angel

♡ notes/warnings: as the tags state, all characters are 18+ despite the setting + timeline. there is also (1) passive mention underage drinking and of vomiting as a result of said drinking, not detailed & past tense.

also, for those who aren't familiar with homecoming / mums & garters, a mum is a decorative array of ribbons pinned to the front of a girl's shirt, often homemade and customized with flowers, bells, or other trinkets or school-related paraphernalia. a garter (in this case) is just the male equivalent of that, and is worn as a band around the bicep. they're worn to football games and sometimes dances and other school events. you can look them up if you need an example, but please know i am NOT picturing the super gigantic flashy ones here sjhdgfkjg just simple ones.

not proofread, as per usual. enjoy! x

It’s Friday night, Bucky’s parents are out, and his room is covered in open notebooks, wayward fabric glitter, and the takeout boxes you’d pooled your cash together to order from the place down the street. 

It’s the art of the trade, and you’re happy with your cut of the deal: Bucky will finish the physics homework you’ve been stressing over for a week, if you put your art skills to work on his homecoming garter that, last time you checked, he’d ended up gluing to his own arm instead of the ribbons. You’re reusing some of the same stuff you’d used to make your mum last week, careful not to make them too similar. 

Only couples wear matching ones. And even if you and Bucky have been friends since middle school, that’s all you are. 

“Okay, I think I’m done,” you tell him from your spot cross legged on his carpet, holding up the garter and ribbons for his approval. 

He glances over from the bed, shutting the cover of the textbook and setting it on the nightstand. “Good timing. As of tomorrow’s second period, you will be the proud receiver of an A+ in Physics, thanks to me.” 

“My hero,” you swoon sarcastically, getting to your feet. “C’mere and give me your arm.” 

Bucky grumbles but unfolds himself as requested, rolling his neck from bending over the textbook and stretching his arms above his head. His shirt comes up with it, just enough to see a tease of a tan line and the sparse dark hair underneath his navel you’ve been thinking about since that pool party last July, and you snap your eyes back to your handiwork before he can catch you. 

That, too, is an art. You’ve mastered it at this point. 

Case in point: you remain passive and neutral as he presents himself in front of you, a few inches taller and a thick bicep from athletics shoved in your face, sleeve shoved up to his shoulder. He flexes and you glance at him with a cocked brow until he pouts and relaxes again. 

“How does that feel? Too tight?” you ask him, sliding the garter from his wrist up around his bicep, adjusting it with your fingers and checking for any prickly edges. 

“Nah. It’s perfect.” He smiles at it, turning his arm this way and that to get a good look at it. He gingerly catches one of the little red stars between his thumb and forefinger, swiping a touch over it. “Yours has these little things on it too, doesn’t it?” 

You shrug, trying not to let your face heat at the small similarity you hadn’t thought he’d catch. “Yeah. I had some leftover, so.”

“I love it. It looks sick. Thanks,” he grins, carefully slipping it back down to loop around the hanger. 

“Sure.” You watch him hang it up on the outside of his closet, hands on your hips. “Now what?” 

“Now,” Bucky says with a flourish, “we take a much deserved break.” 

A break sounds exactly like something you and your claw-hands from spending so long on the ribbons could very much get on board with. 

Bucky drops back onto the bed where he’d been sitting earlier, the springs creaking underneath him. You get the same warm feeling in your stomach you always do when he does that, because it’s not just a preference. It’s because the other side is yours. 

It’s not like you spend the night, except for a couple of times you pulled all nighters studying for finals or that one time you tried partying and woke up nursing hangovers that felt like the flu, making dizzy pinky promises that neither of you would do any of that again. If Bucky had been attracted to you at all, you’re pretty sure vomiting in his toilet at two in the morning while he held your hair back would have probably killed it on sight. 

But Bucky doesn’t have a couch in his room, and it’s rare that the living room isn’t taken over by his sisters or parents. The bed is really the only seating other than the floor or the desk chair, so, yeah—you’ve got a side. 

For a few minutes you sit in relative silence on top of the sheets, catching up on notifications and sending funny videos back and forth despite being right next to each other. An ad for a music service pops up in between them, and you nudge him in the arm when you remember something. 

“Hey, didn’t that band you like just put out a new song?” 

“Nuh uh,” he says, quick and defensive. You wait. His brow furrows, and then he frowns at you. “…Did they?” 

You laugh, tossing your phone aside to nod at his. “I’m pretty sure.”

He scrambles for the music app on his phone, thumbs flying over the screen as he types in the name of the band. “What the fuck. They did. How the hell did I miss it?” He reaches for the headphones on his nightstand and scoots to the middle of the bed. “Get over here. We have to listen to it.” 

You roll your eyes but you’re grinning when he hands you one of the buds, fiddling with the wire to get it to plug in correctly. 

“I thought you said you were gonna throw these out,” you accuse, wincing as his thumb touches literal bare wiring at the base where the white cord has been torn. 

“They’re grunge,” he defends. 

“They’re broken,” you correct. “I literally don’t know how they still work after your cat got to them.”

“She didn’t mean to.” 

“She absolutely did.” 

“Aha!” he cheers, smirking when the little headphone icon pops up successfully on the top of the screen. “See? Good as new.” 

With the right and left earbuds split between your two closest ears, Bucky clicks the volume up a few notches and presses play, and the opening chords of the song start to drift through the wires. It’s something alternative, always is, and underground enough that Bucky can brag about it not being on the radio at school. 

You feel pretty good about playing it like you don’t follow the band on Instagram just because he likes them, and also have their notifications on. And also maybe you signed up for their mailing list. And also you’ve maybe been waiting since it came out yesterday to tell him about it just so you could see his face the first time he listens to it. 

It’s whatever. 

“Oh yeah,” Bucky chuckles to himself when the song ends and loops back to the beginning, “this’s going on the mixtape list.” 

You watch him click out of the music app and switch over to the notes, already open on the one with a list of tracks he wants to burn onto a CD. You’ve got a basket of the copies he’s made for you in the past, each one with your name scrawled across the clear case and the track list written in Bucky’s fond, familiar scrawl on the back. 

“I want a copy,” you tell him customarily. 

He pulls a face while he types. “Duh. You’re the only one I can convince to listen to my shit music anyway.” 

“It’s not shit,” you frown. “I like it.” 

Bucky pauses to give you a small smile, nudging your shoulder where it’s already pressed against his, then turns back to his phone. 

He finishes typing and slides back out to the aggregate list of notes, and your eye catches on one in particular that has a gray lock on the cover and no preview. You point at it before he can take it away. 

“What’s that one?” 

The screen abruptly goes black in Bucky’s rush to lock it. 

“Nothing.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, suspicious.” 

“It’s not mixtape related,” he dismisses, fiddling with the cord, but he won’t look you in the eye. 

“What, we suddenly keep secrets now?” you ask him. “Are you plotting murder or something?” 

He scoffs, overcompensating with dramatization. “As if I’d do that in the notes app on my phone. They’re listening to us, y’know. I keep trying to tell you.” 

“Not being very reassuring about the whole murder thing,” you deadpan. 

“It’s nothing,” Bucky insists. “Seriously.” 

You tilt your head at him, holding it until his eyes flicker over finally and meet yours. He’s holding them stubbornly but he’s lying. He’s terrible at it regardless, but it hasn’t been this bad since the time he tried to throw you a surprise party a few years ago and ended up blurting it all out right beforehand anyway. 

But not even your most serious expression gets him to crack. Your gut immediately turns cold and then sours at the idea that it might be something about a girl, and suddenly you’re not so sure you want to know anymore. 

“Okay.” You smile tightly and reach to pull the headphone out of your ear, leaving it laying on the pillow in between where you both sit against the headboard. 

Bucky tosses his head back and groans as you shift your legs straight instead of having them bent with your knees touching his thigh. “Don’t do that,” he says. 

“Do what?” 

“That. That look you get, like I’ve betrayed the code or something. It makes me feel all guilty.” 

“You don’t have to tell me, Bucky. Honestly. It’s fine.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. He takes in an inhale through his nose, holds it, then blows it out through his mouth. “It’s porn. Okay?” 

You freeze. 

“What?” 

“I know you heard me,” he mumbles. 

You blink. “You keep porn in your notes app?” 

“Well it’s not like I’m gonna bookmark it on the browser,” he huffs, dropping his head sideways to give you a look. “You’ve seen the way Steve steals it to Google shit all the time. I’d scar his precious, innocent mind.” 

You snort, both at the notion of Steve’s innocence and at Bucky’s insistence. “This is amazing. Bucky Barnes keeps porn in his notes app.” You shake your head, and Bucky drops his head into his hands with another groan. “Man. You think you know a guy. Do you write down the things you liked after you watched? Annotate the dialogue?” 

“God. This is mortifying. Shut up,” he says through his fingers. 

You elbow him, grinning. “Oh, c’mon. I’m laughing with you, not at you.” 

He lifts his head purely to glare at you. “I’m not laughing.” 

“Bucky,” you say, caught between being teasing or reassuring. 

There’s so much more you could say, sure. But his face has gone all pink and he’s refusing to look at you again, and he’s cursing so much at the broken headphones under his breath that you’re worried he might electrocute himself or something. 

“Oh my God. Fine.” 

You reach down in the sheets and feel around for your phone, pulling it up and unlocking it. 

His head snaps over to you then. “What’re you doing? If you tweet about this, I swear​​—” 

“I wouldn’t tweet about it, Buck,” you exhale, trying not to sigh. “I’m evening the score.” 

Before you can talk yourself out of all the reasons this is a very bad idea, you click on the browser app and slide over to the private tabs, scrolling up to the pinned URLs at the top. There’s only a handful of them, but they’re ones you swear by. 

“That,” Bucky says eloquently, looking over your shoulder and lowering his voice to a comical whisper. “That’s porn!” 

“I’m aware,” you tell him dryly, waving the screen around. “So. See? You’re not the only one who watches it. But I still reserve the right to make fun of the fact that you keep it in your notes. I don’t ever want to be adding to a grocery list and click on something unsavory by mistake.” 

“Wait a second,” Bucky says, completely ignoring you. “Scroll back up.” 

You pause, and dread begins to set in as his hand covers yours on the phone. “That was not the agreement.” 

“You were so brave about it a minute ago,” he teases, eyeing your face. “C’mon. I wanna see what you watch. It says a lot about a person, y’know.” 

You raise a brow, grappling for any remaining dignity before it’s stripped away completely. “You gonna let me see yours after?” 

Bucky nods so fast he looks like a bobble head doll. 

“Deal. Absolutely fucking worth it.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” 

You’re both oddly delighted and horrified at his interest in this particular facet of your friendship that hasn’t been explored before. You know pretty much everything about each other and what you don’t is usually a conscious choice, and this feels like crossing some sort of line. 

A line that’s probably going to be fun for him and lead to nothing but more unreciprocated feelings for you, but. Still. 

If this is the riskiest thing you do senior year, it’s probably worth it. 

You hand him your phone, and the noise he makes can only be described as gleeful. Your chest tightens, lips twitching the way they always do when he so clearly wants to know something about you, even if this isn’t the sorts of things it usually is. 

You watch him scroll with wide eyes and a pink lower lip caught between his teeth, eager in the way you’d bet most guys your age would be when presented with previously unseen debauchery. Some greedy part of you hopes, though, that maybe it’s a little about it being your debauchery that has him so excited. 

“Let’s watch one.” 

Your smile flattens. “What?” 

“C’mon. Put it back in,” he says, handing you the headphone back and scooting closer. “It’ll be just like those shit movies we watch and make fun of.” 

“Excuse me,” you say, “my collection is meticulously curated and mostly from women-owned companies and producers, thank you very much. There are storylines. There’s no ‘shit’—” 

“Broad shouldered brunette bangs sexy girl next door’,” Bucky quotes straight from the screen with a smirk, and your mouth hangs open for a moment before you shamefully close it. Your cheeks are burning. 

“Okay, well. The titles are shit,” you admit reluctantly. “But the videos are good.” 

Bucky only hums all too happily. “I’ll be the judge of that.” 

He clicks play once you both have the headphones back in, and you have to sit through thirty seconds of an ad about vibrating dildos before you can actually watch it. Bucky offers to add it to your cart, and you shove him so hard his headphone nearly comes out. 

After that’s over though, you both lapse into a thick, anticipatory quiet. The black screen gives way to a frame you’ve seen so many times you could probably draw it with your eyes closed, the opening shot of a girl on her couch, a book open in her lap and a candle flickering mutedly from the coffee table in front of her. It’s a lot like the way you would prefer to spend a night in, in an ideal world. 

To your surprise, Bucky doesn’t say much when the ‘broad shouldered brunette’ knocks on the front door and asks to borrow something for a recipe. He’s quiet too all the way through the amicable back-and-forth between the two actors, full of quips and witty—if not a little admittedly cheesy—one liners. By the time she’s gotten the sugar out of the pantry and set it out on the island, the two of them are getting along like they’ve known each other for years. It’s obvious that he’s finding reasons to stay, and even more obvious that she doesn’t want him to leave. 

And then Bucky’s very first commentary comes in the form of: “Huh.” 

You toss a glance at his tilted head and focused eyes, frowning. “What does that mean?” 

“He kinda looks like me.”  

You very narrowly avoid choking as your throat tries to seize shut, covering it with a cough as Bucky shoots you a cocky grin. 

“You wish,” you mutter, eyes pointedly on the screen, even if it’s too little too late. 

The most mortifying part of it is that he’s right. It’s not even something you’d done on purpose, but you have noticed some of the similarities throughout the times you’ve watched it. The dark brown hair that falls over his temples until he swipes it back with his fingers, the stocky, squared lines of his torso into lithe hips and thick thighs, the crooked smirk on his lips when the girl laughs at one of his jokes, and—yeah. The curve of his ass and the unmistakable print of his dick through his infamous gray sweatpants. 

So what if this video is nothing more than impossible wish fulfillment? It’s your secret porn tab, after all. 

Except that Bucky, apparently, catches on even quicker than you do. You can see from the corner of your eye how his keep flicking over the screen, cataloging the actors and the dialogue. 

The first time the man on screen steps forward, touches his fingers to the woman’s cheek and kisses her, both you and Bucky take in a steep exhale. 

It’s one of your favorite parts. Not only because the visual part of it or the rush you get when his tongue slips past her lips or when he backs her up against the island so she’s right up against his chest. You almost like it even more because it’s a catalyst for something, the braided string of tension that’s been steadily building finally cut, both actors more than eager to catch each other on the way down. 

The guy in the video kisses her like he’s been starving for it, as if the whole time they’ve been neighbors he’s been wanting exactly this. But even still he’s respectful, not pushy—you never like the videos that are. In fact, it’s her that reaches up to slip her fingers into his hair, and her that initiates it first when he lifts her by the thighs and sets her on the counter in front of him so he can stand between her legs. 

With even less space between them, the camera zooms in on a steady shot that’s close enough to see the spit connecting their mouths when one of them pulls away. The headphone you have in buzzes with panting breaths, her restless half-moans and his breathless curses as he takes her bottom lip between his teeth and sucks. 

You get so lost in the familiar image that for a moment, it’s like Bucky’s not even there. The intimacy in this one always gets to you, the way it seems like there’s a history there that you aren’t getting the full picture of. He touches her like he already knows every spot that’s going to drive her crazy, and she clings to him like the whole scene might stop if she lets go, hands curving over his shoulders, his neck, the sides of his waist to tug him even closer. 

But it is still porn, so they don’t stay just-kissing for long. His hands fall to her thighs and her ankles touch behind his back, and with a sharp gasp and a low groan, their hips meet in the middle at the edge of the counter. 

The obvious bulge of his dick grinds right up against her clothed cunt, her thin underwear and short pajama bottoms doing next to nothing to dull the sensation. She grabs at him even more frantically and he presses a hand against her lower back to help her move against him while his mouth falls to her throat, and suddenly you’re very aware of the fact that you’re beginning to sweat beneath your clothes. 

It pulls you back to the present long enough to realize that your breathing has picked up, your heartbeat quick and palms clammy in your lap. You freeze, weirdly afraid that if you move even the slightest bit it’s going to mean that you’re affected by any of it. But when you chance a look at Bucky beside you, any trace of the teasing smirk is gone, replaced with a focus that’s entirely different from the one that’d been there earlier. 

The couple on screen is openly and shamelessly grinding against each other now, her head thrown back and his mouth eagerly chasing her throat as he slips one hand down the back of her shorts and the other into her hair. 

Bucky is the first to break the no-movement stalemate, inhaling shakily as he shifts a little beside you. 

“You okay?” you ask, breathier than you mean to. “We can skip some stuff, or turn it off if you’re uncomfortable.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s…not a bad kind of uncomfortable. Just—uh…” 

He gives you a flushed, sheepish smile and then flicks his eyes down to his own lap, and—

And he’s hard. 

Not fully but enough to be noticeable, his jeans filling out under the seam. You look for what is probably a little too long, your mouth suddenly dry and head empty of anything except for holy shit. The temperature in the room rackets up again. 

“Oh,” you say softly, forcing your eyes back to the screen where the woman’s pants have disappeared, discarded on the floor, and the guy starts to kneel so he can eat her out. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” you dismiss too quickly, shifting. “It’s natural, right?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. There’s a brief pause filled with a loud moan as the guy’s mouth finally descends on her cunt, and then Bucky’s voice again. “Are you—? Um. Can I ask that?” 

You huff a nervous laugh, equal parts terrified and exhilarated as you tread on new territory with each other. “Yeah. I’m, um. Yeah. Me too.” 

“Right,” Bucky says. 

On the screen, the guy tosses her thighs over his shoulders as easy as grocery bags and goes to town. He keeps his hands on her hips to hold her steady and eats like it’s a meal, his blue eyes locked on her face while she moans and slips a hand into his hair. She bucks once against him and then, at his encouragement, begins to grind messily against his face. 

“D’you wanna—uh,” Bucky clears his throat, starts again. “Should we, like, take the edge off or something?” 

“Right next to each other?” you whisper, as if the mere suggestion hasn’t made your heart stop in your chest. “Wouldn’t that be…weird?” 

“I mean, it’s not like we don’t know everything else about each other,” Bucky reasons, turning his head to look at you against the headboard. For a moment it seems like he’s looking at your mouth, but his eyes move again before you can be sure. Open, earnest—still your Bucky. “It can just be between us.” 

You try desperately to think about this logically, because out of the two of you, you’re the one that usually does that. Bucky jumps in headfirst, and you’re the one who runs after him with a rope to reel him back in. 

You’d really, really like to jump this time though. 

“Just between us,” you echo. 

He nods, quiet. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

For a moment Bucky just blinks at you, still buffering as if he hadn’t believed you’d actually agree to it. And then he springs into action, keeping his head close and steady to yours so the headphones stay in but otherwise vibrating with restless movement. 

“We can—under the sheets, f’you want.” 

It seems reasonable (and also like you might make it out of this inevitably mortifying post-orgasm clarity with a little of your dignity in tact that way) so you follow his lead. 

Your own outfit isn’t even terribly different from the actress in the video, just less deliberately sexy. You’ve got on a pair of shorts you bought from a sale bin at the mall a couple years back, a loose t-shirt you’d thrown on just to come over to Bucky’s for a while. You’re not even wearing a bra because, quite frankly, the guise of propriety had faded quickly with you and Bucky and he’s always been perfectly respectful about your comfortability. 

Now, though—everything feels like more. Your shorts only highlight the bare length of your legs and feet stretched out against Bucky’s sheets under his duvet, and your t-shirt is thin enough that your aroused nipples undoubtedly poke through the material. You tug the blanket up until it’s just barely covering them, still unsure of exactly how far either of you are willing to go with this. 

By the time you’re both under the sheets and Bucky’s settled the phone against a pillow in between you, the couple in the video have switched positions. They’re in the hallway now, and you know this scene by heart; he’d insisted on moving to her bedroom so he could fuck her, and she’d insisted on stopping before they even made it there so she could get her mouth on him. 

Now he’s leaning back against the wall and she’s kneeling on the hardwood, her hands spanning his thighs while she bobs on his dick with her mouth. Their eyes stay locked the whole time, his mouth constantly moving as he showers her with low, murmured praise that not even the microphone on the camera can fully pick up, her flushed cheeks and wet eyes poised as if pleading for more. 

Lip caught between your teeth, you ease tentative fingers down the front of your t-shirt toward the wetness that’s been gathering in between your legs. You’re teasing the band of your shorts when you hear Bucky’s zipper come down, and it’s so unexpected and exciting that it gives you the courage to slip your hand fully under the material and over your hot cunt. 

There’s a rustle as Bucky gets a hand under the denim too, and the bulge of his hand under the sheets as he palms at himself is almost as obscene as the groan he lets out when he does it. He’s so lost in it when you look over that you’re not even sure he knows he’d made a noise at all, his brow furrowed in pleasure, pink mouth open and eyes narrowed into hazy slits where he’s looking at the screen. 

The guy in the video is fucking her face now, losing his composure as she moves her lips and tongue around him while he sets the pace. His chest is heaving where he’s lost his shirt somewhere along the way, and there’s flashes of movement from below as the woman rubs herself with her hand where she’s kneeling. 

A little braver, you slip two fingers through the wetness over your entrance and then slide them back up to rub over your clit, spreading your legs a little wider for more access. The movement seems to spur a chain reaction as Bucky lifts his hand from under the sheets to spit crudely into his palm with an evidently practiced motion, and then tucks it right back to touch himself properly this time. 

The subtle sound of skin on skin makes you bite down on a noise of your own, picturing Bucky’s fist working himself over. You’re half paying attention to the video and half to him, mindlessly cataloging the things he seems to like, the way he moves, the way he reacts. 

The length of the wired headphones means that your heads have to stay relatively close together, and it’s difficult to hide your reactions that way as your hand starts moving a little faster, rubbing yourself more like the way you’d do it if you were at home in your own bed. You can’t help the little gasp that comes out when you find just the right angle, blinking rapidly as you try to refocus on the video. 

They’ve moved again now, made it into the bedroom. You watch as he walks her back to the mattress and then lays her back on it, kissing his way up her body as he rids them of the rest of their remaining clothing. 

Well, everything but her sleep shirt. It’s gray and vaguely knitted, more aesthetic than it is comfortable probably, but you have to admit that it looks good. They look good together, you think—you wonder if you and Bucky would too. 

You know the video well, so you know precisely the moment that he’s going to slip two fingers into her mouth, make her get them wet, and then slide them down her body and promptly into her cunt. You time your own actions along with him, carefully curving one of the fingers you’d been using to rub your clit down and sinking it in. 

You fuck yourself with it nice and slow, working yourself open just like the guy in the video does for the woman. Your breathing has gone heavy again, eyelids fluttering, the mix of sensation and Bucky’s presence like a homemade aphrodisiac. 

When you slip a second digit in, it’s not as subtle. Your wetness is more audible around the stretch, and you whimper as it echoes from under the sheets even louder than Bucky’s broad strokes of his fist. 

“Fuck,” Bucky chokes from beside you. “S’that—?” 

Your face is burning, but it feels too good to stop or slow down. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“God. Don’t be,” Bucky breathes. “Don’t be fuckin’ sorry. That’s so hot.” 

“It is?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” he turns his head a little on the pillow, but his hand doesn’t stop moving. “S’that—okay?” 

“Uh huh,” you pant, hitching another gasp when you manage two fingers all the way to the knuckles. 

Your knee shifts again, giving you a wider berth, and you take full advantage of it, spreading the digits and sliding them in deep enough that your palm rubs against your nerves, curving them up and pressing where it feels even better. 

The man’s groan is loud in your earbud, and you drop your eyes back to your phone just in time to watch him sinking inside of her for the first time. You do moan then, eclipsed by the one from the woman on screen but loud enough that Bucky curses in response. You can see his hand moving faster now, sounding slicker, and you wonder if he’s the type to get leaky when he’s excited. You’d kill for a chance to find out, to use your mouth on him just like the girl in the video had, to have every part of him that’s been off-limits but never out of mind. 

For now, though, you focus on the overwhelming present. The noise of the actors in one of your ears and the noise of you and Bucky touching each other in the opposite one. The feeling of your fingers inside yourself and the muscles in your thighs twitching with tension and anticipation, the way a subtle layer of sweat clings to your skin underneath your shirt. 

In the video, the couple is fucking in earnest now. Her legs are wrapped around his hips and his hands are grabbing at her waist, her hands in front of herself to reach up and play with her nipples. 

It’s not something you ever pay particular attention to when you watch, but the sudden rough, raspy sound of Bucky’s voice in a way you haven’t heard it before makes you immediately perk up to attention. 

“You ever do that?” he asks. 

You give a weak, distracted shrug. “Sometimes, I guess.” 

He nods. “S’it one of those things they play up in porn?” 

“I’m sure some people like it,” you preface. “But I assume it’s one of those things that’s like—it doesn’t really feel like much when it’s yourself, y’know? Probably has to be somebody else to really feel good.” 

Bucky’s eyes, which have been steady on your face while you were talking, drop down to where the blanket has slipped low enough over your t-shirt for your nipples to be clearly visible through the material. 

“You need a hand?” he asks, then visibly panics. “Fuck. Sorry. Too far, forget I—” 

“Bucky,” you stop him. 

Desperate not to move backwards, you inch your free fingers across the gap under the sheets until you hit his hand.  You grab his wrist and take it back to your side with you, still looking at him as you drag it up over your hip and then up further—all the way until it’s underneath your t-shirt, his big, warm palm firmly grabbing one of your breasts. 

He squeezes once, seemingly on instinct, and you moan and arch up into it as your fingers move faster between your legs. 

“Fucking hell,” Bucky groans. He squeezes again, then readjusts so he can run his fingers over the hard peak of your nipple, tweaking one and then reaching across you for the other. “Feels like this should be weird.” 

You turn your heavy gaze to him again, so close and yet so far across the pillow. You lick your lips. “Is it?” 

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “Is it for you?” 

“No,” you whisper. 

“Cool. Good, I mean. That’s…” he breathes out, long and slow, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he greedily watches your reaction. “Really, really good.” 

He pinches abruptly, just hard enough for a spark of pain to send shockwaves across your chest, and your head lifts off the pillow with your desperate noise. 

“Bucky!” You whimper as you fall back again, fingers loose around his wrist while the others push into yourself quick and relentless. You keep curving them, trying to reach that spot, but they’re never really long enough to hit it all that well. 

“Yeah,” he says, rough and eager, “lemme hear you, sweetheart.” 

You don’t even need to look at the screen anymore. You’re pretty sure it’s fallen off the pillow between you now anyway, and neither of you can be bothered to fix it. But the headphone is still in your ear, and you can picture the scene just as well—know that if you could see it you’d be watching him pull out and flip her over, slip back in with a hand around her throat and one on her lower belly as he fucked her hard and fast. 

“I’m close,” you surprise yourself by saying, logic tugging at you from somewhere far away, needing to triple check that you’re actually going all the way with this. 

Bucky’s close enough now that your shoulders are touching again, and you can feel his hot exhale on your cheek when he says, “What’d’you need? You wanna come just like this?” 

You turn your head on the pillow, breath catching in your throat when you realize just how close your noses are to touching. Neither of you pulls away. 

You brace yourself, and then you jump. 

Bucky moans so loud that you spare a fleeting, grateful thought for the fact that you’re home alone when you use your slick-wet hand straight from your cunt to reach over and wrap it around his cock. 

His own fingers fall away from it immediately, letting you get a grip and set the pace. It’s faster than you’d usually go but you’re both already worked up, and you’re a little afraid of getting addicted to the way Bucky looks when his eyes roll back in his head like that. 

“Fucking—shit, baby. That’s—yeah, that’s it. Let me—” he gets a hold of himself enough to move the hand on your chest down in between your legs, and you spread them accordingly so that he can slip a finger right back where yours vacated moments before. You moan, clenching down on him, and Bucky curses beside you. “So fucking wet.” 

You try to focus on your hand, making the angle work for you as you stroke him with your wet fist and think back on the techniques you’ve seen in those videos. You slip down to the base to squeeze just lightly, and Bucky moans shakily as you make your way back up to the sensitive tip—where you can confirm now that he does leak. 

The head is sticky and hot, and you swipe your thumb over it curiously and bite your lip when Bucky’s hips roll into the motion. The couple in your ear is getting louder, noises coming quicker, the pace of skin on skin nearly frantic. 

“Does this feel good?” you ask him. 

“Little tighter,” Bucky grunts, then sighs when you follow instruction. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that. Gonna come f’you keep it up.” 

Any quip you might’ve had for that dies on your tongue, too overcome with want for anything else to function properly. Your mind flashes with something along the lines of if you don’t commit this to memory, you might never get to see it again, and then you’re tugging at the sheets as desperately as the man in the video had gotten to his knees earlier. 

Bucky quickly gets on board with it, and then both of you are scrambling to push them down past your knees. The headphones—somehow—don’t get disconnected, the phone itself tumbling out from a crease in the duvet and landing face down in the dwindling space between your arms. From the noises you know that she’s riding him now, the last position before they both come, and the unintentional time limit only spurs you on. 

The cool air of Bucky’s bedroom hits you everywhere your bare skin is exposed, your chest where Bucky’s hand had pushed your shirt up over your breasts, your hips where his fingers have shoved the material out of the way and your legs are spread. Maybe you should be a little self conscious, you think, but this is Bucky. 

(This is Bucky!) 

And, yeah—if you’d needed the reminder, he’s also exposed now that the blanket’s gone. His shirt’s ridden up to expose the lines of his hips and that hair you can never quit staring at that leads down between his legs, and when he slips the band of his boxers the last bit over himself, his cock springs free, hard and flushed in your hand. 

“Look at you,” Bucky says, doing precisely that when you glance over at him. He drinks you in once and then a second time as if for confirmation, his pupils blown and lip swollen from his teeth. “You’re so damn pretty.” 

You flush hot at the praise, even more so at who it’s coming from. 

“So are you,” you tell him. 

He laughs, a surprised, happy noise, and nudges you. “Thanks.” 

You shift your hips a little closer, letting his hand slip further between your thighs. “Can you—more?” 

“Whatever you want.” The finger he’d been steadily fucking you with turns into two, thicker and longer than your own, and you whimper at the stretch. “You sure? You’re—fuck, you’re tight.” 

“Not used to someone else’s fingers,” you admit. 

Bucky makes a strangled noise. “Sweetheart.” 

Your hips roll up and down in time with his thrusts, and you try to time up the strokes of your fist on his cock in a matching rhythm. The tips of his fingers just barely graze over your spot each time he pushes them in, and you could cry at how badly you want it. 

You take your hand off of his dick only as long as it takes to move it back between your own legs and cover his, guiding the curve of his fingers with your smaller ones until they curve in and up precisely where you need them. 

You cry out, back lifting off the sheets as Bucky starts to mirror the motion. “There. There.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Bucky agrees, propping himself up on his other elbow so he can lean over you a little more and keep it up. “So fuckin’ hot, sweetheart. I wanna see you come so bad. Been wantin’ it for fuckin’ ever, baby, c’mon—” 

He cuts himself off with a groan when your hand wraps around his cock again with renewed wetness and vigor, combining all the techniques you’ve seen him do and tried yourself. You grip him tight like he showed you and strip him quick, loose at the base and tighter at the top, flicking your wrist and swiping your thumb over the leaking tip. He’s a mess now, sticky and wet, and you think he must be as close as you are. 

