Nine Lives

i’m in the water.

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

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

word count. | 8.5k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bring the Soldat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking it away the same manner Winter took your innocence.

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

“Прощай, кролик.”

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

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

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

You’re free to go, Soldat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You miss those times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart quite literally breaks in two.

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

It makes you want to cry even harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sweetheart hand pt. 2 // brian may

summary: a continuation of sweetheart hand. after the party, the (art) studio.

a/n: mostly fluff and then some smut. sorry for the delay! if tumblr hasn’t sorted out their tagging shit by now…… hm. this is around 5,400 words. i was thinking about this twombly work when i was describing the painting. also can you believe this image cause i can’t.

there’s something terrifying and invigorating in equal measure about a blank canvas. you stare the expanse of white down determinedly, crossing your arms and trying to conjure something up in your mind’s eye. it’s a beast of a thing, five feet tall and six feet wide, and anything you try to visualise comes up short. fuck it. you’ve been avoiding it for weeks. you’ll just have to dive in.

you’ve hit almost every mark of your normal afternoon pre-painting routine - the curtains are thrown back to let the natural light in, you’ve made yourself a strong cup of tea and there’s a note on the door in case anyone decides to call around. the only thing left is to take the phone off the hook. it’s an old bakelite monster with a rotary dial - you could afford to replace it, but you’re fond of its look. plus, the horrible, grating sound of its ring is reason alone to stop it from disturbing your painting.

well. not that you normally have any hesitations about it. you haven’t done anything so undignified as waiting around for someone to call since you were a teenager.

Keep reading

what love is; track one [e.m. x fem!reader]

summary: Everybody in Hawkins High knew Eddie "the freak" Munson, two-times-failed (so far) senior, proud metalhead, and dungeon master of the Hellfire club. Most knew the studious, sweet, good girl who probably had a full ride to any college she wanted to go to. But few people truly knew them, least of all, themselves. Now, in the summer of 1985, their paths cross again, intertwining to a point of no return. AKA, the trial and error of learning to love and be loved with Eddie Munson.

warnings/content notes( for this chapter): shitty parents, homophobic comments/slurs. suggestive content.

author's note: My bad habit is describing the reader in too much detail (clothing-wise, not appearance), so I apologize if the reader's style isn't yours, but I hope you can still enjoy the story. Also, I'm making Eddie a human disaster cause there's no way he's as smooth as I see in so many fics.

rating: 16+

word count: 6,543

taglist: @ratridingaskateboard (lmk if you want to be added!)

◁◁͏͏ 1: More Than A Feeling   ▷▷   0:38 ━━❍─────── 4:06

—— July, 1985 ——

It’s an easy day at work- the customers are few and far between, most of them mindlessly browsing the aisles, flipping through each vinyl and tape with one finger, looking at one after the other, after the other, after the other, after the other, pop or rock or metal, classical or movie soundtracks or even Christmas albums even though it's the middle of July. With how slow it is, (Y/N) is stuck leaning her elbow on the counter, chin in her palm as the sound of Boston’s More Than A Feeling plays from the radio next to her.

Getting this job had been such a stroke of luck after she graduated high school. A music shop with records and tapes and players ranging from pop to soundtrack to even metal– which her parents hated– tucked in downtown Hawkins within biking distance of her house, so she could stay living at home while she saved money to move out, and it paid well enough that she wasn't too worried about living there much longer. Plus, most days were like this- slow, easy- and she spent most of her time scribbling in her journal and listening to rock music that wouldn’t be allowed in her parent’s “pure, Christian home” and meeting like-minded people whom she otherwise might not have come across. And though her straight-laced, puritan parents weren’t too keen on her “out-there” job exposing her to things like “satanic rock-and-roll and ungodly fantasy”, at least she was making money.

She’s humming along to the guitar in the pre-chorus, tapping a pen across the list titled ‘Coming To Store, July 1985!!!’ that her boss had left for her to stock later on. The chorus swells with emotion right when the bell above the entrance rings. She freezes as she looks up to greet a new customer, eyes catching someone familiar, and suddenly she’s back in the Hawkins High School cafeteria at the beginning of her junior year, 1983, quietly making heart eyes at a long-haired, loud-mouthed boy across the room, for whom her heart had decided to beat for. 

Eddie Munson.

(Y/N) twirled the cord of her walkman’s headphones around her finger, barely poking at the lunch in front of her as her eyes focused on a senior boy at the head of the table a few rows down from hers. He’d been letting his wild hair grow out to his shoulders and looked like those rock stars in magazines that her mom never let her buy. He was the ‘leader’ of the Hellfire Club, who played a game called Dungeons and Dragons after school, about which she knew nothing except what she read about people trying to tie it to devil worship and satanism. With his long, messy hair and leather jackets and the denim jacket he had recently chopped the sleeves off of, he was loud and defiant, non-conforming, and everything her parents warmed her to be against. 

He was Eddie Munson, the Freak of Hawkins, and he had been stuck on (Y/N)’s mind since sophomore year. 

“Hey,” Her friend nudged her, tugging her headphones off and pulling her back into reality. The small group of awkward, acne-ridden high school kids who had yet to find their group giggled around her. 

“Hey! I was listening to-!” 

“You were ogling Munson again.” One interjected. 

“You know someone said he performs rituals? Like sacrificing people and shit?” Someone said, a sarcastic smile in their voice. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” She scoffed at the idea of devil worship. It was all scary stories to threaten kids into being safer. “C’mon, you sound like my parents.”

“I don’t believe it,” She cut in. “But he’s just… a freak.” Some kids around the table cut in, arguing that they were the weird kids too. The only difference was that he wasn’t ashamed of not fitting in. “Well devil-worship aside, he’s still probably going to end up like his dad, you know. Not really the best choice to be crushing on.” 

(Y/N)’s  friends continued to argue back and forth, but the girl’s eyes were fixed. Eddie had hopped up on the table, talking loudly to his table of misfit friends, taunting the popular groups of students, who jeered at him. The confidence, the pure lack of shame that radiated from him as he stuck his fingers up into devil horns and grinned wildly, it drove her insane. She’d never known someone as bold and unafraid as him, someone so true to themself and unbowing to the social pressure to change, despite the daily judgment and rumors and whispers behind his back. And a part of her-- a much larger part of her than she’d like to fully admit-- wanted to sneak her way into his group, be taken under his wing. Have some of that fearlessness rub off on her.

God knew she needed some bravery. 

For a moment, as Eddie jumped down from the lunch table, she swore his eyes locked with hers. Just for a moment.

“Hey, kid,” Her boss, Bill, jolts her back to the present, Boston’s song still playing on the radio. “-I closed my eyes and she slipped away-” She looked up, slightly saddened that she lost sight of that familiar face before she even saw him. “I’m clocking out for the day, make sure you sort out all those new tapes tonight.” 

She nodded, flustered, shaking away the embarrassing thoughts that had been plaguing her. “Oh, um, someone asked me earlier, are we getting the new Tears For Fears album soon?”

After only a moment, during which her eyes scanned the store, hoping to find that curly head, he spoke up. “Ah, that’s coming in next week. And while I’m thinking about it, we’re getting the new Dio album right after it comes out. Make a note of that so we don’t forget.” 

She nodded jotting it down on her paper. “Thanks.” 

“Stay outta trouble tonight.” 

But (Y/N) didn’t hear his words, or see him leave, as her eyes focused on a wild mop of hair coming around the corner of one of the shelves. As he browsed through the tapes in the metal section, she couldn’t help feeling like a creep watching his every move. She was entranced at the way his fingers so gently brushed a curl back out of his face. This was the first time she’d seen him outside school in the three years she’d known of him, and it was strangely intimate to see him in a place he fit into so well. A place where he didn’t need to defend himself and his interests every waking moment. Here he was, flipping through albums with a gentle hand when most of her memories of him were of him standing on cafeteria tables egging on the jocks or sitting outside the principal’s office without care. 

Eddie’s face turned towards hers, and it felt like a shock of electricity as she snapped her attention to the list of bands in front of her. Where were we… Bryan Adams… Duran Duran… Tears For Fears… New Dio album– In her peripherals, she could see him passing by the front counter. 

She braved a glance up, telling herself that it was only to seem natural, to check if he was ready to check out. Instead, their eyes locked for half a second as he walked past to browse tapes on the other side of the store. Again, her eyes tore down to stare a hole through her paper, and the counter beneath it, and the floor beneath that, getting so hot in the face she thought she might pass out. Had he seen her watching him? Did he remember her from high school? No, why would he? They’d only spoken briefly in class in her senior year, nothing memorable.

She remembered the first day of her senior year when none other than Eddie Munson– who she had thought graduated the year before– sat down a couple of seats over from her in English class. She’d nearly lost her mind at seeing him again, having thought her crush was one of the past and she could live out her senior year in peace, without being distracted by a meaningless little crush. But no, instead, there he was for her to oggle all class, watching him doodle on his papers, or nearly fall asleep whenever the teacher was lecturing. Her face heated up at his gall when she watched him grin while getting scolded for being late. 

(Y/N) couldn’t help but wonder if he’d graduated. She didn’t remember seeing him at the ceremony, but plenty of kids didn’t attend, and considering his reputation and rumored familial situation– or lack thereof– it would make sense if he wanted to graduate silently and get the hell out of town.

The song ended, and she held rewind on the tape, not caring what the customers thought and feeling like she would float away without something to ground her to the earth. Eddie Munson, here in the store, after she thought she was over her stupid crush. 

“I lost myself in a familiar song, I closed my eyes and I slipped away”

She closed her eyes for a moment. This must be a dream. It had to be. She hadn’t seen him since last semester, and here he was in her store, his hair a little longer than the last time they’d seen each other. All throughout high school, she swore she’d never seen him in short sleeves and now here he was, the cut-off sleeves of his shirt and denim vest exposing the ink on his forearms to the sticky July air. If she looked hard enough, the long holes where he'd gone in with scissors exposed the sides of his slim torso, too. Not that she was staring.

