, we’re good to go. You look amazing, by the way.” He leans in to hold you in a kiss, but you put your hands up to stop his body from touching yours. 

You're giggling at his antics, ‘Ew, you’re all sweaty now,” you whine. 

He grins mischievously, “Oh good, then it won’t matter if I get even more sweaty.” Next thing you know he’s clumsily grabbing the sides of your head, pulling you in for a comically sloppy kiss, and pressing his body to yours desperately. You can feel his leg hitch onto your body like he’s about to climb you like a damn tree. 

You break the silly kiss with a loud laugh, tossing your head back, “Eddieeeeuhhh!” 

A/N: please like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it. Comments encourage me to write more, they're like a shot of espresso to my heart.

---

Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.

A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)

-

Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra. 

He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.

He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.

It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.

And yet …

“Not too tight, Bucky.”

Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.

Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.

“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.

“Perfect.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.

“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.

“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.

“Would you mind running to the store later?”

“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.

When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.

“What do you think?”

Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.

When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.

“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.

-

Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.

Granola

Eggs (2 dozen)

Apples

Tomatoes

Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)

Toothpaste (2x)

Tampons

Ice cream (!!!)

He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.

By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.

He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.

Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.

Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.

-

The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.

He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.

She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.

“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”

Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”

“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”

Bucky frowned.

It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.

“There’s nothing I could take?”

She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.

“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.

Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.

“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.

They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.

“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”

It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.

Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.

“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”

Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.

Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.

“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”

Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.

“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”

She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”

“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”

-

“I can’t believe this!”

There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”

Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.

“How about this snowy one next?”

At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.

“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”

Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”

Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”

Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.

“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.

He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”

“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”

“Sure, it does.”

Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.

At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.

“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.

“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”

“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”

She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.

But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.

-

Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.

She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.

For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.

With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.

Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.

“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.

“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”

Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.

“I’m—”

“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”

Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”

Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.

“What were you going to say, then?”

She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.

“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”

“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”

A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.

-

“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”

Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.

“It rains a lot in Scotland.”

“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”

“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”

An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.

“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”

Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.

“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”

“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”

She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.

“I thought you didn’t like heat.”

“What made you think that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”

Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”

She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”

“Deal.”

After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.

“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.

The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.

-

A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF

---

Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises. 

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

“Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

-

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you. 

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

-

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

-

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug. 

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

-

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains. 

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

-

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

-

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably. 

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. 

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously. 

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

-

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks. 

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?” 

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.” 

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons. 

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

-

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose. 

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend. 

-

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path. 

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

-

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down. 

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh. 

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back. 

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve. 

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

-

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

-

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

-

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit. 

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily. 

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can. 

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability. 

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.” 

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues.  “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

---

Are You Now or Have You Ever Been Masterlist

Summary: You’re the most popular girl in school, a 4.0 student, a fantastic cheerleader, and a  force to be reckoned with. Eddie is…well, Eddie. When you two mix, it’s like oil and water. Spewing hateful insults one minute and hooking up the next, you and Eddie navigate the thin line between love and hate. 

Enemies with benefits, or more aptly put: enemies to situationship to enemies to lovers. She’s a doozy. Inspired by imgonnagetyouback by Taylor Swift, give it a listen!

WC: 40k, ONLY 2 PARTS

Warnings: 18+ mdni!! Angst with a happy ending, fat shaming (once and not to reader), no use of Y/N, bullying, sex, PiV, unprotected sex, teasing, degradation, humiliation kink, Reader is mean to Eddie, Eddie is mean to Reader, semi-public sex, Eddie is 20 R is 18, groping, fingering, oral (m receiving), ball play, ball worship (I love bawls), body worship, pussy slapping, rough sex, name calling (dirty whore, slut–kinda, cumdump, whore, nasty bitch, desperate whore, bitch, hole), begging, dumbification kinda, ass slapping, dirty talk, mentions of drugs, teasing, mentions of cheating (hypothetical), breeding kink, spitting, cum eating, cream pie, gagging on dick, like a little face fucking but not really, innocence kink kinda if you squint but not really, Eddie hates Jason Carver, slut shaming, malicious attempt at getting someone alone (Jason), weed smoking, brief mention of student-teacher relations (not R or E, student is 18), arguments, angry name calling, insinuation of sex for money, insecurity about living situation, stereotypes of trailer park living, mentions of a gun (no usage just in a literary sense), reader’s parents died in a drunk driver incident and she talks about it crassly at one point, metaphorical addiction a la Nicotine by PATD type beat, small mention of hypothetical weight gain (eddie), mention of “felony sexual assault” but nothing happens it’s just used as a snark against Jason, physical violence (not E to R), punching, kicking, fighitng, I’m making Eddie tall in this so however tall you are he’s taller

A/N: a post with both parts in the same place. I didn't want to split them up, but apparently tumblr has a limit of 1000 blocks of text and you bet your bottom dollar this shit was over 1000 lmao

Main Masterlist

Part 1

WC: 25.4k-ish

Part 2

WC: 14.7k

---

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

---

Teenage Dirtbag

Pairing: Eddie Munson x short, plus-sized, girly-ish, female reader.

WC: ~9K

Warnings: cursing, eddie being a lil bit of a horndog, unrequited but not unrequited love

A/N: This song screamed Eddie Munson to me and I had to write it, I don't know what to say for myself lmao I thought it was going to be 1K at most. Welp.

Masterlist || AO3

Eddie Munson knew he wasn’t the smartest person in town. He was far from the dumbest, Jason Carver took that title by a landslide.

In fact, Eddie would dare to say he was actually pretty intelligent. He wasn’t book smart, not with subjects he didn’t give a shit about, but he had common sense. Which, clearly, wasn’t so common – especially in Hawkins.

However, even Eddie had to admit that he was the dumbest son of a bitch on this planet sometimes.

The primary example was when he managed to fall in love with you, his English tutor. 

After Eddie had bombed the first major test – on his second go at his senior year – his teacher had assigned him a mandatory tutor.

“I know you think I don’t like you,” Ms. O'Donnell said, her sharp eyes softening when Eddie snorted, “but I want you to succeed. You’re smarter than you let on and I can see that.”