You both go quiet again as the couple in your ears reaches a cacophony, the slap of skin brutal and unrelenting, her high moans and his deep, repetitive grunts, and time seems to hover on a precipice as you and Bucky work each other over with the same desperation. 

You can both hear the moment the actors shatter into a well timed release, and the noise fades into white altogether as you lock eyes with Bucky and start to come, your mouth wrenched open and eyes wet, his dick jerking in your hand as he starts to spill over the back of your hand. 

There’s too much sensation to focus on any one in particular, caught between the swollen grip of your cunt around his fingers and the stickiness of his release dripping down the backs of your knuckles; the frantic beat of your heart and the way he never looks away from your face as you say his name, not once. 

He doesn’t even take his eyes off of you after, which should feel invasive, maybe, or a little uncomfortable. But you’re staring at him just as openly as he hovers maybe a couple of inches above you, propped up and tentative, still wanting even after the haze of both your orgasms begins to fade. 

Your chin tilts up the slightest bit, and Bucky’s eyes fall right down to your still-open mouth. The video in your ears has gone quiet now, scene over and screen dark, and you forget about the headphones altogether when Bucky dips down enough to kiss you. 

It’s slow and curious, soft and sweet and careful and nothing at all like what you often picture kissing Bucky might feel like. But this is better, almost, because this way it’s so obvious that he’s being just as cautious as you are when it comes to what you have here—when it comes to wanting so badly but not being willing to fuck it up to get it. 

His lips move featherlight against yours, your bottom one caught between his as he sucks gently and flicks his tongue out to taste before pulling it away again. He shifts, adjusts, and does it again before he finally pulls back to hover above you again. 

“Still not weird?” he checks, his fingers splayed out, twitching, over your stomach. 

You slip yours into his. “Not weird,” you confirm. 

Something visibly shifts off his shoulder then, and a relieved grin breaks across his face quick enough to give you whiplash. “Cool.” 

“Good,” you laugh. 

You reach your free hand up to pull him back down to your mouth, and this kiss is much more thorough than the last now that you’re both not being so careful with each other. His mouth slots against yours like it’s been there a million times, and you stop trying to memorize things so much as just enjoy them. 

It doesn’t seem so much like this might be the only one you get anymore. 

“Bucky,” you murmur against his lips. 

He chases you when you retreat, then pulls back with a teasing grin when you follow. “Hm.”

“…He does look like you. The guy in the video.” 

His smile softens a little, eyes shining. “Oh yeah? S’that on purpose?” 

“Maybe,” you admit. 

He kiss you one more time, deep and stinging and seemingly for the hell of it, and then pulls back completely. 

“You wanna see my favorite video?” 

You nod eagerly, and he reaches over to wipe off with a tissue and grab his phone off the nightstand while you readjust your clothes and sit up. Bucky pulls up his notes app again, unlocks it, and clicks on the first link in the note. It opens in the browser, and Bucky moves the headphones over to his phone while it loads and you lean in. 

It takes a second, past the short ad and the introduction of the company who’d made the video, but then the actors come on screen, and—

She looks like you. 

“Oh.”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah. S’why I couldn’t show you mine first.” 

He stops the video and takes out your headphones, setting them off to the side as he moves in close enough to slip an arm around your shoulders and meet in the middle of the bed. You’ve been here countless times—through breakups and nightmares, family deaths and divorces, times when you just needed a good cry or he needed a hug he couldn’t ask for from anyone else. 

But neither of you are upset or hurt or grieving this time. It’s not an ending. 

Bucky shifts again, and you watch the confused turn of his mouth as he pats a hand over the sheets to find whatever’s bothering him. His hand emerges in front of you with one of the small red stars from the garter between his fingers, and he laughs lightly, cradling it in his palm. 

He stares at it for a minute, then looks at you. “Maybe you should add a few more of these to mine.” 

Your eyes flick up to his, but he doesn’t try to take it back. Even knowing what showing up in matching ones will mean. 

You hide a smile. Poorly. “Yeah, okay.” 

He presses in close, always having been touchy but it feels different tonight than before. Now it doesn’t feel like a friendly cuddle so much as it feels like he’s holding you, and you should probably pace yourself here, but…you really like it. 

“Wish y’could stay the night,” he murmurs, arm around your waist and nose against your cheek. 

“I can stay until your parents get home, at least,” you offer, suddenly grateful that you’d spent most of high school being too socially anxious to do much but hang out with Bucky—enough to earn the implicit trust of your parents. 

He hums. “Deal.” 

“Absolutely fucking worth it?” you tease, echoing his earlier words. 

Bucky smiles crookedly, turning your chin with his finger enough to smear a sweet, indulgent kiss against your mouth. “So fuckin’ worth it,” he breathes. 

You shift down to lean your head on his shoulder and Bucky falls asleep midway through talking about which songs he’s going to put on the mixtape he’s making for you, the little star rising and falling with his breaths on his chest, and you—

You’re completely, wholeheartedly happy with your cut of the deal.

.

.

.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

A part of you died with him the day they lowered his casket into the ground, and no one seemed to notice they were burying two people instead of one. Every inch of your body felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left behind, your eyes fixed, unblinking, on the perfect six-foot rectangle carved into the earth. It felt wrong, all of it, the neatness, the quiet murmurs, the way people dressed in black like that could ever be enough to honor something as loud and alive as him. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it, the way they made such a careful, reverent spectacle for an empty coffin. Eddie would have hated it. God, he would have hated it.

You remember days before, your hands shaking as you held his torn, blood-soaked body in your arms, the metallic scent of it thick in the air, clinging to your skin like it never planned to leave.

Your team had the “easy” part. That’s what they called it. Distract the demo-bats, buy time, get back through the gate. Simple. Clean. Manageable. But nothing in the Upside Down was ever simple, and you learned that quicker than anyone. You and Dustin sat on top of the trailer, your legs dangling over the edge while Eddie stood behind you, guitar slung low, fingers moving like second nature even as the world around you pulsed and rotted and breathed wrong. The sound cut through the air like a challenge, like a dare.

When the swarm shifted, when you saw that black, writhing mass change direction and come for you, everything after that blurred into panic and noise and instinct. You were supposed to jump. You were supposed to run. You were supposed to survive.

Inside the trailer, the bats came anyway.

They forced themselves through every crack and splintered edge, their bodies folding in unnatural ways, screeching and clawing and snapping as if the metal walls meant nothing at all. You could feel them before you could see them, the rush of wings, the heat of them, the sound drilling into your skull. You scrambled, all of you, tripping over each other, breath ragged, hands searching for something, anything.

Eddie got you to the rope.

You remember his hands on your waist, lifting, steady even as everything else fell apart. You remember the way your fingers burned as you climbed, the way your heart slammed against your ribs as you pulled yourself back into the right-side-up, gasping like you’d been drowning. Dustin was beside you a second later, and then you were both there, above him, reaching, screaming, begging—

“Eddie, come on! Come on, please!”

He looked up at you, and for a moment, for one horrible, suspended second, you thought he would. But something in his face changed.

And before you could understand it, before you could stop it, he pulled the knife from his pocket and sliced through the rope in one clean motion. It snapped, recoiling upward, leaving nothing but empty air between you.

“No—Eddie, no, what are you doing?!” Your voice broke, hands grasping at nothing. Your only way to him. His only way out. Gone. When you found him, it was already too late.

The ground was damp beneath your knees as you dropped beside him, the world narrowing down to the sight of him, barely recognizable beneath the blood and torn fabric, bite marks littering his chest and sides like something had tried to take him apart piece by piece. You didn’t feel yourself move, didn’t remember crossing the distance, only that suddenly his head was in your lap, your hands cradling him as if you held him carefully enough, gently enough, he wouldn’t slip away.

Tears blurred your vision, falling unchecked onto his face as you tried to keep him with you, tried to anchor him there. “C’mon, Eds,” you sobbed, your voice cracking as you hooked your arms under his shoulders, trying to lift him, trying to do something, anything. “Just—fuck—come on, please, please—”

He didn’t move. A broken, guttural sound tore from your chest as panic clawed its way up your throat. “Dustin!” you screamed, your voice echoing uselessly through the trees. “Help! Please!”

But Dustin was already there, or trying to be, dragging himself across the ground, his movements slow, uneven, his face twisted in pain from the ankle he’d wrecked on the fall. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fast enough.

“H–hey,” Eddie rasped, the sound wet and thin, barely there. His hand found yours, fingers weak as they curled around it, giving the smallest squeeze. Your heart shattered all over again.

“You…you gotta get outta here.”

You shook your head violently, tears spilling faster, your grip tightening like you could keep him here by force alone. “No. No, I’m not leaving you. I’m not—I’m not doing that, okay? You just need help, you need a doctor, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine—”

He coughed, and this time the blood didn’t stay hidden, spilling from the corner of his mouth, dark and thick, trailing down his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, like it was something fragile, something he was placing carefully into your hands. “You know that, right?”

“Eddie—” your voice broke on his name, splintering completely.

His chest rose once more. Then stilled. The grip on your hand loosened, slipping, his fingers falling away as if they’d never been there at all. A single tear tracked slowly down the side of his face, cutting clean through the dirt and blood. And just like that, he was gone.

And now, here you were, trembling over a casket that held nothing of him, your body swaying as the first drops of rain began to fall, slow and deliberate, like the sky itself was grieving something it couldn’t name. The clouds had swallowed the sun whole, casting everything in a dim, suffocating gray, and still, you didn’t move.

You didn’t feel the rain at first. Not when it soaked through your clothes, not when it clung to your skin, not when your hair began to cling to your face in damp strands. It was as if your body had forgotten how to register anything but the absence in front of you.

Wayne pressed an umbrella into your hand at some point, his fingers lingering like he wasn’t sure you’d stay standing without it, like you might collapse into the grave right alongside him. But you never opened it. You couldn’t.

Because leaving, even by something as small as stepping back, felt too much like letting him go.

So you stood there, unmoving, rain pouring over you in quiet sheets, eyes locked on the hollow space beneath the lowering coffin, waiting, impossibly, for something to change.

The last of the mourners drifted away in quiet fragments, their voices low, their footsteps soft against the soaked ground, as if even sound itself had the decency to tread lightly around him. Dustin lingered the longest, his arms wrapping around you in a damp, trembling hug, his breath uneven against your shoulder, like he was trying not to fall apart in your hands. Gareth followed, quieter, his grip tight for a fleeting second, like letting go might mean something permanent. And then they were gone.

It was just you and Wayne Munson, standing at the edge of something neither of you knew how to survive.

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, heavy, grounding, though it felt like nothing could anchor you anymore. When you finally looked at him, his eyes were rimmed red, worn down by something deeper than tears, something that had settled into his bones. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he was asking something of you he didn’t have the words for.

“It’s time to go.” The sentence didn’t land so much as pass through you.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t trust your voice not to break apart entirely. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, slow and mechanical, one foot in front of the other, as if you were learning to walk again in a world that no longer made sense. The distance between the grave and the car felt endless, stretched thin by everything you were leaving behind.

The drive blurred. The road, the rain, the silence, all of it smeared together until the trailer came into view like something distant, something familiar in a way that hurt. There was no conversation when you stepped inside. No agreement spoken out loud. Wayne didn’t ask you to leave, and you didn’t ask to stay.

He just let you exist there, in the space his nephew had once filled so effortlessly, as if he understood that sending you anywhere else would be like losing him all over again. And for the last three weeks, that’s where you returned.

Night after night, you found your way back to his room, the door creaking softly as you pushed it open like you were afraid of disturbing something sacred. His bed still smelled like him, faint but unmistakable, woven into the sheets, the pillows, the air itself. You would lie there in the dark, curled into the space he used to occupy, clutching at what little remained, like if you held on tightly enough, it wouldn’t fade. Like he wouldn’t fade.

You soaked in every trace of him you could find, every lingering ghost of warmth, every memory stitched into the walls, desperate and unwilling to accept that this was all that was left. Nighttime was the worst.

The dreams didn’t come gently; they came in waves, pulling you under before you even realized you were drifting. At first, they were almost kind, almost merciful. You and Eddie in some sunlit field that didn’t exist anywhere you’d ever been, the grass brushing against your legs as you ran, his laugh loud and bright and alive in a way that made your chest ache even inside the dream. He would grab your hand, spin you, say something you could never quite remember when you woke, and for a moment, just a moment, it felt like nothing had ever gone wrong.

And then it would shift like it always did. The sky would darken too quickly, as if something were swallowing the light whole, and that familiar, suffocating red would bleed across the horizon. The air would turn thick, metallic, the scent of blood creeping in until it coated the back of your throat. His hand in yours would grow cold, too cold, and when you looked at him, he wouldn’t be him anymore.

Flashes. Quick, violent, impossible to hold onto. His body on the ground. Blood. Teeth. Stillness.

You would wake up gasping, heart slamming, hands grasping at sheets that never felt like enough. But then the dreams changed, and they no longer pretended to be kind.

They dropped you straight into something darker, something that felt less like memory and more like a warning. The sky above you would be black, endless, stretching on forever without a single star to break it apart. And the sound, God, the sound.

Ravens circled above you, their silhouettes cutting across the darkness, their caws sharp and relentless as they called down to you, over and over again, like they were trying to say something you couldn’t understand. You would try to move, to sit up, to run. But you couldn’t. Because you were lying down.

Flat on your back. Surrounded by wood. The edges of a coffin pressing in around you, suffocatingly close, the lid just inches above your face. You could feel the weight of the dirt above you, could almost hear it, shifting, settling, sealing you in. Your chest would heave, panic clawing its way up your throat as the ravens grew louder, closer, their beaks tapping, scratching, like they were trying to break through.

And then: through the chaos, through the blur of wings and shadow, you would see him. Not fully. Never fully.

Just a silhouette standing above you, framed by darkness, still and unmoving as everything else spiraled around him. You couldn’t see his face, couldn’t reach him, couldn’t tell if he was looking at you or through you. But you knew.

“Eddie—”

And then you would wake up. Every time. The next night, you didn’t even try to sleep.

Instead, you found yourself back at the cemetery, like something had pulled you there without asking, your feet carrying you over familiar ground until you reached him. The fresh dirt hadn’t settled yet, still uneven, still wrong, the headstone too clean, too new, like it didn’t belong there.

You lowered yourself beside it slowly, your body heavy, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. The grass was damp beneath you as you lay down, curling slightly into yourself, your shoulder brushing the edge of his grave as if proximity alone could make this feel any less unbearable.

For a while, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the night, the distant rustle of trees, the steady rhythm of your own breathing. And then, a sharp, piercing caw cut through the silence.

Your eyes snapped open. Perched on the headstone above you, dark against the dim glow of the night, was a raven. It stared directly at you. Its feathers seemed almost too black, swallowing the light around it, its head tilting slightly as if studying you, recognizing you. Another caw echoed from its beak, louder this time, sharper, like a call meant only for you.

Your breath caught. Because something about it felt wrong. Familiar. Like you had seen it before. Like it had seen you. And for a split second, just as it shifted its wings, just as the shadow moved, you could have sworn you weren’t alone.

You began to see them everywhere.

On your walk home from work, perched along the telephone wires like sentries, their silhouettes sharp against the fading sky, heads turning in eerie unison as you passed beneath them. Through the classroom windows, just beyond the glass, one would sit unmoving on the branch of a dying tree, watching, always watching, its dark eyes fixed on you like it knew something you didn’t. At night, they gathered outside Eddie’s bedroom window, claws scraping softly against the glass, wings shifting in restless, whispering movements that kept you from ever truly sleeping.

At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence. A trick of your exhausted mind. Grief, warping the edges of everything until nothing felt quite real anymore. But it didn’t feel random. It felt deliberate.

Each encounter lingered a second too long, each bird holding your gaze with an intensity that made your chest tighten, like there was something just beneath the surface, something trying to reach you, trying to be understood. They weren’t afraid of you. They didn’t scatter or startle or fly off like they should. They stayed. And worse, you started to recognize them.

Not in any way that made sense, not in a way you could explain without sounding completely unhinged, but there was a strange, creeping familiarity in each glossy feather, in the tilt of their heads, in the way they seemed to follow rather than appear.

Like it wasn’t different birds at all. Like it was the same one. Over and over again. You told yourself you were losing it. That grief had finally snapped something in your brain, twisted your reality into something you couldn’t trust.

But every time you met its gaze, you felt it. That pull. That awful, aching recognition. Like you weren’t looking at a bird at all. Like something was looking back. It wasn’t just the birds anymore.

It spread, slow and insidious, bleeding into everything you looked at, everything you felt. You started to catch him in the edges of your vision, in the spaces just beyond where your eyes could fully focus. A figure in the corner of a room that vanished the second you turned your head. A shadow that lingered a moment too long, shaped just enough like him to make your breath hitch.

And it wasn’t just sight. It was worse than that. You could feel him.

In the air, in the stillness, in the quiet moments where the world seemed to hold its breath. Sometimes it was the faintest brush of something against your arm, gone before you could react. Sometimes it was the unmistakable scent of him, cigarette smoke and something warm, something his, curling through the room when you knew, you knew, there was no reason for it to be there.

It crawled under your skin, settled into your bones. It was driving you insane. You stopped trusting yourself. Stopped trusting what was real and what wasn’t. Every shadow felt like a trick, every reflection something you couldn’t look at for too long without your heart starting to race.

Yet still, you kept looking. Dustin found you like that.

Standing too still, eyes locked onto the raven perched across the street, your vision blurred with tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. The rest of the world felt distant, muffled, like you were underwater and everything else was happening somewhere far above you.

“Hey.” His voice was gentle, cautious, like he was afraid of startling you. His arm came to rest on your shoulder, grounding, warm, real. “You okay?”

You nodded once, the motion delayed, your throat tight as you forced yourself to swallow around the weight sitting there.

“Yeah,” you said, but it came out quieter than you meant it to.

You hesitated. Then, softer, “Do you ever feel like…” your voice faltered, eyes flickering back to the bird, still watching, still unmoving. “Like you see him?”

Dustin doesn’t answer right away. You feel it before you see it, the way his hand stills slightly on your shoulder, the way the air between you shifts into something heavier, something careful.

“No,” he says finally, and it’s quiet, but it lands hard. “No, I… I don’t.”

You turn to look at him then, searching his face for something else, something that might contradict it, but all you find is worry. Real, unfiltered, settling into the lines of his expression in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” he adds quickly, his voice softening, like he’s trying to reach you without pushing too hard. “That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you, okay? I mean—” he lets out a small breath, shaking his head slightly. “You went through… a lot. We all did. But you—” his voice catches for a second, like even he doesn’t know how to say it. “You were there. With him.”

You look away.

“I just think…” he continues, a little more hesitant now, “maybe you should talk to someone. Like, actually talk. Not just… keep it all up here.” He taps lightly at his own temple, offering you a small, almost apologetic smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nod again, automatic, distant. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”

But you don’t mean it. Because later that night, you find yourself somewhere else entirely. Lover’s Lake. 

The air is colder here, quieter, the surface of the water stretching out into a dark, endless mirror that swallows whatever little light the moon offers. The trees crowd close around the edges, their shadows long and reaching, like they’re trying to pull everything inward. You don’t remember deciding to come.

The bottle in your hand is already half-empty by the time you sit down near the edge, the damp earth soaking through your jeans as you stare out across the water. The burn of it lingers in your throat, sharp and familiar, something you welcome only because it’s something you can feel.

The lake is still, too still. You take another sip, your hand unsteady now, your thoughts quieter than they’ve been in days, like the noise has finally burned itself out and left nothing behind.

Your eyes drift to the water, tracing the faint ripples, the way the darkness seems to stretch on forever. You wonder, briefly, how cold it would be. How long would it take before you stopped feeling anything at all?

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Not if it meant…You swallow hard, your grip tightening around the bottle. Not if it meant being with him again. The thought settles into you, heavy, dangerous, but not unwelcome.

Romantic, almost. Tragic in a way that feels fitting. You could see him again. You could hear him, touch him, stop this constant, aching absence from tearing you apart piece by piece.

Your feet shift slightly against the ground, closer to the edge now, your gaze fixed on the black water like it’s calling to you, like it’s offering something in return.

And then, something moves. Not in the water, but across it. Your breath catches. On the opposite side of the lake, just beyond where the trees thin out into shadow, there’s a figure.

Still. Watching. Your heart slams violently against your ribs, the world snapping back into sharp, suffocating clarity as you push yourself up, stumbling slightly, your eyes straining to make sense of what you’re seeing.

It’s just a shadow, it has to be. But…The shape. The stance. The way it stands like it belongs there, like it’s been waiting. Your voice breaks before you can stop it. “Eddie?”

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But it doesn’t disappear either. And for the first time since the ground closed over his empty casket, you don’t feel alone. 

The figure doesn’t move. It doesn’t come closer, doesn’t call out, doesn’t do anything except stand there, just far enough away to feel unreachable, just clear enough to make your heart stutter painfully in your chest.

“Eddie?” your voice breaks, fragile, hopeful in a way that terrifies you.

And then, it’s gone. Like it was never there at all. The space across the lake is empty again, nothing but trees and shadow and the faint shimmer of water reflecting a sky that refuses to give anything back. You blink hard, once, twice, your breath catching as your eyes dart across the shoreline, searching, begging for something to reappear.

Nothing. Your chest caves in on itself. A sharp, broken sound tears out of you before you can stop it, something between a laugh and a sob, your hands dragging through your hair as you stagger back a step.

“Of course,” you choke out, shaking your head, your voice splintering. “Of course you did. You finally fucking lost it.”

The bottle is still in your hand. You don’t think, don’t hesitate, just tip it back and swallow what’s left in one go, the burn harsh and unforgiving as it tears down your throat, making your eyes water, your stomach twist. You barely register it, barely feel it over the ache already consuming you.

It doesn’t help. It doesn’t quiet anything. If anything, it makes it worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract you from it. From him. From the empty space where he should be.

Your knees give out before you realize what’s happening, the damp ground unforgiving as you collapse onto it, your hands digging into the dirt like you’re trying to hold onto something solid, something real.

A sob rips through you, violent and uncontrollable, your body folding in on itself as everything you’ve been holding back finally breaks loose. “I can’t do this,” you cry, the words raw, torn from somewhere deep inside your chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this without you, I can’t—”

Your voice dissolves into nothing, your shoulders shaking as you press your forehead into the ground, the cold seeping into your skin, into your bones, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin. It hurts. It hurts so much.

And suddenly, there’s only one way to make it stop. The thought comes quietly this time. Not frantic. Not panicked. Just certain. You lift your head slowly, your breath uneven, your vision blurred as your gaze drifts back to the lake. It stretches out in front of you, dark and endless, the surface barely disturbed, like it’s waiting.

Like it’s always been waiting. You push yourself up, unsteady, your body heavy but your mind eerily clear now, each step toward the water deliberate, measured. The mud shifts beneath your shoes as you move closer, the edge of the dock just a few feet away now.

Your heart slows. The noise fades. It would be so easy. One step, that’s all it would take. You inhale shakily, your eyes closing for a brief moment as you steady yourself, your lips parting as if to say something, though you’re not sure what.

Maybe goodbye. Maybe his name. Your foot moves forward—“Hey.” The voice is quiet. Too quiet, but it stops you instantly. Your eyes snap open, your breath catching as you turn, your entire body going rigid. 

He’s there. Closer now. Not across the lake. Not hidden in shadow. Right behind you.

Eddie.

Your heart lurches violently, your vision swimming as you take him in, every part of you screaming to move, to run to him, to throw your arms around him and never let go. But you don’t, because something is wrong.

He looks like Eddie. The same hair, the same frame, the same familiar silhouette you’ve memorized a thousand times over. But there’s something off in the way he stands, too still, too composed, like the movement has been drained out of him.

His skin is pale. Not just pale—ashen, like something that hasn’t seen warmth in too long.

And his eyes…You can’t quite make them out in the dark, but you know, somehow, they aren’t right. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You weren’t supposed to do that,” he says softly.

Your breath stutters. “…Eddie?” you whisper, your voice barely there.

He takes a step closer. And the air around you drops, cold and suffocating, like something unseen has wrapped itself around your lungs.

“I told you,” he murmurs, his voice familiar but distant, like it’s echoing from somewhere far away, “you gotta get outta here.”

Your heart breaks all over again. Because it sounds like him. It looks like him. But whatever is standing in front of you isn’t. Your breath stutters, then breaks entirely.

“No–no, no–” you scramble backward, your foot slipping in the damp earth as you fall hard onto your hands, the impact jolting through your arms. Your chest heaves, panic crashing back in full force, sharper than before, more real. This isn’t him. It can’t be him.

Your head shakes violently, eyes wide, darting over him like if you look hard enough, you’ll find the flaw, the crack, the thing that proves this is exactly what you think it is. A trick. A sick, twisted trick.

“Stop it,” you choke out, your voice trembling as you push yourself further back, your palms dragging through mud and dead leaves. “Stop! This isn’t funny, this isn’t—”

Your gaze flickers to his face again, and your stomach drops. Because he isn’t reacting the way Eddie would. He isn’t rushing to you. Isn’t panicking, isn’t asking what’s wrong, isn’t anything.

He’s just watching you. Too still. Too quiet. Like he’s waiting. Vecna.

The name slams into you like a warning, cold and immediate. Of course. Of course, this is what it is. You let out a broken, breathless laugh, something hysterical creeping into it as you shake your head harder, tears spilling freely now.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snap, your voice cracking as you drag yourself to your feet, stumbling back another step. “You don’t get to use him—”

Your heel catches on uneven ground, nearly sending you down again, but you catch yourself just in time, your body already turning, already moving. Run.

The instinct hits fast and hard, adrenaline surging through your veins as you spin and take off, your breath ragged, your vision blurred by tears and darkness as you push yourself forward, away from him, away from whatever the hell is standing back there pretending to be something it’s not. Branches snap under your feet, the sound too loud, too sharp in the otherwise suffocating quiet of the night. Your lungs burn almost instantly, your body still weak, still exhausted, but you don’t stop.

“Don’t—” his voice cuts through the air behind you, closer than it should be, closer than makes sense. “Don’t run.”

You ignore it. Your heart is pounding too hard, your thoughts spiraling, the image of him burned into your mind in the worst way, wrongwrongwrong—A hand wraps around your wrist. Hard.

You’re yanked back so abruptly it knocks the air straight out of your lungs, your body jerking to a stop with a choked gasp as your feet stumble beneath you. The world tilts, disoriented, your free hand flying out to steady yourself as you try to twist away, panic surging all over again.

“Let me go!” you shout, your voice breaking as you struggle against the grip, your nails digging into his arm, pushing, pulling, anything to get free. “Get off me—!” But he doesn’t budge, not even an inch.

His hold is firm, unyielding, like iron, like something that doesn’t tire, doesn’t falter. Your chest heaves as you finally manage to turn toward him, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, fear written plainly across your face as your eyes lock onto his.

Up close, it’s worse. So much worse. Every familiar detail is there, every line and angle and piece of him you know by heart, but it’s like something has been hollowed out. Like he’s been pulled from somewhere he shouldn’t be.

“Look at me,” he says, and it’s quiet, but there’s something in it, something heavier, something that makes it feel less like a request and more like a command.

You don’t want to. God, you don’t want to. But you do, and your breath catches all over again. “Please,” you whisper, your voice shaking, your eyes searching his desperately, trying to find him, just him, somewhere in there. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Something in his expression shifts. The stillness fractures, just enough for something warmer to bleed through, something achingly familiar that makes your chest seize. Something him.

Your breath hitches. “Eddie…?” it comes out broken, barely more than a whisper, like saying it too loud might shatter whatever this is.

His grip on your wrist falters, less like a restraint. More like he’s holding on. “Just—” his voice catches, rougher now, strained in a way that feels wrong and right all at once. He swallows hard, like even that is an effort. “Just listen to me, okay? Please.”

The word please nearly undoes you. Because it sounds like him. Not the hollow echo from before. Not the distant, wrong thing that made your skin crawl. This sounds like Eddie at two in the morning, voice low, a little desperate, trying to get through to you when you’re both too stubborn to back down.

Your knees almost give out. You shake your head anyway, tears spilling faster now, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth like you can hold yourself together if you just try hard enough.

“No,” you whisper, the denial weak, unraveling even as you say it. “No, you’re not—you’re not him, you can’t be, I watched you—”

Your voice breaks. His face tightens, something pained flickering across it, like your words are landing somewhere deep, somewhere he can still feel.

“I know,” he says quickly, stepping closer without thinking, like instinct is pulling him toward you even if everything else is wrong. “I know, I know—I remember, okay? I remember you—” his voice stutters, falters, like the memory itself is too heavy to carry all at once. “You were there. I saw you.”

Your heart stutters violently. “I’m not—” he drags a hand through his hair, the motion almost frantic, almost alive, like he’s trying to piece himself together as he speaks. “I’m not… the same. I can feel that. I know that. But I’m still—” He stops, like he doesn’t know how to finish it. Like he’s afraid to.

His eyes find yours again, and this time, there’s no distance in them. No emptiness. Just something raw, searching, and terrified. “Just don’t run,” he says, softer now, the words careful, like he’s placing them between you instead of forcing them. “Please don’t run from me.”

For a second, neither of you moves. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, but the tension in it has changed entirely, no longer something holding you in place, just something holding on.

Then, slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he does it too fast, he lets go. Your skin feels cold where his touch disappears. He takes a step back, putting space between you, hands lifting slightly like he’s trying to show you he’s not going to stop you this time, not going to trap you here if you decide to run.

“I’ll explain everything,” he says, his voice steadier now, but still threaded with something urgent, something fragile. “I swear to you, I will. Just…” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to ground himself. “Just please don’t run from me.”

You don’t move. You don’t trust yourself to. Your chest is still rising too fast, your thoughts too tangled, but your feet stay planted where they are, even as every instinct screams at you to leave.

He notices. And something in his shoulders drops, just slightly, like he was bracing for you to disappear. “I tried,” he says after a moment, quieter now, his gaze flickering away from you briefly before returning, like even looking at you is something he has to build up to. “I tried to stay away.”

Your brows knit, confusion cutting through the fear. “What…?” your voice is hoarse, barely there.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” he continues, shaking his head faintly, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t want you to see me like this, didn’t want to—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I thought it’d be easier if you just… remembered me the way I was.”

“But I couldn’t,” he admits, and there’s something raw in it now, something that sounds dangerously close to guilt. “I kept checking in. Just from a distance, making sure you were okay.”

“I saw you,” he says, softer now, like he’s stepping carefully through something delicate. “At the trailer. At night. You wouldn’t sleep. And when you did—” his expression tightens, something pained flashing across it. “You were having nightmares. Bad ones.” Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me,” he adds quickly, like he can hear the panic starting to rise again. “Not like that. The ravens, the—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated, like he doesn’t have the words for it. “It’s just easier. For me. To be there like that.”

Your heart is pounding all over again. “You were… watching me?” you whisper, the words fragile, caught somewhere between fear and something else you don’t want to name.