Her mind was buzzing with all the little memories of him, the details about his presence, the way the chain on his jeans clattered against his chair in class, the way he sank in his seat and sat low, uninterested, and confident, and the way he would get scolded by the teachers every time. The way he cast a quick glance at her before tests because she had given him a copy of her notes, a glance that she’d always been too shy to hold when she caught him looking. She remembered going home every night and sinking into her bed under the covers, flipping through her secret journal for the cut-out and glued-down magazine pictures of rock stars on stage with long curls and dark clothes like his. Some might think she was crushing on him because he looked like the men in her magazines, but really, she liked them because they looked like Eddie.  

Ding!

A sharp trill on the ‘ring-for-service’ bell in front of her yanked her back into the present. Her eyes shot open, embarrassed to be daydreaming on the job, and there he was, standing in front of her with a dizzying smile, hand hovering over the bell.  

“Boston?”

Oh shit. Oh shit. He’s talking to me. Is he actually talking to me? (Y/N) looked up, meeting the eyes of Eddie Munson himself, pointing at the tape player next to them. Doe eyes, she suddenly realized he had. She’d never been this close before, even when they had math class together. Wait, what did he just ask? Oh, the band. "Y-yeah. Hahah. I like them."

"Cool, cool. Slow day?"

“Um- uh, yeah!” Smooth, she thought, really fucking smooth. “Just… keeping busy I guess, ha.” She motioned to the list in front of her. He leaned over the counter, eyes glanced through the list briefly. (Y/N)’s eye got stuck on the rings that adorned three of his fingers on the hand that rested next to the paper. All too soon, he retreated, stepping back, looking lightheartedly apologetic, and holding his hands up with a little smile. He smiled from the corner of his mouth. 

“Sorry, is it supposed to be secret?”

That brought a small laugh bubbling to her lips, the way he seemed so genuinely hesitant to offend her or the ‘secrets of the business’. “Um, no, it doesn’t matter.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed by the way she was giggling in front of him. Her face was burning. “It’s just the albums that we just got. I have to stock them tonight.”

His eyebrows raised, a smile spreading across his face. “Oh, yeah? Fill me in?” 

She glanced at the pins on his denim vest– bands he likes– then looked at the list, running her finger down. “Um, we have the album… Metal Heart? That was from back in February, we’re just getting it. Or we’re getting a restock.”

“Accept?”

“Yeah.” She nodded in confirmation of the band. “And a new Megadeth album.” 

“This is one of the only places I’ve found in this shithole town that has metal.” He smiled and pointed at a Megadeth patch sewn at the bottom of his vest. It looked a bit messy, and (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him sewing them on himself. This man in front of her was nothing like the loud, scary boy she saw in high school. “I, uh, guess I’ll be coming back, then? For that. When you get it?” He said it like a question, each sentence getting more and more unsure. 

She felt dizzy. Was he flirting? No, just being kind. A customer. The thought of seeing him again was making her head spin, and only after a moment did she remember where they were. “Oh, did you have something? To buy? For me to– did you need to pay for something?” 

“Oh, shit. Yeah.” He fumbled for a moment before setting down a single tape. Dio, The Last in Line. 

“Dio!” She exclaimed, maybe a bit too excited for a band she didn’t even listen to. She pointed at it, flustered at her outburst. “You listen to Dio.”

His face seemed to light up with some sort of emotion she couldn’t pin down. He turned and jutted his thumb out at the back of his vest, a homage to the album he was buying. He had that wild grin on his face like he was so proud to show her. “They’re my favorite. Put this on right after I heard their last album. My last tape got all messed up. Unwound and shit, must have listened too much.”

She rang him up with a smile, trying not to stare at his biceps. She’d never seen him so wholesomely enthusiastic about something so mundane. And this is the ‘Freak’ they say worships the devil. How could they see him as anything but endearing and brave? She shook her thoughts away quickly, remembering why she exclaimed about his purchase in the first place. “They, um, they have a new album coming out. In August, I think? Did you hear?” 

He was nodding his head enthusiastically before her question was even finished. “Of course, I heard.” He twisted his rings around each finger, grinning. “Do… uh, do you listen? To them, I mean.” (Y/N) hesitated, torn between telling the truth like she knew she should like she was raised to, and lying to sound cooler, for just the chance he’d think the awkward bookworm in English class was cool like he was. While she was caught in her own struggle, Eddie had seemed to grow nervous himself. “It’s just, you seemed really excited–”

“Yeah.”

Silence hung in the air between them, nothing but the sound of the guitar solo as background music, neither of them quite sure what she was saying ‘yes’ to. After a moment, Eddie tilted his head towards her in question. “...Yeah? You listen to them?” 

(Y/N) was nodding before she even understood what she was saying. A grin split across his face, so stunning and unlike anything she’d seen from him, that it wiped away the guilt of her bluff. A soft laugh rumbled out of him, and his pretty, dark eyes were on her in a way that had her stomach doing flips. “Wow, you don’t seem like the type.” Heat flooded her face. She prayed to anything out there that she wasn’t about to hurl in the trash can in front of him. “It’s just… Look at you, usually someone who looks like you isn’t cool like that, you know?” He seemed to notice her expression and motioned vaguely to her. With her colorful polo shirt and the ribbons tied in her hair, she was the picture of a ‘good girl’. Of course, she doesn’t listen to metal like he does. But he didn’t seem to notice. That, or he was challenging her. That would be stupid. “What’s your favorite song?” The simple question broke her down. She felt like he could see through her, transparent yet fully on display in front of him. Surely he’d seen through her lie. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by the whole interaction. 

She lifted the tape to draw his attention back to it. “It’s, um, six dollars.” 

His face fell, and the smile wiped away completely. “Right.” He pulled crumpled-up bills from his pocket and counted them quickly, his shaking fingers overlooked as she put it in the register. As she handed his receipt over, her eyes caught his, brows knitted together in deep concern, eyes wide and searching. She tore her gaze away. 

“Treat this one nicer, please.” 

She couldn’t bring herself to meet his dejected gaze, let alone watch him walk out the door. Instead, she stared at the paper in front of her with the note about the new Dio album, written in her pretty red ink until she heard the bell of the door opening and shutting behind him. Angered at herself for letting her meaningless crush get a hold of her, she stuffed the note in a drawer. Fuck Dio, fuck all these albums, fuck her boss, fuck herself for fucking up what could have been a cute moment with her crush. 

‘It’s more than a fee-’

Fuck this song. 

She slammed the radio off, content to sit and wallow in embarrassment for the rest of the day. 

Raw, gnawing guilt ate away at her through the rest of her shift, through her stocking duties after closing, through her whole bike ride home, and all the way up the stairs to her bedroom. As soon as she stepped into her room, with her perfectly made bed and neatly organized desk, she was intruded by thoughts of the metalhead she had spoken to that day. How he was the exact opposite- rough around the edges and loud- and how he would stand out with his leather and denim and wild curls laying against her pretty pastel comforter. How he would probably take up space in here, not only physically but simply with his energy and presence and mannerisms as if everything in her universe was gravitationally pulled towards him. 

She ripped those thoughts away and stored them for later. For now, there were other things to be done. 

From her work backpack, she pulled the tapes she had grabbed from the store and snuck home with her. Holy Diver. The Last In Line. There were only two albums, which made it easy enough for her to fit them both in one night. In her oversized Hawkins High t-shirt, she sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor next to the cheap sticker-covered telecaster she had practically begged her parents to let her buy, and popped the first tape into her little pink radio, making sure to turn the volume down as low as she could. There’d be hell to pay if her parents caught her.

Come on, Dio, show me what you got. 

There was something embarrassing to her about listening to this. It felt strangely intimate, even though she knew it wasn’t, to listen to his favorite band just because it was his favorite band and she wanted to be interesting to him. If her parents found her listening to this…

But she wasn’t thinking about them, too lost in the sound coming from her speakers. So this is what Eddie Munson liked to listen to. She jumped up to grab her senior yearbook from her bookshelf, flipping through to exactly the right page, as if the book remembered and had molded to open immediately to that picture. Eddie Munson, circled with a red sharpie heart, posing among the rest of the Hellfire Club for their obligatory yearbook photo. He had his tongue stuck out, a wild look to him, devilish and taunting. It matched, she decided, even though she knew it was silly. He looked like his favorite music sounded. 

‘The Freak?’ Her friend had whispered junior year when she let a little secret slip about the crush she’d been harboring. ‘No way… you know what people say about him, right? You don’t want to get tangled up with that dirtbag. Your parents would kill you.’ 

I don’t care, (Y/N) thought in the present. Let them kill me. I want to get tangled up with him. 

For three days, (Y/N) suffered through her eight-hour shifts. For three days her eyes shot up to check the opening door at every ring of the bell, hoping it was him. And for three days, it wasn’t. For three days, she thought over what she would say if one of these days it was him. Then, on the fourth day, as she was ringing someone up— they were buying Agent Provocateur, the Foreigner album from last December, one that she really enjoyed herself, and couldn’t help but wonder if Eddie would listen with her— when the man in question stepped through the door, another cut-off tank-top, the same denim vest, the same rockstar hair. At first, (Y/N) didn’t believe her own eyes. She’d tricked herself into thinking she’d seen him a few times now, but as she gave a quick “Have a nice day” in her best customer service voice, their eyes met across the store.     

Neither tore their gaze away immediately like they had in their last interaction like lovesick fools caught staring across the classroom, but after a few moments, Eddie’s lips turned into an unsure smile, and (Y/N) finally set her gaze on the counter, guilt eating away at her over their parting. 

“Hey.”

She jumped, not having noticed him approaching in her peripherals.

“Sorry.” He offered a gentle apology, a half smile on his lips. His tank top was printed with Metallica, the same pins in his vest as always. His appearance was comforting and familiar. Like she always did when he was around, (Y/N) became overly aware of her own appearance, wondering if he thought she was weird, sitting cross-legged on a stool behind the counter, oversized ABBA shirt tucked into flared shorts, frilly socks peeking out from her sneakers and colorful barrettes in her hair. She hoped despite her thoughts that he didn’t think she looked silly. 