“Don’t feel bad. All teachers hate me,” Eddie joked, a thread of truth to it.

“Well not me,” she said, “and to prove it to you – I’m going to assign you a tutor.”

What? “Aw, come on,” Eddie groaned, “I’ll do better on the next one!”

Ms. O’Donnell rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said all last year. I was the one who signed off on you using my classroom for Hellfire Club you know. It’s been four years and I’ve seen some of the things you come up with. You’re good at writing, Mr. Munson. You just need to apply yourself.”

Wait, she knew about some of his campaigns? “Which I’ll do from now on!” The comical expression on her face indicated that Eddie was not getting through to her.

“Trust me,” she said, “she took my advanced placement course as a sophomore. She’s a senior, like you, and she’s willing to do it as a favor to me.”

“Is this mandatory?” Eddie winced when his teacher’s sharp gaze returned.

“Yes,” she said, her expression softening when Eddie slumped. “I’ll make you a deal, just let her tutor you for the next quiz. If you get higher than a C, with genuine effort, you can opt out.”

“Deal,” Eddie sighed.

And now here he was, four months later and definitely more than one aced quiz later, with you in your first sundress of the season. Eddie had been waiting for you at the library, the same table in the back – hidden behind the cookbook shelves – when you walked in. The thin straps drew his attention first, his eyes trailing down to the neckline which exposed the swell of your breasts in a way that had Eddie shifting nervously in his seat.

You’d apologized, sitting down hastily, your breath coming out in quick pants. Your car hadn’t started this morning so you had to ask Dustin, your neighbor, to borrow his bike to get here.

The image of you biking in that dress was something that he didn’t know he needed.

Like always, you pulled out your battered copy of The Great Gatsby and got to work. Eddie had read the book, you’d been right – he did like it – but spent most of the first hour watching you explain the chapters he’d been assigned.

There was just something about the way your eyes lit up when you started rambling about literary terms and characterization. You tended to speak with your hands, cherry-colored nails flying as you waved a hand in the air.

Oh, you were saying his name. “Are you listening Eddie?” You asked, eyes shooting him a knowing look.

“Shortcake, I always listen to every word you say,” Eddie joked, winking. A flustered expression overtook your face and Eddie watched your fingers come up to your hair, a sure sign that his comment had hit. He hated the rush of serotonin that gave him.

See? Complete dumbass behavior.

“Pay attention, you have a quiz next week and then we start working on your final paper,” you said, tapping his hand softly. The warmth of your skin sent an electric current up his arm and straight to his chest. “Here, I brought an outline of what I thought would be good topics for you to choose from. I’m partial to Shakespeare – oh don’t give me that look – but I listed other options too. Let me see if they finally got that book that I was looking for.”

Eddie nodded and failed to avert his eyes as you walked away. Your hips swayed as the black patterned dress rippled with your movement.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. Eddie glanced at the paper you’d handed him, your handwriting neat and precise. He’d been dreading meeting you when Ms. O’Donnell had mentioned your name. You weren’t a cheerleader but you basically friends with the whole squad. He’d seen you at parties when he was selling, you always seemed nice but Eddie knew from experience that the popular crowd were just vultures waiting for a sign of weakness. Eddie wasn’t going to be stupid enough to expose any.

“Oh, hey, Lucas!” Your voice carried from a few shelves away. Eddie straightened. “I haven’t seen you since the last campaign!”

Eddie couldn’t hear what Lucas answered but your quiet laughter sent the equally stupid butterflies in his ribcage into chaos. Eddie fought a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. Honestly, he could hardly be at fault when you had the audacity to have a laugh as cute as that.

“Did you look over the outline? Oh, are you okay?” You asked, eyes pinched in concern. Eddie shook his head, his hair settling around his shoulders.

“I’m fine, just a little tired,” he lied. “Was that Sinclair I heard?”

You beamed at him and Eddie swore he felt his heart stop in his chest. Jesus H. Christ, he was going to send you the bill when you sent him to the ER. “It was! I can’t believe he’s taller than me now,” you said, wrinkling your nose when Eddie laughed, “oh shut up. I meant, I used to babysit them. They were all little munchkins a few minutes ago. Now they’re freshman. That’s wild.”

“Calm down there, grandma,” Eddie retorted as you rolled your eyes, “besides, it’s not exactly hard to be taller than you nowadays shortcake.”

Eddie could tell you were trying your best to bite back a grin. “You know, I’m the one who brought your grade up from a F to a B minus, you should be nicer to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you your highness?” Eddie swooned, hands on chest, as he leaned back in his chair. “How can I ever thank you for saving me?”

“By passing your last quiz of the year,” you said dryly, eyes lighting up, “and maybe picking Macbeth for your final essay.”

Eddie snorted. “Not likely.”

“And that’s how you treat your hero?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes.

Fuck, those should come with a goddamn warning.

“How about I make you a mixtape?” Eddie joked, chewing at the end of his pen and giving your outline another look.

Your face, however, completely lit up. “Deal!”

“What?” Eddie stammered, dropping the pen from his mouth.

“No take-backs Munson!” You laughed, shrinking when the librarian shot you a look. Eddie huffed a laugh at your contrite expression and watched you turn back to him. “You get a passing grade on these last two assignments and you make me a mixtape as a physical form of your eternal gratitude.”

“Shortcake, I don’t think we have the same music tastes,” he said, eyeing the Walkman you’d left at the corner of the table with your bag.

A haughty look cross your face and the stupid butterflies slammed into his small intestine painfully. “How would you know?” You asked. “You barely ask me anything outside of English.” The second part was quieter, almost involuntary and Eddie was suddenly struck by something.

Eddie had never pushed for anything more than you had freely given. He tried not to ask about what you were doing, what you liked, or what your weekend plans were. You’d smile to him in the hallways at school but you had completely different schedules so you rarely saw each other. Besides, Eddie had an ingrained self-preservation intuition and vehemently avoided any contact with the popular crowd.

While Eddie was not a betting man, he took calculated risks. You were – beyond the ability to analyze. But…the way your face had twisted, maybe he’d gotten his signals wrong? Had you wanted him to be your friend? He’d always assumed you were doing this to fulfill some extracurricular activity. Wouldn’t you be…embarrassed to be seen with him?