His face falls. “Not like that,” he says immediately, shaking his head, taking another careful step back instead of forward this time. “I wasn’t—God, I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just…” he exhales, the sound uneven. “You were getting worse.”

“I saw you at the grave,” he continues, voice low, steady but strained. “Every night. And tonight—” his eyes flicker toward the lake, then back to you, something sharper settling in them. “You weren’t just sitting there anymore.” Your throat tightens.

“I couldn’t stay away after that,” he says quietly. “Not when I knew what you were thinking.”

Your legs give out before you can stop them.

The adrenaline drains too fast, leaving you shaky, hollow, your body suddenly too heavy to keep upright. You stagger back a step, then another, until your back hits the rough bark of a tree, the impact grounding and jarring all at once. Slowly, like you’re afraid of collapsing completely, you sink down, knees pulling into your chest, arms wrapping tightly around them like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

You can still feel where he touched you, but you don’t look at him, not yet. Your breathing is uneven, hitching every few seconds like your body hasn’t decided whether it’s safe to calm down or not. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your jeans, gripping too tightly, like you need something solid, something real.

“Why…” your voice cracks immediately, barely audible, and you have to swallow hard before trying again. “Why didn’t you—” You stop, shaking your head, the question falling apart before it can fully form. Nothing makes fucking sense.

Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, like maybe if you block it all out, it’ll go away, reset, something. It doesn’t.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you manage finally, the words rushing out unevenly, tripping over each other. “I—I was there, I was—every day, I kept going back, I kept—” your breath stutters, your voice breaking again as frustration bleeds into it. “You saw me, you said you saw me, so why didn’t you just—just—”

You let out a sharp, shaky laugh, something on the edge of hysterical as you drag a hand over your face, smearing tears you didn’t even realize were still falling. “I thought I was losing my mind,” you whisper, softer now, more fragile. “I thought...I thought I finally snapped or something, seeing you everywhere, hearing you—” your voice drops, barely there. “I thought it was just grief.”

Your head tilts back against the tree, eyes finally opening, staring up at the dark canopy above you like it might give you an answer you can’t find anywhere else. “But you were there,” you say, quieter, the realization settling in slowly, painfully. “You were actually there.”

Your gaze flickers toward him then, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you look too directly. “Why didn’t you just… come to me?”

His answer doesn’t come right away. For a moment, all you hear is the quiet rustle of leaves, the soft movement of water behind you, the uneven rhythm of your own breathing as you sit curled into yourself at the base of the tree.

“I tried.” Your fingers tighten around your knees.

“I did,” he repeats, softer now, like the words cost something. “I tried to come to you. More than once.”

Your head tilts slightly, brows pulling together. “Then why didn’t you?” Your voice shakes. “I was right there. I kept going back—I kept—”

“I know.”

He steps closer, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile that might shatter if he moves too fast.

“I saw you,” he continues, voice low. “At the grave. At the trailer. You wouldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens slightly. “And when you did… I was there for that, too.”

Your stomach drops. “The birds,” you whisper.

He nods once. “Easier that way. Less me.” Silence stretches.

“You could’ve just come to me,” you say again, quieter now, more confused than angry.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair like he doesn’t even know where to start. “I’m not the same,” he says finally.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t staring. But there’s something too still about him. Something too controlled. Like every movement is intentional, like he’s holding himself together instead of just being.

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice barely steady.

He hesitates. Then, quieter, “I came back wrong.”

The words settle heavily between you. Your breath catches. “What kind of wrong?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath, glancing away for a second like he can’t stand to watch your reaction. “I can hear things,” he says. “Too much. Heartbeats. Blood moving. It’s like everything’s louder now, all the time.” His jaw flexes. “And it doesn’t stop.”

A chill creeps over your skin. “And when I get too close to people…” he trails off, shaking his head slightly. “It gets worse.”

Your heart starts pounding, and immediately, his eyes flick back to you. Too fast, too sharp, like he felt it. Like he heard it.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he says quickly, taking a step back now instead of forward, like he’s correcting himself, putting distance where there wasn’t any before. “Didn’t want you to look at me and realize I’m not—” he swallows. “Not safe.”

Not safe.

“But I tried to stay away,” he continues, softer now. “Just check in. Make sure you were okay.”

A broken sound leaves you. “I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

His gaze drops for a second, something like guilt flickering across his face. “I saw you tonight,” he adds, voice quieter. “Walking into the lake like it didn’t matter if you came back out.” Your chest tightens painfully.  “I couldn’t stay away after that.” 

“There’s something else,” he says, more hesitant now.

You brace yourself. “What?”

He looks at you again. And this time, there’s no distance in it. Just something conflicted. Something restrained. “It’s you,” he admits quietly.

Your breath catches. “What about me?”

He lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to stay in control of something you can’t see. “I can hear you,” he says. “Even when you’re not close. Your heartbeat, your breathing—” his voice drops slightly. “It cuts through everything else.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And it’s…” he searches for the word, frustrated. “It’s harder. Around you.”

Your chest rises and falls a little faster. His eyes flicker to your throat for half a second, then back to your face. “I haven’t hurt anyone,” he says quickly, like he needs you to know that. “I won’t.”

“I just didn’t trust myself to stand this close to you and still be me.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just sit there, staring at him like if you look long enough, hard enough, you’ll be able to separate what’s real from what isn’t. Your chest is still rising too fast, your thoughts tangled, but something in you has shifted.

The fear is still there. But it’s not the loudest thing anymore. “…I don’t care.” The words come out quieter than you expect, but they land heavy all the same.

His expression tightens immediately. “Don’t—”

“I don’t care,” you repeat, stronger now, your grip tightening around your knees before you push yourself up, unsteady but determined. “You keep saying that like it matters.”

“It does matter,” he snaps, sharper than before, something defensive flashing across his face. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it.” Your voice breaks through his, raw and desperate, cutting him off completely. “You think I care about ‘safe’ right now?” The word sounds almost bitter on your tongue.

You take a step toward him, and he takes one back. That alone makes your chest ache.

“I watched you die,” you say, your voice dropping, quieter now but somehow more intense. “I held you while you were dying, Eddie. Do you understand that? I felt it. I felt you—” your breath stutters, your composure cracking as your voice falters. “And then you were just… gone.”

His face softens, something pained pulling at his features, but you don’t stop.

“And now you’re standing here,” you continue, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, your hands shaking at your sides. “You’re here. I can see you, I can hear you, I—” your voice breaks again. “And you’re telling me to what? Be careful? Be scared of you?”

You laugh, but it’s hollow, uneven. “I’ve been sleeping in your bed for three weeks,” you whisper. “Talking to a grave like you could answer me. I almost—” you cut yourself off, your throat tightening painfully. “I almost walked into that lake just to be with you again.”

His entire posture shifts at that, something darker flickering across his face, something angrier, but not at you, but at himself.

“You don’t get to come back,” you say, softer now, your voice trembling, “and then tell me to stay away from you.”

You take another step forward. This time, he doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you’re different,” you whisper. “I don’t care if you’re dangerous.”

Your eyes lock onto his. “I don’t care if you hurt me.”

Something in him snaps. “Don’t say that,” he says immediately, his voice low, strained, like it’s being held together by sheer force. “Don’t—don’t say that like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you shoot back, your chest heaving. “It’s everything. It’s—” your voice cracks, softer now, more fragile. “It’s you.”

Silence crashes down between you. You can see every detail of his face, every familiar line twisted slightly by something new, something darker, something he’s trying so hard to keep contained. His eyes flicker to your throat again.

Just for a second, but you see it. And this time you don’t step back. “If that’s what this is,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper now, but steady. “If that’s what you are now, then fine.”

Your breath catches slightly as you take one last step forward, closing the distance completely. “Do it.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Don’t,” he warns, his voice rough, almost breaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Maybe he can. “I already lost you once,” you whisper, your eyes searching his desperately, something reckless, something aching bleeding into every word. “I’m not losing you again because you’re too scared of what you are now.”

His breathing changes. Like he doesn’t need it, but something in him is reacting anyway. “You think I don’t want this?” he mutters, more to himself than you, his jaw tightening. “You think standing this close to you isn’t—”

He cuts himself off sharply, turning his head away like he can’t trust himself to keep looking at you. Your hand lifts before you can stop it, hovering and shaking. Then, you press it against his chest.

The contact is enough. His breath catches.

His hand moves fast, grabbing your wrist: not rough, but firm, like he has to anchor himself before he does something he can’t take back. “Don’t,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, more desperate. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt. “Then show me.” 

The woods swallowed the last of the moonlight as you followed him deeper, away from the lake, away from the open vulnerability of that clearing. Eddie moved like the shadows had learned to obey him; silent, deliberate, every step placed with a predator’s care that the old Eddie never needed. 

He didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t crack a joke or offer some dramatic, theatrical line about “leading his fair maiden into the unknown.” He just walked, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, like he was fighting a war with every inch of ground you covered together.

You didn’t care. You’d follow him anywhere now.

The trees thickened, branches clawing low enough to brush your shoulders. The air grew heavier, damp with night and moss and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to cling to him since he came back. Your heartbeat was a drum in your ears: loud, reckless, alive. You knew he could hear it. Every frantic thump. Every stutter when his gaze flicked back to you over his shoulder.

He stopped in a small clearing ringed by thick pines, the ground soft with fallen needles and moss. No one came here. Not at night. Not this deep. It felt like the woods had been waiting for something exactly like this.

Eddie turned. Slowly.

His eyes caught what little light filtered through the canopy; dark, hungry, ringed with that unnatural red that caused your breath to hitch.  

“You still sure?” His voice was low, rougher than before, like gravel dragged across velvet. No theatrical flourish. No “princess” or “sweetheart” thrown in for flair. Just Eddie, raw, edged, the aggression simmering right under the surface because he was trying so damn hard not to let it out. “Once I start, I’m not stopping easy.”

You swallowed, throat dry, but nodded. “I meant it. All of it.”

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a growl caught in it. Then he moved.

One hand fisted in the front of your shirt and yanked you forward, not gentle, not careful. Your chest collided with his, and his mouth crashed down on yours: hungry, demanding, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You tasted the faint copper where he’d broken skin, and he groaned into the kiss like it was the best thing he’d ever had. His free hand shoved up under your shirt, palm hot and rough against your bare waist, fingers digging in like he needed to feel you were real.

When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged even if he didn’t strictly need it. “Fuck.”

He spun you, pressing your back against the rough bark of a thick pine. The tree scraped through your clothes, but you didn’t care. His body pinned you there, one thigh shoving between yours, pressing up hard against your core. You gasped at the sudden pressure, hips rolling instinctively, and he let out a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Greedy already,” he muttered against your ear, lips brushing the shell. “That’s my girl.”

His mouth trailed down wet, open kisses along your jaw, your throat, until he reached the curve where neck met shoulder. He paused there, lips hovering, breath cool against your heated skin. You felt his fangs: long, sharp, and they grazed lightly, teasing.

“Do it,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his wild hair and tugging. “Eddie, bite me.”

A shudder ripped through him. Then he struck.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh just above your collarbone, deep and sure. Pain flared bright and hot for a split second—then melted into something liquid and filthy and perfect. You cried out, back arching hard against the tree, but it wasn’t a scream of hurt. It was pure, overwhelming want.

The pull of his mouth was rhythmic, greedy, each swallow sending sparks straight down your spine and between your legs. Warm blood trickled down your skin where it escaped his lips, and he chased it with his tongue, lapping it up like he couldn’t waste a drop.

“Fuck—Eddie—” Your voice broke into a moan as he ground his hips against you, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently through his jeans. He was already rock hard, rutting slow and deliberate like he was savoring the way you fell apart from his bite alone.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips smeared dark red, eyes blown wide and feral. “Tastes so fucking good,” he growled, voice thicker, more aggressive. “Like you were made for this. For me.” He licked over the fresh punctures again, slower this time, and you felt the throb of the bite marks pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

Then he bit down a second time, a little lower, reopening and deepening the mark on your collarbone. The pain spiked sharper this time, but it only made the heat between your legs worse. Your hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging through his shirt as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly. Every pull of his mouth synced with the slow grind of his thigh against your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge without even getting your clothes off.

He finally released the bite with a wet sound, licking over the wounds once more. Blood still welled slowly from the two deep punctures, staining your skin and the collar of your shirt. He didn’t try to close them. Just stared at the mess he’d made, breathing hard, something dark and possessive flashing across his face.

“Need you,” he rasped. “Right fucking now.”

His hands were frantic but sure: yanking your jeans open, shoving them down your hips along with your underwear just enough to free one leg. He didn’t bother with the rest. One of his hands shoved between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your slick folds and pushing inside you without warning. You keened, head falling back against the tree as he curled them deep, stroking that spot that made your vision spark.

“So wet already,” he muttered, almost accusing, as it pissed him off how ready you were for him. “All this for a dead man?”

“For you,” you gasped, hips bucking into his hand. “Always for you.”

He snarled, like actually snarled, and pulled his fingers free. You heard the clink of his belt, the harsh rasp of his zipper, and then the blunt, thick head of his cock was nudging at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. He didn’t ease in. He thrust forward in one rough snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch burned in the best way. You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as best you could with your jeans still tangled around one ankle. Eddie didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked you hard against the tree: deep, punishing strokes that slammed you back into the bark with every thrust. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head, fingers digging into the wood.

Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you. Every snap of his hips made the bite marks on your collarbone throb hotter, blood still slowly trickling down your chest. You were dripping down his cock, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet woods.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dark and rough. When you did, his eyes were glowing faintly, fangs still extended, lips and chin stained with you. “That’s it. Want you to see exactly what’s fucking you.”

You moaned his name like a prayer, fingers clawing at his shoulders as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter. He leaned in and bit down on the same spot on your collarbone again, shallower this time, more possessive than feeding; teeth sinking in just enough to reopen the wounds and send fresh sparks of pain-pleasure shooting through you.

That was all it took. You came with a broken shout, walls clamping down around him so hard your vision whited out. Eddie groaned against your skin, hips stuttering, and followed you over the edge a few brutal thrusts later. He spilled deep inside you, hot and endless, grinding through it like he never wanted to stop.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hoot of an owl.

Eddie slowly pulled his fangs free, licking over the still-bleeding bites with surprising gentleness, smearing the blood across your skin rather than sealing it. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks.

“…Still me?” he asked quietly, voice hoarse, the aggression bleeding back into something almost vulnerable. “Even like this?”

You carded your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he lifted his head and met your eyes. Your collarbone throbbed, warm blood still trickling slowly down your chest, but you didn’t care.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice wrecked. 

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, then kissed you: slow this time, tasting like blood and sex and home. The woods felt quieter now. Safer. Like, even the trees approved. He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you there against the pine, cock softening inside you, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

He doesn’t say much after.

The shift is immediate, almost jarring, compared to what just happened. The sharp edge of him dulls, the hunger settling back under his skin like something leashed, barely. He helps you fix your clothes without making a big deal out of it, hands slower now, more careful, like he’s overcorrecting.

You notice he avoids looking at your neck for too long. The walk back is quiet.

His shoulder brushes yours every now and then, like he can’t help it, like he needs the contact to remind himself you’re still there. The woods feel different now, less threatening, like they’ve already taken what they wanted from the night.

When you reach the edge of the trailer park, he stops. You take another step before realizing he didn’t follow. Turning back, your chest tightens at the sight of him standing just beyond the dim glow of the streetlight, half-shadowed, like he belongs more to the dark than the world you’re about to walk back into.

“You’re not coming?” you ask softly.

His jaw shifts. “I can’t… not right now,” he says, quieter than before, like he’s choosing restraint over instinct. “Too many people. Too close.”

Your hand lifts slightly, like you’re going to reach for him again, but you stop yourself.

“Hey,” he adds quickly, taking a step closer, just enough to soften the distance but not close it completely. His eyes flick over you, lingering for a second on your collarbone before snapping back up. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your body still feels like it’s humming. “Yeah.”

“You?”

He huffs something that almost sounds like a laugh. “Ask me tomorrow.”

That earns the smallest ghost of a smile from you. Silence lingers for a second longer before you turn, walking the rest of the way alone. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there, watching, making sure you make it inside.

The next day feels wrong. Too bright. Too normal. The hum of the cafeteria, the clatter of trays, people laughing like nothing ever happened. It all feels like it’s happening behind glass.

You sit across from Dustin, barely picking at your food, your body still heavy with exhaustion, your mind somewhere else entirely. You can feel it. Every little movement pulls at your skin differently now, a dull ache blooming across your collarbone where his teeth had been.

You thought you covered it. You really did. A hoodie. Hair down. Sitting just right. But Dustin’s eyes narrow slightly.

“…You good?” he asks, already suspicious.

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers, scanning your face, your posture—then drops, just for a second, to your collarbone where your hoodie has shifted ever so slightly.

His expression changes. “Whoa—hey, what is that?”

Your stomach drops. “What?” you ask, too fast.

“That,” he says, leaning forward a little, pointing subtly. “On your neck—did you—did you fall or something?”

Your hand flies up instinctively, covering it. “Oh, yeah,” you laugh, but it comes out tight, forced. “I, um… slipped. Last night. By the lake.”

Dustin’s brows pull together immediately. “By the lake?” he repeats. “At night?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes, picking at your sleeve like it’s suddenly very interesting. “Yeah, I just… went for a walk. Cleared my head. Tripped on something.”

He leans back slowly, still watching you. “…That looks like more than a fall,” he mutters.

Your heart is pounding now. “It’s not,” you insist, a little sharper than you mean to. Then softer, quickly, “I’m okay, Dust. Really.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he knows you’re lying. “…Okay,” he says finally, but there’s no conviction in it. “Just—be careful, alright?”

You nod. But your fingers are still pressed lightly against your collarbone. And you can still feel it. The faint, lingering throb of where Eddie had bitten you. Like something that hasn’t quite let go.

By last period, you couldn’t sit still anymore. The classroom felt too loud, too bright, too normal, like the world had the audacity to keep spinning when yours had been completely ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. Your fingers kept drifting to your collarbone, wincing at the dull, throbbing ache beneath your hoodie, a constant reminder of last night. Of him.

“Not safe.”

The word echoed, over and over. You couldn’t accept that. So you left.

Mumbling something about needing the bathroom, you slipped out of study hall and down the quiet hallway, your footsteps echoing too sharply against the tile. The library was nearly empty, just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the soft rustle of pages somewhere in the distance. Good. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this.

You moved straight to the back, where the older shelves sat untouched, fingers trailing over worn spines until you started pulling books at random: occult, folklore, mythology, stacking them in your arms until it was almost too much to carry.

You dropped into a chair, the stack hitting the table with a dull thud, immediately flipping one open. Vampires.

Your stomach twisted. You skimmed quickly, eyes darting across the page. Wooden stakes. Garlic. Sunlight. You scoffed quietly, flipping past it. That wasn’t him.

Another page. Another book. More of the same. Until something different. Your eyes slowed.

“In certain cases, transformation does not erase identity, but distorts it. The subject may retain emotional memory, particularly toward individuals of strong attachment, though this often manifests as intensified fixation or hunger.” 

Your breath caught, your fingers clenching against the page. You could hear it again, your heartbeat last night. The way his eyes flicked. The way he stepped back.

You swallowed hard, flipping the page faster now. Curecurecure. There had to be something.

You scanned, jumping between paragraphs, piecing together fragments that didn’t quite fit.

Some claimed:

kill the one who turned them restore humanity through emotional anchors blood rituals, reversal rites

Nothing was consistent, nothing was certain. Your chest tightened. “No…” You whispered under your breath, flipping another page, more frantic now. “There has to be something—”

Another book. You grabbed it quickly, fingers trembling slightly as you opened it, scanning faster, messier—And then you stopped. Your eyes locked onto a section halfway down the page.

“Methods of becoming vary across accounts. In most traditions, transformation requires the exchange of blood: the human must ingest the vampire’s blood, followed by death. Upon revival, the subject completes the transition through their first feeding.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. You read it again, slower this time. Exchange of blood. Death. Revival.

Your grip tightened on the page. Your mind flickered—His blood. His teeth. The way he said you didn’t know what you were asking for. Your breathing started to pick up. You shouldn’t keep reading. You knew you shouldn’t, but you did.

“In rare interpretations, the act is voluntary, often driven by emotional attachment. However, such transformations are considered unstable, as pre-existing bonds may intensify both loyalty and dependency between the two.”

Your chest rose sharply. Voluntary. Your fingers drifted back to your collarbone again, pressing lightly against the tender skin, feeling the faint pulse beneath it. You thought about the lake. About how close you were. About what you said to him.

“I don’t care if you hurt me.”

Your throat went dry. Because now, this wasn’t just about saving him. Your eyes lingered on the page, unmoving. Because now you knew there was a way to stay with him. Forever.

By the time you make it back, the sky has already gone dark. The trailer park is quiet in that eerie, late-night way, a few dim porch lights flickering on in the distance, but Eddie’s trailer sits still and dark, just like it has every night this past week.

Wayne’s at the plant, you already know that. Still, the silence feels heavier tonight.

You fumble with the handle, stepping inside, the door creaking softly behind you as it shuts. The air is cool, untouched, the faint scent of him lingering in a way that makes your chest ache before you can stop it.

You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second. Letting your eyes adjust. Letting the quiet settle around you. Your bag slips from your shoulder onto the floor with a soft thud, your fingers drifting absentmindedly to your collarbone again, tracing the tender skin beneath your hoodie. Exchange of blood. Death. Revival.

Your stomach twists. You take a step forward, and a hand clamps over your mouth. Your body jerks violently, a scream caught in your throat as you’re yanked backward, your back hitting a solid chest, your heart instantly slamming against your ribs in pure panic—“Shh—hey, hey—”

The voice hits you first. Low. Familiar. Your breath stutters. And then, a quiet, almost amused hum against your ear.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Your entire body goes still. The hand over your mouth loosens slowly, like he knows you won’t scream now, like he knows exactly what that voice does to you. You turn in his hold, your breath uneven, eyes wide, and there he is.

Closer than he’s been since last night. Closer than he probably should be. Your chest rises sharply.

“You—” your voice catches, still shaky from the suddenness of it. “You scared the shit out of me—”

“Yeah, I got that,” he murmurs, something almost playful threading through his tone as his hands settle at your waist, steadying you like you might fall apart otherwise. But something’s different. Not just that he’s here. It’s the way he’s looking at you. Brighter. Sharper.

There’s an energy to him now that wasn’t there last night, something less restrained, less afraid. Like whatever was holding him back has loosened. Your breath catches slightly.

“You’re… here,” you say, softer now, like you’re still not entirely convinced this is real.

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s nothing, like showing up in your dark house unannounced is completely normal. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your side, a small, grounding touch that lingers a second too long. “Miss me?”

There’s a hint of something there. Something warmer. Something almost possessive. Your stomach flips.

His gaze flickers over your face, then lower, to your throat. To your collarbone. Where the marks sit hidden beneath fabric. His jaw tightens for just a second. Then relaxes.

“You went digging today,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Your heart stops. “…What?”

His lips twitch slightly, like he’s entertained by your reaction. “Library,” he adds, tilting his head just a bit, watching you carefully. “Back shelves. Occult section. You always go straight for the good stuff.”

Your breath goes shallow. “How do you—”

“I can feel you,” he cuts in, softer now, stepping just a little closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Remember?” Your pulse spikes instantly.

Something in his expression shifts at the sound of it, something darker, something pleased in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. “I was just looking,” you manage, your voice uneven.

“For a cure?” he asks.

Your silence is answer enough. A quiet hum leaves him, something thoughtful, something almost amused.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Figured.”

Your brows pull together. “You don’t want one?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

His eyes snap back to yours. And for a second, there’s something intense there. Something that wasn’t there before. “Why would I?” he asks, quieter now, but there’s weight behind it.

Your chest tightens. “Because this isn’t—this isn’t you,” you say, stepping back slightly, even though you don’t really want to. “You said it yourself, you’re not the same—”

“I said I’m not safe,” he corrects, stepping forward to close the distance you just created, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he does.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not me.” His voice is firmer now, more certain. And there’s something else underneath it, something that feels dangerously close to attachment.

“I feel more like myself than I have in a long time,” he adds, quieter, his gaze softening just slightly as it traces over your face. “Everything’s clearer now.”

Your heart is racing again. And he’s closer, so much closer.

“You,” he says softly, almost like he’s thinking out loud now, his hand lifting without hesitation, brushing lightly along your arm. “You’re louder, though.”

Your breath hitches. His fingers trail slowly upward. Intentional. Measured. Until they stop just beneath your collarbone. Right where it still aches.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, something warmer creeping back in. “Could feel it from here.”

Your pulse jumps violently. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and focused. “Tell me what you found,” he says softly. It doesn’t feel like a request. Your throat feels tight. His fingers are still resting just beneath your collarbone, warm, deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, like he can feel every shift in your pulse under his touch.

You swallow hard. “I…” your voice falters for a second, your eyes flicking down before forcing yourself to meet his again. “I found a way.”

That catches his attention immediately. His hand stills. “A way to what?” he asks, quieter now, something cautious slipping into his tone.

Your heart pounds. “To turn,” you admit, the word sitting heavy between you. “Like you.”

His expression changes. Not dramatically, not violently, but enough. The warmth in his face pulls back slightly, something more guarded taking its place, something that wasn’t there a second ago.

“No,” he says, almost instantly. It’s not loud, but it’s firm.

You blink. “Eddie—”

“No,” he repeats, sharper this time, his hand dropping from your collarbone as he takes a small step back, like he needs the space to think. “We’re not—no.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t even hear what I found—”

“I don’t need to,” he cuts in, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he did the night before, like he’s trying to burn off the reaction. “You don’t get to just decide that.”

“I’m not deciding,” you snap back, frustration creeping in. “I’m thinking about it, because you’re standing here telling me you’re not safe, and I’m supposed to just—what? Pretend that fixes itself?”

“That’s not your problem to fix,” he says quickly.

“It is if it’s you,” you shoot back.

He stops pacing, turning to look at you. Something flickers again: conflict, frustration, something softer buried underneath. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, quieter now, but no less serious.

“And you don’t get to decide that for me,” you reply, just as soft, but stubborn.

Another silence, longer this time. Then, he exhales, long and slow. Like he’s letting the tension bleed out instead of letting it explode. “…We’re not doing this tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“We’re not talking about this,” he clarifies, glancing at you again, something gentler creeping back in despite himself. “Not when you just—” his jaw tightens slightly. “Not when everything’s still this.”

Your frustration lingers, but it softens around the edges. “…Then what are we doing?” you ask.

He hesitates. Then something shifts. “Normal,” he says, like he’s testing the word out. “We’re gonna try normal.”

You almost laugh. “Normal?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he shrugs lightly, though there’s something intentional behind it. “Like we used to. Before all the—” he gestures vaguely, meaning everything. “Sit on the couch. Watch something stupid. Not much talking, especially not about blood or turning or any of that.”

Your chest tightens from the effort in it. At the way he’s trying. “…Okay,” you say quietly.

The TV hums softly in the background. Some random late-night rerun you’re not even really paying attention to flickers across the screen, casting dim light across the trailer. The only real illumination in the room.

Your shoulder brushes his, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. Neither do you. For a while, it’s quiet. Almost normal. Almost. Until his hand finds yours. Slow. Careful. Like he’s asking without saying anything.

You turn slightly toward him. He’s already looking at you. And something about that look; softer now, less restrained, but still intense—makes your breath catch.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You huff out the smallest breath of a laugh. “Hi.”

And then he leans in. The kiss is slower than last night. Not desperate. Not hungry in the same way. But it’s still him.

Warm, familiar, a little rough around the edges, like he doesn’t quite know how to do gentle anymore but he’s trying anyway. His hand lifts to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he deepens it, pulling you just a little closer.

You melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt, grounding yourself in something that feels real, something that feels like before, even if it’s not. His other hand settles at your waist, steady, holding you there like he doesn’t want to let go.

For a moment, you almost forget. Forget the lake.  Forget the blood.  Forget everything. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. Until—

“—authorities are still investigating what appears to be a brutal animal attack—”

The words cut through the room. Sharp. You both freeze. The TV drones on, the volume low but suddenly too loud.

“…local Hawkins farm reported multiple livestock found drained of blood earlier this morning…”

Your stomach drops. Eddie goes completely still beside you. You pull back slowly, your breath catching as you look at him. His eyes are locked on the TV. Unblinking.

“…no signs of known predators—”

The reporter’s voice continues, but it fades under the sound of your own heartbeat. His throat moves like he’s swallowing something down. “Eddie…?” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you. Not right away. When he finally does, there’s something different there again. Something darker.

“I didn’t do that,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Your heart stutters.

“I didn’t,” he repeats, softer now, like he needs you to believe it. “I haven’t—” He cuts himself off. Because the silence after that says enough.

The silence after the TV report lingers longer than it should, stretching thin and tight between you like something waiting to snap, the low hum of the broadcast still flickering in the background as neither of you moves, neither of you quite sure how to bridge the space that just opened up.

You’re still half turned toward him, your body angled in, your lips parted like you were about to say something, but the words stall somewhere in your throat when you catch the way he’s looking at the screen, too still, too focused, like he’s listening to something deeper than the report itself.

“Eddie…” your voice comes softer this time, less accusing, more careful.

He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to steady himself before he answers, and when he does, his voice is quieter, but more grounded. “I didn’t do that,” he says, not defensive now, just certain, his gaze finally shifting back to you. “I haven’t gone anywhere near the farms.”

Your shoulders loosen slightly at that, not fully, but enough, your eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation, any crack in what he’s saying.

“Then what have you been doing?” you ask, your tone gentler now, curious more than afraid.

There’s a brief pause, like he’s deciding how honest to be, before he answers. “I feed,” he says simply, the bluntness of it still making your chest tighten, even if you were expecting it. “Just not like that.”

You nod slightly, like you already understand, like you’ve already accepted it in a way that surprises even you. “On what?” you ask quietly.

“Whatever I can find out in the woods,” he says, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “Deer, squirrels… anything that keeps it under control without hurting anyone.”

The way he says it, like it matters, like you matter in that equation, settles something in your chest instead of stirring fear. Your gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, softer now. “And me?”

The question comes out gently. Something shifts in him again, but this time it isn’t sharp or defensive; it’s quieter, more intentional, the kind of care that feels heavier than anything else he’s said.

“That’s different,” he says, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s making sure you have time to move away if you want to.

“I only feed on you if you let me,” he continues, his voice low, steady, grounded in something that feels like a promise instead of a warning. “I’m not gonna take from you. Not unless you ask me to.”

Your breath catches slightly, but not from fear. From the weight of it. From the way he’s choosing restraint, even now. You nod once, small but certain, your fingers brushing lightly over your collarbone where the marks still ache faintly beneath your clothes.

“Okay,” you say softly. And you mean it.

Something in his shoulders eases at that, just slightly, like he was waiting for resistance that never came, like your acceptance steadies him more than anything else could. The quiet settles again, but it feels different now, less sharp, less threatening, like something fragile has been acknowledged instead of avoided.

And then—A knock. Loud. Sudden. Jarring against everything you just built. You both flinch slightly, your head snapping toward the door as the sound comes again, sharper this time.

“Hey! Open up!”