“It’s okay.” She cringed at how squeaky her voice came out.

“Okay.” He had a similar look of discomfort on his face. He played with his fingers again, twisting the rings around. There was a skull, what looked like a boar, and some other animals. She tried not to stare at the black ink on his forearms– the bats– or the dragon on his bicep. But her eyes gave her away, and as she met Eddie’s gaze, he was already watching. Watching her ogle him. 

“I like your dragon.” She pointed at it.

“Thanks.” Eddie smiled, appreciative. “It’s actually a wyvern.” (Y/N)’s brows furrowed, confused. “It just… a dragon with only two legs, really. That’s all.” Wordlessly, the expression on her face changed to one of understanding. Then, Eddie pointed a finger out, poking her own sparkly painted ones resting on the counter. He was warm against the cool of the fan blowing at them, even to the tips of his fingers. Then, he withdrew his hand quickly, as if remembering pointing was rude. Not that (Y/N) would have cared. She craved his attention. "I– I like your nails. They’re cool.” 

“Really?” She looked at them, the sparkly polish she’d applied the night before– while listening to that Dio album again, no less. The idea of him thinking they were cool was endearing to her. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah.” Then, Eddie held up his own hands, an open invitation for her to stare at them. “I’ve thought of painting mine. People already call me plenty of names, so what’s another, right?” He chuckled. 

(Y/N) frowned at the memory of what she’d heard people call him– to his face just as much as behind his back. Freak. Devil worshipper. No good dirtbag. Scum. Even queer. She winced as the word passed through her mind. He would look lovely with some black nail polish. It would suit him. She told him. 

“You think?” 

“Yeah.” 

They smiled at each other before (Y/N) noticed a customer standing behind Eddie. The boy followed her gaze and stepped aside for a little old lady, gesturing kindly for her to go ahead of him. (Y/N) rung her up– some oldie band on vinyl. 

“Oh, look at you, young man!” The woman fawned over him. “You look like a rockstar. Are you a rockstar?” 

Eddie flushed, smiling at the woman’s kind compliments. He looked cute when he was flustered. “Not quite a star, no.” 

“Well, you sure have the look for it, with all that hair!” Then, as (Y/N) handed her her purchase and receipt, she smiled fondly as she turned to leave. “You two are so lovely.”

After a shyly exchanged glance, Eddie responded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When she was gone and Eddie stepped back to the counter, (Y/N) was suddenly more aware of their surroundings. She’d been getting lost in the pink-tinted haze of her crush standing in front of her for so long that she forgot she was still at work with customers around. “Did, um, did you have something to buy?” 

“Oh.” His cheeks tinted pink again as if they’d even stopped. He was cute when he got all rosy, the same way he was cute when he was talking about his favorite bands or his tattoos, and at the thought of him painting his nails. 

“Oh?” 

“No. No, I– I don’t have anything to buy. I just… came for… to talk?” 

(Y/N) froze, shocked. “Talk?” He came just to see me. 

“Yeah– I, I guess.” 

“You came just to talk to… me?” 

“Why do you sound so surprised?” She didn't answer, just glancing at his attire and down to her own. He seemed to follow her eyes, understanding. “Do you think I’m scaryyyy?” He teased, dragging out the end of the word. 

“N-no, just–” She faltered, and he waited patiently when she expected him to interrupt. “You’re you and I’m… me.” 

His mouth opened. He hesitated. There was something he wanted to say. Again, he fidgeted with his rings. “I actually… wanted to apologize. About that.” 

“For, for spooking me earlier?” 

“No, no. About last time.” 

(Y/N) frowned at his words, wondering what reason he had to apologize. He’d been nothing but a perfect gentleman, from her recollection, if a bit awkward and shy. He was watching her with truly regretful eyes, twisting the rings around his fingers. “What?” 

“For, I- for assuming, I guess? What I said, that you didn’t look cool, it was totally dick-ish of me.” He stumbled over his words. When she still didn’t say anything, he dipped his head towards her, as if trying to grab her attention back to him. “I do think you look cool, really, just, I guess, not how I’d imagined. I mean, with you listening to Dio and- I just didn’t expect…”

“Eddie.” She stopped him with her hands held up, letting his name pass her lips for the first time- the first of many, as she’d later find out. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was rude to you.”

He was silent for a bit, rocking back and forth on his feet as if he had something to say and couldn’t stand still. (Y/N) watched as a playful smile began to pull up at the corners of his pretty lips, obvious that he was trying to hide it, trying to push it down, and clear he was weighing the outcome of the words he could say. The Cars were playing on the radio next to them- “I don’t mind you coming here…”- and his ringed fingers were tapping along to the rhythm. Before she could ask, though, a full grin split across his face, all shame thrown to the wind. Softer, now, with mirth in his eyes, he mused. “You remember me?” 

Eddie.

They stood in the silence of her little slip-up for a few moments longer, her cheeks growing hot while he grinned down with such an amused look on his face. How could she even respond? Her heart was pounding in her ears. Of course, she remembered him. She had spent two years admiring him from a distance. But surely someone who was the target of so many awful rumors and had gained such notoriety as the town pariah wouldn’t be forgotten so easily. 

“Of course, I remember you. Who doesn’t?”

He pointed at her, that grin not leaving his pretty lips as he twirled a curly lock around his finger. “Ah, I guess you got me there, (Y/N).” 

Time could have stopped, and (Y/N) never would have noticed, not with the sound of her name falling out of Eddie’s mouth like that. I was a given that she had remembered him, but what made her so special that he remembered her presence, let alone her name? She noticed, at that quiet moment, locked in his gaze, that her heartbeat was in tempo with the song. She gathered up all her courage.

“You… remember me?” 

He scoffed, feigning offense. “You think I could forget you?”

Yes, of course, she thought, I was nobody important. “But– how? Our only class together was--” 

“--Mrs. O’Donnell’s senior English class. First semester.” He finished, eyes twinkling with glee. “You helped me with notes when I forgot them… which was… just about every test.” He laughed.

She flustered at the memory. In O’Donnell’s class, students would group together and exchange notes on each night's reading before class began, and (Y/N) had always noticed no one went up to Eddie. Fitting, she’d thought, everyone thinks he’s awful. One day, before a particularly big test, as everyone partnered up, gathering their desks together into little groups, she decided to bite the bullet and approach him. He was doodling on the corner of his paper when she greeted him, and he’d looked up as if he’d never been spoken to before. 

“Hi.” 

“Um, hi?” 

Her confidence was dripping away with every second of his eyes on her. Other students must have been watching too. Maybe he was mean and scary like everyone assumed. “I’m, um.” She lifted up her notes, gesturing to them. “Do you want to go over our notes together?” 

His eyes widened, a deer caught in headlights, brows raising into his shaggy bangs. “I- I don’t- I didn’t take any notes.” His voice was quiet, so unlike the other times she’d seen him and his theatrics.

Her sneaking suspicion had been true, though she didn’t want to unfairly believe it. “We have a test today, you know? Open notes. Did you even read the assigned section?” He shook his head. Looking back, she cringed at how she sounded and hoped Eddie hadn’t thought she was stuck up. She was, ultimately, just concerned for him. He was already in his second attempt at senior year, and (Y/N) hated seeing people struggle with no help. “That’s okay. Here, quick, pull out a paper and write my notes down.” 

 “Well, yeah. No one else was helping you. I thought it was unfair.” 

He nodded, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as if she’d hit the nail on the head. “And that’s why I remember you. You know, I think you’re the only reason I passed that class.” A shy smile fluttered onto her face, butterflies filling her up and making her dizzy on her feet. She leaned against the counter, and Eddie matched her pose with a smile, laying his forearms out towards her and leaning in. “Now that we’ve gotten these introductions out of the way, why were you apologizing?” 

Flustered, though newly confident on the high that her high school crush remembered her as more than just a wallflower like most people in school thought of her, she opened her mouth and let her bluff fall out. “I lied to you.” 

His eyebrows pinched together, the sudden confession confusing him. 

“The other day, when you asked me if I listened to Dio.” She couldn’t stop the words from flowing. “I said yes. I lied. I didn’t listen to them. I wanted to sound cool–” Like you are, she meant, but she caught herself. 

Eddie stayed frozen for a few moments, gears turning in his head as he sized her up with searching eyes. (Y/N) watched him, embarrassed, and sure this would be the end of their short-lived friendship. Now, he thought she was weird, a liar, not trustworthy. But instead, he nudged her arm with his own, laughing— a sound that erased all of her worries just like that. “I don’t think most people around here would call that cool. Different, definitely. Satanic, probably.” He chuckled, a bitter edge to it. “Take it from me. Don’t go around getting associated with my type of stuff. People will think I’ve corrupted you.”

I don’t care. I want to get tangled up with him.

“I think it’s cool.” She insisted. “It’s music. Loud, heavy music. But it’s music. And I think it– and you– are cool.” 

His cheeks tinted pink, a smile sliding out the corner of his lips as he ducked his head a bit shyly, hair shielding his face. “Well, flattery sure does work on me, huh?”  

(Y/N) sucked up all of her breath at that statement. She could sit down and flatter him for hours, compliment his bravery, his passion, the way he made her feel. But, instead, she could think of something else he might appreciate. “Rainbow In The Dark.”

“What?” 

“Dio. It’s my favorite song… I think. They have a lot of good ones. But I like that one a lot.” 

His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again, as if his words were stuck halfway out, eyes sparkling. “I thought you didn’t listen?” 

“I… Well, I didn’t. But I did, then. That night.” She reached into her bag at her feet and pulled out the two tapes she had been sneaking home, setting them on the counter between them. Eddie huffed out of his nose, a lighthearted sound. Amused. She smiled, proud. She had flabbergasted Eddie Munson. He was smiling, and it was at something she had done in thinking about him. Her heart swelled. “So, yeah. I think it’s pretty cool.” 