“Alright sweetheart,” Eddie said eventually, “educate me then.”

You stuck out your tongue, breaking the tension and tucked your Walkman into your bag. “Too late. You snooze you lose Munson,” you said, packing up your stuff. Eddie glanced at his watch and was once again astounded to realize two hours had flown by.

“I’ll see you next week at the same time?” You asked. “Drop your paper outline in my locker and I’ll take a look at it so we have something to cover.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Eddie saluted.

“Oh,” you said, hand elbow deep in your bag, “you see Mike tomorrow, right? At Hellfire?”’

Eddie frowned, unsure. “Yeah?”

“Can you give him these?” You asked, dropping a set of die in his hands. “He wanted to borrow my old set.”

Glancing at the well cared for set in his hand, Eddie gaped. “Are these holographic?”

You grinned and pulled your backpack onto your shoulders. “Yeah! Dustin got them for me for my birthday a while ago. They’re custom! He painted them for me.”

Eddie felt his throat dry up and was almost positive he’d floated up into the stratosphere. Seriously, a semitruck could’ve trampled him and he would’ve been less surprised.

“You coming?” You asked, totally unaware of how close Eddie was to offering you his heart on a platter.

Spurred into action, Eddie pocketed the set carefully and grabbed his bag. “Yeah, I- I’m coming.” He took in your carefully stacked bracelets and dainty necklace. Your pink sandals echoed in the hallway as you made your way to the familiar bike chained outside. How did someone like you play dnd?

“Dustin taught me,” you said as you walked the bike next to his van.

“What?”

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and squinting a little at the sun in your eyes. The air in his lungs caught at the sight of your skin in the light. Were you holographic? “Dustin and the other kids I babysat taught me how to play. I’m not very good,” you admitted sheepishly, “that’s why I never told you.”

“Oh,” he said, because his brain still wasn’t totally back from its trip into space.

“I’m an elf rogue,” you said, shrugging, “Will said it suits me since I used to practice archery.”

Eddie bit down on his cheek hard enough to almost draw blood. He fought every nerve in his body to not glare at the sky. Really universe? Really? Was his daily pining not enough?

“You’re a box of surprises, aren’t you, shortcake?” Eddie said, rocking on his heels.

You grinned. “I’m rusty at that too. My aunt lives in Indianapolis and she’s won a few competitions in archery. I’d stay with her over the summer breaks and she taught me. It was fun to run around thinking I was some kind of mini-Hawkeye or something.”

At that, he couldn’t hide his surprise. “Marvel?”

“I told you,” you said, looking incredibly flustered, as your eyes went down to your feet, “I babysat Dustin. For years. Some of it stuck.”

Say something, he urged, voice stuck in his throat.

“Uh, so I’m going to go,” you said, bright smile back on your face.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Do you want a ride?” He asked, gesturing to his van. Great, that’s the best he could come up with?

You turned your smile in his direction and Eddie almost stumbled at the power of it. Jesus, he really needed to get a grip on himself. This couldn’t be healthy.

Nodding, you’d taken a step towards him when a loud honk popped the bubble you both were tucked into. Eddie glanced over your shoulder and felt reality sucker punch him in the throat.

“Hey baby!” Nick shouted, torso almost hanging out that stupid Camaro window. “I’ve been looking for you. Your sister said you’d be here.”

Aaaand that was the second reason he was a complete dumbass.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, looking embarrassed. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Mhmm, see ya,” Eddie said, darting towards his van and completely missing your look.

Eddie started his van and shot out of the parking lot. He risked a glance in his rearview mirror and immediately regretted it. You were tucked into the quarterback’s arms, his face ducking down to yours, and Eddie tightened his hold on the steering wheel.

You had a boyfriend – a jock no less – because of course you did, since when did life ever like to be fair to him? Why would it ever start now? Eddie scrambled for the cigarette carton in his passenger’s seat and lit one up. Nick Jackson had been the one who almost broke Gareth’s nose last year in gym class. Nick Jackson would absolutely kick his ass if he knew how gone he was on his girlfriend.

What type of asshole had two first names anyway? And how the hell had he managed to land someone like you?

He knew the answer, obviously, but he was still in shock despite the fact that Eddie had seen you two together for the past month.

Whatever. Fuck high school. The second he had that diploma in his hands he was driving out of here and not looking back.

Eddie was over school. He’d finally gotten the news that he’d been given the green light to graduate and the first person he wanted to tell was you.

So, to mediate that, he decided to skip his last two classes and gone out to the picnic table in the woods behind the school to smoke. Taking another drag, Eddie leaned back onto the rough wood table and snorted. Who would’ve thought? He’d known ’86 was going to be his year.

Although it was in no small part thanks to you. Eddie had seen you this morning – dressed in a blue ruffled skirt, with a cardigan and a shirt that hid absolutely none of your curves. He’d felt like someone had slammed a locker door in his face, blood rushing to the bottom half of his body.

The sound of a branch snapping had Eddie jumping up, instinctively flinging the joint off towards the trees. He turned towards the sound, excuse on the tip of his tongue, when his throat closed. You stood there, shy smile on your face, hands gripping your bags strap tightly.

“Hey Munson,” you said, motioning to the table. “Can I join you?”

“Uh, yeah shortcake, please,” he gestured grandly to the old, rusted table like it was worth a million bucks. “Welcome to my hide out. Uh, sorry for the smell and the smoke.”

You laughed, eyes wrinkling and mouth turning up like he was hilarious. “I actually wanted to ask if I could buy some off of you,” you scrunched your nose and Eddie felt his heart stop. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“What?” Eddie smacked his hand to his chest exaggeratedly. “Me? Make fun? Of you? I’m insulted.”

“Ah yes, because you’re so friendly,” you joked. “I’ve never smoked before so could you sell me something already rolled?”

Eddie grinned. “You’re in luck shortcake,” he said, patting his denim vest for the bag he knew was keeping for later, “I’ve got some for you right here.”

“How much?” You asked, searching for your wallet.

Waving off your offer, Eddie dropped it onto your bag. “Consider it a thank you for helping me get to graduation.”