Your stomach drops instantly. “Shit,” you breathe, already moving, already piecing it together.

“Who is that?” Eddie asks quickly, his body shifting, alert now, the ease from seconds ago gone in an instant.

“Dustin,” you say, your voice rushing as you glance toward the door, then back to him. “And—wait—”

Another voice filters through. “…and Mike and Will.”

Everything in the room shifts. Eddie stills for half a second, then moves, the motion so fast it barely registers, one moment standing in front of you and the next already at the window, pushing it open with quiet precision as the curtain flutters in the sudden rush of cool air.

“Eddie—” you start, your voice catching as you follow him with your eyes.

He glances back at you once, his expression sharper now, focused. “Act normal,” he says quietly. And then he’s gone. The absence hits just as quickly as his presence did, the window left slightly ajar, the night air slipping in as if nothing had happened at all.

Another knock rattles the door. “Seriously, open up!”

You force your breathing to steady as you move toward it, your hand lingering on the handle for half a second before you pull it open. Dustin stands there, eyes wide and alert, with Mike and Will just behind him, all three of them looking like they came here with a purpose.

“What’s going on?” you ask, keeping your tone as even as possible as you step aside to let them in.

Dustin doesn’t answer right away, already moving past you into the trailer like he’s mid-thought, like he’s been running through something in his head for a while now. “Okay, don’t freak out,” he says, which immediately makes your chest tighten, “but something weird is going on.”

Mike shuts the door behind them, glancing back at you briefly before looking at Dustin again. “The farm thing isn’t normal,” he adds quickly. “Like, at all.”

Will lingers near the doorway for a second longer, his expression more unsettled than the others, his gaze flickering around the space like he’s trying to place something he can’t quite name. “It doesn’t feel like before,” he says quietly. “But it’s still… wrong.”

Your heart is still beating a little too fast, but you keep your posture steady, your expression neutral. “…What are you saying?” you ask.

“That it might be happening again,” Dustin says, turning toward you now, his voice dropping slightly. “Like, Vecna, Upside Down, again.”

The words settle heavily in the room. Behind them, the window remains cracked open, the curtain shifting slightly with the breeze. Dustin pauses. His nose wrinkles slightly. He takes a small step forward, like he’s trying to place something.

“…Do you guys smell that?” he asks slowly.

Your entire body stills.

Mike frowns, glancing around. “Smell what?”

“Like—” Dustin gestures vaguely. “Smoke, or something.”

Will tilts his head slightly, his expression tightening. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

Your mind moves quickly, faster than your fear can catch up. You let out a small breath, shaking your head lightly as if it’s nothing, stepping casually further into the room, subtly positioning yourself between them and the window.

“It’s probably just me,” you say, your tone easy, almost dismissive. “I’ve been staying here all week, remember? Wearing his clothes and everything.” You give a small shrug, like it’s obvious. “They still smell like him.”

Dustin studies you, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes that in, like he’s weighing it, turning it over. “…Yeah,” he says finally, though it comes out slower than before. “Okay. That makes sense.”

But something in his expression lingers, like he’s not fully convinced. And as the conversation shifts, as they start throwing around theories and half-formed explanations, your attention drifts anyway, your focus pulling somewhere else entirely.

Toward the window. Toward the dark just beyond it. Because even though he’s gone, you can still feel him there. Waiting. 

The conversation drags on longer than you can focus on, Dustin pacing, Mike throwing out theories, Will quieter than the rest, his eyes drifting every so often like he’s trying to feel something just out of reach. You nod when you’re supposed to, answer when they look at you, but your attention is already somewhere else.

The window. The slight movement of the curtain. The feeling that hasn’t left your chest since he disappeared. Eventually, they leave.

Not all at once, not dramatically, just a slow unraveling of urgency that turns into, “We’ll check the farm tomorrow,” and “Just—be careful, okay?” and Dustin lingering for a second longer than the others, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t.

The window is still open, the curtain lifting slightly with the night air, and for a moment there’s nothing there, just darkness and trees and the distant hum of insects. Your heart sinks—“Miss me already?”

You don’t even flinch this time. He’s sitting on the edge of the window frame like he never left, one leg inside, one still outside, his hands braced loosely on either side of him, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You exhale, something soft and almost relieved escaping you. “You’re not subtle,” you say quietly.

He smirks, just a little. “Never claimed to be.”

But there’s something else there tonight. He drops down fully into the trailer, landing without a sound, straightening slowly as his eyes find you again, and the air shifts almost immediately, like something has tightened between you without either of you saying a word.

“You okay?” he asks, softer now, stepping closer.

You nod. “They think it’s Vecna again.”

His jaw ticks slightly. “Figures.”

Then your eyes flick to him, something heavier sitting behind them now. “I found something else,” you say.

He already knows where this is going. You can see it in the way his shoulders shift, in the way his gaze sharpens just slightly.

“We’re not—” he starts.

“I’m not saying we’re doing it,” you cut in quickly, stepping closer, your voice quieter now but more intense. “I’m just saying… I know how.”

That stops him. Not fully—but enough. Your heart is already starting to race again, your thoughts moving faster than your caution.

“It’s not random,” you continue, your words coming a little quicker now, like if you stop you won’t be able to say it at all. “It’s controlled. Blood, then—death, then—”

“Stop.” The word is soft, but it sticks.

“You shouldn’t even be thinking about that,” he says, quieter now, his voice losing its edge and slipping into something lower, something more dangerous in a completely different way.

“Why?” you ask, your breath catching slightly. “If I were like you, you wouldn’t have to hold back.”

His eyes snap to yours, and something flickers. Not anger, not exactly. Something deeper. “You think that fixes it?” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice dropping with each word. “You think that makes this easier?”

Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast. He hears it, clenching his jaw.  “I think it means I don’t have to watch you fight yourself every time you look at me,” you whisper.

That does it. The space between you disappears. He’s in front of you in a second, one hand coming up to your jaw, not rough but firm, tilting your head just enough that you have no choice but to look at him.

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?” he asks, voice low, strained, but not pulling away this time.

Your breath stutters. “Yes.”

And you mean it. That’s what makes it worse. His gaze drops to your throat, your collarbone, the marks. Still there. Still his. His thumb brushes just beneath them, slow, deliberate, like he’s remembering exactly how they got there. Your pulse spikes.

His breath catches. You nod your head, eyes flicking between him and your neck.

That’s all it takes. He leans in, but not to kiss you. His mouth hovers just above your skin, right where your pulse is strongest, his breath cool against the warmth of you, and for a second, just a second, he doesn’t move. Like he’s deciding. Like he’s choosing.

Then, his hand tightens slightly at your jaw. And he bites. This time, it’s not hesitant.  His teeth sink in deeper, sharper, a sudden flare of pain that makes your body jolt, your hands gripping onto him instantly—but it melts just as quickly into something heavier, hotter, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your knees threaten to give out.

His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall, holding you upright as he drinks, slower than before but more certain, like he’s stopped second-guessing himself, like he’s giving in just enough to take what he needs without losing control completely.

Your heartbeat is everywhere. In your ears. In your chest. In him. He groans softly against your skin, the sound low and rough, and it sends something sharp down your spine, your fingers tangling in his shirt as your body leans into him instead of away.

“Fuck—” he breathes, barely pulling back, his lips brushing over the wound before he presses in again, not as deep this time, more controlled, more measured, like he’s pacing himself.

You don’t tell him to stop. You don’t want to. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges, your body warm, heavy, your head falling lightly against his shoulder as your grip on him tightens.

After a moment, seconds, minutes, you’re not even sure, he pulls back. Breathing harder than he should be. Eyes darker than before. But still him. Still there. His thumb brushes over the bite, slower now, almost grounding, like he’s checking you, making sure you’re still with him.

“…You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

Your breath is uneven, but you nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. And you are, that’s the problem. Because now, you don’t want him to stop. 

He doesn’t move right away after pulling back. His hand stays on you, steady and grounding, like he doesn’t trust what happens if he lets go too soon, his thumb brushing slowly over the fresh mark he just left behind, the motion softer now, almost absentminded, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re still here, still breathing, still okay.

“…You okay?” he asks again, his voice quieter this time, rough around the edges in a way that doesn’t come from feeding alone.

Your breathing is uneven, but not in the way it was before, not panicked or disoriented, not slipping out of your control. Something else. Something warmer. You nod, but it comes a second too late, like your body is catching up to the answer your mind already settled on.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your voice slower than usual, a little lower, like it has to travel farther to reach him. “I’m okay.” And you are. That’s the part that feels strange.

Because you don’t pull away, don’t create distance, don’t do anything that would make this feel like something to recover from. Instead, you stay exactly where you are, your body still close to his, your forehead brushing lightly against his shoulder for a second as your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, not out of weakness, but out of something steadier, something more intentional. You feel aware.

Your heartbeat is still fast, but it no longer feels chaotic, no longer something your body is struggling to control. It feels loud, purposeful, like you can feel it everywhere at once, in your throat, in your chest, in the tips of your fingers, like it’s echoing through you instead of staying contained.

Your hand lifts slowly, almost unconsciously, drifting back to your collarbone where the bite sits warm beneath your skin, your fingers brushing over it lightly as if you expect it to hurt more than it does. It doesn’t. If anything, it pulses.

“That didn’t feel like last time,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. He stills immediately, you feel it. Not just in the way his body goes quiet, but in the way his attention sharpens, his gaze locking onto you with something that wasn’t there a second ago.

“What do you mean?” he asks, slower now, more careful.

You hesitate, trying to find the right words, your fingers still resting against your skin. “I don’t know,” you admit softly, your eyes flicking up to meet his. “It just… didn’t hurt the same.” That’s not entirely true. It did hurt. But it wasn’t the part that stayed with you.

Your hand drops back down slowly, your fingers brushing against his shirt again without really thinking about it, grounding yourself in him instead of pulling away.

“I feel fine,” you add, quieter now, but certain. “Better than fine, actually.”

That’s what makes his expression change. Not dramatically, not all at once, but enough. Something sharper underneath both. “You shouldn’t,” he says, almost under his breath, like the words slip out before he can stop them.

Your brows knit slightly. “Why not?” you ask, stepping just a little closer, not enough to overwhelm him, just enough to close the space he created when he pulled back.

His eyes flick down again. Your throat. The mark. Then back up.

“Because that’s not how this is supposed to go,” he says quietly, though there’s less certainty in it now than there was before. “You’re supposed to feel it. The drop. The weakness. Not—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Not like this.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him, something softer creeping into your expression, something that almost looks like understanding. “Maybe I’m just different,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s not—” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t have an answer he trusts.

You step closer again. This time, he doesn’t move. Your hand lifts slowly, deliberate now, resting lightly against his chest again, right where you can feel the absence of a heartbeat beneath your palm, something that should feel wrong but doesn’t, not anymore.

“You don’t have to hold back with me,” you say, your voice soft but steady, your eyes locked onto his.

Something in him tightens instantly. “You’re not supposed to want that,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, rougher, like he’s fighting the pull of something he doesn’t fully understand.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “I want you,” you answer.

And that’s what makes it dangerous. The air between you shifts again, heavier now, charged in a way that feels different from before, less frantic, more intentional, like something is settling into place instead of breaking apart. His gaze lingers on you longer this time, searching, conflicted, but not pulling away. Not saying no.

After everything settles, after the tension ebbs into something softer, something heavier and more fragile, the two of you don’t say much. The TV keeps playing in the background, some late-night rerun neither of you is watching anymore, the low glow casting shadows across the trailer as the night stretches on around you.

At some point, you both drift toward his room without really deciding to. It feels natural. Familiar. Like muscle memory, and your body hasn’t forgotten. The bed dips slightly as you sit, then shift, then settle, the space still carrying that faint, lingering trace of him that you’ve been clinging to all week, except now he’s actually there, close enough to touch, close enough to feel.He hesitates for a second before lying down beside you. Not too far, but not close enough to overwhelm.

The quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable, just full, like there are too many things sitting underneath it to sort through right now. Your fingers drift absently over the blanket, your mind still caught somewhere between what just happened and what it means.

“You should sleep,” he says after a while, his voice softer now, worn down in a way that feels more human than anything else tonight.

You let out a small breath. “You don’t?”

“Don’t need to,” he corrects lightly.

You turn your head slightly toward him, your voice quieter. “You can still stay.”

He pauses, like he’s really thinking about it. Then, “…Yeah."

Not touching at first, just lying there beside you, the space between you small but intentional, like he’s still trying to hold some kind of line even now. But sleep comes quicker than you expect, your body heavier than it should be, your thoughts slipping under before you can follow them all the way through.

The last thing you feel is the faint shift of him beside you. Closer.

When you wake up, the room is empty. The space beside you is cold. You don’t panic, not this time. There’s no jolt, no sharp inhale, no frantic search of the room like he might still be hiding somewhere just out of sight. Instead, you just lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, your fingers drifting slowly across the sheets until they find the place he had been.

You sit up slowly, your body still feeling off. Not weak. Not sick. Just different. Your hand lifts almost immediately to your collarbone, brushing lightly over the marks, expecting them to feel worse in the morning.

They don’t. If anything, they feel… settled. Like your body has already accepted them. Your brows pull together slightly at that, your thumb pressing there again, testing it, but there’s no sharp pain, no lingering soreness that matches what should be there.

“That’s not…” You murmur under your breath, trailing off. Your stomach twists. You already know where you’re going.

The library is quieter than yesterday. Or maybe it just feels that way. You move faster this time, more focused, more intentional, heading straight for the same section without hesitation, pulling the same books, plus a few more, stacking them in front of you like you’re building something out of answers you haven’t found yet.

You flip through pages quickly at first, scanning, searching, your fingers moving faster than your thoughts can organize. Vampires. Feeding. Transformation. Bonding. Your eyes catch on a section you didn’t notice before.

You slow, reading more carefully this time. 

“In certain traditions, a vampire’s bite is not solely predatory, but also manipulative. The saliva introduced during feeding may contain compounds—supernatural or otherwise—that dull pain and heighten emotional response, often resulting in increased attachment, euphoria, or compliance in the victim.”

Your breath stills. You read it again, slower. Dull pain. Heightened emotional response. Attachment.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the page. “…Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anything else. That explains it. The way it felt was different. The way you didn’t pull away. The way you didn’t want to.

You flip the page.

“Repeated exposure may intensify these effects, reinforcing emotional bonds between vampire and human subject. In some cases, individuals may begin to seek out the bite voluntarily.”

Your chest tightens. Your mind flashes back: the way you stepped closer, the way you said you didn’t care, the way you told him not to hold back.

Your hand lifts again, brushing over your collarbone, slower this time. Intentional. “…That’s not me,” you murmur, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you. Another line catches your eye.

“Despite these effects, the subject remains fully human unless transformation is completed through ritualistic means. Emotional influence should not be mistaken for physical conversion.”

You exhale slowly and steadily. So you’re not turning. But something is happening. Something that makes it easier to say yes. Easier to want more. Your gaze lingers on the page a second longer before you close the book, your fingers resting on the cover as your thoughts settle into something quieter, something more dangerous. 

i hope you all enjoyed! be on the lookout, Petals 3 will be out soon. as always, thank you for the love and support. till the next one <3

a/n: this was not supposed to be a series but here we are 🙃 the first chapter is a little slow and boring imo, but once they reach the village is going to be a yearning feast, don't worry. apologies for eventual mistakes but I'm falling asleep. hope you'll enjoy 🩵

The cart stops in a small clearing where the road dissolves into little more than a strip of packed dirt swallowed by the forest. The trees here grow tall and close together, their dark trunks rising like silent pillars toward a sky you can barely see through the tangled branches above. 

You remain seated, your fingers fidgeting nervously on your lap as you peer around. There is nothing here. No house, no smoke curling from a chimney, no narrow path leading to some distant cottage.

Only dense trees, through which the late afternoon light filters in thin, pale streaks that never quite reach the ground, carrying the stale smell of moss and damp bark.

“Why are we stopping?” 

Your brother climbs down from the cart, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders as if the journey has been a long and unpleasant chore.

“This is where you need to wait for him.” He says simply.

The words make your stomach churn with unease.

You slowly climb down after him, grimacing as your shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. Leaves crunch faintly beneath your feet and you look around again, trying to spot any sign of the man you are supposed to meet.

“But… What if he doesn’t see me?”

“He will.”

Your brother speaks as though the matter is already settled. He doesn’t even look at you while he checks the harness on the horse, adjusting a strap with rough, practiced movements.

“I thought…” Your voice falters. “I thought we would meet him in the village.”

“He doesn’t go to villages much.”

That answer does nothing to settle your nerves.

“Why?”

Your brother shrugs, pulling himself back onto the cart. “Does it matter?”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You’re not staying?”

He finally glances at you, brows drawing together in faint annoyance.

“For what? I’ve already wasted half a day to bring you here.”

Your blood runs cold at his indifference. With a wary glance back at the forest, you notice how the silence presses in around you in a way that feels almost unnatural, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves somewhere high in the trees.

“But this place—” You murmur. 

“You’ll be fine.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be here soon.”

“I just thought…” You trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the tight knot of dread that has been sitting in your chest since the news of your marriage. “I thought you would at least stay until he arrived.”

Avoiding your eyes, he exhales heavily, the same way he did when he was fourteen, back when you would pester him to take you along to the market square. As a child, you never failed to test the last thread of his patience.

For a brief moment, his expression softens just a little.

“Look,” he starts, voice less sharp now. “The man paid fairly. People from his village said he’s decent. You could do worse.”

He clears his throat with an awkward, impatient sound at your lack of answer.

His words, meant to soothe, fall upon you like stones, pressing you down until you feel no taller than the dust at his feet

Finally, you whisper. “Then I… I suppose this is a goodbye.” Letting the words drift into the still air, your brother hesitates for the briefest moment, before clicking his tongue at the horse.

“Good luck.” 

The horse turns back toward the narrow road you traveled together only minutes ago. You remain rooted in place, shoulders hunched against the chill, your eyes following it until the trees swallow the cart whole and its creaking melts into silence.

You draw your shawl tighter around your form, suddenly aware of how alone you are.

A husband.

You know almost nothing about the man you are supposed to marry, only that he lives somewhere beyond these woods and that he was willing to give your brother enough coin to make the journey worthwhile.

After your parents died, the responsibility of your life had fallen entirely on him. At first, things were manageable, but the years had not been kind. Poor harvests, mounting debts, and too many mouths to feed at the table.

You had seen the strain long before he ever spoke of it. His wife counted sacks of grain with tight lips, quiet arguments carried through the thin wooden walls late at night, bitter glances were sent your way whenever food ran short.

You had become something disposable in their eyes.

So when a stranger passing through the village asked about you, offering enough coin to lift the debts that had hung over the household like a storm cloud, your brother accepted.

Not cruelly. Not happily. But so effortlessly that the ease of it stabbed at you, a sharp reminder of how little your own voice seemed to matter.

Girls get married every day. Only this time, the union came with payment instead of a dowry, with a contract instead of courtship.

With men shaping your fate while your own voice went unheard

You sigh softly, allowing your gaze to wander back to the forest.

Perhaps he is simply shy. Perhaps he lives somewhere deeper in the forest and prefers not to travel far. Perhaps—

A dull thud echoes faintly from somewhere beyond the clearing.

Your body tenses.

You are quite certain you had imagined it. Then it comes again, and the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly, low and heavy, the rhythm sinking into your bones.

Your breath catches in your throat.

That is not the sound of human footsteps. They are heavier. Slower. As if something... Beastly is moving through the forest.

A shiver runs down your spine. You fold your arms across your chest, your palms feeling slick and useless as they twist and curl, clutching the fabric of your sleeves, seeking something solid to hold onto.

The branches sway with a force you cannot see, until a branch snaps abruptly to your right, and your heart hammers as you whirl around.

Could it be a bear? A wolf?

You take a step back— no, two— your eyes darting wildly, straining to locate the source. The forest seems to close in: every shadow writhes in your vision, bursting into a thousand uncanny shapes; every rustle of leaves has you twisting in apprehension, forcing your body to shrink into itself.

Thud.

Closer.

Thud.

Perhaps it is only a deer.

But no deer would make the ground quake. No deer would carry weight like this.

Another step, another tremor shaking you. Your throat tightens, your mind screaming for some kind of explanation, some sign.

And then, a massive figure rises among the low-hanging branches. His broad shoulders stretch beneath dark clothing, his arms thick and knotted, capable of felling trees as easily as a child might snap a twig. His skin is the grey of stone, and from his jaw curve two tusks, pale and frightening.

An orc.

He stops when his gaze falls on you, his expression shifting into something that looks suspiciously like surprise.

But you do not linger long enough to process it.

Terror floods your body so swiftly it tears the air from your lungs.

Your shoes skid over loose dirt as you bolt toward the road your brother took, your heart hammering like a drum beneath your ribs.

Behind you, the forest falls unnervingly silent.

Then it comes. Heavy footsteps shattering the quiet.

Fast.

Too fast.

“Wait!”

The voice echoes behind you, low and rumbling, causing your limbs to momentarily freeze. Fear hits like a bucket of icy water, the world shrinking to nothing but the pounding of your heart and the tremor of the ground beneath him, as if the earth itself fears the beast. Branches claw at your arms, sleeves catch on rough bark, roots rise like hands to grab you. Every step is a plunge into a dark well, cold and endless, threatening to squeeze the air from your lungs.

Your legs wobble, muscles screaming, but they force themselves forward, straining against the terror, until you nearly collapse within a few trembling strides.

A slip on damp leaves pitches your body forward. Your heart slams violently against your ribs as you imagine for one terrifying moment that you are already on the ground, already caught, already feeling those enormous hands closing around you.

Somehow you manage to catch yourself, arms flailing wildly before forcing your legs to move again, faster. Behind you, the pounding reverberates, relentless, its ominous rhythm thrumming through the air like a herald of doom.

“Please, don’t run from me!”

His voice trails after you, strained with something that almost sounds like panic, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Your brother left you alone in the heart of this forest with nothing: no knife, no stick, not even the small kitchen blade you used to carry when gathering firewood. The bitter thought slams into you with painful clarity.

Why would he imagine you needed protection? Why would he think danger might touch you, when he had already decided that whatever became of you was no longer his concern?

The realization hits harder than the sting of branches scraping across your skin, and a desperate sob claws its way up your throat as your legs threaten to buckle.

You cannot fight a monster.

You cannot outrun something so imposing.

And yet you keep running, because the fear squeezing your heart leaves no room for reason.

Your foot catches again, this time on a thick root hidden beneath the leaves. Your ankle twists sharply, and you stumble forward with a startled cry, barely regaining your balance. Pain explodes up your leg, sharp enough to blur your vision, but the roaring of those massive footsteps behind you drives you onward, forcing your body to keep moving even as every muscle screams in protest.

“Stop— please!”

The voice is closer now.

Too close.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him barreling through the trees— huge, relentless, impossibly agile— sends another surge of panic through your veins.

Your breath hitches.

And this time, when your foot trips over another hidden root, your exhausted body simply cannot recover.

The world tilts and you fall forward with a sharp cry. Your knee violently slams against the ground, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Dry leaves scatter beneath your palms at the impact, the taste of dirt bitter on your tongue.

For a moment you can do nothing but gasp, your chest heaving desperately as you struggle to drag air back into your lungs.

The footsteps behind you stop so abruptly that the silence feels almost unnatural. Dread coils tight around your ribs, thick and suffocating: the creature no longer needs to chase you. By collapsing before him, you relinquish all hope of escape. Fingers dig weakly into the damp leaves as you force your head up, though every instinct screams not to look at the thing that followed you through the forest like a nightmare made flesh.

He stands only a few paces away.

Up close, he is even larger than your panicked mind imagined while you ran, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the ground where you lie miserably. His shoulders calmly rise and fall beneath his shirt, untouched by exertion. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, hands large enough they could likely close around your wrist with humiliating ease.

Yet he does not move the way you expect.

Instead of advancing like a hunter closing in on a wounded prey, he stands strangely still. His expression shifts from alarm to something that looks disturbingly like distress, eyes sweeping over you and taking in the way you struggle to breathe, the twisted angle of your leg, the tremor that rakes your body with terror.

“Oh.” The sound escapes him like a startled breath rather than a proper word. When he finally moves, his hands do not reach toward you in violence but rise slowly into the air, palms open and empty, deliberate. Your mind cannot reconcile it with the monstrous shape looming above you.

“I did not mean to scare you.” His voice softens, rough with worry as though the sight of your fear unsettles him as much as it horrifies you.

But the words barely reach you through the haze clouding your mind.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, loud enough to drown out everything, except for the memory of him crashing through the trees. It haunts your thoughts cruelly, every nerve screaming that the creature means nothing but harm. Your vision begins to blur at the edges as dizziness creeps in, your surroundings tilting strangely while the pain in your knee pulses in time with your frantic heartbeat.

You try to push yourself backward, crawl away even a few inches, but your shaky arms cannot hold your weight. The effort only sends another wave of darkness over your sight.

The last thing you manage to see before your strength finally abandons you is the alarm on the orc's face breaking the cautious distance he had kept until now. He reaches toward you with desperate urgency.

Then the forest spins, shadows deepen, and the world slips quietly out of your grasp.

At first, there is only the dull ache in your body, a deep, pulsing soreness that settles sharply somewhere in your leg, followed by the feeling of a soft surface beneath you. This is not the hard, uneven ground you remember collapsing onto.

For several seconds, you lie perfectly still, your breathing slow and shallow, trying to piece together fragments of memory floating at the edges of your mind. The forest. The running. The monstrous figure chasing you.

Your eyes snap open.

Panic claws at your chest before your mind has time to catch up. You push yourself up with a startled gasp, wincing as pain shoots through your injured knee. The abrupt movement makes the world tilt unpleasantly, your vision swimming as a dull sting hits your temple. Beneath you, a thick patch of moss and dry grass cushions your weak body, carefully cleared of stones and twigs. Draped over it is a broad piece of rough cloth— perhaps a cloak, or a traveling blanket— spread wide enough to keep the damp soil from touching your dress.

The realization that someone must have placed you there sends a fresh wave of fear crashing through you.

You look up frantically, eyes immediately landing on an imposing figure.

He sits several paces away.

Even in the shifting shadows of the forest, his form is impossible to mistake: a broad back rests against the trunk of a tall pine, long legs stretched before him. Despite the distance he keeps, his presence dominates the clearing effortlessly.

When your sudden movement catches his attention, he straightens at once, shoulders tensing as if he had been waiting for this moment.

And dreading it at the same time.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you speaks.

You stare, frozen, and though his hands rest quietly on his knees and his posture does not threaten you, the sight alone is enough for tears to gather at the corners of your eyes.

Why are you still alive? Why does the creature that chased you now sit there, watching you with what looks like anxiety instead of malice? Why move you to a softer patch of land instead of leaving you there? The helpless uncertainty only causes your breathing to grow uneven.

He notices the tears almost immediately.

Exhaustion on his face gives away to unmistakable concern. He does not move closer, but when he speaks, his voice is still careful.

“Please, do not be afraid.”

The tenderness in his tone lets the first sob slip free from your throat before you can stop it. You slap a hand to your mouth, horrified by the sound, but it does not halt the tears spilling down your cheeks.

The orc’s brow furrows deeply, his large hands curling slightly where they rest on his lap, as if restraining himself from stepping forward.

“I am sorry for scaring you earlier,” he says gently, the words slow. He fears that even speaking too loudly might frighten you further. “I did not mean to chase you. I only wanted to introduce myself. I was coming to meet you.”

You inhale sharply.

“To… Meet me?” You manage weakly, voice trembling.

“Yes.” He nods once, though the movement seems hesitant now that he notices your growing bewilderment.

“I came to fetch you. Your brother told me he would bring you this far.”

You stare at him as though he has spoken another language.

“Why?” The question leaves your lips in a broken whisper.

The orc blinks, worry shifting into something uncertain as he studies your face.

“Oh,” he breathes after a long moment, the small sound carrying its own hint of confusion. “Did—Did your brother not tell you about me?”

Your heart stutters painfully.

Staring at the creature, the thought feels so absurd it steals your ability to respond.

Your brother arranged a marriage to a stranger, perhaps a quiet man who lived beyond the town, someone wealthy enough to offer money in exchange for a wife he barely knew.

But an orc?

The notion crashes through your mind like a storm.

You shake your head slowly, fingers trembling where they clutch the edge of the rough cloth beneath you.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, disbelief shining in your glassy eyes. “He never mentioned…”

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue as the horrifying truth hangs between you.

Why would your brother send you here if he knew this was the creature waiting for you? And why, of all things, would an orc want you at all?

The silence stretches like a thread pulled too tight, and the orc across the clearing seems as uncertain as you are. The confusion on his face lingers a moment longer, before his brow furrowing slightly. His gaze lands on your leg, genuine concern taking over his features.

“Your knee…” 

The words are hesitant, chosen with great precision. And when his eyes lift again, they stop short of meeting yours, opting to watch the ground between you.

“You fell rather hard.”

Only then does the dull throbbing in your knee makes itself known. Your skirts are torn where they scraped against the forest floor, a dark stain spread where skin beneath has broken.

The orc shifts slightly.

“May I… Look at it?”

The question is gentle, yet your entire body goes rigid.

The unspoken meaning rings in your mind, loud and undeniable. He would be closer— looming over you as you lie on the ground, unable to run.

He notices instantly, reading the widening of your eyes as if you had spoken your fear aloud.

His movement dies at once, his large frame settling back against the tree. “I apologize.” His gaze drops shamefully. “That was foolish of me to ask.”

He seems to consider something, fingers brushing absently against the small leather pouch tied to his belt. Then, very slowly— making sure you can see each motion— he unties it and places it carefully on the ground beside him. He does the same with the water flask hanging at his hip.

Without standing, he nudges both items forward across the leaf-strewn ground, until they stop somewhere close to you.

“There are herbs in the pouch, and a clean strip of cloth. They should help… If you wish to tend to it yourself.” His voice softens further. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “The water is fresh.”

Then he leans back again, hands lifted in a gesture that makes it painfully clear he has no intention of approaching.

You remain still for several seconds, warily observing him, expecting that he might close the distance the moment your guard lowers.

But he does not move. Beneath the tall pine, shoulders hunched slightly as if to make himself smaller, he simply waits.

Cautiously, you reach forward.

Your fingers close around the pouch first, snatching it before retreating quickly to your spot. Your eyes flick immediately back to the orc. He has turned his head slightly, enough to keep you in view but no longer staring at your injured leg.

The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily disoriented.

Trembling, you open the pouch. Inside are crushed herbs wrapped in a scrap of cloth, along with the promised strip of clean linen. The scent rises sharply, earthy and familiar, stirring memories of remedies from the village.

As you pour the water from the flask, you fight not to flinch at the sting on broken skin. You then press the herbs carefully, clumsily binding the cloth tightly around your knee as you glance toward the orc every few seconds, checking that he has not moved.

He keeps his unspoken promise, immense, patient.

The restraint unsettles you more than if he had simply stared.

Pieces of memory shift and rearrange themselves in your mind, small details you had dismissed earlier. Your brother said the town was too far, that your husband rarely visited villages. He told you he preferred to meet you here instead.

At the time it sounded odd, perhaps even rude, but nothing more.