“Huh.” 

“Huh?” 

He was so close to her that she could see his dark eyes darting back and forth between hers. “Rainbow is pretty cool. It suits you, I think.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How?” 

A verbal tennis match. Eddie smiled. “I don’t know. Just does. Believe me.” 

“Because it’s one of their more poppy-sounding ones? Do you think I’m poppy?”

“Do you think I’m scary?” He countered.

“Hey, I already said no to that!” When he cocked an eyebrow at her, she grinned. “I like the synth in it. It's cool sounding."

Now, he full-on laughed, leaning back from the counter they were leaning in together on. When he stopped, something softer came over his eyes, and he twisted his rings around. He was nervous. “Do you think... Um. Can, um, can I give you my number?” 

(Y/N)’s heart thumped in her chest. She could barely hear the song anymore with how loud her heartbeat was pounding in her ears. Through the drumming broke Eddie’s voice, the lighthouse to her ship stuck out at stormy sea, asking if she’d heard him. Of course, she had. Her attention had been on him since the second he'd walked through that door. “Your number?” 

“Yeah.” He let the word out in a breath, eyes searching yours, frantic. He lifted a hand to his head, scratching the back of his neck. She tried not to stare at his bicep. “I’d like to talk music more with you. Sometime. Catch up, maybe? It– I mean, if that’s okay with you. If you want to. I want…  you’ll have to call me, first, so you can take your time–”

“Eddie.” The second time she said his name aloud, it was with a smile. Nervous, wide-eyed, with a dazed smile on her face. If she had known, mere days ago, that her high school crush would be giving her his number… If high school her could see this… She pushed her journal towards him, open to a blank page. “You can give me your number.” 

A wide, toothy grin split across his face, squishing his cheeks up and crinkling his eyes. It was beautiful. He nodded, his hair bobbing. “Shit, cool. Okay. Cool.” His fingers were shaking visibly as he reached for the pen. In glittery red, he scribbled out ten digits, large fingers looking comical on the small pen. He signed his name below it, a mere scribble of capital letters. EDDIE. “Oh, um. If you call and… and I'm not there, if an older man answers who’s not me, don’t think I gave you the wrong number. I live with my uncle.” 

“Good to know.”

“So, uh.” Eddie shifted on his feet, smiling. “I should… probably go, sadly.” 

“Okay.” She was doing everything she could to keep composed, but her grin was eating her cheeks, her face burning hot to the touch, and she felt dizzy and delirious in this feeling. She had his number. His number. Were they friends now? What did this mean for them? They had spoken for the first time post-high school four days ago, and now she had his number?

He took a few steps back, taking all the time in the world before finally letting his hands slide off the counter. “So, um. Call me, I guess?” The words felt foreign on his tongue as he backed towards the door. 

“I’ll call you.” They felt foreign on hers too. 

He grinned one last time, waving his hand and not turning around fully until he was at the door. The bell began to ding as he cracked it open, turning over his shoulder as if he didn’t want to leave yet. Through a smile, he called, “See you later, (Y/N).” And then he was gone.

The second time Eddie Munson said her name aloud, her heart felt fuzzy and warm. 

She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time.

Thank you for reading!!!!!!! I won't lie, the entire idea from this fic came from listening to this first song and imagining a 'looking up and seeing the one' moment at the chorus. it just fits. and then I imagined an entire relationship so here we go. The whole premise of the fic is gonna be about their friendship and relationship growing and them learning and being dorks together.

This is the first chapter of at least a few, so be sure to stick around for more!!! I hope you enjoy all the upcoming song references and blatant 80s tropes and awkward teen things in every chapter and check out the official playlist too!!!

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS AND ASKS ARE APPRECIATED!!

— lylia

TRACK ONE | NEXT TRACK >>>

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: reader with breasts and a vagina, lil bit of established-relationship domesticity, eddie being a goofball, barely-there smut at the end (0.9k)

𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 @strangergraphics

It's late.. Or maybe technically it's early, if the birdsong that's begun to drift through the open window is any indication. The sky is already starting to bleed from inky black to a deep blue, with purple and orange threatening to creep over the horizon any minute.

You've got a leech in the form of your boyfriend draped over your sweaty body, one of his hairy legs thrown over your own, his arm curled around your waist. His cock is still softening against your thigh, your combined spend slowly drying on your skin while your breathing re-regulates following an energetic late-night romp. His pale skin is still flushed pink in the dim lamplight of the bedroom, black ink of his tattoos seeming to stretch beyond their usual shape with the help of dark shadows.

"Soo," Eddie drawls, his voice soft when his face presses to the side of your throat. He leans back, propping himself up on an elbow so he can waggle his eyebrows playfully at you, "How many times was that? For you?"

His teeth nip at the soft flesh of your shoulder between the questions, a bid at playing up his innocence, no doubt. Because he's clearly not at all looking for a little something to boost to his ego. No way. Not your Eddie. Never.

You indulge him all the same. Giving in and playing along with his little over-dramatized bits was all just a part of dating him. Not that you minded in the slightest. Honestly, you found his vivacious spirit to be a special kind of intoxicating, and his dedication to it was nothing short of admirable.

You hum as your mind runs back over the last half hour or so, going back and forth with yourself on the exact number as you ponder whether at least one of those ninety second almosts counted — where you'd been clinging onto a truly earth-shattering, brain-dumbing peak that hadn't been meant to be. You debate whether it counted despite never them quite teetering over into orgasm.

Your hand strokes softly along the length Eddie's arm draped across your stomach, the hairs tickling along the pads of your fingers. After much deliberation you tell him, "Three and a half."

His outrage is immediate.

"Half?!" Eddie's voice goes high in disbelief, pushing back a little farther to give you a wide-eyed look to pair with his shock, "When was the half?" He demands, just shy of shrill. The hand on your hip kneads lovingly at the doughy flesh to soften the sheer lack of tact in his delivery.

A smile pulls at your lips at the genuine upset in his hushed tone, a small eyeroll born of nothing but fondness as you try to explain your reasoning, "Well there were a few times, at the end there-"

"No, nope." Eddie's voice only rises in volume, far too loud for the hour but he can't make himself care.

He is well and truly affronted. He can't believe he didn't notice a goddamn half-orgasm — it was horrendous. He's meant to know your body better than anyone else in the world. The thought of you settling for a half-orgasm without saying anything, of you just accepting a half because Eddie busted too quick to get you there again? Maybe he was being a bit dramatic about it all, but, no. It was not acceptable, not in his book.

He says as much.

"That's preposterous. Won't do." Eddie says matter-of-factly as he shuffles up onto his knees again in a rush

"What are you-" You're words cut off with a squeal when Eddie's clumsy sex-weakened limbs give out for a moment and he nearly collapses on top of you. Laughter pushes its way up from your chest, your fingers curling around his biceps to offer him a bit of stability as his head dips so that his nose can brush the tip of your own, "Eddumf-!"

He cuts you off with a kiss, nosing at your cheek until you go pliant underneath him and your mouth opens enough for him to stroke his tongue along your own for just a moment.

He still tastes like sex, the essence of you a little stale and lingering at the back of his mouth, but he kisses you with everything he has. His passion and excitement are as infectious as always and you're keening into the kiss before a minute has passed, your spine arching up off the mattress just a bit to bring your naked chest flush with his.

Your fingers are forced to fall a little loose on his arms when he pushes up onto his hands and shakes out his curls with dramatic flair. There's one stubborn strand sticking at the spit-slick corner of his mouth and a stupidly endearing, crazed look sparkling in his eyes as he begins to backpedal tellingly down your body. His kiss-swollen lips mark a path, kissing his way past your belly button and between your thighs. The round tip of his nose drags lightly up the length of your cunt and you can't help the way your hips jump when he catches your clit.

"Down we go-" Eddie's voice is thrown deep, a ridiculous animated thing that sounds like it's been pulled straight from the table at one of his campaigns. It's a voice that decidedly did not belong fanning out over your cunt while one of his knuckles softly parted your slick folds.

"God, Ed, if you're gonna do it just do it," You speak around a sigh as his finger collects a bit of your combined cum and he swirls it gently around your clit a few times. "I-if you get all goofy on me I'm gonn- oh."

But then his lips are wrapped around your clit and he's sucking like his life depends on it — Three and a half very quickly turns into seven.

bucky who sleeps on the floor because even after all these years he still hasn't gotten used to sleeping on a soft mattress.

he lays next to you until you're asleep then slips off to sleep on his make shift bed on the hard wood floor in the living room.

one day you shift in bed and feel the emptiness besides you, waking you up so you get up and look for him, all sleepy, eyes barely even open, you don't even see him until you almost trip over his feet, "bucky.. what.." he wakes up immediately and you're both distraught at the sight of each other, "what are you doing here.. why aren't you in bed.."

he sits up, feeling bad that you're awake, out of bed and worried about him, "i.. some times i can't sleep in bed" he admits quietly as you sit next to him on the thin sheet he's put on the floor,

"how long have you been sneaking off and sleeping here?" you ask him, knowing bucky so you know this very likely definitely isn't the first time. he'd try to avoid your gaze but he knows you so he knows there's no escaping when you want to know something.

"longer than i'd like to admit" he'd try to joke but drops it when he sees your face, "always" he sighs, "i'm sorry doll, i know i shouldn't, it's just.. hard to shake off old habits when they're this deep in my bones"

with your hands on his tired face, you pull him down until you're both laying back onto the sheet-bed. "what are you.."

"shhh i'm sleepy" you mumble, burying your head into his bare chest, close to the chain of his dog-tags, his right arm underneath you and his metal arm draped over your body, it's heavy but it's comfortable. it's exactly what you need. "don't ever apologise or sneak out of bed without me ever again" you whisper before closing your eyes.

bucky can't help but smile, how did he get so lucky? he doesn't know, doesn't even think he deserves it but he'd be a fool if he lets it go. not to say he's not a fool currently and perpetually.

he kisses the top of your head, holding you close, keeping most of your body on his, technically, you're not even sleeping on the floor. "i'll owe you a massage tomorrow, won't i?"