You froze, eyes darting up to his and Eddie couldn’t help the grin that grew on his face. “Oh my God, Eddie, don’t joke with me about this.”

“I’m not!” He laughed, opening his arms and throwing his head back. “I’m finally fucking out of here!”

Without warning, you threw your arms around him. Eddie stumbled, more than a little surprised, and stilled for a second. His arms, however, were much smarter and quicker than the rest of him because they settled immediately on the curves of your hips. You squeezed him tightly, your fingers scratching almost subconsciously at his back in soothing circles. “I’m so proud of you! I knew you could do it Eddie, I knew it.”

Eddie leaned back to see that you were beaming, eyes bright and smile so wide it looked like it could crack your face in two. The sun pierced through the shade of the trees, landing on you like a natural spotlight – because of course it did. “Well, it’s mostly thanks to you. I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. Which, was a hundred percent true.

He watched your eyes drift down his face, and for a millisecond he could’ve sworn they landed on his lips, but before he could confirm – you’d darted away. Hands fluttering down your pink cardigan, you soothed out the non-existent wrinkles and frowned.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, “I didn’t mean – I know people hate when I – I’m sorry.”

“When you what?” Eddie furrowed his brows, confused. “Don’t be sorry.”

You wrung your hands together and Eddie hated how small you tried to become. “I – uh, Nick hated when I just hugged him out of nowhere,” you sighed, “I’m sorry.”

Reason number one that jock was a dumbass. If Eddie had the chance, he’d cling to you like a goddamn koala.

“Hey, what’d I say? We’re friends, right?” Eddie asked, ducking to try and catch your eyes.

“Are we?” You said, surprised.

Eddie clutched his heart, looking down at his hands as if there were blood, and blinked at you. “I didn’t know you came here to shoot me straight through the heart.”

A beat of silence echoed in the clearing before you laughed, delighted by his antics. Eddie smiled at your joy; you were one of the only people in his life that never complained about his general over the top flair. “I’m sorry,” you said, tone adorably earnest. “I didn’t mean it like that – I thought, well, I thought you didn’t want to be friends with me.”

He couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t but he let out an unattractive laugh and shot you a look. “Shortcake, if anyone was embarrassed to be seen with the other it’s definitely not me.”

An indignant sort of expression settled in your entire body. Eddie watched you, fascinated. He’d never seen you be anything but a human personification of a sunbeam.

“I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you,” you huffed, crossing your arms and Eddie’s eyes darted to the top of your head. Jesus Christ. He was not going to stare at your chest like a fucking pervert. He was not. Completely oblivious to his plight, you continued huffing. “I’ve tried to say hi to you like three times since I started tutoring you. You always looked like I was a lion who’d caught a mouse.”

“Because popular kids don’t talk to the outcasts, sweetheart. Don’t take it personally,” he sighed, “it’s a self-preservation tactic.”

You blinked at him. Eddie cringed internally – of course he fucked this up not even two minutes in. He scrambled to think of a way to rectify it when you sighed.

“Nick said he didn’t want me tutoring you anymore,” you said quietly.

Eddie didn’t know he could hear a heart shatter but he was positive that his just fell to the floor beneath him. That asshole. Didn’t he have enough? Thanks a lot universe.

“He said it wasn’t becoming of me to keep doing this so he wanted me to stop. I knew it was because he didn’t like you though,” you admitted.

Sighing, Eddie sat back down onto the table and pulled out another joint. Lighting it up he took a drag and blew the smoke towards his left. “So, I guess this is goodbye?”

A bird nearby sang, as if knowing he needed a soundtrack for this car crash waiting to happen. “No, you idiot,” you snapped, “I broke up with him.”

Everything tilted sideways and Eddie was sure someone had smacked him in the head with something. Maybe his hearing was off? “I’m sorry, I think I had a small seizure. Did you say you broke up with him?”

You nodded, coming over to sit across from him. “I never really liked him that much anyway. Chrissy thought we’d be cute together but I’m pretty sure I’m not his ideal type.”

“What, why is perfect too intimidating for him?” Eddie asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. Jesus fucking – just take him out. Universe? You can take me out now! He screamed internally.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, ducking your head. Eddie saw the pleased smile on your face before you hid it away and it sent a stupidly happy pang through his body. “I meant, well – you know.”

“I really don’t.”

Sighing, you motioned to your body. “You know, someone skinny enough to be a flier on the cheerleading team.”

Eddie felt his spine solidify. “Did he…did he say that to you?” He asked, his vision darkening. “That absolute fucking shithead.” What an asshole. Not only did he have the hottest girl in the entire fucking town but he was taking jabs at you? Eddie wanted to punch something.

“Wait!” Your cool hand wrapped around his wrist and Eddie hadn’t even realized he’d stood and walked in the direction of the school. “Munson! It’s okay – he didn’t say it out loud! Holy shit you’re a lot stronger than you look.”

Eddie felt you wrap your torso around his arm in an attempt to stop him. Your chest pressed against his bicep and Eddie had to close his eyes and think of his great-aunt. A soft poke to his cheek had him looking down at you, amused. You looked like a squirrel clinging to a tree. With a slow nod, he let you walk him to the bench.

“Was that a dig at my body?” He asked. “Do I look weak?”

A mortified expression settled on your face and you immediately shook your head. “That’s not what I meant at all! I just – I meant, I’m – oh, you’re teasing me,” you said, exhaling a loud breath. “I hate you.”

Smiling, Eddie bumped your shoulder with his. “No, you don’t.”

“There’s no hurt feelings, I promise,” you told him, referring to Nick, “I wasn’t what he wanted and he wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Yeah?” Eddie took another drag of his discarded joint. “What’s your type? Swim team? Basketball team? Wait, soccer player.”

You rolled your eyes and bumped his shoulder again. “No,” you said, crossly. “I don’t know. For starters maybe someone who doesn’t think Metallica is just random noise.”

Eddie sighed. He looked up at the sky, a common occurrence at this point, and wondered if whoever was up there was having fun torturing him. You played dnd and you liked Metallica. Sure. Why not? He hoped Mother Nature or God, or whoever, was having a great laugh at his expense.