Now the meaning twists sharply in your chest.

He never goes to villages.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would an orc walk openly among humans?

Your brother never spoke of him beyond a few careless remarks, only that he was a carpenter who lived somewhere beyond the forest.

A carpenter.

Your gaze drifts hesitantly to the massive hands resting on his thighs. Hands that could snap a spine with a flick of the wrist, yet capable of carving wood with intricate precision.

Your brother knew who he was, and he left you here anyway.

And now a new question presses in: if this creature truly is the man your brother intended you to marry… Why hasn’t he forced you to come with him? Why didn’t he seize you the moment you fell? Why hasn’t he dragged you deeper into the forest to have his way with you?

The stories you grew up hearing painted orcs as brutal, merciless creatures. Raiders who stormed villages at night, wielding massive axes and clubs, smashing through doors and snatching livestock— or worse, people— before vanishing into the wilderness. Mothers whispered warnings over supper about what would happen if you wandered too far from home, eyes nervously darting to the tree line. Travelers passing through told tales of children stolen from gardens, farmers dragged screaming into the woods, entire homesteads left burning by creatures that moved like shadows and hit like hammers. They were monsters with jagged teeth, gray skin, tusks curving from the lower jaw, emitting guttural growls when angered. Souls without mercy, carrying death wherever they went.

Every whispered warning, every hushed tale from the corners of your village, had carved one truth into your mind: orcs were to be feared, avoided, and never trusted.

But the one sitting across from you has done nothing but keep his distance. He gave you water, herbs, time to catch your breath.

And now he sits quietly, staring at the ground as if afraid of frightening a wounded animal.

At last he exhales, long and quiet.

“I think,” he says slowly, his voice carrying a strange heaviness. “That perhaps something has gone… Wrong.”

You find the courage to look at him. On the contrary, he still does not meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes linger somewhere near the ground between your feet, hands clasped loosely together as if to steady himself.

“I believed your brother had explained the arrangement to you.” He continues. “When we spoke, he seemed certain you understood.”

His voice is measured, but there is a thread of disappointment buried somewhere beneath, faint enough that you almost miss it.

“If that is not the case… Then I have no wish to force anything upon you.”

Slowly— almost reluctantly— he lifts his head. When his eyes finally meet your wide ones, there is no anger. No impatience. Only a quiet sadness that softens the sharp lines of his face.

“If you would prefer to return to your brother,” he swallows. “I will take you back to him.”

The words settle over the clearing like falling ash, heavy and strange in their gentleness.

This creature, this enormous being who could easily overpower in an instant, is offering to bring you home. Not demanding obedience, not claiming what he paid for. Simply… Giving you a choice.

You stare stunned, though the weight in your chest grows almost unbearable.

Because the truth rises up immediately, sharp and undeniable.

You cannot go back.

Not after everything.

Your brother had welcomed you into his home without hesitation, even though he already had family of his own to care for, even though another mouth at the table stretched their household thinner than either of them liked to admit. You cooked, cleaned, mended clothes, watched the children when they cried at night. Yet the guilt never left. Because no matter how much you tried to make yourself useful, the truth was undeniable: you were another burden.

And if this marriage would ease the strain on his family— even a little— then perhaps it was the least you could do in return for everything he had given you.

Now, the tears return before you can stop them. But this time you swallow them quickly.

You lift your head, finding the orc watching you, his expression unreadable as he waits for your answer.

Your voice wavers when your lips finally part.

“I… Cannot go back.”

A knot sit heavy in your throat, and you swallow around it, even if it hurts.

“My brother has done too much for me already.” Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your skirt. “He has his own family.”

The admission comes quiet, almost ashamed.

“If he arranged this marriage…” You sniffle, lifting your chin. “Then I will honor it.”

Your voice trembles at the edges, but you refuse to divert your gaze.

“I will go with you.”

For a moment the clearing falls completely silent. He studies your face carefully, as if trying to discern whether these words are truly yours or spoken out of obligation alone.

At last he sighs softly, thoughtful, and after a moment, he nods.

“Very well.” He answers quietly, before his gaze drifts briefly toward your injured leg.

“Do you feel well enough to walk?”

You glance down at the bandage around your knee. The pain has dulled somewhat, though the joint still throbs unpleasantly whenever you shift your weight.

“I think so.”

The orc hesitates. Then, a little awkwardly, he gestures toward you.

“I could carry you,” he offers carefully. “If walking becomes too painful.”

Your head snaps up instantly, eyes widening in alarm, and the refusal spills from your lips before you can even think about it.

“No!”

The word bursts out louder than you intended. You rush to soften it, your explanation tumbling over itself.

“I—I mean, I can walk,” you add quickly. “Truly. It will be fine.”

The panic in your expression is unmistakable. You are almost certain something akin to disappointment flicker in his eyes, but it vanishes at once.

“Of course.”

Clearing his throat, he rises to his feet. The movement is smooth and unhurried despite the sheer size of him.

Your knee protests sharply when you place weight on it, but it holds.

The orc watches silently, making no attempt to approach, even when you sway slightly at first.

Only when you steady yourself does he incline his head toward the deeper stretch of forest behind him.

“The path is this way.”

You hesitate only a moment before following.

And so, beneath the quiet canopy of the trees, the long journey toward your new home finally begins.

You expect the orc to walk ahead, him striding forward with those powerful legs while you struggle to keep up behind him, forced to hurry despite the pain. It would make sense. He is the one who knows the path, the one leading you somewhere deep within this unfamiliar forest.

But that is not what happens.

Instead, he walks beside you.

Not close enough for your arms to brush against, yet close enough that you feel his presence with every step. His pace is slow— so slow, in fact, that it takes you a moment to realize he has matched it deliberately to yours.

At first you assume it is a coincidence, then the truth becomes impossible to ignore.

He could walk faster than this. His stride alone would easily cover twice the ground you manage with your limping steps. Yet he never moves ahead, never urges you forward, never shows even the slightest sign of impatience.

He simply walks beside you, awkwardness stretching heavy in the silence.

You keep your gaze mostly on the ground, watching where you place your feet, though every so often curiosity gets the better of you and your eyes flick briefly to the towering figure at your side.

His shoulders are broad enough that low branches brush against them when he passes, and his arms swing slowly at his sides with the steady rhythm of someone accustomed to long journeys on foot.

Yet despite the size of him, his movements are careful.

Measured.

As though he is constantly aware of the space you occupy beside him.

Another detail reaches you gradually.

At first you think it is simply your mind playing tricks, but the faint scent drifting through the cool forest air grows clearer whenever the wind shifts between the trees.

You glance at him again.

He smells… Good.

The realization surprises you so much that you nearly miss your footing.

No heavy musk, no sourness of sweat or damp fur like the animals kept in village barns.

Instead there is something clean about it.

Fresh.

Like the forest itself.

Pine, perhaps, or the faint resinous scent of cut wood, mixed with the crisp sharpness of cold air and something earthy beneath it, like soil after rain. It reminds you strangely of the men who worked the lumber yards near the edge of your old village, returning home at dusk with the smell of sap and sawdust clinging to their clothes.

Except even they rarely smelled this clean.

You glance at him again, eyes lingering longer this time.

His clothes are simple but well-kept, sturdy fabric worn by someone who works with his hands. Faint marks dust the sleeves and shoulders where wood shavings must have settled earlier in the day, and the leather belt around his waist holds several small tools you do not immediately recognize.

A carpenter.

Your brother’s offhand explanation felt ridiculous a few moments ago.

You swallow quietly.

The silence stretches further, until eventually the question pressing at the edges of your mind grows too heavy to hold.

Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.

“Where do you live?”

The orc’s head turns slightly toward you, surprised enough that he almost stumbles over his own feet.

“Ah—” He clears his throat quietly, caught off guard by your composure.

“My village is called Oakshire.” His tone warms slightly. “It lies not far beyond the edge of the forest. We should reach it before nightfall if your knee does not trouble you too much.”

Oakshire.

The name rolls gently through your mind.

You hesitate before asking the next question, unsure whether you truly want the answer.

“Is it… An orc village?”

The moment the words leave your mouth you brace yourself, expecting him to take offense.

Instead his face brightens.

“No,” he chuckles, a small note of enthusiasm slipping into his voice. “Not only orcs.”

He glances toward you again, clearly pleased to have something to talk to you about.

“Humans live there as well. They have for a very long time. The town was built generations ago when traders from both sides began traveling through the valley, and over the years the settlements grew together.”

A faint smile touches his mouth as he continues. “Now the two communities are simply… One.”

You blink in surprise.

“Humans and orcs live together?” You ask quietly, eyebrows shooting up.

“For centuries,” he nods amused. “Some families have lived there so long no one remembers who came first.”

The image forms slowly in your mind: humans and orcs walking the same streets, sharing the same markets, living side by side without fear or violence.

It feels almost impossible.

And yet the quiet pride in his voice makes it sound perfectly ordinary.

You glance up at him again, and for the first time since waking in the clearing, something other than fear flickers in your chest.

Curiosity.

The change in your expression is small, barely visible, but his sharp eyes catch it without fail. The tension that had been sitting heavily in his shoulders loosens just slightly, relief softening his features.

He looks almost hopeful. Seeing even the smallest spark of interest in your eyes means more to him than you can imagine.

You notice the way his gaze lingers, and that awareness diverts your attention back to the path.

Silence returns soon after, but this time it is not as grim.

The road leading toward Oakshire stretches quietly ahead, and you manage several careful steps before the pain in your knee flares again.

You stagger, clutching at a low branch as your foot catches on a hidden root tangled in fallen leaves. Your breath hitches as the wound pulses again, sharper this time, forcing you to slow even further. Every step becomes a careful negotiation: foot over root, heel pressing against moss, knee bending in protest.

You stumble once more, almost falling, and your fingers scrape against the rough bark of a nearby trunk as your legs shake beneath you.

“We can stop,” he says gently. “There’s no shame in resting.”

You bite your bottom lip, stubbornness burning despite the ache twisting through your leg.

“I can keep going.” Your voice comes out tight, refusing the admission even to yourself.

The forest seems to close in as you push forward, and then, inevitably, your foot catches again in another root, and this time a sharp cry tears from your throat as you lurch forward, clutching at the air. Your knee slams against a stone buried beneath the leaves, and pain explodes bright and blinding through your leg.

Before your body can fully collapse, a hand promptly closes around your forearm, lifting you upright with surprising gentleness. The strength behind it is immense, yet the grip itself is careful, steadying rather than dragging. You blink up at him, breath hitching and chest tight with a mixture of fear and helplessness, but he adjusts his hold at once, supporting your weight without crowding, or touching no more of you than necessary.

“Easy.” He murmurs, his voice a calm tether in the dizzying chaos in your head. “There’s a soft patch up ahead for you to rest. Lean on me if you need.”

He does not urge, does not pull you forward. He simply waits, letting your body find its own balance, guiding rather than commanding.

You stumble the final few steps, leaning lightly against his strong arm, and when you finally reach a small patch of land where the moss grows thick and springy beneath the trees, he reaches over his shoulder.

“Wait a moment.”

Before you can question him, his fingers nimbly unfasten the traveling blanket he carries rolled among his things. The familiar piece of rough cloth— the same one you vaguely remember waking upon earlier— unfurls in his large hands before he bends and spreads it carefully across the ground, smoothing the edges so no stones or damp earth press through.

“There,” he clears his throat, stepping back immediately to give you room. “It will be more comfortable.”

You hesitate only briefly before lowering yourself down, a shaky exhale escaping your parted lips. Your chest heaves as your hands presses into the fabric of your dress, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to leave your limbs.

The orc kneels nearby, just far enough to give you space. Still aware, still watchful.

You know, in a way that both frightens and fascinates you, that he could easily do anything he wanted, yet every gesture, every pause, every quiet word communicates respect. It is a patience so quiet, so deliberate, that your mind struggles to reconcile it with the monstrous shape beside you.

Because nothing in the stories you grew up hearing ever spoke of an orc choosing gentleness over dominance.

A small bundle is pulled from his pack and placed on the moss beside your hand, deliberately within reach.

“You should eat something.” His eyes flick briefly to yours with a weight you cannot name, yet so intense it feels almost tangible, as though he is memorizing you.

You hesitate, fingers brushing the food, unsure whether to accept it. So he breaks off a small piece of bread and extends it toward you, the gesture so delicate it makes your chest tighten.

“You don’t have to force yourself, but you need the energy.”

The faint scent of pine and earth clinging to him seems to wrap around you, calming, grounding, and against your better judgment, you take a small bite. The warmth and simplicity of it almost makes you forget the exhaustion in your bones, though the reality of your situation constantly gnaws at the back of your mind.

He produces the same flask he gave you for your wound, and a folded leaf, tipping a small amount of water gently into it.

“Here.”

His eyes study your face as you drink, lingering on the way your lips curl around the edge of leaf. They take in every detail without letting it disturb you, patient, almost reverent, before his thumb absently brushes the edge of the leather strap of his pack, adjusting it as though he suddenly remembers something needing attention.

You decide to ignore the faint pink on his cheeks.

He does not touch you once, yet in his small, careful movements— in the way he leans slightly forward to ensure you are comfortable— you sense the quiet undercurrent beneath it all.

You nibble the bread, sip the water, and he still looks mesmerized by your very presence.

When your stomach settles enough to ease the tightness within it, your gaze absently drifts to the carvings tucked inside his open pack— a tiny fox, and a bird mid-flight. Hesitantly, you reach out, lifting the fox in your hands.

His eyes follow the movement of your hand, softening as you turn the little figure over, tracing the smooth curves with a tentative, trembling finger.

“I make these.” He shrugs, almost shyly. “For children, sometimes for travelers. They are like… Little reminders.”

His voice holds a tenderness you cannot name, a quiet longing threaded through his soft words, and as you examine the carving, you become acutely aware that he is not watching the fox.

Your thumb follows the careful curve of its tail, the tiny ears, the delicate indent that marks the eyes. The work itself is simple, yet there is patience in it— patience and quiet attention, the kind that can only come from someone willing to sit for long hours shaping wood without tiring.

You glance up without meaning to.

The moment your eyes meet his, he looks away almost immediately, lowering his gaze toward the forest floor as though he has been caught doing something he should not. One of his large hands rubs absently at the back of his neck, a small, awkward gesture that feels strangely out of place on someone so imposing.

You look back down at the carving.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The forest hums quietly around you, leaves stirring overhead while somewhere deeper in the trees a bird chirps.

“There are always children running through the market.” He hums, almost thoughtfully. “They like to watch when I bring new carvings. One of them— little Tomas— tries to guess what animal each piece will become before I finish it.” A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. “He is wrong most of the time, but he insists he will learn.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches faintly.

The image forms in your mind without permission: a market square, smiling children weaving through the stalls, and this enormous orc sitting somewhere among them with a knife and a block of wood, patiently shaping animals while a little boy peers over his shoulder.

Monsters are not supposed to carve toys for children.

You shift slightly, your knee protesting as you move, and his head lifts immediately, attention snapping back to you.

“Does it hurt?”

The concern in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“It’s… Manageable.” You cough slightly, the words coming out weaker than you intend.

His gaze drops briefly toward your leg before returning to your face just as quickly, careful not to linger.

“There is a baker in the market,” he steers the conversation somewhere gentler. “An old woman. She pretends she does not like me very much.”

A small smile tugs faintly at one corner of his mouth.

“But every time I bring her a carving for her granddaughter, she gives me a warm loaf of bread.”

Your fingers continue to fidget gently with the little fox, feeling the faint ridges left by the carving knife.

“Do the children ever try to steal them?”

The soft breath that escapes his nose might almost be a laugh.

“Not steal,” he grins gently. “But they do try to claim them before they’re finished.”

Your head tilts curiously.

“Little Rose insists every carving I make is meant for her. She follows me around the market until I promise to bring another the next week.”

“And do you?”

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment, unsure what to make of that simple answer.

“She names them.”

You blink. “The carvings?”

He nods once with a faint smile.

“She says they should have names once they’re finished. Because that’s when they’re properly born.”

Your thumb brushes over the carving’s tiny ears again.

“You must spend a lot of time there.” You murmur.

“When I’m not working.”

“What do you build?”

“Furniture, mostly.” He straightens slightly without seeming aware of it. “Tables, cupboards, doors. Whatever people need.”

Your gaze falls briefly to his hands.

The knuckles are broad and scarred in places, the fingers thick and calloused— hands that would be suited for lifting beams and splitting logs, not for carving animals small enough to fit in a pocket.

“You work alone?”

“Most days.”

“And the rest?”

“Sometimes people ask for help,” he shrugs. “Fixing a roof. Replacing a broken step... That sort of thing.”

The simplicity of it throws you off balance.

The things he describes sound… Ordinary. Peaceful.

You lower the figure into your lap, glancing around.

The forest has changed.

The golden light of afternoon has faded into something cooler. Shadows have lengthened across the ground, stretching thin and dark between the trunks, the canopy above slowly swallowing what remains of the sun.

You shift slightly, testing the leg without quite meaning to. The movement is small, but the orc notices it anyway. His head lifts, though he glances past you, toward the trees surrounding the clearing, and for a moment his gaze lingers there.

Then, he rises to his feet.

The motion is decisive, his tall frame straightening as his eyes firmly stay over the perimeter, as though seizing something only he can see.

“It’s getting late.”

When he looks back down at you, his expression is pensive rather than concerned.

“We won’t reach Oakshire before nightfall, and traveling through the forest in the dark wouldn’t be wise. Not with your knee in this condition.”

The words are spoken calmly, without pressure, but there is a quiet certainty in them.

“We should stop here for the night.”

Your fingers twitch once around the wooden toy.

The thought of spending the night out here— alone in the forest, with him— sends a weak ripple of unease along your spine, and he seems to notice your hesitation.

“I’ll make a fire,” he adds gently. “There’s a stream not far from here as well. You’ll be safe with me.”

Then he turns, already stepping toward the trees in search of wood.

For a moment you simply watch him go. And then it strikes you, oddly and belatedly, that through all the confusion, the fear, the stumbling journey through the forest, there is something absurdly simple you have not asked.

“Wait!”

The word escapes you before you have fully decided to speak.

He stops immediately, turning back so that his full attention returns to you at once. The fading light filters through the branches above him, catching briefly on the curve of his tusks and the dark strands of his long hair, leaving the rest of him in soft shadow.

Your fingers tighten once again around the little wooden fox resting in your lap.

“What—” You pause, unsure why the question feels so difficult. “What is your name?”

Something shifts in his expression, almost startled.

“My name?” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

You nod faintly. “Yes.”

As he observes you, his features soften in a way you cannot quite decipher, a quiet warmth touching his eyes before he seems to remember himself.

“Bucky.” He says at last.

The name is simple. Human, almost. Not what you expected. You repeat it silently in your mind, testing the unfamiliar shape of it, and when you lift your gaze again, he is still watching you.

After a moment he clears his throat lightly, the spell of the moment breaking.

“I won’t go far,” he gestures toward the trees with a small tilt of his head. “Just enough to find some dry branches.”

Then he turns again and disappears a few steps into the dimming woods, leaving you sitting on his blanket with the little carved fox to keep you company and the quiet weight of his name lingering softly in the evening air.

He did not ask for yours.

ps: I didn’t know where to put it, but the title means “little light” and that’s one of the pet names he will use for reader in the future🥹

—————-

Your fingers tightened around his knotted curls, feeling the sweat and heat radiate off of his scalp. The new mixtape he made and wanted to show you, was long forgotten, getting drowned out by lewd noises.

A moan or maybe a scream caught in your throat as his head was deep between your legs, his tongue exploring every intimate inch with a skill that left you breathless and almost begging for more. Each stroke was deliberate, designed just to drive you closer and closer to your orgasm. The noises you were making had him smiling and almost laughing into you.

One hand gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as if he knew exactly what you needed, his fingers digging into your plush flesh with a possessive urgency. The other hand? Both middle and ring finger deep inside, making your toes curl behind his head. The world around you dissolved, leaving only the sensation of his mouth and the sound of your own ragged breathing.

You could feel the pressure building. That rubber band stretched so thin, it was only a matter of seconds before it snapped. Your body arched against him. The room spun with a dizzying intensity, and you were on the brink, teetering on the edge of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

—————-

“Hellooooo.”

Gareth’s hand drifted into your line of sight, fingers wagging dramatically, dragging you back to reality like someone yanking open a blackout curtain at high noon.

“Earth to—”

“What do you want?” You cut him off, a little sharper than you meant to, blinking hard as the cafeteria snapped back into focus. Plastic chairs, the smell of fried potatoes, the hum of a hundred conversation. Not the close quarters of his dingy Chevy van.

Gareth raised his brows but didn’t flinch. “I asked if I could have your fries. You’re not eating them anyway. Why let them go to waste?”

“Oh.” You felt heat creep up your neck. Embarrassment making itself known. “Yeah. Sorry. I spaced out. Sure. Have them.”

You nudged your tray toward him, letting it scrape across the table until it settled in front of his hoodie-clad chest. He shot you a quick, grateful grin before shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he’d been dying of starvation.

You tried to let the noise of the cafeteria sweep you back into the present. The metallic clang of trays, the squeak of sneakers and chair legs on linoleum, bursts of laughter bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It was so loud sometimes. So overwhelming.

To your right, the freshmen discussed loudly about their girlfriends and what plans they had for spring break, like any of them were actually gonna do more than the typical D&D one shot in Mike's basement or go to the arcade.

To your left, the upperclassmen were half-shouting over each other about their late-night gigs, already basking in the imagined glow of being past curfew and untouchable.

“Oh! And don’t forget! Tomorrow we have that bonfire party at Lover’s Lake. So, that’ll be fun too.”

Your head gave a dull, traitorous throb, and you pushed your chair back with a sigh, slinging your backpack over one shoulder as you stood.

“Hey! Where you going?” Gareth called out through a mouthful of fries, watching you weave between tables like he expected you to sit back down.

“I forgot I had a test today,” you lied without hesitation. “Gonna cram a little. Library.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t want one.

You hit the hallway and the silence swallowed you whole. Lockers stretched in both directions, the overhead lights humming quietly, and you finally let the truth you’d been dodging crawl up your spine.

The guy who sat at the head of the table, the one running the show with his loud voice and louder laugh, He’s the one you called your best friend.

Or at least, you used to.

You wanted to call him something more. But lately you weren’t even sure you could even claim best friend anymore.

He was like whiplash. One day, things are normal. You’re in his van, windows down, screaming along to music. Making a pit stop at the convenient store for slurpees and snacks before you start to bullshit the day away together. Whether it’s watching movies, playing guitar, finding local music shows to see, going out to the roller rink—which he definitely hates but still does just for you.

Then the next he’s distant, you touch his shoulder and he shrugs you off. Makes plans with your friends right in front of you and doesn’t think to invite you along, keeps things short. He’s not necessarily cruel about it, but it still makes your heart feel like it’s in pieces around your feet.

Until suddenly, he’s banging on your door while your parents are at work. As soon as you open it, his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you. So aggressively that you would’ve definitely fallen back, had he not been holding you upright.

You brought that on yourself. You knew that.Smoked too much. Drank too much. Let things blur too far.Climbed into his lap like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. And you had let that happen again and again.

All you had to do was tell him no. Maybe even been honest with him.

You had pushed all your feelings for him to the side just to be with him any way that he’d have you. And he doesn’t even care that every time you guys finish, he takes another piece of you when he walks out that door.

He doesn’t care that when he smiles at you, your heartbeat slows down and somehow beats faster at the same time. He doesn’t care about the flowers that bloom behind your ribs when he touches you. Doesn’t care about the way his kisses shoot electricity through your body, leaving you buzzing and breathless

And you hate it. How he could continue on like nothing is wrong. Like his friendship with you wasn’t worth fucking up. How could he not know how you feel?

Or worse, what if he knew and just didn’t think it was worth the effort? Or just using it to his advantage?

How could you mean so little to him? After all this time?

—————-

The two little clear glasses slammed on the counter, the clink echoing in the cramped kitchen. You and Eddie grinned at each other, loose and warm. The kind of smile you’d only ever let him pull out of you. All walls down. Not having to put on a show for anyone.

He grabbed your hand and raised it above your head, beginning to slowly dance in front of you. You laughed, trying to hear the soft music above your heartbeat.

Lita Ford and Ozzy.

You joined in for a moment before he twirled you. His smile was so wide, dimples and sharp canines on display.

He didn’t even realize what it did to you, the way he smiled like that. He never did.

You stayed like that for the rest of the song, easily dancing with him. It was second nature. You both don’t care if you step on each other, or fumble and end up bumping shoulders. You just laugh and continue.

Finally, he turned away, disappearing down the hall toward his room. A few seconds later, he reappeared, shoulder braced casually against the doorway, a joint pinched between his fingers.

“Care to join?” he asked, lifting it slightly.

“Always.”

He jerked his head toward the front door. You followed him out onto the tiny porch, really just a concrete slab with an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. The night air was cooler outside, brushing against your warm skin, sobering you just enough to feel the tension stretch thin between you.

Eddie flicked the lighter, cupping his hand from the wind. The flame caught, illuminating his face, the curve of his nose, the lazy concentration in his eyes as he took the first hit. Smoke curled from his mouth and back into his nose before he passed the joint to you, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary.

You inhaled, slow, heart beating somewhere too loud, the joint shaking almost imperceptibly between your fingertips.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard.” He said softly.

“Says the guy staring at me like he’s waiting for me to do something other than hit this joint.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t look away. He just stepped closer, close enough that your feet were now touching, close enough that you could smell the mix of smoke and whiskey on his breath. You took another hit.

“Maybe I am.” He whispered.

The joint dangled forgotten between your fingers. Your pulse was too loud, too frantic. You exhaled shakily and he leaned in, dipping his head like he was about to kiss you, breathing in the smoke deeply. He smiled and slightly angled his lips to the side to blow out his impromptu shotgun hit. Eyes never leaving yours.

But then he leaned in again, close enough that your lips parted on instinct, close enough his breath warmed your cheek. Your heart tripped over itself. This is it. You felt it like a spark in your chest. Hope rising too fast, too bright.

You couldn’t help it. A smile tugged at your mouth, equal parts disbelief and relief. For a split second, you let yourself think he was finally admitting it—finally seeing you the way you’d always seen him.

Then his lips touched yours. Immediate sparks.

The kiss was slow. Trembling. A hesitant brush that deepened just enough to make your knees weaken so violently you had to grab onto his sides for stability. His mouth tasted like the shared whiskey and smoke, warm and soft and devastating. His fingers curled around your jaw like you were something breakable, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that felt intimate, purposeful, and dangerously close to tender.

You melted into him without meaning to. God, he kissed like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d thought about it. Like he liked the taste of you more than he expected to.

Your stomach flipped, everything inside you tightening at once, and you kissed him back because you’d replayed this moment in your head so many times you could’ve sworn you dreamed it into existence.

He pulled back a breath too soon, eyes still half-lidded, lips slightly parted.

And you smiled, because now? You finally had him. Your best friend is finally admitting to being on the same page as you. So stupidly in love, but always too scared to admit.

But this was it, he was finally choosing you.

Then his expression shifted as he leaned away, something softer becoming something guarded. Calculated. He dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, trying to look casual even though his chest rose and fell a little too quickly.

“Fuck” you whispered, almost in disbelief he finally made the first move.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink beneath the porch light.

“That, uh… probably shouldn’t’ve happened.” He continued.

The words hit you like a slap you never saw coming. Small. Quiet. Almost gentle. But still a slap. Silence. Awkward. Thick. Hot.

Shouldn’t have? But God, you wanted it to.

Your heart, which had been buoyant and stupidly soaring just seconds ago, plummeted so fast it made you dizzy. You felt it—felt the crack form right down the center of it, delicate and sharp like thin glass splitting under pressure.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came. Every word dying before it made its way to your throat. All that spilled through you was a familiar ache, the one you’d been drowning in since the first night you realized you loved him in a way he would never return.

Eddie cleared his throat as he took a step back to lean on the railing.

“Look… it doesn’t have to be weird.”

You blinked. Hard. “Huh?”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, shrugging like this meant nothing to him. “Why can’t friends help friends out? Y’know.” He gestured vaguely, eyes sliding to your lips again. “Blow off some steam. Relieve some stress.”

He said it lightly, like it wasn’t the biggest deal ever. But there was something hungry behind it. Something he didn’t want to name.

Your chest tightened. He had no idea he was offering the exact thing you wanted. Just stripped of everything you needed. A hollow gift wrapped in the exact shape of your longing.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said, voice dipping, like he was doing both of you some kind of favor. Like he wasn’t twisting the knife with a smile.

Your stomach dropped—hope plummeting straight through the floor. He didn’t even notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to.

You swallowed, the motion thick and unsteady, your heart battering itself against your ribs like it wanted out, wanted him, wanted something you couldn’t even name without breaking in half.

Eddie watched you patiently. Too patiently. Pretending he wasn’t waiting for your answer like it mattered. Pretending he wasn’t hoping for the version of you that didn’t feel things, the version he thought you were. Pretending you weren’t already his, and hadnt been for longer than you’d ever admit out loud.

“What do you mean?” you managed, though your voice sounded small, scraped thin and hollow.

He smiled that easy, oblivious smile, taking the joint from your hand and shaking his hair out of his face. He inhaled slow, cheeks hollowing, smoke curling up between you before he blew it in your direction, playful and soft and completely unaware of how close you were to shattering.

“I mean let’s be friends with benefits.” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been my best friend for the last four years. Why not?”

You froze. There it was. The twist.

The part where your perfect, knee-buckling kiss was—to him—just convenience.

Your lips still tingled from him. Your heart still thudded out of rhythm. And all he wanted… was casual? But the way he had kissed you? The way his hand trembled against your jaw? That had not felt casual at all.

Why not?

Fuck. Because you loved him. Because it meant everything to you and would mean nothing to him.

Because being close to him without actually having him was the exact kind of pain you’d spent pretending didn’t gut you.

But the alcohol in your veins was warm and stupid and reckless. The weed rolling in your lungs made everything feel a little softer around the edges, a little less sharp.

And then there was the fact that you had wanted him for so long that the idea of being with him in any way he’d allow felt like stepping to the edge of a cliff and willingly stepping off into that free fall.

A part of you hurt. That deep, quiet, bone-deep hurt. Because he didn’t want more. Didn’t even think to want more. Didn’t think to ask.

But another part, that louder, hazier, selfish part, jumped at the chance to touch him again. To kiss him again. To pretend, even for a night, that he was yours in some temporary, fragile, doomed way.

You felt the sadness settle in you. In your heart, in your bones, filling every inch. Heavy and familiar. But it didn’t stop the heat that coiled right next to it.

“So…” he said, watching you closely now.

“What do you say? No strings attached. Just casual?”

—————-

You scrubbed a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in a knot as you reached your locker.

“Fuck it.”

You changed directions and headed to the parking lot. Right past that stupid beat-up Chevy van, straight to your black ’77 Ford Pinto.

You tossed your bag through the open passenger-side window, the strap catching for a second before dropping onto the ripped vinyl seat, and rounded the hood toward the driver’s side.

“You cutting class, Bean?”

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. You rolled your eyes at the stupid nickname.