"oh you absolutely will"

I call him Joey, just to feel something

so there we go.

Eddie Munson fanfiction (updated 29 December 2024)

Only Now - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: Eddie needs time off from fame, touring, fans, groupies - it all eats him alive and makes him something else if he’s not careful. He needs Hawkins, needs his old friends, needs you to ground him, so he visits every couple of months. It’s the middle of December when he stops by for a few days and lets all of you pretend you’re momentarily back in ’88, and it’s beautiful, but it hurts. A lot.  Wordcount: 9.5K

Over Now - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: A sequel to “Only Now” in which you have moved away from Hawkins which, you find out fast enough, is something you should have done much sooner. When Eddie comes to visit Hawkins once more, and you're not there? Oof. Wordcount: 9.6K

Then Again - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: This part follows “Only Now” and “Over Now”. Since your last visit, Eddie spiraled, and Eddie spiraled hard. An exciting event brings all of you, the whole gang, back into a room together and even though time has passed, and everyone seems to have moved on… have you? Wordcount: 9.8K

Never Over - 18+ angst Summary: This is the fourth installment of this story, following “Only Now”, “Over Now” and “Then Again”. You agreed to have coffee with Eddie, because Eddie needs to speak to you. Sure, he wrote that letter, but he needs to have an actual conversation. You do, and then, afterwards, it sort of… all just, goes to shit. Wordcount: 10.7K

--- Not Enough - 18+ angst Summary: Eddie’s hauled you off to LA because, turns out, when you’re not throwing your life away on booze and drugs, opportunities tend to lead to more opportunities. LA’s amazing, and Eddie’s amazing, and suddenly life is all about sun-freckles and exciting accomplishments but… something’s missing. Wordcount: 5.2K

One More - 18+ angst Summary: Steve’s there, in LA, and something’s terribly wrong. Instead of being the adults that you are, you decide it’s more fun to pretend to be twenty-one again, but… Eddie’s not as amused. Wordcount: 5.3K

That's It - 18+ fluff mostly, mentions of smut Summary: Steve is there to stay, and you fall into a new routine together, the three of you, old buddies back to their old ways. Except, no, this is actually nothing like your old ways, is it? Wordcount: 6.2K

No Regrets - 18+ angsty, fluffy, lil smutty Summary: Steve’s figuring it out, and Eddie flies Robin in to help. To speak some sense into the ether, to be the true voice of reason that you all need. Some things just come in threes, don’t they? Wordcount: 4.7K

---

Let's Go Home - angsty, hurt/comfort Summary: It's getting close to Christmas, and Eddie finds himself in a seasonal depression that feels different. Worse. Unfixable. You do what you can to help, some measures more drastic than others. Wordcount: 6.2K

-> full masterlist ♥ -> back to home ♥

Simmer

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

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

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

CH1. HOME STYLE

CH2. ICE BOX

CH3. SUNNY SIDE UP

CH4. 0800-AWKWARD

CH5. WAKE ‘N’ BAKE

CH6. SPILLED MILK

CH7. SPICE BOX

CH8. BOILING POINT

CH9. SIMMER [EXTRA HOT 18+]

CH10. CHEQUE, PLEASE

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

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

freaks, creeps, and weirdos - chapter one

eddie munson x fem!reader

fic summary: y/n escaped hawkins lab years ago, and teame dup with the crew to help them take down every monstrosity they've faced so far. with the threat of vecna looming over hawkins, yours and el's powers will be needed more than ever. for now, you have to blend in with the rest of town. but everything you think you know about living a normal life gets turned upside-down when you meet eddie munson.

chapter summary: it's your first day of school. ever. like, ever ever. all you want to do is focus on getting through the day. but among all those giving you a hard time, you make a new friend who is anything but normal.

warnings: sfw. soft! naive! reader. bullying, teasing, reader doesn't understand social cues. she/her pronouns for reader. hopper is basically reader's adoptive dad, though technically she's 18. steve is her bestie.

a/n: this chapter makes me ache. i was bullied a lot in school. undiagnosed autism and being a geek will do that to you, yk? i wish i had someone like eddie to help me out! this is the first part of an ongoing series that takes place during '85-'86, with a happier ending for eddie (pinky swear!). this is a slow-burn, sweet and sexy romance. and enjoy!

chapter one: take a seat

"If you change your mind and want me to pick you up, just call me, okay?" Steve told you for the billionth time that morning. "The phone is in the front office. You know where that is?"

"No, but neither do Mike, Lucas, Max, or Dustin." You look at him with a knowing glare. "And their parents are not talking to them like this."

"Okay, enough with the snark," he said, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. That meant he was kidding, but he was getting tired of the parent joke.

You'd learned how to read Steve like that, the same way you'd learned how to understand that Nancy's tight smile meant something was wrong that she didn't want to talk about. You'd learned it all through time and their graciousness. Robin and Jonathan had been kind enough to let you know when you'd misread a situation, or what a figure of speech meant, or when Max was being sarcastic. Ugh. Sarcasm. You still hadn't mastered that yet.

And now you had a school full of people to learn how to read. You hoped they would be patient with you.

Despite your nerves -- despite Steve giving you a much safer option -- you opened up the passenger side door and stepped out. You were parked right out front, cars and busses rolling by. You felt like a rock in a stream, students coursing around you like water.

Voices crashed over you like waves. Loud, invasive, like pins pricking at your brain. Your grasped your backpack straps, trying to ground yourself. You glanced back at Steve. His head was bent, peeking out the window at you over his sunglasses, hands on the wheel. He lifted his fingers in a small wave. You waved back, forcing a smile, then returned your grip to your backpack straps.

You took a deep breath and made your way up the steps. As you went, you put up a mental barrier, like Papa had taught you. The voices that stung you like barbs fell away. Reading minds was, as Steve had put it, "useful, but a little creepy." Who knew being around so many people thinking so many thoughts at once would hurt? You'd only found that out when Steve had dragged you to Starcourt Mall on opening day and you had a panic attack. You'd spent the next two days at Hopper's cabin in a dark room, nursing a migraine.

But since that day, you'd become better at blocking out everyone's thoughts. You read minds only when it suited you. Moved objects with your gaze alone. That was simple. It was the rest of being a normal teenager that scared you.

It took you ten minutes to find your classroom, and another five to figure out how to open your locker. For a second, you panicked, worried you'd be late, and nearly used your abilities to bust the thing open. But then you spotted Nancy in a nearby cluster of students. She gave you a smile, but her eyes were dark with concern. You didn't want to disappoint her, or make her worry over nothing. Finally, you relaxed and got it open.

She and Robin had promised to look after you, but there wasn't much they could do about adjusting your timetable. That meant you only had one class with each of them, and the others you would spend alone -- including your homeroom class. You gnawed at your lower lip as you stepped into the classroom and took a seat. Everyone was chattering. Tossing wadded up balls of paper, discussing their summers, comparing timetables. They were all so different. Some girls had skirts and lipstick and bows, others wore all black with torn jeans and painted nails. There were tall, muscled guys in green-and-gold jackets, while others wore smart dress shirts and glasses or had plain tees with long, messy hair.

"That's my seat."

You looked up and saw the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen. She looked like she could be on a magazine cover, with her teased blond hair and bright, poppy clothes. She carried a pink handbag instead of a backpack, and her lips were the same vibrant colour.

"Uhm, hell-o? Did you hear me?"

You blinked. "Oh, uh. This is your seat?" You didn't know they assigned seats. You looked around, searching for your name on the other seats. "Sorry. Where is mine?"

The girl scoffed, her brows pulling together. "What did you just say to me?"

"Where is my seat?" you repeated, gathering your bag and standing. You walked up and down the row, searching for some sign. The girl slid into her official seat, and two others sat down beside and behind her. They were all so glamourous, dressed brightly and made up like models. They whispered frantically, giggling.

A bell rang. Everyone in the classroom watched you, probably wondering why you were wandering around so much. Your cheeks were hot. Why hadn't Robin and Nancy warned you about this?

"Ahem."

You looked over your shoulder. An adult, the teacher you assumed, stood at the head of the class. Her eyes were on you, her foot tapping. Impatience.

"What's your name?"

"Y/N." You'd picked it out of a magazine a few years ago, after learning 'Three' wasn't an ideal name for a normal teenager to have.

"Well, Y/N, would you kindly take your seat so we can begin class?"

You looked around again. There were still a couple seats empty. "W-Which one?"

A collective snicker rippled through the classroom. Everyone was smirking, except for the teacher; her smile was tight, like Nancy's. She swept her hand across the sea of seats.

"Whichever you'd prefer."

To save yourself further embarrassment, you picked the closest one and plunked down. The teacher introduced herself as Ms. Clarke, and class began just as everyone had told you it would. You kept stealing glances at the girls -- especially the one in your old seat. They looked back at you, too, then they'd laugh and whisper something to each other.

It made no sense. All you could understand was that you'd done something wrong. You resolved to ask Robin in your next class, and tried to pay attention. Nancy had taught you how to take notes, so you did that. But every so often, your mind would wander back to that transaction. The girls obviously knew what happened. So did everyone else in the class. All you had to do was reach out with your mind and do a little prodding...

No. That was wrong. Everyone had told you to not do that. (Well, Max said it might be fun.) But Hopper and Joyce had told you to respect everyone's privacy and keep out of their heads. So you stopped yourself, though curiosity nearly killed you before finally the bell rang, dismissing you.

\

"I still do not understand," you said to Robin as you walked to the cafeteria together. "What was so funny?"

You had filled her in on the transaction with the girls in class -- the one who had spoken to you was called Jennifer, you'd learned, and Robin had just called the others the Clones.

She lifted her shoulders. "I mean, maybe the fact that you didn't know? Which is terrible, I know, but they're idiots; they laugh at awful things."