“I had you pinned for a Madonna girl,” he said eventually, reeling in the affection that seemed to be pouring off him in waves.

“I am, I like a ton of music,” you said, “I’m not condescending with my music tastes.”

Gaping, Eddie shot you a look and fought his smile at your mischievous look. You were going to be the death of him.

“Hi Wayne!” Your voice floated through the front door. Eddie straightened, eyes darting around the room to make sure anything embarrassing was hidden away.

“Hi honey. You know you don’t have to bring me something every time you come over,” he said, sounding pleased. Eddie rolled his eyes. In the past two months, you and Eddie had become fast friends. In fact, Eddie didn’t know how he’d gone almost the entire second half of the school year without bombarding you with questions.

He wanted to know everything about you – he’d take any crumble you’d give him. You’d shown up to Hellfire a few times, went to movies together, and religiously showed up to the Hideout to see him play. Eddie wasn’t sure he remembered his life before you. So, obviously, like nephew like uncle and Wayne had instantly loved you the way Eddie had.

“Munson, you better be decent,” you said, not waiting for an answer and kicking the door down.

“If you really want to see me in a state of undress so badly, all you have to do is ask shortcake,” he said, loving the flustered expression he could draw out of you so quickly.

“I hate you,” you said, daintily sitting on his bed and handing him a napkin full of cookies. You’d made it a habit of baking on the days you were coming over and while Eddie definitely appreciated it – he knew you were bringing them to Wayne. Who, like Eddie, completely fell for your sincerity.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to get to sleep at night is fine with me,” Eddie said, eagerly throwing half the cookie into his mouth. “Denial isn’t healthy though.” He winked.

“Jesus, does this have an off button?” You grumbled, flopping down onto his bed.

Eddie gave himself five seconds to appreciate the way your skirt hitched up higher on your thighs as you laid down, the bright purple material easily the most colorful thing in his room. He felt his eyes glaze over a little, imagining his teeth sinking into the meaty part of your inner thigh, the noises you’d made. Suddenly, you shot up, and Eddie tried his best to look like he wasn’t just being a goddamn pervert.

“Oh, I love this song!” You said, eyes lighting up.

His heart tripped over itself at the sight but he tilted his head and realized he’d left his stereo on as he was stitching a new patch, one you’d gotten him last week onto his vest.

When you know that your time is close at hand

Maybe then you'll begin to understand

Life down here is just a strange illusion

“That’s Iron Maiden,” Eddie said, stupidly.

You rolled your eyes. “I know, shithead,” you joked and Eddie blinked – he didn’t know why the way you cursed like a sailor was still so strange to him. Someone who wore pastels, bright colors, was in track to be valedictorian, and had a smile that rivaled the sun wasn’t someone who he’d thought would be ready to swing at the first sight of conflict. “We’ve been over your music superiority complex already, remember? I’m a woman of many interests.”

Eddie grumbled. You were right – you’d been the one who had bought him Metallica’s new album at the record store downtown when it’d just released. He thought he’d have to fight his way into getting his hands on it but, like always, you were there.

“So, do you remember how much you love me?” You asked, teasing. Eddie’s pathetic heart thumped against his ribcage and he glanced up at you.

“Why does that sound like the prelude to something I’m going to hate?”

You smiled, batting your eyelashes, and pressing your folded hands under your chin. “I need someone to go to the mall with me on Saturday. Pretty, pretty, please? I’ll do anything you want!”

Eddie’s brain short circuited for brief moment, imagining the list of things he’d both dreamed and would trade his soul to be able to do to you before he realized you were waiting for an answer. “Shortcake, I treasure our friendship but there are some things my fading sanity can’t take.”

You quirked a brow and Eddie had to fight not to visible react to your pout. He often wondered how it’d feel if he bit down on it. “Eddie?”

“Sorry, what?” He shook his head, returning back to the present.

“I said, and the mall would zap the last bit of sanity you had?”

Eddie nodded emphatically. “I’m not that strong.”

“Well, despite your complete betrayal,” Eddie rolled his eyes, “Nancy said she’d go with me and helped me find a dress. I just wanted to see if you’d come with.”

“A dress?” Eddie asked. “You going somewhere fancy?”

Laughing, you shot him an incredulous look. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Yeah, where are you going?”

“Prom, Eddie,” you said with a weird look on your face, “aren’t you going?”

At that, Eddie snorted. “Me? At prom?”

“I mean, I’ll be there – so will Robin and Nancy. Gareth and Jeff told me they’re going too,” you mumbled.

“I – do you want me to go?” Eddie asked, confused. “I can drop you off and pick you up if you want. My chariot is your chariot.”

Something flashed across your face but it was gone before Eddie could decipher it.

“Oh, no, thanks. I think Robin’s getting a ride from Harrington and they’ll give me a lift,” you said.

Eddie hated how well you and Steve got along. He shouldn’t have been surprised, considering he ran in the circle you did, but when he introduced you to his friends, he hadn’t expected how quickly you bonded. It’d taken him four and half months to hurl himself out of the acquaintance zone and Steve did it in five minutes.

“Sure,” Eddie said, going back to sewing a new patch onto his vest and trying not to stab himself.

“Would you go if I asked?” You said after a beat of silence.

He was almost sure he’d snapped something important in his neck with the speed in which he turned to you. At his expression, you straightened. “I mean, like would you go to prom and hang out with us? You don’t need to go with me.”

Deflating, Eddie tried not to let it show. Of course, you hadn’t asked him to go with you. You probably had a date or at the very least someone interested. Even then, he didn’t want to lie to you.

“Yeah, shortcake, I’d go if you asked me to.”

The smile on your face was small and grew gradually into something blinding. His heart flipped, the butterflies yawned awake, and Eddie sighed. He was pathetic.

Eddie knew his strengths and weaknesses. Thanks to Wayne, he was pretty decent at fixing cars. He knew more about music than most people he’d come across. And when it came to guitar? He wasn’t humble enough to deny how good he was. However, he was blatantly aware that math and science were subjects from the depth of hell. His driving had been criticized once or twice, and, he wasn’t that great at sounding particularly eloquent.