“You really have to come up with something better than that, Munson.”

“You’re the one driving a pinto bean, sooo…” He drew the word out, grinning around it. “Get a cooler car and you’ll get a cooler name.”

He pushed off from where he’d been lingering near the Chevy, sauntering over like he had all the time in the world. Eddie leaned his hip against your passenger door, the metal of his chains clanking against it. His rings clicked softly as he dug into the front pocket of his jeans for his pack of Marlboro Reds.

He looked annoyingly good doing it, too. Messy curls spilling around his neck and over his shoulders, dark strands escaping to brush his cheekbones. His bangs were too long again, skimming his lashes every time he blinked. He wore that battered leather jacket, the one with the stressed seams and the cigarette burn near the pocket, a few chains to keep the cuff from flying wide open, over a faded Motörhead tee.

He pulled a cigarette free with a practiced flick, held it between his lips, and cupped his hand around the lighter as he sparked it. When he inhaled, his cheeks hollowed just enough to make your stomach flutter in a way you refused to acknowledge.

He exhaled a line of smoke, then turned his head to look at you fully.

“So,” he said, voice dropping into that low, curious drawl he used when he actually cared what the answer was. “What’s up?”

You yanked open the Pinto’s door, the metal protesting with a loud squealing groan.

“I’m going home, Eds. I feel like shit, okay?”

He stepped around the car, eyebrows lifting. “I wouldn’t mind skipping and following you back to yours. I know your parents aren’t home until—”

“No. Thanks.”

He blinked, big brown eyes going wide as his smile faltered like someone had flicked a switch inside him.

“Why not?”

You swallowed, jaw tightening, already regretting how sharp you’d sounded.

“Sorry, Eds. I’m just… not feeling up for it today. I’m probably gonna go home and sleep it off.”

He stared at you for a beat, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Then his face softened, the tension slipping away.

“That’s fine,” he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he finally took another hit. “I’m still coming home with you. We’ll throw on a movie, maybe smoke, and just lay around until you feel better.”

It was so him. That stubborn, casual devotion he didn’t even seem aware of, that you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth.

“Okay,” you sighed, giving in. “But I’m picking the movie.”

“Please,” he scoffed, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Like I ever win that battle.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile grew. “You never do.”

He smiled, bright and boyish and ridiculously Eddie.

“C’mon then, Bean,” he teased, nudging your shoulder with his. “Race you home.”

“You’ll lose.” you declared, sliding into the Pinto.

“Only cause I let you win.” he yelled over his shoulder, heading toward his van.

You laughed and it felt good. Felt like something inside you loosened.

You pulled out of the lot first, Eddie’s van rumbling behind you. He honked in rapid bursts, which made you shake your head and grin like an idiot.

Every time you hit a stoplight, he pulled up next to you, revving his engine dramatically until the old van wheezed in protest. You snorted, holding up your middle finger.

He flipped you off with both hands. You yelled, grow up. He retorted with a make me, before turning the knob and blaring whatever tape was shoved in his radio, obnoxiously headbanging until the light turned green. Despite everything—everything messy and confusing and unspoken—this part was easy. This part was home. This is why you loved him.

You parked in your driveway, Eddie pulling in right behind you like he lived there.

The minute you climbed out of your car, he was already walking over, hands shoved in his pockets, curls bouncing as he moved.

“Alright,” he announced, “get inside, change into something comfy, and I’ll start setting up the movie.”

“What movie?” you challenged.

“Whatever you tell me to put on,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Because I’m spineless and at your mercy, Sweetheart.”

You laughed out a “that’s how I like it” as you shoved his shoulder before unlocking the door.

He stumbled exaggeratedly, arms flailing.

“Abuse!” he shouted.

“Drama queen.” you shot back.

Inside, it was simple. Warm. Familiar. You dropped your keys on the small table by the door. He kicked off his shoes without being asked.

Both of you made a beeline to your room, tossing your bags to the floor and grabbing whatever soft, mismatched clothes your hands first touched from your closet. Eddie grabbed one of his many shirts you’ve stolen, along with his sweat pants he leaves here just in case.

You changed with your backs turned to each other, like you always had. It was a habit, natural. No one called attention to how silly it seemed now that you’ve both laid yourself bare to each other. Then you wasted the rest of the evening exactly the way the two of you always did. Half-watching shitty movies you’d both memorized, trading commentary, quoting lines, laughing as you both laid comfortably against one another.

The room was quiet except for the sound coming from the TV—some scene you weren’t even pretending to follow anymore. Eddie’s fingers kept tracing slow, absentminded shapes on your arm, drifting up to your shoulder, then back down again like he was memorizing you by touch. The soft and warm pads of his fingers were leaving blazing trails in their wake, your nerve endings reacting dramatically to such a casual touch.

Every so often, his thumb would sweep over a spot that made your breath catch. He leaned in and you felt him smile against your neck like he heard it, like he liked it.

His lips brushed your skin again, barely there. A question, almost.

When you didn’t pull away, when you tilted your head just enough, he took that as an answer enough with another soft kiss, then another, each one lingering a little longer, a little warmer. Your pulse jumped under his mouth.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but a quiet, involuntary moan slipped out—and that was it. You felt the shift in him instantly. The way his hand slid from your arm to your waist, pulling you fractionally closer. The way his breath warmed your skin before he pressed another slow, deliberate kiss just under your jaw.

This time it was a slow open mouth kiss, that his teeth lightly nipped in before his tongue soothed away any type of pain it could’ve caused.

You turned toward him, your nose brushing his cheek. And suddenly everything felt electric, suspended.

His pulled away from a moment, eyes flicked down to your mouth, then up to your eyes, checking, waiting, swallowing hard like he wasn’t sure if he should cross that tiny space between you. As if he hadn’t done it already. Plenty of times.

You closed it for him. Your lips met his in a soft, searching kiss, the kind that started tentative but deepened fast. Eddie’s hand slid up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with surprising gentleness as he kissed you again—slower, deeper, like he’d been wanting to do that for longer than he’d ever admit.

You could only hope…

You felt his heartbeat through his chest where it pressed to yours, steady at first… then stumbling in a way that strangely mirrored your own. Beating a little too fast. He pushed again, laying you completely on your back with him practically ontop of you.

He pulled back just a fraction, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling in the dim light.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low, warm, full of confidence. Just like he always was.

You brushed your nose against his. “Hey.”

His hand trailed down to your waist again, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel your warmth but not enough to push boundaries. Not yet.

“You sure?” he murmured, his lips hovering over yours, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache. He always asked this, as if you were ever going to change your mind about him.

And your truth rose up like a tide you couldn’t fight. You weren’t sure about a lot of things. But you were painfully, undeniably sure about the way you felt when he touched you like this.

You nodded, small but certain.

His breath hitched, just barely but still noticeable, and the way he kissed you then was different. As if this suddenly meant something to him too… even if neither of you dared to say it out loud.

His hands moved with a newfound confidence, exploring your body with a tenderness that made you feel cherished. You could feel the heat building between you, a slow, sensual burn that pooled low and left you breathless, wanting more.

You pulled him closer, your body arching against his, and he responded with a low, approving moan that vibrated through you. His kisses trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.

Your hands found their way under his shirt, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin. He shivered under your touch as you explored him with a boldness that surprised even you before you pulled it over his head.

When his eyes met yours again, his pupils were blown wide. He slowly trailed his hands up your sides, bunching your shirt up with them until he slowly pulled it off of you and tossed it to the side.

His hands roamed over your body. You arched toward him without thinking, your body answering him even while your mind spun with a dizzy mixture of want and fear and longing. He made quick work of the clasp behind your back, his fingers steady while yours trembled, and when the fabric slipped away, his breath caught.

There was so much hunger in his eyes. That alone nearly broke you. Almost did every time.

Then he leaned down, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue circling your nipple with a skill that left you gasping.

You fumbled with his waistband, your hands shaking with anticipation, and he helped you. His pants fell to the floor, and he kicked them aside, leaving him in just his boxers.

He settled between your thighs, slowly grinding himself against your clothed heat, his eyes never leaving yours. It only served to heighten your arousal. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, allowing him to grind against you more intimately. You couldn't help but arch into him, wanting more friction.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice rough at the edges.

You nodded, but the truth pulsed louder beneath your ribs. I’m not okay. I’m in love with you, and you don’t even know you’re breaking me.

But your body leaned up anyway, your hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. He exhaled shakily, his nose brushing yours.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured, thumb stroking your hip with a tenderness that didn’t match the casual arrangement that you both had agreed on.

You swallowed hard. “Don’t stop.” you breathed.

Something flickered across his expression. Maybe surprise, relief, maybe something deeper you didn't let yourself examine. And then he kissed you again, slower this time, like he needed the reassurance as much as you did.

He slowly pulled down your panties, his fingers brushing against your skin, making you shiver. You helped him remove his boxers, your hands trembling slightly. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or anticipation. His cock sprung free, the pink tip already leaking a bead of precum. He lifted you effortlessly, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his length against you.

He looked down between the two of you and wrapped his hand around his cock before running it up and down your wet folds. Your mouth fell open with a loud moan as it grazed your clit. Only for a moment before he lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch before filling you completely. You both moaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together perfectly. He began to move, not pulling out, just rolling his hips against you.

“You take my cock so perfectly, baby.”

You couldn’t respond with anything more than a moan as you threw your head back on the pillow. He started his slow thrusts in a steady rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as you met his every thrust.

His lips found yours again, and you kissed deeply, your tongues dancing with each other, moaning into each other's mouths. The room spun around you, and all you could focus on was the feel of him inside you, the taste of him on your lips, and the sound of your combined moans filling the air.

He increased his pace, his body slamming into yours with a force that had you crying out his name. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the coiled tension ready to explode. He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit.

“That’s right, baby. This pussy is all mine.”

“Fuck! Yes! It’s all yours, Eddie!”

He continued to circle your clit, thrusting relentlessly into you. Watching you as your jaw went slack and you squeezed your eyes shut. Focusing on the sensation of your orgasm building. His free hand suddenly came up to your face, grabbed it and angled it towards him.

“No, don’t do that. You look at me when I’m fucking you.”

You couldn’t help but listen. Your eyes meeting his, the iris almost completely gone with how wide his pupils were. You’d never thought Eddie would be like this in the bedroom, not that you hadn’t thought about it before, late at night with your hand shoved in your panties. It practically had you like putty in his hands.

But there were times he’d be inside of you, whispering absolute filth, it had you blushing the next day when your mind would drift back. Sometimes you questioned how he was able to look at you the same after the things he’d say to you. The things he’d done to you.

“You’re mine. You got that? You and this pussy.”

The words hit you like heat, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest ached, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t even think past the rush of electricity running through your veins.

The possessiveness in his voice—raw, unfiltered, unguarded—tore through every boundary you tried to believe you had set with him. He didn’t say it lightly. He didn’t say it playfully. He meant it. At least, in this moment.

Your lips parted, a small, helpless sound slipping out before you could stop it. Your whole body reacted before your mind caught up—legs shaking, stomach tight, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your fingertips.

His thumb stroked your cheek in a way that contradicted the rough edge in his voice, as if he knew exactly what that moment was doing to you.

“Baby,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “Answer me.”

Heat rushed through your chest, your face, everywhere. You tried to nod, tried to breathe, tried not to fall apart under the weight of how badly you wanted those words to mean more than he intended.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice unsteady. You tried to nod as best you could with him still holding your face in place. “I’m yours.”

He smiled at that answer and slowed down his thrusts, making sure to focus on the force of them, turning it to a slow hard pace. Thumb never leaving your clit.

Then suddenly, you shattered, he had finally pushed you over that edge. Your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you screaming out his name.

“Fuuuuck. Such a good girl and cumming for me.”

He gave a few more sloppy thrust before following soon after, his body tensing as he spilled into you, your name a whispered plea on his lips. You held each other tightly, your bodies slick with sweat, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.

—————-

You slowly blinked your eyes open. Welcoming the morning sun rays in. You tried to roll over and stretch, but something held you in place. Eddie’s arm.

It was slung lazily around your waist. His fingers were curled into the plush of your stomach like he’d fallen asleep holding on. His breath warmed the back of your neck in slow, even waves. Somewhere after the sex, between the third bad movie and the few joints he insisted on rolling, the two of you had knocked out. Him flat on his stomach, you curled on your side, your legs tangled together like you’d forgotten where you ended and he began.

You blinked blearily at the soft morning light coming through your curtains. The room smelled like weed, deodorant, and Eddie’s cologne he sprayed, swearing it would get rid of the skunky smell. His hair was sprawled across your pillow, curls tickling your cheek.

Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out from under him. He made a low sound—half-groan, half-whine—but didn’t wake, just flopped onto his back and spread out like a starfish.

“Idiot.” you whispered, not sure if it sounded annoyed or fond.

Probably both. You quickly got dressed then made your way downstairs.

Your mom was in the kitchen already dressed for work, hair done, coffee mug in hand. She looked up as soon as she heard you on the stairs.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said brightly. “Eddie awake yet?”

You cocked an eyebrow, silently asking how she knew.

“His van was in my spot.”

You nodded, mumbling out a still asleep, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself a cup of coffee, flavoring it to your liking with milk and sugar.

Your mom sighed happily. “I like having him around. He’s sweet. And he makes you laugh.” She paused, giving you a pointed look. “You should keep him.”

You almost choked on your coffee.

“Mom.”

“What? I’m just saying.” She shrugged, stirring her own with way too much enthusiasm for the hour.

“He’s adorable. And polite. And he says ‘thank you’ every time I hand him a plate like I’m giving him a bar of gold.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s just… Eddie.”

She leaned against the counter. “Is just Eddie staying for breakfast?”

You shrugged. “I’ll wake him in a minute. You know he doesn’t like turning down free food.”

Your mom beamed. “Good. Tell him I made muffins. I’ll pack you guys some to take to school.”

You snorted. “You’re spoiling him.”

“I’m spoiling you,” she corrected. “He’s just a bonus.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped. “Alright, alright. I’m pretty sure you love him more than me at this point.”

“You said it, not me.” She laughed.

You turned to head upstairs again, already knowing Eddie would still be spread across your mattress, snoring softly, dead to the world.

Your mom called after you, teasing. “Tell him to brush his hair this time!”

“I’m not his mother!”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t do exactly what you tell him to!” She called after you.

You froze for half a second, heat rushing to your cheeks. Then you fled up the stairs before she could see you blush, heart thumping way too fast for seven in the morning.

You padded back up the stairs, the old wood creaking under your feet. Your room was dim minus the one single sun ray that found its way between your half-closed curtains. The soft orange glow of morning settling over everything Eddie had left scattered around. His socks, his rings on your nightstand, his shirt lazily thrown over your desk chair like he lived here.

He was exactly where you’d left him, exactly how you knew you’d find him. On his back, sprawled diagonally across your bed like a menace, mouth slightly open, hair a wild halo.

He always told you his best night's rest was in your bed. His mattress could never compare. You climbed onto your mattress gently, knee sinking into the sheets beside him.

“Eds,” you whispered, rubbing a gentle hand on his chest.

A groan.

You leaned closer. “Wake up. My mom made muffins.”

His eyes cracked open—just barely, then shut again dramatically. “Five more minutes.” He mumbled.

“No,” you said, stretching out beside him. “We have school.”

He made a sound that was definitely a complaint and definitely not a word. Then before you could react, his arms looped around your waist and he yanked you down against him.

You squeaked as you toppled into his chest, your face pressed into his warm body.

“Eddie!”

He grinned sleepily, eyes still half-closed. “Why doesn’t this alarm clock have a snooze button?”

That drew a small giggle out of you, but before you had a chance to retort, he rolled. Suddenly you were pinned beneath him, and he started kissing you—everywhere except the mouth. Your forehead, your cheek, the side of your nose, your jaw, your collarbone. Quick, playful, affectionate little pecks, each one punctuated with a muffled “mwah.”

You burst into laughter, wriggling under him. “Stop! Eddie!”

“Nope,” he said, kissing your cheek again. “I’m awake now. This is your fault.”

You shoved at him, giggling, but he only flopped more of his weight onto you, warm and heavy and annoyingly comfortable.

“Come on,” he murmured into your neck. “Let’s skip today. Again. One more won’t kill us.”

“We skipped yesterday.”

“Barely.” He kissed under your ear. “C’mon. Let’s just stay here. Sleep. Eat muffins. Watch movies. Smoke a little. Nap some more. You love napping with me.”

You did. Too much.

But if you stayed here with him warm and lazy and kissing you like this, you were going to do something reckless. Or stupid. Or both. And at this point, you weren’t sure how much more your heart could take.

Eddie was an affectionate person. No matter who it was, he liked hugging, throwing his arms around his friends, holding hands. Get him drunk enough and he’s trying to give everyone pecks on the lips. He craved the physical touch. But he had never been this physical with you. Up until you agreed to his stupid request.

You put your hands on his cheeks then ran them down his body until they landed on his waist. With all of your tired strength, you pushed him to the side, rolling you both over until you were on top.

He cocked an eyebrow, definitely thinking he had won as he hands moved to lazily rest on your thighs that straddled him.

“Nope. No. We are going to school.”

His eyes were wide as he frowned at you dramatically like you’d betrayed him. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m realistic. Buuut,” you drug the word out as you pushed off of his chest and stood up. “We have that bonfire. Get through today and it’s like a reward.”

He rolled his eyes then watched as you made your way around the room. You grabbed the pair of jeans he’d left on your floor yesterday and tossed them at his face. He caught them with one hand, barely.

“Now, get dressed.”

He sat up, hair a mess, smirking at you like you didn’t just manhandle him. Like he didn’t enjoy every second of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You huffed, trying not to smile. “Shut up and put your pants on.”

—————-

You stood in front of the mirror, leaning in close as you dragged the last sweep of liner across your upper lash line. The bedroom was warm from the late-afternoon sun, your stereo playing low in the background, something upbeat to keep your nerves from chewing holes in your stomach.

You told yourself you were getting dolled up because all of your friends were going to be at the Lover’s Lake bonfire tonight.

Not because Eddie would be there.

Definitely not because you’d picked out your nicest outfit—the one that made you feel confident and soft and just a little dangerous. Definitely not because you wanted him to notice.

You fluffed your hair, tugged your shirt into place allowing for more cleavage to be shown, and brushed a thumb across your lips to clean up a smudge of color.

A honk blared from outside. Short, sharp, impatient. You felt your stomach drop and flutter at the same time.

“Show time.” you muttered to your reflection, like you hadn’t been listening for that exact sound for the last ten minutes. You grabbed your jacket, spritzed perfume on your neck, and headed downstairs.

Outside, Eddie’s van was crooked in your driveway. He slouched behind the wheel, hair wild, one ringed hand hanging out the window as he drummed his fingers against the metal. When he saw you, he sat up a little straighter.

“Hello, Miss lady.” he called, before eyeing you as you made your way to the passenger side. “Look at you.”

Your face warmed, but you rolled your eyes so he wouldn’t see just how much that one look affected you.

“Shut up.” you said lightly as you climbed in.

“Not a chance,” Eddie said, eyes sweeping over you once more, quick but too meaningful to be accidental. “You look good.”

He put the van in gear before you could decide whether to thank him or shove him.

The drive to Lovers Lake was loud windows-down music, lots of breeze, and Eddie drumming the beat against the steering wheel. Every time he glanced at you, your chest tightened.

When you pulled onto the dirt clearing near the lake, the sky was already tinted orange. A big bonfire roared at the center, people gathered around it, laughing, drinking, leaning against cars.

Eddie parked and hopped out, stretching his arms like he’d been crammed in the van for hours.

His shirt lifted just enough to expose a thin strip of stomach—pale skin marked faintly by the waistband of his black jeans. His rings caught the dying sunlight, glinting as he ran both hands through his messy curls. They fell right back into that wild, chaotic halo he always wore, soft around his jaw and brushing his collarbones.

His red and black flannel shirt was completely unbuttoned, the edges frayed from years of wear, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A chain hung from his belt loop, clinking lightly as he shifted his weight. There was a smudge of grease on his forearm—probably from messing with the van again. Damn thing is always giving him problems.

He grinned when he saw you looking, dimples flashing, eyes warm beneath dark lashes.

“Come on,” he said, nodding for you to follow, the corners of his mouth tugging higher. “We drink first, socialize later.”

He made a beeline toward a cooler by the fire. The moment he reached it, he dug inside and handed you something cold.

He clinked his own can lightly against yours.

“To bad decisions.” he announced proudly as he leaned forward to open your can for you.

You laughed. “To the worst.”

But secretly? You hoped tonight brought something you could keep.

—————-

The night drifted on in that lazy, buzzing way only bonfires, teenagers and cheap liquor could create. Music thumped from someone’s boombox, beer cans clattered, people laughed too loud. You and Eddie slipped into your usual rhythm—shoulders bumping, inside jokes, him stealing sips from your drink like he didn’t have one in his own hand, dancing with each other until your legs felt like they’d give out at any second.

But the more alcohol that slid down your throat, the more unsteady everything became.

At some point, your head warm and your body pleasantly loose from the alcohol in your system, you lost track of him. One minute he was beside you, rolling his eyes at a guys-vs-girls argument happening nearby… and the next, he was on the other side of the fire, leaning in close to some girl whose name you didn’t care enough about to remember. She laughed at something he said, tossing her hair, fingers slipping down his arm before he wrapped it around her.

Your stomach dropped. Hard. You stared, you told yourself not to, and then you stared harder.

You knew he was an attractive guy. Attractive enough that other people noticed. You knew when certain girls got enough of anything in their system, they didn’t care that he was the freak of Hawkins. They just saw a metalhead who played guitar, smoked pot, and would definitely piss off their parents if they were to bring him home. He was a way for people to rebel.

It made your insides twist into knots that almost had bile rising in your throat.

“Yikes,” someone said as they plopped down beside you.

You blinked and turned. Steve Harrington. Perfect hair, perfectly relaxed expression, beer in hand. He followed your line of sight, then whistled low.

“Damn. Didn’t expect to see Munson with anyone other than you.”

You said nothing, jaw tight. Steve’s eyes shifted back to you, softening like he already knew more than you wanted him to.

“You want to make him jealous?” he asked casually, taking a sip from his drink. “’Cause I’m game.”

You snorted. “Please. That’s dumb.”

“So… is that a no?”

You hesitated. Just a second. Just enough for the ache in your chest to pulse through you.

“Well, let’s play then.” you muttered.

Steve grinned like he’d been waiting for that. He slid his arm over your shoulder—warm, confident, not subtle at all—and tugged you in against him.

“Atta girl,” he murmured.

You laughed, even if it sounded a little uneven. It was easy with Steve. It had always been easy.

You’d known him practically your whole life. Not through school, not through Eddie or Robin or the party scene, but because your parents had worked together for years. You’d spent half your childhood in the Harringtons’ backyard pool, throwing water balloons at him until Mrs. Harrington yelled from the kitchen window.

He was the first boy you ever practiced slow dancing with, both of you standing on his parents’ polished floors at age thirteen, his hands awkwardly on your waist while you tried not to step on his toes. A year later, he was your first kiss. Both of you immediately agreed it was weird and awkward, like kissing a sibling.

He’d always been there. Birthday parties, holidays when your parents were working late, crappy middle school dances where the two of you hid in the corner and mocked everyone else’s outfits.

He wasn’t the version of himself everyone at school liked to talk about. The king of Hawkins High, the flirt, the heartbreaker. You knew the other parts. The softer ones. The loyal ones. The ones that made him show up at your front door with milkshakes after your worst days, or call you at midnight asking which sweater to wear because he “needed an opinion that didn’t suck” for his date tomorrow.

And even though you ran in different crowds, minus a few mutual friends, you guys never let that impact the way you loved each other. Robin likes to say “Platonic with a capital P” when referring to friendships like this.

Which made him the perfect shield tonight.

You leaned into his side just a little more, enough to sell the act, not enough to mean anything, and he squeezed your shoulder in silent understanding.

Across the fire, Eddie’s stare sharpened like a blade catching firelight. And Steve, without looking, smirked like he could feel it. Eddie wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even pretending. He was staring. Directly at Steve’s arm around you.

His expression was dark with his mouth set in a hard line. He looked like he wanted to rip Steve’s arm off and throw it into the flames. You looked away first, heart hammering, pretending you didn’t notice.

But the heat of his gaze stayed on you long after, each glance from him hitting you like sparks from the fire, hot and impossible to ignore.

Steve kept talking, something about how someone from chemistry had already fallen into the lake twice. He kept selling the act. As he spoke, he’d lean close, brushing your hair away from your face. Glancing at your lips a few times. But his voice faded into background noise. Because Eddie was still staring.

The fire cracked loudly between you, flames curling upward like they were trying to swallow the tension whole. People laughed, music thumped, someone shouted about needing more wood—but all you could see was Eddie’s eyes locked on you, lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a scowl but definitely wasn’t a smile.

Finally, he pushed off the log he’d been sitting on, muttered something to the girl beside him, and stalked toward you. Steve’s hand on your shoulder tightened.

“Oh boy,” he murmured, then leaned in to whisper in your ear, as if to sell the scene one final time. “Get ready.”

Eddie didn’t slow, boots crunching over gravel until he stood right in front of you—close enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke in his clothes and the faint bite of beer on his breath.

His gaze flicked to Steve’s arm still draped around you, then back to your face.

“You look cozy.” Eddie said, voice light. Too light. Like a joke he couldn’t quite land.

“Yeah,” you replied, matching the tone even though your pulse jumped. “Steve’s great company.”

Steve gave Eddie a sunny, borderline antagonistic smile. “Munson, take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Eddie didn’t even look at him. He kept his eyes on you, expression unreadable except for that spark, burning through every defense you had.

“You gonna come talk to me,” he asked softly, “or you sticking with Harrington all night?”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t mind me. I can share.”

You slapped Steve’s thigh, but he only grinned. Eddie’s nostrils flared, just barely. Then he leaned closer, speaking low enough that only you could hear.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Your breath hitched. Steve heard it, apparently, because he let his arm fall away from your shoulders and patted your knee.

“Go on,” he said with a wink. “before he combusts. I’ll be here when you get back, babe.”

You heard Eddie scoff as you stood. Eddie stepped back to give you space, but not much. His fingers brushing yours as you passed him, a fleeting touch that felt intentional.

You walked with him toward the tree line, the fire lighting his silhouette in flickering orange. His curls blew in the faint breeze, and every few steps he glanced at you like he couldn’t help it, like he needed to make sure you were still beside him.

When the noise of the party finally faded enough to think, he stopped, turned, and looked at you fully.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low, breath uneven.

And you realized—he wasn’t angry. He was jealous. Jealous and confused and maybe a little hurt? Which might’ve been worse.

“You tell me.” you said quietly.

His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable for just a second before he blinked it away.

“Why him?” Eddie asked. “Why’d you go to him?”

You swallowed, heart thudding loud enough you were sure he could hear it.

“Why do you care?” you murmured.

Eddie stared at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulders grazed. Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, “but I do.”

You crossed your arms, partly because the night air had cooled and you were no longer warmed by the blazing fire, mostly because his sudden possessiveness was stirring up every emotion you’d been trying to drown in cheap beer.

“Eddie,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “we’re casual. Remember?”

He blinked, thrown.

“We never said we couldn’t see other people. You made that part pretty damn clear.”

His jaw flexed. “That’s not— I wasn’t—”

You huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless, and looked away toward the fire, where Steve was talking with Robin, perfectly unbothered.

“Don’t act like you get to be jealous,” you said. “You were flirting with someone.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

You shot him a look.

He winced. “Okay, maybe I was a little. But that’s different.”

“How?” you demanded, heat rising in your chest. “Because you were doing it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking genuinely frustrated—like the words were there but tangled up.

“You and Harrington just looked—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Too close.”

“Okay, and?”

“And he had his arm around you.”

“So what? You say that like you weren’t doing the exact same thing.”

Eddie froze. Like he hadn’t expected you to have seen him. Like he didn’t know how to handle the weight of it.

The wind rustled the trees around you. A distant laugh echoed from the main group. And Eddie stared at you, something fierce and conflicted twisting through his expression.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, voice rougher now. “We are casual.”

You felt something in your chest restrict. You should’ve known this would’ve gotten messy. Friends with benefits never works out. Especially when someone is already head over heels for the person propositioning it.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t care who touches you,” he went on, taking a step closer. “Or who puts their hands on you. Or who looks at you like they have any right to.”

Your breath stuttered. “Eddie…”

“And for the record?” he said, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face. “That whole casual thing? That was supposed to make this easier, not make me feel like I’m losing my mind watching you with someone else.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “I thought you didn’t want more.” You whispered.

He exhaled, slow and shaky. Eddie dragged a hand across his mouth, eyes darting everywhere but your face now—like looking at you made the whole thing worse.

“Forget it,” he muttered, backing up a step. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Eddie—”

“No.” He shook his head, curls falling forward. “I’m gonna go home. It’s fine. I just… need air or space or—whatever.”

The words stung more than you expected. Especially when he forced a crooked, fake smile.

“You should stay. Have fun. Seriously.” He pointed vaguely toward the fire. “Harrington’s here, Robin too. The hellfire gang. You’ll be fine.”

You took a step toward him, reaching out to grab his hand. He took a step back to dodge it.

“Really,” he said, softer, but firm. “Stay.”

And then he turned and walked away. No dramatic exit. Just Eddie, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight as he disappeared into the line of parked cars and then out of sight down the dirt road.

You stood there for a moment, fire crackling behind you, stomach twisting like you’d swallowed a stone.

Fine. If he wanted you to stay, you would stay.

You forced your legs to move and wandered back toward the crowd. Steve spotted you first, raising an eyebrow like he already knew the answer and didn’t need to ask the question.

“Everything cool?” he said lightly.

“Totally,” you lied.

He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Instead, he nudged your shoulder and pointed you toward Robin, who was ranting loudly about her part time job and the stupid customers.

You slipped into her orbit easily. Laughing. Chatting. Pretending your heart wasn’t in the pocket of Eddie's leather jacket as he drove home.

Steve kept an eye on you—not hovering, but close enough that you felt grounded. The theatrics of him pretending to hit on you ended as soon as Eddie left. Robin tried to pull you into a ridiculous dance circle, offering you a beer you hesitantly took. Someone offered you another drink after that, you took that one too. You chatted and joked with Jeff and Gareth. Tried to sing with them when Jeff pulled his guitar from Gareth’s mom’s station wagon.

You tried. You really did.

But every time someone laughed, you glanced in their direction. Every time a car door slammed, your pulse jumped. Every time someone with long curls walked by, your breath caught—only to fall when it wasn’t him.

By the end of the night, it wasn’t fun anymore.

Steve noticed your silence, your staring, your sudden inability to pretend this wasn’t killing you.

“You ready to go?” he asked gently.

You nodded.

The drive back was quiet, headlights cutting through the dark trees as you twisted your fingers in your lap. Steve didn’t comment when you directed him past your house.

He didn’t comment when you told him to turn left. Then right. Then down a familiar gravel drive. He parked outside Eddie’s trailer and let the engine idle.

“You sure you wanna talk to him drunk?” he asked softly.

You nodded again.

“I’m not that drunk.”