"Should I... apologize?"

"No! Ew, no, don't apologize to any of them. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what do I do?" You couldn't imagine spending the rest of the semester, each and every day, sitting in class with them laughing at you. At how... stupid you were.

"Ignore them. They'll forget all about it by tomorrow, and then you can just leave them alone."

You fought back a frown as you joined the food line. You knew it was wrong for them to laugh at you, but you wanted to be accepted at school. In the movies at Steve and Robin's job, girls like Jennifer were in charge of the social scene. You wanted to get on her good side.

"I guess," you sighed.

You stepped into the cafeteria and quickly spied Nancy sitting with a group of well-dressed students. They looked kind of nerdy, if you were to quote the movies. Robin was called over by members of the band. Every other table was filled with all sorts of people, and just like in the classroom, you had no idea where to sit.

"You can come with me," Robin whispered. "My friends would love you! Or you can sit with Nancy, if you want."

You weren't sure. Before you could make a decision, someone stood up. He was wearing a green-and-gold jacket with a tiger's face on it, and had shiny, blond hair. He shot you a white smile as he approached.

"Y/N, right? You're Chief Hopper's niece."

You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded.

"I'm Jason. Jason Carver." He offered you his hand to shake. "I'm captain of the basketball team, and you may have met Chrissy, my girlfriend." He stepped aside a little, and you looked past him to see his table. Among his friends, all of them clad in green-and-gold as well, you saw a petite girl with bangs in a cheerleader uniform. She gave you a soft smile and a wave.

"N-Not yet," you stammered out, shaking his hand. His grasp was warm and firm.

"Why not meet her now? Come and sit with us." He gave you another winning smile. "We want you to feel welcome here."

You glanced at Robin, as if for permission. She nodded.

"Go on. I'll see you after school."

You let Jason lead you over to the table, which was already crowded. Chrissy shifted a little, allowing you space beside her. When you sat, you were bombarded with more names and smiles. They all flew over you head. All that mattered was that you were sitting with the cool people, the pretty people, and -- most importantly -- the nice people. They took your timetable and passed it around, searching for classes you had together.

"So, Y/N, where are you from?" Chrissy asked.

"Canada," you replied. You'd rehearsed everything. Your name, your age, you place of birth, why you had transferred, your plans after high school. They could ask you any question, and you knew the answer.

"Where did you get that shirt?"

Except that one.

The one who had asked you sat across from you. She was in a cheerleader outfit, too, with hair black as oil. Her hand reached out, perfectly manicured fingers brushing the long, plaid sleeve of your shirt.

"Uh... A shop."

"A charity shop?"

"Yeah," you nodded, clinging to the suggestion. A few people smirked. Chrissy rolled her eyes.

"Mary, please."

"I was just asking! I think it looks nice on you, Y/N. You look like a lumberjack. Fitting, since you're from Canada."

You pursed your lips. You didn't know much, but you could understand some insults. Everyone had a chuckle at that. Even Jason snorted, but Chrissy smacked his arm.

"Oh, would you look at that!"

A familiar voice came from behind you, shrill and coddling. You turned to see Jennifer flouncing up with her Clones. She shot you a smirk with a wrinkled nose, as if she were cooing at a baby.

"Aw, she found her seat! Good job." She accentuated the last two words with a couple claps.

You felt eyes on you, more eyes than you were comfortable with. You needed to fix this. You had a chance at befriending the popular kids, sealing the deal and ensuring that your first and last year in high school would be fun. You tipped your chin up, proud.

"Jennifer, right? I like your purse."

Her cool gaze shifted to her bag, then back to you. "O...kay?"

"I think maybe we should hang out some time."

Jennifer's Clones scoffed, while Jennifer took a cautionary step back.

"Why would I ever want to hang out with you? What are you, slow?"

"She is in the slow class next period," Mary said, waving your timetable. Chrissy snatched it away and slid it into your backpack.

Jennifer's mouth shifted to a big O shape. "That explains so much. Awh, she's a dumbass!"

"Excuse you!" you snapped. "That was so rude! Say you are sorry, right now."

"Or what? Gonna cry?" Jennifer pouted.

You felt Chrissy's hands on your shoulders. "Jen, that's enough."

Tears pricked at your eyes. This was all wrong. Your first day was supposed to be fun. You were supposed to make friends. But instead, Jennifer had her hands on her knees, bending to laugh in your face.

"Oh my God. She's crying."

Most of the cafeteria had turned to look at the commotion. A tear escaped and ran down your cheek, but you swiped it away with your sleeve. The sleeve of your stupid, ugly shirt. You'd just wanted to look like Joyce or Max, but instead you looked like an idiot.

You could feel your mental barrier cracking. Breaking away, piece by piece. You grasped at it, but it slipped from your control, and suddenly the voices came over you in a great wave.

She's so weird. She's such a freak. Ugh, math next period. Who is she? Jennifer, not again. She's in the fucking slow class, this is too much. I wonder what's for lunch tomorrow. Is that girl crying? Oh my God, is she staring, do I look okay? What a freak.

You sucked in a breath and, your lunch tray abandoned, stood up and made for the door. On your way, you bumped into one of the Clones. It wasn't very hard of a bump, but she went down, crying out dramatically.

"She pushed me! You saw her, she shoved me!"

"N-No I didn't." Panic rose in your chest.

Chrissy said something to you, but you couldn't hear her. Jason was on his feet. Mary was laughing, but Jennifer and her other Clone surrounded their friend, fawning over her. You could hear Robin's voice, and saw Nancy making her way to you.

Ew, gross. Does she have a nosebleed?

You swiped your hand under your nose, and it came back bright red. Your mental barrier was completely down. You scrambled to the doors. You just needed some fresh air.

"Whoa!"

You bumped right into someone's chest, nearly going down again. They hands grasped your upper arms, keeping you upright.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

You looked up to meet their eyes. They were big, soft, brown eyes, poring into yours with genuine concern and a little twinkle of amusement. He had long, brown hair, unruly curls. He still grasped you, his fingers decorated with silver rings that dug into your arms. He was all torn denim and leather, and he smelled of cigarettes. You knew his kind from the movies, too: trouble.

His gaze dipped over you, brow furrowing. "Hey, you okay? You're bleeding."

His grip on you loosened, and you stepped around him with a mumbled apology. You could barely untangle your own thoughts from the crowd, and were amazed that you found your way outside. The sun was hot, but the breeze had a sharp edge to it that helped clear your mind. Little by little, the roar of voices faded and left behind a pounding headache. You sank onto the pavement, your back against the building's hot bricks.

Nancy and Robin found you a few minutes later. Another miracle. Nancy assured you that she had told the monitoring teacher that it had all been an accident, and everyone at her table backed you up. Robin regaled you with how Chrissy snapped at Mary and Jason after you were gone. After Nancy gave you a pill to help ease the growing pressure in your head, you started to feel a little better.

That's what you told yourself, anyway. The day was almost over. You had Robin in your final period, and she'd look after you. All you had to do was get through one class. The slow class. You groaned inwardly. When Joyce had helped enroll you in school, they'd found out that while you were fine in math and science, you were way behind in English. They promised they would catch you up, and you hadn't thought anything of it. But now that Mary and Jennifer had made fun of you, you weren't so sure.

Into the classroom you walked, your head still aching, eyes downcast so you wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Your other classes had at least twenty students. This one had only twelve, including you. You quickly found you seat (it could be any seat, Robin had assured you) far in the back of the room. Away from everyone else. The pill made everyone's inner voices hazy enough that you didn't feel guilty for spying in on them. You let your barrier fall, tuned the sound out so the roar of everyone's minds was a gentle hum, and waited for the bell to ring. When it did, the teacher at the front introduced himself as Mr. Wong. He was an older man, with soft edges and a gentle smile. He spoke slowly, looking you each in the eyes as he explained how class would go. You nodded along whenever he looked at you, and --

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Wong."

You looked up to find the boy you'd ran into in the cafeteria standing in the doorway. He was red-cheeked, breathless, with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Mr. Wong's face creased with his frown.

"I thought you'd graduated, Mr. Munson."

"So did I," he laughed. "But then I realized I'd miss you too much."

Mr. Wong's frown only deepened. Sarcasm. You could catch that one. The boy slunk into the classroom and sat down right beside you. He brought along with him the stench of... skunk? You wrinkled your nose and tried to keep your focus on the lesson.

"Hey."

You pursed your lips and kept writing. The eraser end of a pencil poked you in the arm.

"Hey."

You looked over to find the boy had scooted closer to you.

"Yes?"

"I'm Eddie."

"I'm Y/N."

"Excuse me, Ms. Y/L/N, Mr. Munson." Mr. Wong gestured at both of you with a piece of chalk. "If you're going to be like this from day one, maybe I should separate you."

"S-Sorry," you stumbled, turning your focus back onto the lesson.

A few more minutes passed. Then, two ringed fingers slid a piece of paper onto your desk. You peeked over at Eddie. He had his gaze on the chalkboard, rapping his fingers against his knee.

You opened the paper. His writing was awful, but you could make out the message. Saw what happened at lunch. You okay?

You frowned. Great. Did everyone at school know what had happened? I am fine, you scribbled down. Then, Thanks.

You passed the note back. Surely, he wouldn't write anything el--

He slid another paper over. His eyes flickered to you, then back to the chalkboard. You looked around, finding a few people staring at you. Was he trying to get you in trouble? You opened the note.

Don't pay attention to those girls. If you need someone to sit with, you can sit with me and my friends.

You couldn't help but smile a little. You scrawled a quick thanks back to him, and that was it.

To his credit, Mr. Wong had a captivating way of teaching. He made sure to look everyone in the eyes, and only continued when he felt everyone understood the subject. And, to your credit, you did try to pay attention. You knew that Joyce would be disappointed if you failed, and you wanted to prove to everyone that you could succeed.