He'd never been more aware of that than in this exact moment. Eddie was leaning against Steve’s car. His red BMW was recently cleaned and Steve was hanging out the driver’s window, telling him about his most recent date. The tie around his neck felt like it was choking him but he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t due to the anticipation.

Wheeler and Byers stood by their car, fumbling with her corsage and his tie. Robin’s front door opened and she came bounding out, her suit a bright blue that fit her perfectly. Her hair had been curled and she only seemed to wobble once on her heels as she made her way to the car.

“Man, if I don’t break my ankle before the end of the night,” she muttered, leaning on Eddie for support. He helped her catch her balance and smiled when she flushed at the compliments from everyone.

“You look good Buckley,” he told her, nudging her with his elbow.

Robin beamed. “You clean up well too,” she said, pulling at the suit he’d borrowed from Wayne. It was a little too big but Nancy had assured him no one would be able to tell. “I see you couldn’t resist,” she said bumping his converse with her pointy heel. “Why do you get to wear comfy shoes? She wouldn’t let me go in mine!”

“Because it ruins the look, Rob!” Your voice said from the front steps. Eddie glanced up and immediately felt the world freeze. Your dress was…molded onto your body. It was a long, lavender, flowy thing. It dipped low in the back and Eddie sighed. If the neckline was enough to give him a stroke, the back was going to have him flatlining. Your heels clicked against the stone as you hugged Robin’s parents goodbye.

“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie said under his breath, “that’s just not fair.”

Robin and Harrington, clearly heard him, snorted. “Careful there Munson, you’ll drop too much of a hint of how deeply in love with her you are if you keep that up.”

Eddie’s jaw snapped and he turned to glare at Robin. “What?” She said after Harrington snorted. “It’s true. They’re idiots.”

“Let them figure it out themselves,” Steve said. “We promised.”

“It’s infuriating,” Robin said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re both infuriating.”

“Alright, I’m all set,” you said, leaning forward to squeeze Steve’s hand. “Thanks for the ride, Steve.”

“No problem, you wanna ride with me or Byers?” Steve asked, settling into the seat.

Turning to him, he saw the question in your eyes and he cleared his throat. “Uh, wherever you want to,” he croaked.

Robin snickered and headed towards the passenger seat. Eddie shot her a glare but was interrupted by your hand on his arm. “You look great,” you said quietly as you waved to Jonathan. They honked at you as they took off down the street. “Thank you for coming.”

“For you? Anything,” he said, his tone a little too sincere than what he meant it to be. The blinding smile on your face after though, made it worth it. “You look…incredible,” he finished lamely. He heard hushed laughter from the car and fought the urge to scratch the back of his neck.

“Thanks,” you said, picking up the bottom of your dress in one hand. “I was worried I’d look dumb but Nancy was adamant this was my dress.”

Eddie needed to get Wheeler a gift. “Remind me to thank her because, shortcake?” You glanced up at him. “That dress was made for you.”

With a shy and pleased smile, you slid into the backseat and settled close to Eddie. Holy shit, you smelled amazing. Eddie barely managed to keep from dropping his nose to the crook of your neck. He slowly dropped his arm over your shoulders and grinned when you leaned into him.

Grabbing a parking spot near the entrance, Steve pulled into the school. Hopping out, he offered his arm to Robin who took it gladly.

“Are you guys ready for the last night of your high school career?” Steve asked, eyes on the doors.

“Yeah,” Robin said, “fuck this place.”

Eddie bumped her fist and you grinned. “After party at your house, Harrington?” You asked.

He knew you had to have been invited to a few afterparties – Robin had promised to make an appearance at the house of some kid from band. He’d heard you tell Nancy that you’d be going with Robin. Steve had assured him that they’d tag along too.

“More like the after after party when you two are drunk off shitty vodka,” Steve said motioning to Robin, who rolled her eyes and made a silly face.

“It happens one time…”

Nancy waved a hand in the air before disappearing through the doors. “Come on!” She shouted over her shoulder. You huffed a laugh and linked your arm through his.

“Ready?”

“Not really, but I’ll follow you into hell apparently.”

“You say the sweetest things,” you told him, deadpan. He snorted, other hand coming to squeeze the one you were resting on his forearm.

Eddie immediately squinted in the cloak of darkness that was the gym – he had to give it to the committee, he hardly recognized the place. A ridiculous pop song came on just as you waved to a few of your friends. “Look, Nancy found a table. Want to drop off our stuff and dance?” You asked the group. Robin nodded, already making her way towards the table and Eddie had to admit he felt a little out of place.

The itch under his skin yelled at him to run but the happy smile on your face when you patted the empty seat next to you kept him tethered to you – because how could it not? Eddie was sure you could ask for the disco ball and he’d risk his diploma to get it for you. 

“Drinks?” Eddie asked, overwhelmed by the five nodding heads. Byers, with a small smile, got up and offered his help.

While Eddie had grown, no matter how reluctantly, close to Robin and her sidekick Harrington. Jonathan had only recently become a new addition. His family had just moved back and he seemed too quiet to really like the chaos that Eddie knew he tended to attract. His kid brother however, Will, was one of his favorites. Not that he’d ever tell Dustin that. The kid had a jealousy streak a mile long.

They had both just settled into their seats, everyone with a drink in hand, when another pop mess song came on. Robin and you straightened, eyes going to each other before you scrambled to your feet. “I’ll be right back,” you said, dropping a kiss to his cheek that had him stunned for a moment. Robin grabbed your hand and you both ran towards the dance floor.

“It’s their favorite song,” Steve explained, watching them wave over a reluctant Nancy. You both bounced around, heads shaking, and zero care that a few people were shooting you looks. “You gonna ask her to dance tonight?”

Eddie shot Steve a look and hated that Steve felt comfortable enough now to ignore him.

“Don’t give me that look man,” Steve laughed, “you came together! You can’t not ask her to dance.”

“We didn’t come together,” Eddie muttered, taking a sip of the disgustingly sweet punch, “she made that pretty clear.”

“Or you heard what you wanted to,” Nancy said, finally standing with Jonathan’s and in hers. “Because from what I know, she thinks you’re here together.”