Steve sighed, but not in a judgmental way—more like he was rooting for you, even if he didn’t know what the hell was happening.

Steve wasn’t stupid. He knew you like the back of his hand. Knew within the first few months when you wouldn’t stop talking about the stupid metalhead, that you were too gone.

“Call me if you need a ride home,” he said. “Or if you need to escape. Or if Munson’s being Munson.”

You managed a small smile. “When is he not? But thanks, Steve.”

You stepped out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you. His car pulled away, tires crunching over gravel, until the sound and headlights faded.

The trailer was dark except for the faint glow of the living-room lamp through the blinds.

You swallowed hard, nerves and alcohol buzzing like electricity under your skin.

Then you walked up the steps and knocked. You stood on the small porch, arms wrapped around yourself as the cool night air lifted the hairs on the back of your neck. The porch light flickered and every second he didn’t answer made your heart pound harder.

Just when you were sure he was either asleep or ignoring you, the deadbolt scraped, then the door cracked open. Eddie blinked out at you, squinting like the porch light was too bright.

His hair was a complete disaster. Tangled, flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other like he’d been tossing in bed. A soft, faded pair of gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, drawstring untied, the trail of hair down his stomach disappearing into the waistband.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, voice rough with sleep when he finally spoke.

“…You okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I- did I wake you?”

He stepped aside, motioning you in without answering the question. “C’mere. It’s chilly out.”

You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his bare arm. He shut the door quietly, leaning back against it once it clicked. When he looked at you properly, confusion and something softer flickered across his face.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be at the party? With-” His jaw tensed briefly. “everyone else?”

You looked down at your shoes. “They’re probably still there.”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight. “So why aren’t you?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his. His hair fell across his cheek, his breathing still a little uneven from being woken up.

“I didn’t want to be there anymore, wasn’t having any fun.” you said honestly.

His brow softened, the line between his eyebrows easing. “So you came here?”

“Yeah.”

A slow exhale left him, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. He raked a hand through his chaotic curls, making them even worse.

“You shouldn’t have walked alone.” he murmured.

“I didn’t. Steve drove me.”

He blinked, caught off guard but not angry—just startled.

“…Oh.”

Silence settled between you. Eddie finally pushed off the door and stepped closer, stopping just a foot in front of you. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his voice dropped even lower

“I’m, uh…” His eyes trailed over your outfit—the one you’d picked with him in mind. “glad you came.”

You let out a small chuckle. “I didn’t want to go home alone.”

Eddie nodded, like he understood exactly what you meant and all the things you weren’t saying. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”

And then he reached out, fingers brushing yours, hesitant but hopeful, waiting to see if you’d pull away. Eddie’s fingers barely ghosted over yours before he pulled in a shaky breath and stepped back—not far, just enough to brace a hand on the counter behind him like he needed something solid to hold onto.

His eyes stayed on the floor for a moment, curls falling forward. He looked younger like this—unguarded, tired, still carrying the leftover heat of irritation and jealousy.

“I should say something…” he murmured.

You waited, heart tightening. This was the moment you wanted—the moment you hoped he’d finally admit something real. But when he looked up, his expression made your stomach drop.

He lifted his hands before falling uselessly at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you asked, even though you already knew.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “For tonight. For getting jealous like an idiot. For-” His mouth twisted. “for flirting in front of you. It was shitty.”

“Oh.” You swallowed, nodding once. “Right.”

Not the right kind of sorry. Not the one you needed. He didn’t notice the way your chest caved, too busy shaking his head like he was scolding himself.

“I won’t… do that again,” he continued, voice low and earnest. “Not in front of you. Not like that.”

There it was. The apology that fixed absolutely nothing.

You forced air into your lungs and nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He stepped closer again, just enough that his bare chest brushed your sleeve. His voice softened, like he thought he was giving you reassurance.

“It won’t happen anymore.”

For a moment, you almost broke. Told him he was apologizing for the wrong thing. Told him you weren’t hurt because he flirted—you were hurt because he cared only when he saw you with someone else. Because he wanted ownership without wanting you. But you couldn’t. Not while he was looking at you like this. Not while the smell of his skin and the warmth of the trailer made your feelings too loud to control.

“Okay,” you repeated quietly.

Eddie let out a breath of relief, stepping even closer, his knuckles brushing your hip.

“I just… I don’t want to mess things up with you,” he said. “I like what we have.”

Your heart cracked because what we have was the exact problem. Not enough. Never enough. But he was looking at you with those wide, soft brown eyes, hair a mess, chest bare, voice hoarse from sleep, and god, it hurt how much you loved him.

So you smiled. Small. Careful. A lie he needed.

“Yeah, Eds,” you whispered. “We’re fine.”

His shoulders relaxed instantly. And that killed you most of all. You took a slow step back, needing distance before the ache in your chest swallowed you whole.

“I should probably… get going,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Eddie’s face fell instantly. So fast that you had to look away before it broke you.

“What? Why?” he asked, already stepping toward you again. “It’s late. You can crash here. You always crash here.”

“I know,” you said gently. “but I’m just… tired. I think I should go home.”

He blinked at you, confused and a little hurt. “Sweetheart, you didn’t walk all the way over here just to leave.”

“I had Steve drive me,” you corrected quietly.

He winced. “Right, yeah. Still. You don’t have to go.”

He moved in, instinctively reaching for you. His hands settling at your waist like muscle memory. The warmth of him hit you all at once. His bare chest, the faint heat of sleep still clinging to his skin, the smell of him, that soft mix of bonfire and cigarette smoke, detergent, and Eddie.

“Stay,” he murmured, leaning in, forehead nearly brushing yours. “Just… stay here tonight.”

Your breath stuttered. God, you wanted to. Your whole body leaned toward him like gravity was pulling you in.

His arms tightened, pulling you against him, his lips brushing your cheek before trailing toward your mouth. And that was exactly why you had to stop.

“Eddie,” you whispered, hands pressing lightly to his chest. “Stop.”

He froze. Right there—lips inches from yours, arms warm around you—he froze. You eased out of his hold, every inch you stepped back feeling like ripping Velcro off your own heart. His brows knitted, hurt and confusion twisting through his expression.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what-?”

“Eds…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. “I just need to go home. Okay?”

He swallowed, jaw working like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the pieces for.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. I can drive-“

“No. It’s not that far anyway. It’ll give me time to sober up before having to sneak in.”

He moved toward you like he couldn’t help it, stopping just shy of touching. “Will I-” He swallowed again. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

You looked up at him and somehow managed to nod “Yeah,” you said softly. “You’ll see me later.”

He nodded once, slow, like he wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a goodbye.

You opened the door, the cool night air spilling in. Before you stepped out, you heard him say—quiet, vulnerable, not meant to reach you.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You closed the door gently behind you. And carried the crack in your chest all the way home.

—————-

The moment you got home, you barely made it to your room before the first sob hit. Ugly and way too honest. You shut the door with shaking hands, stumbled to your bed, and collapsed face-first into your pillow.

You cried like something inside you had snapped. Because something had. All this time, you thought you were being subtle. You thought you could be close to him without being close to him.

You thought you could handle the little pieces he offered, even if they didn’t add up to anything real. You tried to be what he wanted. Letting him get away with whatever bullshit, giving him space when needed.

Friends with benefits. God, how stupid. How fucking stupid.

You dragged your palms over your face, trying to muffle the next sob, but it still tore out of you.

You didn’t get to love him. Not like that. Not out loud. You didn’t get to want the future he didn’t want. But you let him hold you like he did. You let him kiss you like he meant it.

You let yourself believe, even for a second, that maybe—just maybe—your heart wasn’t delusional.

And tonight proved exactly how wrong you were.

You curled onto your side, knees to your chest, breath breaking in uneven gasps as tears soaked the fabric beneath you.

You replayed it all in brutal detail. The flirting. The way he lit up when someone else touched his arm. The way he looked at you across the fire. He was jealous, but not jealous enough to choose you.His apology that wasn’t an apology. The way he tried to kiss you like it meant nothing. The way you almost let him.

You pressed a fist to your sternum, as if you could physically hold your heart together.

You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t keep letting him halfway love you. You couldn’t keep letting him act like you were his only when it was convenient. You couldn’t keep pretending your feelings weren’t swallowing you whole.

You sniffed hard, wiping your face with your sleeve.

You had to distance yourself. You had to stop the friends-with-benefits thing before it killed you from the inside out. You had to protect the tiny piece of your heart that wasn’t already bruised purple from his grip

He would get over it. He’d be upset for a day, maybe two. He’d pout, he’d complain, he’d sulk—and then he’d go back to being fine.

And you?

You let out another shaky breath, fresh tears burning. You’d lie awake like this. Trying to pry your heart out of a place it had never been wanted.

You sobbed again until there was nothing left but the ache. One thing was clear now, clearer than it had ever been.

You couldn’t keep doing this. No matter how much you loved him. Because love shouldn’t be this messy. Love shouldn’t hurt this bad.

—————-

The first day back after spring break felt heavier than it should’ve.

The halls buzzed with everyone comparing their time off, hookups, where they went, what they did, stupid stories about stupid things. All of it slid right past you, muted under the steady thrum of anxiety sitting at the base of your spine.

Your backpack was too heavy. Your clothes felt wrong.

And every time you turned a corner you expected to see him. Expected to bump square into the middle of his chest.

You’d gotten good at avoiding Eddie over break—staying in your room, telling your mom you were “still sick,” cracking your door open just enough to tell him you weren’t up for visitors when he came by.

He’d frowned, offered to drop off movies or soup, lingered on your porch like he could will you into changing your mind.

But you held your ground. It hurt. But seeing him would’ve hurt more.

It would’ve led to stupid decision. Meaningless kisses. Meaningless touches.

More meaningless You’re mine’s.

That always seemed to be his go to when he had you wrapped around him. And you always felt so stupid in the wake of the aftermath how easily you let those two stupid words go straight to your heart.

Now you walked into the cafeteria with Robin chattering beside you, Steve trailing close behind, balancing a tray loaded with two extra juice boxes he insisted you drink because "They're your favorite and it’ll make you feel better.”

You forced a laugh.

“It’s just school, Harrington. I’ll get better when we graduate.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, giving you a once-over. “Humor me.”

Again, he wasn’t stupid. He knew what had been going on. Going to hang out with Eddie then the next day showing up with hickeys barely hidden by your poor makeup skills.

Robin nudged you toward your usual seat—well, your new usual seat. Away from the Hellfire table. Away from the boys arguing loudly over campaigns and dice rolls.

Away from him.

You slid into the spot between Robin and Steve, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Trying to pretend your heart wasn’t kicking at your ribs every time someone with long dark curls crossed your peripheral vision.

Steve watched you for a moment before leaning on his elbow on the table.

“You okay?”

You nodded quickly. Too quickly.

Robin snorted. “That’s the I’m-fine-but-I’m-not-fine nod. Very iconic. Very suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to fire back some sarcastic retort—when the cafeteria noise dimmed in your ears, just for a second.

Because he walked in. Eddie.

Hair a little messier than usual, like he’d rushed out of bed. Eyes scanning the room in that casual, effortless way he always scanned for you. His graphic tee stretched over his chest, rings glinting as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

He looked tired.

He looked like he’d been looking for you.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you turned away, trying to hide yourself from him.

He hadn’t seen you yet—until Gareth nudged him and nodded toward your table.

When you turned just a little to catch a quick peak, you saw Eddie’s head turn, saw his eyes land on the three of you—

Saw the moment he realized you weren’t coming to him today. His expression flickered. Almost too fast to catch. But you caught it.

He tried to play it cool, tried to smile when Jeff said something beside him, but his gaze drifted back to you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek and forced your attention onto your tray.

Steve leaned closer, his voice low. “He keeps staring.”

You didn’t look up. “I don’t care.”

Robin raised a brow. “Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You rolled your eyes. Everything inside you felt too full and too empty at the same time.

Across the room, you felt his gaze again, waiting for you to look back. To smile. To motion him over.

You didn’t.

For the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t give in. And when he realized that—when he realized you weren’t coming to him, weren’t going to let him pretend everything was normal—his shoulders tensed. His jaw tightened.

He turned back to the Hellfire table, dropping into his usual seat in a way that was too stiff, too deliberate.

Robin gave you a gentle nudge. “You gonna tell me what’s going on there?”

You swallowed, eyes on your untouched food.

“No,” you whispered. “Not today.”

Because if you started talking about Eddie Munson right now— in this loud fluorescent cafeteria with him sitting twenty feet away— you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop and no one needed to see you have a full blown mental breakdown over him.

—————-

The days blurred together. Robin and Steve finally got the full story of what was going on. They did their best to be a distraction for you. Inviting you out after school. Stopping by the house on their way to work. Taking you to the mall for retail therapy.

It only worked sometimes. Once you were alone though, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about him.

You avoided him in the halls. You avoided the Hellfire table. You avoided any path that might cross his.

And at first, Eddie tried. He really tried. He’d wave when he caught your eye. Call out your name when you pretended you didn’t hear him. Lean against your locker like he always used to—even when you hurried past without stopping.

But after a while, the light in his face dimmed. The calls turned into glances. The glances turned into nothing. And then came the irritation. The hurt he pretended not to feel. It started small.

You’d dropped a worksheet outside English class, papers scattering, and he’d been passing by. Normally he would’ve crouched down beside you, teasing you for being “a helpless little disaster.”

This time?

He just stepped over them. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t slow down. Just muttered, “Maybe pay attention,” under his breath.

It stung. But you let him go.

You tried to slip past unnoticed, but Gareth spotted you and waved enthusiastically.

“Hey! We haven’t seen you all week!”

Eddie turned at the sound of Gareth’s voice—turning just in time to see Gareth reaching for you, smiling.

And Eddie’s face changed. His expression shuttered. Jaw set. Something dark flickering behind his eyes.

You swallowed. “Hey, Gare. I’ve just been—busy.”

Eddie scoffed. Loud enough to make you flinch.

“Oh yeah? Too busy to even say hi now?”

You stiffened, heat crawling up your neck. “I said, I’ve been busy, Eddie.”

“Right,” he said flatly. “Because you’ve suddenly got this brand-new life that doesn’t involve any of us.”

You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand.

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Not like I’m your fucking babysitter.”

Gareth looked between you two, confused and uncomfortable.

You took a breath, tried to stay calm. “I’m going to class. I’ll give you a call later today if you want, Gare.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Shocker,” Eddie muttered as you walked away. “She remembers we exist when it’s convenient.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. But you didn’t turn back.

By the end of the week, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

Whenever you were near him, even by accident, he went rigid. Short answers. Cold tone. Like he was punishing you for hurting him. It almost made you want to laugh.

And then came the moment that broke you a little more.

You were at your locker between periods when he passed by with Jeff. He wasn’t even talking—just walking, tired and quiet.

You almost didn’t notice him. Almost.

Then Jeff said something that made him huff a laugh, and his eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a fraction of a second. Enough to acknowledge you. Enough to see you. But instead of looking away like he normally did… Eddie shot you a glare. Cold. Sharp. Done.

“You got a problem?” he snapped when he realized you were staring.

You jerked back, startled. “The fuck, Munson?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

It hit harder than you expected. You opened your mouth, stunned, but nothing came out.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften.

He just walked off with Jeff, shaking his head as though you were the one being unreasonable.

And for the first time since this whole mess started… you felt something inside you break. Completely shattered with no pieces left to try to pick up.

Because this wasn’t the Eddie who’d held you through the night. Wasn’t the Eddie who kissed your forehead when you were falling asleep. Wasn’t the Eddie who once told you that you were his favorite person in the world.

This Eddie was tired. Frustrated. Wounded. And taking it out on you.

And still—some pathetic, traitorous part of you missed him.

—————-

The Hellfire boys had finally had enough. You didn’t know it but they’d been watching this slow-motion disaster unfold from both sides. Eddie moping and snapping at everyone. You avoiding them like they carried the plague.

And Hellfire, for all its chaos, was a family. A meddling one.

It happened on a Thursday after school. You were heading toward the parking lot, hoping to escape another day without bumping into Eddie, when Gareth caught your wrist.

“Hey-can you help us with something real quick?”

You blinked. “Um… help you with what?”

Dustin and Jeff appeared behind him, too quickly. Too smiley. Suspiciously smiley.

“It’s…uh…d&d.”

“Characters and whatnot!” Jeff added.

“We need your opinion.” Gareth said at the same time.

You raised a brow. “Since when do you need my opinion on your campaign?”

They ignored that, herding you down the hall like some awkward sheepdogs with an agenda.

“Guys, what is going on?”

Gareth opened the drama room door and pushed you gently inside. You stumbled forward, catching yourself. Just as the door clicked shut behind you. You spun around.

“Seriously? What-”

Locked.

You jiggled the knob. “Are you kidding me?! Guys, come on!!”

Silence. Then hurried footsteps. Then nothing.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “Unbelievable.”

But before you could fully process the level of stupid you’d just been subjected to— A voice came from the back of the room.

“Well, fuck.”

Your heart lurched.

Eddie sat on the edge of the stage platform, hands braced behind him, expression caught between annoyance and disbelief.

“They locked me in, too,” he said, glaring toward the door. “Said they needed help painting a new Corroded Coffin banner. Said Jeff wanted one to hang in his room.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Both of you tense. Wounded. Waiting.

The silence stretched until he exhaled harshly and pushed off the stage.

“So what,” Eddie muttered, hopping off the stage and pacing a few steps, “this is some messed-up intervention?”

“I guess,” you said quietly. “They’re worried.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, well. They shouldn’t be.”

But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “You haven’t exactly been fun to be around lately. Heard all about it when I called Gareth.”

He stopped pacing. Slowly turned to you.

“Oh, I haven’t been fun?” he repeated, voice sharp. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. You won’t talk to me, won’t look at me-what was I supposed to do, just smile and wave?”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to everyone around you.” you snapped.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he shot back. “I’m painfully aware that I’m screwing up everything. That I already screwed shit up long ago.”

His voice cracked, barely there. That shut you up.

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again, agitated. “You think I don’t notice when you’re gone? You think I don’t see you with Harrington and Buckley at lunch, pretending we never mattered? Pretending I never mattered?”

Your throat tightened. “Eddie, that’s not-”

“I miss you,” he blurted.

You froze. He froze. The words trembled in the air between you.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Shit. I didn’t mean to- well, I did, but not like-” He groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “Look, I’ve been an asshole. A huge one. The biggest. I know that. But I-I miss my best friend.”

Something inside you cracked, painfully and softly at the same time. You stared at him, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“I miss you too.” you whispered.

His eyes lifted. Hope flickered. Small and careful and afraid.

“But,” you continued, voice wavering, “I needed space.”

“I know,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “I get it now. I wasn’t giving you any. I was pushing. And I got jealous like a fucking child and…yeah-I deserve the silent treatment.”

He let out a breath, shaky and sincere.

“But I’m begging you- just talk to me. Yell at me. Hit me with a shoe. Anything. Just… don’t disappear on me again.”

You blinked fast, overwhelmed by the crack in his voice.

This wasn’t angry Eddie. Or defensive Eddie. Or casually cruel Eddie. This was your Eddie. Slowly, you stepped toward him. He stayed still, watching you like you were something fragile.

You swallowed. “It’s not that you got jealous, Eds. It was everything else.”

His brows pinched, the smallest shift, but you saw it— that flinch he tried to hide, like he was bracing for impact. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together.

“It wasn’t the jealousy that hurt. It was how you treated me. The things you said. Then the way you made it seem like I was… disposable.”

Eddie’s face crumpled, the bravado slipping right off him.

“I didn’t… shit.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that. I swear to god, sweetheart, I never meant it like that.”

“Stop with the sweetheart shit, please…” you whispered.

“It felt like once we started… whatever we started… I stopped being your friend unless you wanted something.”

He closed his eyes like the words physically hit him. You kept going, because stopping meant chickening out.

“You’d pull me close one night, then ignore me the next morning. You’d tell me I was your favorite person but flirt with other girls in front of me. You’d kiss me and then act like I was some chore the next day.”

“Jesus… fuck,” Eddie muttered, shaking his head as if trying to shake the memories loose. “I know. I know. I was an idiot. I was scared and-and defensive and… I handled everything like a complete jackass.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

He hesitated before stepping a little closer—not touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“When you started avoiding me,” Eddie said softly, “I panicked. I didn’t know what I did wrong. And instead of asking you, I got pissed.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “Really mature, right?”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t ready to let him off the hook. Not yet.

He looked at you, really looked—eyes soft and wrecked in the way they got when he was telling the truth.

“You’re not disposable,” he said.

His voice was rough, low, like it hurt him to say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re the one person I care about more than I know how to explain. And I fucked everything up because I didn’t know how to deal with that.”

He took one tiny step closer—giving you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

“Eds…” you whispered, unsure of where to go from here.

His jaw tightened, eyes shining with something like desperation.

“I miss you,” he said again, voice cracking on the last word. “Not because of the sex. Not because you make everything fun.”

His chest rose and fell, uneven.

“I miss you because you’re my best friend,” he finished, softer than a whisper.

“And because losing you, like actually losing you, felt worse than anything I’ve been through.”

Your Eddie. Right there. Heart in his hands, terrified you wouldn’t take it.

He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor.

“If I ruined us and there’s no going back, tell me,” he said. “Tell me and I’ll let you go. It’ll hurt like hell, but- i’ll do it.”

Your heart squeezed so tight it hurt.

He looked up at you again, eyes wide and scared and full of hope he wouldn’t dare admit to.

“But if there’s a chance… even a small one… that we can fix this…”

He took a breath that shook.

“Just say the word.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, because this—this was the part you’d been terrified to touch.

The part that would change everything.

“Eds,” you said softly, “I need to ask you something.”

He straightened, shoulders tense. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, then forced it out.

“How do you feel about me?”

For a heartbeat, he froze.

Then Eddie Munson did what Eddie Munson always did when backed into an emotional corner.

He deflected.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels like this was all casual, all easy. Like your futures didn’t hang on his next sentence.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “you’re my best friend.”

You stared at him, unblinking.

“And?” you pushed.

He huffed a nervous laugh. “And you-uh…you feel like home, I guess. My safe place. The person I go to when shit sucks.” He gestured vaguely. “The person I wanna talk to when something cool happens or when I have a shitty day. That’s… that’s how I feel.”

You blinked. That was it?

He must’ve seen the disappointment cross your face, because he rushed on.

“I mean, that’s important, right? That’s-big.”

But you just shook your head, the hurt creeping back into your chest.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered. “That’s not what I’ve been asking.”

You turned away, the burn behind your eyes making everything blur. “Forget it.”

“Hey-no,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t walk away from me again. Talk to me. Help me understand.”

“You’re still not answering me,” you said, voice shaking. “You’re dodging. Like always.”

“I’m not dodging.”

“You just said I’m your best friend,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “You described a pet. Or a comfort blanket. You didn’t answer what I asked.”

Eddie’s mouth opened then closed. His eyes darted away, jaw clenching hard.

Your heart sank.

“Right,” you whispered, stepping back. “That’s what I thought.”

And when you turned toward the door, everything changed.

Because Eddie surged forward, grabbing your wrist—not hard, not enough to hurt, just enough to stop you from leaving and make you look at him.

His voice cracked and his eyes had started to get watery. “I’m in love with you.”

You froze. Every part of you. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, desperate and terrified and done pretending.

“I am so goddamn in love with you it scares the shit out of me,” he said, words spilling out like he’d been holding them back for far too long. “That’s why I screwed everything up. That’s why I acted like a fucking idiot. Because every time I looked at you, I felt…more than I knew what to do with.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He stepped closer, still holding your wrist, lightly brushing his thumb against it.

“You wanted the truth?” he said, voice quiet but fierce. “That’s the truth.”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“I freaked out,” he whispered. “I panicked. I wanted you so bad I couldn’t think straight. And instead of dealing with it like a normal fucking human, I ruined everything.”

His voice dropped to barely more than a breath. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes shone, soft and pleading. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Silence fell between you—thick, powerful, fragile. Your wrist still in his hand. Your heart still pounding like it was trying to break free and crawl into his ribcage, trying to make a home next to his own heart.

And Eddie. he was bare, terrified, hopeful. Just waiting for you to speak.

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

His confession echoed in your head, too big, too impossible, too… everything.

Your voice came out small. Shaken.

“Are you…are you fucking with me?”

Eddie’s eyes widened immediately, almost offended. “What? No. No, I- why would I joke about that?”

“Because this doesn’t make sense,” you whispered. “Because you never said anything. Because you acted like-like everything but that.”

He let go of your wrist only to cup your face gently, palms warm against your cheeks.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know I handled everything wrong. But I’m not fucking with you.”

You held his gaze, searching for any sign of a lie, any hint of the old defensive Eddie.

Eddie’s expression softened—not nervous, not frantic anymore, but tender.

Almost painfully so.

“You remember that blackout?” he asked quietly.

“What?”“The first night you ever stayed at my house. The blackout.”

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion and you slowly nodded.

The storm.

The thunder that rattled the windows. Had you both worried it would tear down Wayne’s mug collection with how much the trailer shook from the wind.

The power going out mid-movie night.

You crawling into his bed because you were scared—and him pretending not to notice how tightly you clung to him.

“You fell asleep on me,” he said, eyes softening at the memory.

“Right here.” He touched his chest lightly. “Curled up like you belonged there.”

Your eyes quickly flashed to his balled up fist that rested on his chest before looking back into his gaze.

“And the storm kept getting worse,” he continued, voice warm, low, honest. “Every time thunder hit, you squeezed my shirt and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. And I just… I held you. Because it felt natural. It felt right.”

Your throat tightened.

He smiled faintly, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You were scared and all I wanted to do was protect you and make you feel safe. And you tucked your cold feet between my ankles, like you always do, like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

You blinked, lips parting.

You hadn’t even realized you’d done that.

“And I remember lying there,” he said, voice dropping to something more vulnerable, “in the dark, with your heartbeat against me, thinking… oh, shit.”

A soft, stunned laugh escaped you. “Oh shit?”

“Oh shit,” he repeated with a crooked, self-deprecating smile.

“Because I realized I didn’t want to fall asleep alone anymore. I realized I wanted you there every night. I wanted to be the person you came to when you were scared. Or sad. Or excited. Or bored. I just wanted to be your person.”

He exhaled, the confession pouring out of him like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

“And I realized I wasn’t just attracted to you. I wasn’t just… into the physical stuff. I wanted everything with you.”

Your chest ached but this type of ache was new. It had all those cracks he had created in you suddenly filling with warmth.

Eddie swallowed, eyes locked on yours.

“But it terrified me,” he said. “Because I’m me. And you…”

His voice cracked.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. And the idea of losing you scared me so bad I messed everything up trying to ignore how I felt. So I slapped the casual label on it, ‘cause if it’s casual, you wouldn’t have to break my heart by rejecting me.”

You loosened, the tight coil of hurt and anger inside you unwinding. It wasn’t fully gone, not magically fixed, but softening. Like it was starting to fray and dissolve at the edges.

Dissolving because this was real. Because he meant it. Because he wasn’t just saying what you wanted to hear.

Your voice shook. “Eds…”

He stepped closer, forehead brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.

“I’m not messing with you,” he whispered.

“Not now. Not ever. But ever since that night, I used to pray for thunderstorms to happen while you were at my house.”

You stared at him—really stared—at the flushed cheeks, the trembling hands, the way he was trying so hard not to touch you unless you gave him permission.

And something inside you finally, finally snapped. Not in anger. In relief.

Before he could say anything else, you gave a light laugh at his last confession before you surged forward and grabbed the sides of his face, pulling his mouth to yours.

Eddie inhaled sharply against your lips, like he hadn’t dared dream you’d actually kiss him outside the confines of your homes. Then he melted into you, the way you had done with him so many times. His hands sliding to your waist as if he’d been holding himself back.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was weeks of hurting.

Months of wanting.

Years of being stupidly, hopelessly in love with each other.

When you finally broke away, both of you were breathless—your nose brushing his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

His voice was wrecked. “Sweetheart…”

“You idiot,” you whispered, a tear slipping down even though you were smiling. “You never had to worry about me rejecting you.”

Eddie blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

“I’ve been in love with you too,” you admitted, cheeks burning, heart pounding. “For a long time. Longer than I should’ve let myself.”

He stared at you like the world had just tilted under his feet.

Then a shaky disbelieving laugh escaped him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

You laughed, wiping your cheeks. “Eds—”

But he pulled back, cupping your face as if he needed to see the truth written there. His brown eyes were glassy, wide, and so full of emotion it almost hurt to look at them.

“You mean it?” he breathed. “You’re in love with me?”

“I mean it.” you whispered.

A slow, awestruck smile spread across his face—soft at first, then growing into something radiant. Something he couldn’t have held back even if he’d tried. It was his best kind of smile. The one you always wanted him to wear.

“Holy shit,” he said, and before you could tease him for it, he kissed you again like he’d been starving for this. Like he’d been waiting forever.

You realized neither of you were worried anymore. Not about jealousy. Not about rejection. Not about ruining anything. Because you’d finally stopped running from the truth.

You’d been his. And he’d been yours. Long before either of you were brave enough to say it.

When you finally parted, he leaned his forehead against yours. Eyes still closed, dropping his arms between the two of your and finding your own.

“I didn’t have an ah-ha moment like you.” You admitted. Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t shake.

“I didn’t suddenly realize I was in love with you all at once.”

Eddie pulled back, finally opening his eyes to look at you, watching you like he was afraid whatever this spell was would suddenly break.

“It just… built,” you continued. “Little things. The way you’d make everything feel lighter, even when my whole world was going to shit. How you’d look at me during campaigns like you were making sure I was still having fun. How you always saved me the last cigarette. Or the middle seat on the couch. Or the warmest blanket.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tensing.

“And it didn’t feel dramatic or shocking,” you said, shaking your head. “It felt normal. It felt… like breathing. Like something I’d been doing forever without realizing it.”

Your laugh came out uneven.

“Honestly, Steve was the one that pointed it out to me. Asked if I was in love with you. By the time I actually stopped and thought about it, it was already true. So true it scared the hell out of me too.”

One of his hands rose slowly, cupping your cheek.

You leaned into the warmth before you could stop yourself.

“I kept waiting for you to figure it out first,” you whispered. “Because if you didn’t, that meant I’d ruin everything by saying it first.”

His thumb grazed your lower lip, and his eyes flicked down to your mouth like he couldn’t help it.

“I wish you would’ve. Just taken that leap. Or maybe me have enough balls to do it the proper way. So, I guess, million dollar question. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Officially. Fuck this casual shit.”

You shook your head lightly, overwhelmed, giddy, breathless in a way you hadn’t felt since the first time he ever smiled just for you.

“Eddie…” you said, but your voice was already cracking around the edges of a laugh.

He looked panicked for half a second—eyes widening, shoulders tensing like he thought you were about to turn him down.

“Hey—no, no, don’t laugh,” he rushed out as more panic built in his chest. “I’m being serious. Dead serious. I want you. I want us. No more pretending we’re just… whatever the hell we thought we were doing.”

You laid your head against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. His moved to wrap around your shoulders, holding you tight against him.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, smiling into him. “I’m laughing because… I’ve wanted you to ask me that for so god damn long, Eds.”