But every time your eyes drifted to your right, and you saw Eddie scribbling away beside you, you felt a flutter in your stomach. Maybe it was because you didn't have time to eat lunch. And taking a pill on an empty stomach was never a good idea. But at one point, Eddie caught your glance and smiled. It wasn't a glamourous, award-winning smile like Jason had given you. Eddie had this crooked grin, which he hid behind a lock of hair that he grabbed and pulled over his mouth. He looked like a little kid.

Your stomach tightened at his expression. He was just so... nice. And people like him, who dressed like him, were never nice in the movies. Then again, people like Steve were usually mean, and Steve was probably one of your best friends in the world. A guy like Hopper would be jaded and cold, but he had actually been soft and sweet in his own way. And you expected Nancy to be prissy and prude, but there was nothing prissy about the way she handled a shotgun. Almost everyone you'd met so far had been contradictory to what they seemed on the outside. Maybe this Eddie guy was different.

But you'd thought that about Jennifer, and Mary, and Jason. They even tried to take you in, to be nice to you. But that had all been a ploy to get you close only for them to snap the trap shut when you least expected it. What if this was a trick, too?

Eddie left straight after the bell rang, so you didn't have a chance to gauge his true intentions. You might have followed him out to the parking lot, if your head wasn't still pounding. Instead, you stepped out to find Steve sitting right where you'd left him. Did he even drive off after you went inside?

"Well? How was it?"

You hesitated. If you told him what had happened, he would never let you go back there again. But you hated lying to Steve.

So you shrugged. "It was good. The classes were sometimes boring. But it was not as scary as I thought, and I only got lost twice."

Steve grinned and started the car. "That's great! Everyone was nice, right?"

Robin was nice. Nancy was nice. Chrissy was nice. Eddie was nice. Who cared about anyone else? You nodded.

"And you made friends?"

You nodded again. At least, you thought you'd made friends. Steve's hands tapped away at the wheel, excited.

"That means you're okay to take the bus tomorrow, right? 'Cause I got an early shift at Family Video and I won't be able to drop you off."

"I guess so." You didn't see what the big deal was. But your hesitant answer had Steve's eyes on you as he backtracked.

"I mean, I can call Keith and ask him to switch my shift."

"No, I will," you said. It was part of the experience, right? You wanted to be a normal kid, and normal kids took the bus.

And they didn't wear oversized plaid shirts, apparently. You'd go through your closet when you got home to see if you had anything more appropriate. Maybe you'd lay out some magazines and compare outfits.

Not that you had any time. Joyce called you all the way from California, everyone there wondering how your first day went. She said that El's first day was great, and that Will looked out for her. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie," she kept saying. "You're gonna do great." Jonathan said the same thing, when he took the phone from his mom. "It'll be a piece of cake. Just stay away from the weirdos and you'll be fine."

They were all so excited for you, how were you supposed to tell them that there was nothing to be proud of? That you were the weirdo? Well, that didn't matter. You had messed up a little -- the clothes, the seating. But you would do better tomorrow.

Besides, you had someone to sit with. If he'd meant it, that is.

Lessons in Love.

Bucky didn't believe in love at first sight. Then he met you.

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings - None

Word Count - 3615

Author's Note - hello gorgeous people, hope you're all doing well. writing this has made my heart so full, and I hope it makes you feel the same. requests are always open and more than encouraged!! currently working on a stunning jake seresin request that's just so lovely. i'm SO open to more jake requests, but also any marvel, top gun maverick, criminal minds, narcos and any others you have in mind!! just send them over, and I'll see what I can do. as always, so much love x

Masterlist. Requests.

“No way. How is that even possible?”

You look at the bewildered man in front of you and can’t help but smile.

“It’ll play anything you want it to. Anything in the world. Just ask it!” you encourage, beaming grin still plastered on your face.

“Alexa,” he says tentatively, “play Marvin Gaye.”

The first notes of Trouble Man begin to sound through your apartment, and his eyes light up. He’s looking at you like you’ve discovered something completely revolutionary.

You laugh – a real, genuine, delighted sound that flows through Bucky like a beam of light, illuminates his bones, makes his heart beat that little bit faster.

Grabbing your notebook, you delicately place a check next to Number 26 – voice-controlled devices. Number 27 is air fryers. Number 28 is Bluetooth. Number 29 is kindles and e-readers. Number 30 is Doordash. You’ve already checked off Spotify, and ATMs, and Google, and online banking, amongst many others. A list of things to better integrate Bucky into the 21st Century. A list of things to make him feel less like a man out of time. A list of things that allow you to spend all the time with him that you can.

A warm hand on your left hip and a cold one on your right pull you back into reality.

“Dance with me.” he murmurs. “Let me teach you something, for once.”

Before you can process his words, he’s gliding across the kitchen with you in his arms. Trouble Man isn’t playing anymore, instead replaced with something slower, richer. Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you, not even for a second. He’s watching your every move, every expression, every twitch of your lips. Reading you like a book.

You bring your hands to rest around his neck, and he relaxes into you. He’s leading, swaying you gently, occasionally twirling you like a ballerina in a music box. Perfectly effortless. He’s good at this.

The sun is setting, casting a warm orange hue across the kitchen. The light is reflecting onto your hair, making you glow, giving you a halo. Angelic, he thinks. My guardian angel.

You close the space between your bodies, wrapping your arms around his middle. Resting your head on his chest, he prays you can’t hear how his heart is working overtime. You shut your eyes, and breathe him in. He smells faintly like the Bakery, like sugar and coffee and cinnamon. The place that started it all.

　            ⋆ 　　 .  ✵　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 

When Bucky first moved into his apartment, he’d noticed the Bakery down the street immediately. The smell of cake and coffee drifted out of the lilac colored door, enticing him in. He resisted the urge, and told himself that he’d go inside tomorrow.

The next day, he stood outside of the red brick building, and read the menu on the noticeboard carefully. Then he reread it. And then read it again. Since when was coffee so complicated? And don’t even get him started on cake. He swore there was only a few types back in the forties. Now, there was at least fifty different kinds on this menu alone. He was overwhelmed. He thought he’d be able to walk into this Bakery, get some coffee, maybe something sweet, and leave content. Instead, he's stood on the sidewalk on the verge of a panic attack. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. I’ll go in tomorrow.

Tomorrow never comes. Every day, he takes a walk, and purposely passes the building that he longs to go into. But somehow, he can never find the courage. He knows he’ll just look like an idiot if he walks in. He’ll look lost, and out of place, and everyone will laugh and mutter. Look, they’ll jeer, The Winter Soldier can’t even order a coffee.

And so, he spares himself the pain. Lets his feet carry him past, only slowing down slightly when he passes the lilac door. Every day for three months, he takes the same route. Willing himself to go in, to find the courage. It’s just coffee, he tells himself. Get a grip.

Until, one day, you decided to change his life, unknowingly. Or maybe knowingly. He’s still not sure.

He takes his usual path, and just as he gets to the lilac door – you’re there. Stood, waiting, soft smile on your face. Bucky panics, and wills his feet to move faster, to take him away from this inevitably awkward situation. You stop him before he can make a run for it.

“Hi.”

Oh. You’re talking to him. You’re staring into his soul with no judgment, or fear, or trepidation. You’re staring into his soul with gentleness. Kindness. Friendship. He’s terrified.

“Uh – hi.” He rubs the back of his neck. Nervous habit.

“So, uh, I hope this isn’t weird, or anything. But, I’ve been watching you walk past every day for like three months, and, well…” you trail off. Now you look nervous. “Actually, I haven’t really thought this far ahead. I just see you, and I wanted to… invite you in, I guess? Not that you need an invite, of course not, we’re open to everyone, but… you always look like you’re going to come in, and then you never do. And I’ve been telling myself for months that I should properly invite you in, but now I’m realising this is, uh, really weird. And I’m sorry.”

You still have that gentle smile on your face, but it’s more tentative now. A dusting of pink is making its way onto your cheeks, and Bucky thinks it might be his new favourite color.

It’s now that he really starts to take you in. Your hair is blowing slightly in the breeze, and the sleeves of your sweater are pulled down over your wrists, to try and keep the New York chill at bay. You have bright, inquisitive eyes – eyes that contain hope, love, laughter. You make him feel almost peaceful. No one makes him feel like that. Damn.

You’ve stepped closer to him now, to get out of the way of the customers making their way through the door. You smell like sugar, and coffee, and optimism. He wants to breathe you in, let you settle in his lungs. A comfortable warmth spreads through his chest.

He decides to take a gamble and bear his truth to you. He’s not sure why, but he trusts you. He doesn’t trust anyone, these days. But he trusts you.

“Can I be honest with you?”, he asks, looking at you expectantly. You’re almost expecting him to laugh in your face at the absurdity of it all. You nod anyway, signalling for him to continue.

“I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come in. But every time I try, I just, uh-” he stutters, and you can tell that his mind is screaming at him, sounding alarm bells, begging him to stop with all this sudden vulnerability.

“It’s overwhelming, right?” you ask, cutting him off. Saving him. Guardian angel.

You see the relief in his body at your question. His fists unclench, the tension leaves his shoulders. He smiles bashfully. Half grateful, half embarrassed. You get it.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. You giggle, and he’s convinced that the melodious sound will circle around in his mind forever, like the Earth orbiting the Sun.

You fiddle with the strings of your mint green apron, and look at him. You’re gazing at him so earnestly that he’s worried he might spontaneously combust.

“Are you busy tonight?” you ask suddenly, and he feels so dizzy he’s concerned momentarily that he’s going to pass out.

“Uh, no. I’m not,” he replies, managing to force the words out of his mouth.

“We close at 6, so meet me here at 7.”

You still have that sparkle in your eye. He couldn’t say no to you if he tried.

“Why?” he queries. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely petrified at the turn the conversation has taken.

“I want to show you around. Maybe make you a coffee, introduce you to some of my favourite things. You won’t believe how good my raspberry and white chocolate cookies are. They’re best sellers for a reason,” you beam at him.