“Wait, what?” Eddie shouted at Nancy’s retreating back. He turned to Steve, who looked like he was hiding a laugh, “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you both have your heads stuck in the grass,” Steve sighed. “I promised Dustin that I’d let you two figure this shit out on your own but I’m giving you a needed shove. Come on Munson, we’re going to dance.”

He opened his mouth to protest but Steve put a hand under his arm and all but shoved him in your direction. Robin cheered when she saw him, her head bobbling wildly. You beamed, hands coming up to his and twirling prettily around him. His eyes were drawn to you like magnets, he couldn’t help it. You danced with abandon, graceful but chaotically at the same time. Eddie shouldn’t have been surprised but, he really wasn’t sure how much more in love with you he could get.

“I’m thirsty!” Robin shouted, pointing back to the table. Steve let her take his hand and dragged him off towards the sides.

You turned to Eddie, smile wide, and he watched it falter when the faintly familiar pop song turned slow. His feet froze and he glanced towards Wheeler – finding her arms around Jonathan’s as they swayed slowly. She widened her eyes and looked pointedly towards you.

Alright, he could take a hint. He wasn’t that stupid.

With a flourish, he bowed deeply and outstretched his hand. “Can I have this dance milady?”

Your laugh was muffled by the music but the electricity across his skin crackled as you took his warm hand with your cool one. How were you always so cold? He pulled your hands between his and tried to let some of his heat sink in. You grinned up at him, eyes soft, and he placed his own at your waist. “Okay?” He asked.

“More than,” you said, leaning your head onto his chest. He was worried you’d hear how fast his heart was racing but by the small, happy, sigh you let out – he didn’t think you’d mind.

“If you would’ve told me last year that I’d end up graduating this year, with a grade higher than a C, and that I’d be at prom with you – I would’ve laughed,” Eddie said.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “Am I that bad of a date?”

Date? Holy shit, was Wheeler being honest?

“Shortcake, you’re the best date. I just didn’t think you’d want to hang out with the likes of me,” he clarified, “I’m either invisible or a cult leader. Take your pick.” He tried to play it off as a joke but he knew you’d hear it.

“I’ve always noticed you, Eddie. You’re not invisible to me,” you said quietly, your big eyes looking up at him beneath your lashes. Jesus Christ, how much more of this could he take? For once, you seemed to share his sentiment because you took a step back, out of his arms and excused yourself. He watched you dart across the gym, grab a bewildered Robin, and pulled her into a solitary corner.

Mystified, Eddie walked back to the table and Steve raised one of his brows. “What’s happening? We’ve only been here for like an hour.”

“I have no idea,” Eddie admitted. He started to worry when he saw your purple nails from the distance flailing left and right as Robin’s hands came down on your shoulders. She said something that clearly stunned you. After a beat both of you turned towards him and he darted his eyes away to act like he wasn’t being nosey.

“Uh, that doesn’t look good,” Steve muttered. Eddie glanced back up and watched as you made your way quickly over to him. A determined expression was etched onto your face and Robin followed at a slower pace, a smug look on hers.

Without a word, you grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the hallway when a teacher had their back turned. “Uh, shortcake?”

“Shh!” You admonished, still leading him down the hall. You don’t stop until you find an empty classroom, the lights were on and door unlocked but it was clearly deserted.

He watched your chest rise and fall quickly, like you’d run a mile, and before Eddie could ask you what was wrong – you all but chucked an envelope at him. He’d almost ducked instinctively but he managed to catch it in his hands. Where the hell had that even come from?

“What’s happening right now?” He asked, holding the envelope in his right hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Open it,” you said, your fingers went up to tug at a lock of your hair – a telltale sign that you were nervous.

“Sweetheart-”

“Eddie, open the envelope,” you stressed.

With a wary glance towards you, Eddie flipped the hastily taped tab and slid out a pair of tickets.

IRON MAIDEN, JULY 1ST INDIANNAPOLIS, IN.

“Holy shit, are these floor tickets?” He squawked, hands shaking. You had Iron Maiden tickets! How the hell had you managed that? “Shortcake, where did you get these? I thought they were all sold out.”

“My dad knows someone,” you said waving a hand like it wasn’t important. Like you hadn’t just handed him a priceless gift. “I got VIP passes too.”

Eddie’s soul was gone. That’s it, it was back up on the moon, throwing a party.

“It’s not my birthday, you know,” he said, barely containing his excitement. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Holy shit, he was going to see Iron Maiden! With you!

“I know,” you said, biting your bottom lip. Eddie’s soul slammed back into his body and he realized you were wringing your hands again.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“These are for us,” you said, pointing at the tickets.

“I assumed so,” he joked.

You closed your eyes, shoulders tense. “No, like… a date.”

Eddie snorted and immediately regretted it when he saw your head duck down. Shit, you’d been serious? You couldn’t have been serious. He knew Steve and Robin gave you both shit for it these past few months but there was no way in hell that you’d ever want to go on a date with him. He would’ve noticed. He absolutely would’ve noticed the signs.

“Oh,” you said, you voice incredibly sad, and Eddie wanted to slap himself. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed.

Eddie scrambled forward; tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “No, wait – I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, words jumbling together. “I didn’t realize you were serious. I thought – I thought you were joking.”

You winced. “I get it. I’m not…your type, we’re friends, it’s fine. You can take both tickets and take one of the guys.” The expression on your face was enough to make him want to face plant. You turned on your heel and walked to the door.

Eddie’s heart dropped to his feet and he lurched forward, hands reaching for you. “Wait, wait, that’s not what – please. Shortcake, let me speak. I just need a moment to process.” You tried to wrestle your wrist out his grip but Eddie clung on for his life. You were not just going to turn and run after dropping a bomb like that on him.

“It’s fine, Eddie. I promise I’m not – I’ll get over it.”

“I didn’t even know you liked me!” You shot him a contemptuous look and he refused to cower back. You were scary when cornered but he knew you had a soft, gooey center. Whatever he said now was important. He had to get this right.

“Sweetheart. Look at me,” he said, pulling you away from the door. “I swear, I didn’t think you felt like that towards me.”