Beaming. He wonders how he’s lived his whole life without your light illuminating his universe. Anywhere he goes without you is going to feel so dark, he thinks. How did I ever live like this?

He manages to pull himself together to smile back at you. His first genuine grin in God knows how long. He’s forgotten what joy feels like, and he’s almost drunk on it now.

He agrees to your plan, and you turn on your heel, about to make your way back inside.

“Wait!” he yells, louder than intended. “What’s your name?”

Your lips turn up into a smirk, mischief seeping out of your pores.

“Come back at 7 and find out.” You wink at him, and he has to take a few deep breaths in order to stay conscious. With that, you leave him alone on the sidewalk, where he’s silently thanking the universe for dropping you in his lap. Finally, he thinks. The cosmic punishment is over.

He does come back at 7. In fact, he’s stood outside waiting at 6:45. He can see you mopping the floor, singing as you go. His supersoldier hearing allows him to listen to your voice, even from this far away. He’s never been more grateful for the thing he used to call a curse. He’d be cursed every damn day if it meant he got to listen to you like this.

At 6:58, you appear at the lilac door, beckoning him to follow you inside. He knows that stepping over that threshold is going to change him fundamentally. He can’t wait.

Upon entering, he’s hit with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, coffee, and you. A beautiful mix of all three. Without a second thought, he reaches out with his right hand, and gently brushes some flour from your cheekbone.

“Bucky,” he murmurs.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Lips slightly parted, chest heaving, it takes you a minute to register that he spoke.

“What?” you ask, dazed by the handsome stranger with the steel blue eyes.

“My name,” he speaks softly. “It’s Bucky.”

You smile knowingly, and take a deep breath. It’s overwhelming, meeting someone that you know is going to be in your life forever. You’re both feeling the same, neither of you sure just quite what to do.

You grab his left hand, sighing quietly in relief at the feeling the cool metal against your heated skin. Leading him gently, he lets you guide him through the front of the store, until you stop behind the counter. He’s convinced he’d let you lead him anywhere, as long as he gets to feel your skin, soft and warm, on his. Grounding. Comforting. Easy.

“What kind of milk do you like?” you ask, fingers still intertwined with his.

“There’s more than one kind of milk?”

Bucky looks so disorientated, that you want to kiss the confused expression off his face. You chuckle softly, and the sound bounces off the metal in the room, twinkling around him.

“We have cows’ milk, oat milk, almond milk and soy milk.” You take one look at him, and decide to change course. “Let’s start with something less complex, actually. Any allergies I should know about?”

He shakes his head, mischievous grin beginning to form on his handsome face. There he is, you think. He’s with me.

“I’m going to make you a latte. It’s milky, and not too strong or too sweet. I think you’ll like it.”

She thinks I’ll like it, he muses. And he trusts you - whether it be with his life, or just a cup of coffee.

You reluctantly let go of his hand, and begin to flit around, gathering everything you need. Bucky leans back against the counter and watches carefully. He watches the way you bite your lip when you measure out the milk. He watches the way the steam from the coffee machine blows your hair back from your face gently. He watches the way you’re trying to make everything perfect. He can’t remember the last time someone paid attention to him like this. His mind is telling him to sprint in the opposite direction, to excuse himself and never come back. He’s terrified. But he stays. I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.

You pull him from his thoughts by handing him the mug of warm coffee. He takes it from you carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, takes a sip. He smiles, really smiles. That’s all the validation you needed.

“Let me show you where we bake everything,” you say quietly, as if you’re afraid to burst this bubble of warmth and trust you’ve created. You’re scared he’s going to bolt if you give him the chance. So, you don’t. You take his hand once more, and guide him through to the kitchen.

“Have you done much baking in your life, Bucky?”

No, he thinks. But I will. I’ll bake everyday for the rest of my life if it means you’ll love me. If you’ll make me coffee and smile at me like that.

Instead, he answers cautiously.

“Not really. I’d like to, though.” He adds that last part bashfully. You smile back at him earnestly.

“Well then you’re in the right place,” you wink. He has the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees. To pray at your altar. To worship you like an angel sent down just for him. He’s surprised he’s still stood on two feet.

Before he can even register what’s happening, you’re beginning to create a mixture for your infamous cookies. You direct him to stir, while you add meticulously measured ingredients into the bowl.

“Put those arms to good use,” you’d smirked, and a blush had risen up to his cheeks almost instantly.

You click the radio on, and a soft, jazzy melody begins to drift through the room. You’re humming quietly, gliding around the kitchen, and he decides that this is it for him. You’re it for him. He could watch you do this every day and die a happy man.

Cookies baking in the oven, you jump up to sit on one of the counters. Bucky moves to stand in between your legs, still being careful to keep his distance ever so slightly. He knows if he touches you, he won’t ever want to let go.

“This wasn’t as scary as I thought it was going to be,” he confesses.

“What, me?” you tease.

“No. Coffee. And cookies,” he chuckles.

“Are there lots of things that you haven’t done because you find them scary?” you ask genuinely. You want to know him. All of him. Fears, wants, quirks. All of it.

“Yeah, actually. The world is so different now. I don’t really know where to start. It’s all terrifying, honestly,” he laughs. You laugh with him, but you know there’s truth to his words. You want to wrap your arms around him. He may be 6 foot tall and made of solid muscle and vibranium, but you want to protect him.

“Why don’t we do it together?”

A pause. He’s confused again.

“Do what together?”

“All of it. The learning. I’ll help you. Everything is less scary if you do it with someone else.”

It’s now that he’s convinced he’s dreaming. You can’t be real. Why would you be here, offering him everything, after all that he’s done? He has to remind himself. I deserve this. I deserve something good.

You can sense his trepidation, so you keep talking.

“Why don’t we make a list? You write down the things you want to learn about. I’ll write down other things I think you should know. You’ll be an expert on the 21st Century before long, Buck.”

Buck. The nickname sounds like a gift coming from your lips.

“Okay. Yeah. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

The anxiety is coming off him in waves. He’s panicking. You grab a hold of both of his hands, and place one on each of your legs, just above your knees. He steps in closer, and takes a breath. You’re warm, and you’re soft, and you’re love personified. He’s okay.

“Of course I don’t mind. I’m excited!” you assure him. Then, quieter, “It means I get to spend more time with you.”

He aims a beaming, megawatt smile in your direction. He feels as if his nerve endings are alight. You’ve awoken something in him. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel like this. To feel alive.

You reach over and grab your notebook. In it, you simply write his name, followed by a love heart. Then, underneath, you begin to list everything you can think of that you want to teach him. You hand the list to him, and he adds his own requests. Between you, you manage to write 50 different lessons.

“Perfect. We’ll start with number one, and work our way down. Are you busy tomorrow evening?”

He chuckles at your eagerness, but secretly, he can’t wait. He knows he’ll be counting down the hours until he can see you again.

“Nope, I’m not. You are my only priority, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment seeps into your skin, settles in your ribcage. You’re convinced it’ll warm you up from the inside out. If he keeps calling you sweetheart in that Brooklyn drawl of his, you’ll never be cold again.

　            ⋆ 　　 .  ✵　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 　 ⋆ 　　 .  ✵ 

You’re not sure if you’ve been swaying in your kitchen with Bucky to Marvin Gaye for 2 minutes or 2 hours. You’re comfortably settled into him, as if the space in his arms was made especially for you. Maybe it was.

Bucky’s voice breaks through the solitude.

“You know, I’ve created my own list,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, where he’s resting his head.

You pull back, still in his arms, to look at him carefully.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Read it, and tell me what you think.”

He untangles himself from you and crosses the room, to retrieve his leather-bound notebook. He returns, and places it carefully in your awaiting hands.

You flick open the cover to reveal the first page. You recognise his handwriting instantly. It’s spiralling, and imperfect, but so Bucky. At the top of the page, you spot the title – your name, with a love heart next to it. Exactly the same as you’d done for him when you’d originally created your list together.

Underneath your name, only one thing is written.

I love you.

You look up at him, to see him watching you, holding his breath. Neither of you know what to say. You know what you want to say. You want to tell him that you hope the list never ends, so you always have an excuse to spend time with him. You want to tell him that you watched him walk past the door of the Bakery every day for 3 months because you thought he was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. You want to tell him that every time he looks at you, you feel as if you’re going to pass out. You want to tell him that you can recognise him anywhere, by touch or smell alone. Instead, you say,

“You do?”

That genuine, million dollar smile is back, etched on his face. He’s glowing, light radiating from his bones.

“Yes. I do. I think I’ve loved you ever since I saw you waiting for me on the doorstep of the Bakery that day.”

You think you might be floating. Levitating above ground, fuelled by love. You laugh.

“That’s the exact moment I fell in love with you.”

He laughs with you, then. You could get drunk off the sound.

“I didn’t think love at first sight was a real thing. I thought I was going crazy,” he confesses.

He’s convinced that the two of you have discovered something, invented it even. Because he doesn’t understand. If love feels like this, so all encompassing, so consuming – how does anyone live? Every moment of every day, Bucky thinks of you. How does anyone go to work? How does anyone ever feel sad, or angry, when love like this exists?

You drop the notebook and cross the room to him. He closes the gap, and throws his arms around you, spinning you in circles, laughing with joy. He sets you back on your feet, and tilts your chin up, so you’re looking into his steel blue eyes. You could drown in the ocean of his irises if he let you.

He leans down, and presses his lips to yours. He’s giving you all of the love, the joy, the laughter – everything good that he has ever felt, because of you – through his kiss. Your knees go weak, and he holds you up by your waist, his strong arms encircling your frame. He tastes like coffee, and sugar, and promises. You’ll never want to taste anything else.

Eventually, you break away for air. You gaze up at him, and he sees sunshine in your eyes. He’s not sure what he did to earn a love like this. You seem to sense his doubts creeping in, because you say, in the most assured voice he’s ever heard –

“No one has ever loved anyone as much as I love you.”

I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.