Your hardened look softened a little when he ducked down to catch your gaze. Blinking, you frowned a little and straightened. “You’re not joking?”

“I have never in my life been more serious,” he huffed, “and I really mean that.”

Exploding, you waved your animated hands in the air and Eddie jerked back to avoid being smacked by one. “How the hell did you not notice? Everyone noticed! Even the cheer squad knew. I asked you to go with me to prom!”

“What?” Eddie’s voice cracked. “You said not with you – to hang out or something!”

“Yeah, I only said that after you looked like I had smacked you over the head!”

Eddie groaned. “Because I didn’t think you’d ever want to go with me!”

You crossed your arms and rubbed one of your temples. “It’s against school policy to tutor a student for longer than a month or two. It’s not fair to the program so we swap consistently. It’s a way to make sure everyone gets the coverage they need from the different tutors. Didn’t you question why we went from meeting at the school to the public library?”

“Uh, no?”

“Well,” you huffed, looking a little embarrassed, “I liked you from like the first session. You, obviously, looked more interested in watching paint dry so I thought I could win you over. After the month I told Ms. O’Donnell that you just needed some guidance and I’d sign off on your paperwork. I told you that we needed to start meeting at the public library instead.”

“But, what about Nick?” Eddie was so confused. Had he entered an alternate dimension again? He glanced around for any sight of the dust. “You had a boyfriend up until like three months ago!”

“Because I thought it would make you jealous!” You huffed, exasperated.

What.

“Well, it did!” Eddie shouted back, the words falling before he could stop them. “I wanted to punch his goddamn face in.”

You blinked. “But…you didn’t seem all that eager to be my friend. You barely asked me about my weekend plans. I couldn’t have dropped more hints!”

“Shortcake, you’re not only out of my league – you’re in a different dimension. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable!”

“Well, you didn’t!”

“Great!”

“Perfect!”

“Amazing.”

“Stupendous.”

“Are you going to keep trying to have the last word?” Eddie snorted.

You rolled your eyes but he saw your hands reach up for your hair. “I know I don’t dress like those girls at the hideout and wear too much yellow and pink and you think I’m popular and that my taste in music is overrated – which really proves my point that you’re pretentious – but –”

Eddie barely heard a word you were saying, his eyes watched your hands dance in the air, and your eyes dimming the more you spoke. How the fuck could you have ever believed that he wouldn’t like you? You still believed that, his mind supplied helpfully, anxiety evident in the rigid set of your shoulders. He knew from experience that if he let you keep going, you’d go on for hours. So, he grabbed your arms and pulled you into his chest. Startled, you stumbled and glared up at him.

“Shortcake?”

“What?”

“Please stop talking,” he said and dropped his lips to yours. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms the best you could around his neck and pressed your body against his. Your cool fingers tangled themselves in his hair and he shuddered when your nails dragged along his scalp. Eddie, finally, bit down on your bottom lip and the low groan you let out shot straight to his dick.

Shit, even after imagining this moment for months – it really couldn’t compare. You tasted like punch, strawberries, and faintly of candy. He pulled back for air, your breath coming out in quick huffs. Eddie smiled, his heart racing at the sight of your dazed look. He did that. You liked him. He’d shared his life with you and you still liked him. Did shit like this really happen?

“So, you want to go to the concert with me?” You asked lightly, smile twisting your mouth.

Eddie threw his head back and laughed. “I want to go everywhere with you, shortcake.”

“Everywhere is good, I like everywhere,” you babbled, “...well, Steve’s house has a lot of rooms. Maybe everywhere can include that at the end of the night?”

Shutting his eyes, he valiantly tried to exercise self-control and not imagine you naked on a bed squirming beneath him. Failing, just a little, he nodded enthusiastically. “Should we go right now? Because I’ll grab Steve if we need to.”

You laughed, the sound warming him even further. “We still need to go with Robin to that afterparty.”

Eddie let his head loll as he groaned. “Conformity is so much work.”

“I’m sure you’ll be okay,” you teased, kissing him again. “Come on, someone’s going to catch us if we stay away too long.” Honestly, Eddie was willing to risk it but he knew you didn’t want to miss this.  

As you both crept back towards the gym, your hand tucked in his, Eddie wondered if he was dreaming. He passed one of the wide windows in the hallway, the gym only a few yards away, and he pulled you to a stop.

“What?” You asked, peeking out through it.

Eddie ducked to look out the glass and caught sight of the dark sky and the full moon. He winked and pointed up at it. “You had me going there for a while, but this makes up for it. We’re even!”

“Who are you talking to?” You asked, glancing around.

“The moon. Or God. Maybe the universe?”

You nodded. “Okay,” you said, shrugging like it was completely normal.

Jesus Christ, he loved you.

The familiar chords of Kiss floated out of the open doors to the gym and Eddie perked up. “Is that…”

Tonight, I want to give it all to you

In the darkness, there's so much I want to do

“Kiss?” You asked, grinning. “Yeah, I promised the DJ half a gram from you if he’d play a few songs you like.”

Yeah, he was gone for you. Totally gone. If he had any dignity or pride left, he’d be a little embarrassed but he really couldn’t work up the energy.

“Come on!” You said, tugging him back into the gym and onto the dance floor. A few jocks looked disgruntled at the change of music but Robin and Nancy were out on the dance floor, so were a few others. You immediately jumped around, eyes bright, hips swaying, and Eddie’s heart felt like it’d jump out his chest at any moment.

“And I can't get enough of you, baby. Can you get enough of me?” You sang, turning to wink at him. Steve and Robin waggled their eyebrows, shooting him knowing looks and he shook his head. Nancy laughed, offering up her fist and Eddie couldn’t help but bump it.

Alright universe, he thought, you win, you totally win. I owe you for the rest of my life.

Eddie wrapped an arm around your waist and beamed when you leaned into his touch. Your lips came up to his jaw and he sighed. Maybe the shit show that was the entirety of high school was worth it if you were waiting for him at the end.

I was made for lovin' you, baby

You were made for lovin' me

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Thinking about Rockstar!Eddie marrying his high school sweetheart.

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

Pt. 2

Masterlist

Here are my thoughts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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