The relief that washed over his face was instant and obvious—like his whole body exhaled at once. His grip on you tightened, steadying himself like you were the one holding all the power now.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, half a laugh, half a disbelieving groan. “You’re gonna take years off my life, you know that? Make my hair go grey early.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was beating too hard, too fast.

He looked so happy. So open. So yours.

“So…” he tried again, lifting your face up to look at him, leaning in, noses brushing, “is that a yes? Before I keel over from suspense?”

You pretended to think for half a second, just to tease him, and he dropped his head and let out a dramatic whine into the curve of your neck.

“Yes, you idiot,” you finally said, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”

He froze.

Then he scooped you up—literally lifted you off the ground—laughing into your neck like he couldn’t help himself.

You squealed, arms tightening around him as he spun you once before setting you back down, hands framing your face like he was making sure you were real.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, grinning wide and a little wild. “You’re mine. Like—for real.”

You nudged your forehead against his, smiling so big it almost hurt.

“And you’re mine.” You murmured.

He kissed you then. It was messy, eager, but this time, full of so much love. Every feeling you guys had swallowed for so long poured out all at once.

No hesitation. No pretending. Just Eddie. Your Eddie.

Finally.

Metallica. AC/DC. Led Zeppelin. Guns N’ Roses. Iron Maiden.

Bands that unite everyone with sick riffs and pure rock energy that still blasts through people’s headphones and car stereos to this day. Timeless. Monumental. Sensational.

You could be complete opposites with someone—hell, even sworn enemies—but there’s one thing people will always agree on, and that’s good fucking music.

And that’s exactly why Bucky can’t stand what he’s seeing right now.

Because there you are—sitting in the student union—with John fucking Walker beside you, talking your ear off about “seventeen thirty-eight,” “strip clubs,” and “trap beats.”

All telltale signs of shitty music. Music Bucky hates—and music he definitely knows you hate too.

Yet there you sat, in your cute little pink outfit, twirling a strand of hair around your finger and nodding along to every word America’s Asshole had to say.

“Buck,” Steve called, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. “Did you already submit your article for—” he glanced up mid-sentence and paused when he noticed Bucky’s glare fixated somewhere past him.

Steve’s eyes followed, glancing over his shoulder, and he let out an agitated sigh at the sight.

“So fucking stupid,” Bucky muttered under his breath, clicking angrily at his pen.

“Buck,” Steve tried again.

Bucky sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from you. “What?”

“Stop looking at her,” Steve lectured, tapping away on his laptop. “You’ve got no chance.”

Bucky let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He’d heard that claim a hundred times from his friends, but only he knew the truth.

He did have a chance with you.

He had a chance with you that night weeks ago, when he locked eyes with you across the crowd at a house party. He remembered the night clearly. Some underground garage band was thrashing in the backyard, and he was squeezing through the crowd to find the bathroom—that’s when he saw you. All the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He never expected to find someone like you—someone who’s popular and thrives on the attention of football players—at a party like that, much less listening to music like this.

The whole concept of popularity in college was stupid. He thought that shit ended in high school, but you proved him wrong, and he hated you for it. Every man turned their head when you walked by, girls started dressing like you, and everyone scrambled for an invitation to the parties you hosted.

God, he fucking despised girls like you.

But there you were that night, stripped away from all the popularity, the tight clothes and short skirts, and the preppy makeup. You were just… a dirtbag.

Just like him.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him, but he started moving before he could think, his feet carrying him through the crowd toward you. He tapped you on the shoulder and you turned, eyes bright and wild. He said your name, and you… just stared at him.

He remembered that face clearly, a blank look that told him he was no one to you.

Of course you didn’t know his name. You were complete opposites after all.

He immediately regretted walking over to you. At that point, he wished the ground would’ve just swallowed him whole.

Just as he turned to leave, you snagged his wrist and smiled.

Then you said, “Bucky Barnes, right?”

And then that night, he took you to the bathroom, where he fucked you hard against the sink, the door, and the toilet seat—kept you full of his cock until you were a crying, moaning mess. It was the best night of his life. The sloppy sex, your voice crying his name through the music, your manicured fingernails digging into his back and gripping his hair. He could never forget it, because that night replayed in his mind every time he jerked off to the thought of you.

You exchanged numbers, and the next morning, he woke up to a text message from you that ended your guys’ story before it could even start.

👑: hey

👑: can we keep what happened last night between the two of us?

No explanation. Bucky didn’t need one.

And like the stupid idiot he was, he let you get away.

bucky: yeah

bucky: looks bad

From there on, you were his dirty little secret.

And he was yours.

“I don’t know why that girl’s got you wrapped around her perfectly polished finger,” Steve continued, snapping Bucky back to reality. “You’ve got girls throwing themselves at you after every show, yet you can’t stop staring at her. I thought we hated girls like her?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes drifting back to you and John. “I do hate her.”

“Hate her or want to fuck her?”

Bucky shot him a sharp glare. “Steve.”

Steve chuckled and raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging. “I’m just sayin’. It’s hard to tell nowadays with you.” He shut his laptop and got up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And don’t forget about the gig this—”

“This Friday,” Bucky interrupted gruffly. “I know.”

“And don’t forget to hang the posters—”

“I’ll do that right now.”

Steve grinned, ruffling Bucky’s shaggy hair before Bucky swatted his hand away. “Good boy.”

“Get out of my face, Steve.”

Once Steve was out of the way, Bucky’s eyes naturally flickered back to you. By the time he was looking, you were already staring at him—not at John Walker, but at him. You should’ve looked away, but right now, the only interesting thing in this room was Bucky. Not the blonde droning on about “sicko mode” or “mo bamba,” whatever the hell those words even meant.

And how could you possibly look away when Bucky was holding your gaze just as intensely?

But then, with an agitated sigh that you could practically hear across the union, he swiped his belongings off the table and left the room, breaking the silent staring contest.

“So anyway,” John spoke up. “Are you coming this Friday?”

You turned to him, reluctantly. “What’s happening on Friday?”

John laughed, almost disbelieving. It was very obvious from the start that you weren’t listening to him—nor did you have the intention to—yet he still stayed. John was persistent: he’d get into the skirts of any attractive, popular girl on campus, and for a football player like him, having a hot girl on his arm was simply an ego boost.

“The big game is on Friday,” he said flatly, as if you were the stupid one. “And then the frat party right after.”

“Oh,” you blinked, trying to play dumb. “Right.”

A small, almost doubtful smile tugged at his lips. “So you’re coming, right?”

You forced a smile so wide it hurt. “Of course I am.”

John let out a low whistle, clapping his hands together loud enough to make a few heads turn. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cringing.

“That’s my girl!”

My girl?

You couldn’t hold the cringe back anymore, your face scrunching up into a sour expression before you could stop it. John was too far ahead of himself to even notice. You got up suddenly, snapping John out of his little victory dance.

“I’m going back to the chapter house to study—”

“Oh!” John immediately jumped up with you. “Let me walk you back, then.”

“I can walk myself,” you said, flashing a polite smile as you pushed your chair in and made your escape before he could argue.

Behind you, you heard John gathering his things frantically, the chair squeaking as he scurried after you. “Wait!” he called out, but you continued walking, pretending not to hear him.

You pushed the door open, and just as it was about to swing shut, John slammed his hand against the frame, barely catching it as he held the door open for himself.

“Wait—hold on—”

You rolled your eyes and continued walking, but you stopped short at the sight of Bucky standing in front of the message center. He was messily pinning up posters, scattering them across the board and blatantly covering the existing ones before his. Once John caught up, he opened his mouth to speak but noticed your attention was caught elsewhere. His eyes followed yours—and then he saw Bucky.

Bucky was covering up the frat party posters John had hung up earlier today, not even trying to be sneaky or ashamed about it.

“That fucking asshole,” John muttered under his breath, already stomping angrily toward Bucky.

“John,” you reached out, trying to stop him, but it was too late. “Wait!”

“Dirtbag Barnes!” John called out, finally catching up to him. His face was twisted in an angry, unpleasant look. He scrunched up his nose, looking down at Bucky like he was trash—even though there was only about an inch difference in height.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky gave him an impassive look. “I’m putting up posters for my gig this Friday. What else?”

John scoffed. “You’re covering up my flyers for my party.”

“No one wants to go to that shit anyway.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he fisted his hands at his sides. Just as he was about to raise one for a punch—leaving Bucky completely unflinching—you stepped in the middle.

“Jesus Christ, John!” you glared at him, putting your hand out defensively—a small, absurd barrier against a football player. You knew John was an asshole, but you also knew he wouldn’t risk his reputation and his spot on the team by laying a hand on a woman.

John sneered, dropping his hand reluctantly.

Bucky, meanwhile, offered him a smug, taunting grin. “Would you look at that,” he drawled. His eyes tracked you up and down slowly, before flicking back to John. “Your guardian angel, dressed in pink, here to rescue you.”

John let out a cruel, barking laugh at the comment. The taunt should have offended you, but you found yourself physically tilting your head down, trying to hide the pink flush on your cheeks as you bit back a smile, because... well…

Bucky had called you an angel!

“I don’t need ‘rescuing,’” John crossed his arms, completely oblivious to your reaction. “If anything, she was the one who saved you. If it weren’t for her, you already would’ve been doubled over on the floor with a bloodied fucking nose.”

“Great,” Bucky’s smile only grew wider. “Having a bruised nose would look sick when I perform on Friday.”

John made a face of disgust. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking asshole. What else is new?”

“Bucky,” you warned.

His shoulders deflated just slightly. John mumbled something under his breath, already half-turned away and seemingly forgetting his mission to "walk you back to the house."

“Don’t linger around that dirtbag for too long,” John scoffed. “Unless you want to start smelling like trash.”

He gave Bucky one last dirty look, then turned back to the poster board, violently ripping one of Bucky’s posters down. He crumpled it in his hands, tossed the ruined paper haphazardly at Bucky, and finally walked away.

Once John was out of sight, Bucky turned his full attention to you. You didn’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face; you could feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of your head. You turned to meet his eyes.

“Hey, loser.” You teased, trying to play dumb.

“John fucking Walker,” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Him, out of all people? Seriously?” He looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands, slowly unfolding it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he mumbled the last part—but you heard it perfectly clear.

“John and I aren’t dating—”

“Yeah?” Bucky cut you off. “Then why is he following you around like some lost fucking puppy?”

“I don’t know! He won’t leave me alone. He only keeps an arm around my shoulder because it makes him look good. It’s nothing serious,” you said defensively.

You honestly didn’t know why you’d let John hover around you like this for the past few days, or why you had done nothing to stop it. You were used to guys—especially the popular ones—flocking to you; being near you gave them an incredible ego boost. You were just an accessory, and before, you hadn’t cared. You thought the same thing of men like John. You weren’t any better.

But after meeting Bucky, after letting him touch and defile you the way he did at the house party, a deeper part of you couldn’t help but keep John slung over your shoulder just to see Bucky riled up and jealous.

“Nothing serious,” he nodded, the understanding look completely fake. “Just like the guy before? And the one before that?”

You crossed your arms. “What are you insinuating? That I’m some kind of slut?”

Bucky just grinned, playing with your reaction.

“No. Not at all, angel.” He took a step closer, his fingertips catching the ends of your hair, twirling it tauntingly in his fingers. “Because those guys haven’t had you the way I had you, is that right?”

You sucked in a sharp breath and glanced around warily. You hated how easily your body still reacted to him. You circled his wrist, prying his hand away with a shaky grip.

“Bucky,” you sighed, managing a firmer voice. “What we had weeks ago—it was a one-time thing. Someone like me would never—”

“...fuck around with a sleaze like me?” he tilted his head down at you, the look almost condescending despite the self-insult. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Truthfully, you were drawn to Bucky as powerfully as he was drawn to you. But you couldn’t date someone like him. College was about networking, surrounding yourself with upstanding people who would connect you to future success. Being around Bucky—all dark, baggy clothes, shaggy hair, stubble, and loud music—felt like a direct detour from that steady path.

Yet, you relished the way he fawned over you.

But then a colder feeling snapped you back to reality—maybe Bucky was no different from John. Maybe, by having a woman like you on his arm, he was just building his own brand of reputation, too.

That reminder alone was enough to bring you crashing back hard down to earth.

“Bucky, let’s be real,” you insisted, jutting a hip and crossing your arms to maintain confidence. “Aside from our music taste, we have nothing in common. We have no chemistry.”

You expected Bucky to be upset by that—to finally give up and retreat. But Bucky, unpredictable as always, only smiled wider. He leaned in, his warm, low breath feathering against your ear.

“Oh, princess,” he cooed, his voice low and raspy. “You didn’t even know what chemistry was until you met me.”

Your face immediately warmed with sudden heat. You couldn’t understand how Bucky—a guy who managed to set most people off with an unintentional string of words and only hung out with the same three people—could make you melt with such a simple phrase.

“Th-that’s…” you cleared your throat, already turning halfway, “…so unbelievably corny.”

Bucky chuckled behind you, but before you could take three full steps, he called your name.

Like an idiot, you stopped and turned back around.

“Can you make it this Friday?” he asked, and suddenly he didn’t sound so confident. His brow furrowed just slightly, and his shoulders slumped a little with genuine appeal.

“To your gig?” you frowned.

He nodded, handing you the crumpled, unfolded paper of his flyer. You glanced down at it; in big, bold black letters, “CIVIL WAR” was written in the center in a messy grunge, edgy style.

Bucky pressed his lips together, already knowing what you were thinking. John had his football game and the frat party on the same night. And one thing Bucky knew about you was that you never skipped out on a party.

He glanced at John’s remaining poster on the message board, then back at you.

“Come on. Just skip a party for one night and come watch me play instead,” he pleaded. “Listen to actual good music. Not that… trap shit Walker was going on about.” He motioned lazily with his hand toward John’s poster.

“I won’t go,” you said flatly. But despite your words, you folded the crumpled paper neatly and tucked it into your shoulder bag.

He smiled as he watched you. “That’s a shame. I want to see my pretty girl in pink cheering my name in the crowd.”

You felt like the breath got knocked out of your lungs. When John Walker called you his girl just a few minutes ago, you wanted to double over and hurl vomit all over his pristine Nikes. But hearing Bucky call you his girl—his pretty girl—made you want to drop everything and run into his arms.

But instead, you inhaled a steady breath and turned on your heel. “I’m not going to that dump just to watch mediocre playing,” you shouted over your shoulder.

Bucky just barked a laugh behind you—a sound that couldn’t help but make a smile tug reluctantly at your lips.

“Alright. I’ll see you there, princess.”

It was Wednesday night, and Bucky was practicing drums in his garage with the rest of Civil War: Steve on lead guitar and vocals, Sam on backup guitar and vocals, and Natasha on bass.

Mid-song, Nat stilled her fingers on the strings and shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Steve, are you getting sick? You sound off.”

Steve turned from the microphone and gave Nat a look. “I’ve been singing for two hours straight. Of course, I sound off.”

“Amateur,” Bucky coughed behind his fist.

Sam and Nat chuckled until Steve turned and gave them all a dirty look that silenced them. “Shut the hell up, Buck. You’re drumming off-beat too, and it’s throwing the rest of us off.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “That’s impossible. I’m the drummer, so technically, you all have to follow me.”

Sam scrunched his face. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whatever,” Nat cut in, already lifting the strap of her bass over her head. “Let’s all take five,” she said, pointing a finger at Steve. “Go drink some water.”

As everyone scattered, their idle chatter filling the garage, Bucky’s thoughts raced back to you. He’d sounded so confident when he said, “I’ll see you there,” but in reality, he wasn’t confident at all. He knew girls like you were avid partygoers, and he hadn’t cared until he met you—until he had a taste, until he had marked your body and claimed it as his.

Now, the idea of you going to that party, vulnerable among assholes like John Walker, sent his blood boiling.

He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his worn jeans and opened social media. Of course, he immediately saw a bunch of stories from tonight’s party. Seriously, what was the appeal of all these parties anyway? On a Wednesday night, too. It was unbelievable, he thought, even though he was staying up way past midnight rehearsing for his own gig.

His thumb idly scrolled through stories until a particular one stopped him cold. It was a brief video of you, dancing exuberantly—and clearly drunk—to loud music. You were in your typical cute little outfit; short skirt, heels, and plenty of pink. Bucky’s jaw tightened as he replayed the clip, devouring every detail. Your skirt was riding high, giving the camera—and everyone nearby—an ample view of your legs. The way you moved, the way your body was bouncing as you danced…

It sent a thunderbolt of desire straight through his body and right to his dick.

“Alright, break time’s over,” Steve announced, tapping the microphone so the sound echoed through the garage. He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, who was still absorbed by his phone.

“Buck. Did you hear me? I said break time’s—”

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Bucky snapped, shoving himself out of his drum seat. The cymbals clanged loudly as he bumped into them in haste.

“What? Where the hell are you going—!” Sam barked, but Bucky was already past the door.

Bucky scrambled quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. His phone shaky in his hands, he kept replaying the video of you over and over again. How badly he wanted to send you a text, to drive over there and pick you up just so he could keep you for himself. He wanted to be the only one to see you like this—not John Walker, not your stupid sorority posse of mean girls.

Just him.

His erection was pressing insistently against his boxers and jeans, and he knew he couldn’t go back out there in… such a state.

He set his phone down on the bathroom sink, unbuckling his belt quickly, pushing his jeans down along with his boxers. His cock sprang out, heavy, slapping against his lower belly—aching to be touched. He replayed the story a few more times, then shut his eyes as his eager hands went down to his dick with a low groan.

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself, tossing his head back as his mind started to fill with flashbacks of the night he had you.

He remembered you on your knees on the bathroom tile, taking him in your perfectly puckered lips that shined with a shimmery lip gloss.

“Fuck, angel…” he moaned as he balanced one hand against the wall, his forehead pressing against it as the other hand fisted his cock eagerly. His hand wasn’t nearly as soft, as warm, and as wet as your lips. But this would have to do for now.

He started rocking his hips into his hand as he remembered the way you batted your cute, long eyelashes at him. He groaned, his thumb swiping over his slit, spreading pre-cum over his cockhead.

“God, baby…” he sighed. “This isn’t fucking fair—you shouldn’t be flaunting yourself at these… stu—stupid parties,” his fist moved faster, and his legs started to shake as he remembered your soft legs wrapped around his waist as he held you up and fucked you against the door.

“You should be here… w-with me, fuck, baby.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing out as his hand quickened its pace around his shaft. The more he surrendered to the filthy thoughts of you, the more his cock throbbed and jerked in his grasp.

He replaced the feel of his fist with the tight, wet warmth of your mouth. He visualized the way your tongue trailed along the heavy underside of his cock, lapping at every sensitive ridge. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, his vision blurred as he focused on the floor, imagining you kneeling directly in front of him.

“Fuck… just like that, baby,” he moaned to himself, his hips moving in rhythm with his fist, as if you were taking him in your mouth.

“Gonna… fuck, gonna paint your fucking pretty face with my seed, princess.”

The imagined sounds of your moans and gasps drowned out the guitars and Steve’s singing from the next room. Your sweet voice, the way you cried his name and begged him to cum inside you—it was enough to shatter his control.

His rhythm broke, and his grip turned sloppy over his cock as he pulsed and shuddered. “Fuck… baby, I’m gonna cum—” he groaned, driving a hard and final thrust into his palm, spilling himself all over his fingers.

Catching his breath, he watched his seed drip down his hand and onto the cold tiles. With a soft sigh, he reached for the toilet paper, meticulously wiping himself and the floor clean.

Bucky knew this was wrong, finding arousal in the sight of you drunk at a party and fixating on the memory of the night you shared, but he was powerless to stop.

He claimed he hated you, but the hatred wasn’t for you.

It was for the fact that he couldn’t have you. It was for the fact that you wouldn’t choose him.

Sam’s fist hammered on the bathroom door. “Bucky—what the hell are you doing in there?”

“I’m—uh,” Bucky stammered. “Taking a shit.”

“Well, hurry the hell up. Steve’s getting upset and we need to nail this song down by Friday, man.”

Bucky hauled his jeans up, his belt clanking as he swiftly buckled it into place. “Tell that punk to inhale and exhale for five and I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t see it, but he could practically feel Sam’s eye roll from just outside the door. Sam mumbled a quiet “whatever,” and the sound of his footsteps shuffled away from the door and down the hall.

Just as Bucky reached for the lock, his phone dinged with a notification. He looked down at the screen, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

👑: bucky. can you pick me up? please?

And that was all it took.

He pocketed his phone and pushed the bathroom door open. He strode back to the garage to retrieve his jacket—instantly earning a round of “where the hell do you think you’re going?” from Sam, Steve, and Nat.

“I’ve got an emergency, just…” he motioned dismissively, “practice without me.”

They continued to argue right up until Bucky snatched his keys and stomped out the front door and into his car, but he didn’t heed their complaints—you needed him. You needed his help.

And that was the final truth Bucky hated.

He hated how effortlessly he could drop everything—no matter how important—just to answer your call.

Bucky broke every speed limit to get to you, to reach the stupid party you’d gotten caught up in. The entire drive, his mind raced with several thoughts: that you were okay, that you weren’t hurt, that one of those filthy frat boys hadn’t put their hands on you. When he pulled up to the house, you stumbled out by yourself to meet him at his car, but Bucky got out and steadied you, helping you slide into the passenger seat.

You reeked of alcohol, could barely stand, and your hair was disheveled—your makeup was a smeared mess.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he buckled your seatbelt. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Wow,” you sighed, your elbow propped on the center console as you struggled to keep yourself upright. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

He only rolled his eyes as he made his way back to the driver’s seat, quickly getting in so no one at the party would spot him. “You also smell like shit.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted. “Don’t be mean to me!” you whined as you gave his shoulder a playful nudge.

Bucky glanced at you, a warmth spreading across his face as he laughed at your words. This wasn’t the first time since you two met that you had called him in the middle of the night, needing his help. And every single time, he was there for you. Without fail.

“Me? Mean to you? Never,” he teased as he put the car in drive and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

You let out a soft giggle, your face flushed pink, the sound making Bucky’s heart flutter in his chest. He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes steady on the road. The speed he drove now was a complete contrast to his reckless drive to get to you. He was slower now—and despite the risk of you throwing up in his car—he took his sweet time driving you back to your house, all just so he could savor these few minutes with you.

“So…” he drawled, “… did something—”

“No. Nothing happened,” you answered immediately, already expecting the question. Every time Bucky picked you up, he always asked and made sure you were okay. “No one touched me. Well, they tried, but I didn’t let them. You know how these frat boys are.”

You looked out the window, your eyes glossy as the world outside blurred, but you caught Bucky’s reflection, and you spotted the way his jaw clenched.

“I just wanted to get out of there.”

“And the first person you thought to text was me,” he huffed a non-humorous laugh. “It’s starting to become a pattern, isn’t it?”

You, being in a drunken haze and completely oblivious to the strain in his voice, only tossed your head back and laughed.

“But you like it, don’t you? It gives you the excuse to see me,” you leaned over, poking your manicured finger at his cheek. “And I know how bad you want to see me.”

He parted his lips to say something—perhaps try to taunt you back—but the words caught in his throat. Because, despite your drunken state, the truth of your words was undeniable, and you knew it. You knew exactly how badly he wanted you, and here you were, drunk and vulnerable in his passenger seat, dangling that power right in front of him.

You noticed the grumpy look on his face and turned toward him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, don’t be mad, Buck,” you cooed, drawing out his name, which only made his grip on the wheel tighten. “You always look so serious when you’re mad. It’s kinda hot, actually.”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” you giggled, leaning closer. “You don’t like it when I say stuff like that?”

If you were sober, he would’ve slammed the car into park, dragged you to the back seat, and claimed you for himself. But he couldn’t. Instead, his temper flared with how intensely you were taunting him, knowing damn well how much he wanted you.

“I don’t like it when you drink like this,” he shot back. “Or when you go to parties where you know those idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s self-sabotage.”

You pouted, the sound of it almost childlike. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he said with a scoff. “The Barbie and Ken dolls that you love to surround yourself with don’t seem to. That’s why you keep calling me instead—because no one else will.”

Your smile faltered.

His words struck you hard. Painful as they were, they rang true—a truth you never wanted to admit. You surrounded yourself with people like John Walker, who only cared about social status and appearances, always looking out for themselves and themselves only.

Bucky was genuinely the only person who looked out for you.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms defensively over your chest, and turned your gaze back to the window. “Can you hurry up and take me home?” you said, your voice so painfully soft it was barely audible. “I feel sick.”

Bucky sighed, immediately regretting the words as they left his mouth. “Look, I just…” he pressed his lips together, struggling to find words that wouldn’t upset you further. “I worry, okay? You call me because you know I’ll show up. And I do, every time—”

“Yeah. You show up. Then you remind me why you shouldn’t have.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration building in his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is what you said.”

A tense silence settled in the car again. He wanted to apologize, to tell you exactly how he felt every time he came to pick you up in the middle of the night. It was always about you—about the way his stomach twisted when you called his name through slurred words, needing him, wanting him, but just never in the way he needed you to.

But he couldn’t say that. Not when you were sitting there looking so small, so hurt.

So instead, he muttered, “Did you have anything to eat?”

You blinked, your eyes hazy as you looked back at him. “What?”

“You need to eat. You can’t drink on an empty stomach.”

“I haven’t,” you said, frowning. “I’m not hungry.”

Bucky flicked his turn signal on. Instead of turning right toward your sorority, he turned left, heading elsewhere. “We’ll stop by a gas station and pick you up something to eat.”

You scrunched your face, your nose wrinkling. “A gas station? That’s all greasy, processed food. I’m not messing up my diet.”

He huffed a laugh, trying to keep things light. “You just shot back a couple of tequilas and now you’re worried about your diet? A chili hotdog for one night isn’t going to ruin you.”

Each protest and whine went in Bucky’s ear and out the other. Once he pulled into the gas station’s parking lot, you sat reluctantly, arms crossed. Bucky laughed at your resistance, unbuckled your seatbelt, and hauled you up in one swift, steady motion. You collided into his chest as he wrapped a strong arm around you, holding you steady against him.

At this point, you weren’t drunk enough to be stumbling over yourself anymore, but you weren’t about to push yourself away from Bucky’s arms. He led you toward the hot food section, and your nose was immediately hit with the smell of the rotating hotdogs.

You made a sour face. “Please tell me you’re not actually going to feed me that.”

He grinned, already grabbing a bun and splitting it open. He grabbed a hotdog—still slick with juices—and slapped it onto the bun. He started loading it with chili from the dispenser, the machine sputtering and making strange noises as it poured its goopy contents, nearly overflowing.

“That looks disgusting.”

He only laughed as he started piling on shredded cheese that had been sitting on the counter for God knows how long, followed by diced onions and a drizzle of mustard.

He turned to you and held it up. “There. Five-star dining.”

You blinked down at the hotdog, not even hiding the disapproving look on your face.

When you didn’t move, he let out a low sigh and gently took your hand, guiding the hotdog towards you. “C’mon. Just one bite.”

The warmth of his hand pressed against yours, and for a second, you felt your breath catch in your throat at the contact. You stared at him—the faint smirk on the corners of his lips, the messy hair falling into his eyes—and was that eyeliner?

With a hesitant sigh, you took a bite. Immediately, your face twisted, but you didn’t stop chewing. “Oh my god, that’s so bad.”

He laughed—a real one this time, soft and deep. “You’re a goddamn liar. You love it.”

He turned to make his own hotdog, and you couldn’t help the smile twisting at your lips as you watched him. At the party, there was no one else like him. There was no one with baggy and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, or shaggy hair who wore eyeliner. You watched his hands as they got to work on the hotdog. His hands were calloused—not because he worked out frequently or obsessed over sports. His hands were rough because of his constant drumming.

And for some reason, that fact made your body warm.

After he paid for the hotdogs, he led you back outside where you two sat in his car, Iron Maiden playing on his speakers at a low volume—music they would never play at the parties you go to, and music you secretly enjoyed.

He had his seat reclined back, arms draped behind him as he ate his hotdog. The both of you sat in comfortable silence—aside from the music playing—as you looked out at the ongoing traffic, the lights and cars zooming past each other.

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Bucky said, turning The Trooper up. “The band and I have been trying to learn it—but Steve can’t even get the beginning riff right.” He shook his head, taking another bite.

“I’m sure Steve’s trying his best,” you casually took a bite. “He’s probably just rushing the gallops.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, turning to you with a surprised look on his face. “Look at that,” he grinned, leaning over and ruffling your hair. “You know what gallops are—how cute.” He finished his hotdog, crumpling up the wrapping paper.

“Sooner or later you’re going to be wearin’ black eyeliner and replace Steve as the lead guitarist in my band.”

“God—no,” you scoffed lightly. “I would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing sloppy dark make up around my eyes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re sayin’ my eye make up is sloppy?”

A small, smug smile tugged at your lips. “I’m saying you could do a better job,” you motioned to beneath your eyes, “at blending it in.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

You crumpled up the wrapper of your hotdog and tossed it somewhere in the backseat. Leaning down, you rummaged through your pink handbag and pulled out a black eyeliner pencil.

“Wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it, yet you have an eyeliner pencil in your purse?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

You crawled over the center console, squeezing and wiggling your way into the tight space between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, nestling yourself onto his lap. Bucky’s body suddenly felt so warm, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he prayed you couldn’t hear it.

He also prayed that you couldn’t feel his hardening erection.

“Okay,” he tried to say casually, but he couldn’t help but feel giddy.

He went still as your hand came up, your thumb resting just beneath his eye. The car suddenly felt so small—so suffocating. You leaned in, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your expensive perfume—the exact one he smelt that night he had you.

You were close, so fucking close.

All he had to do was lean in and kiss you.

He let out a shaky exhale, and you furrowed your brow slightly.

“Your hair’s in the way,” you said, your soft hand running through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

He was so starved for your attention and touch, that the gentle graze alone, the suffocating proximity, your smell, your voice—it was all enough to make his cock unbearably hard. And he knew you could feel it now too; every exhale you let out was shaky, and your hands were trembling just slightly. He was confident you felt the same tension he did when your eyes flickered down to his lips just briefly before looking back up.

Bucky cleared his throat, his hands subconsciously finding your hips and holding you in place. “How are you feeling?”

You paused. “Better now,” you slowly retreated your hand. “Head hurts a little. But I mostly just feel exhausted.”

He nodded. “We should take you home—”

“Wait,” you pulled out your phone, opening the camera app and flicking it to the front camera. “Look. It looks way better, doesn’t it?”

He paused, taking your phone and looking at himself carefully. He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does. You know—” he handed your phone back to you, “you should be my makeup artist for my gigs. You’re coming to my show on Friday, right? You can do my makeup then.”

You rolled your eyes. “You want me to be both your makeup artist and your cheerleader? For free?”

His hand couldn’t help but wander to your backside, more instinct than intentional, really. But you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

“Come on, just show up for me. I show up for you all the time, don’t I?” his eyes flickered down to your top. “I could even make you a band shirt, and I’ll have it designed all pink and pretty instead of black—just for you. What do you say?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not showing up to your gig, Buck.”

He smiled back, a little crooked. “Whatever you say, princess.”

You two stared at each other for a moment, neither pulling away. The Iron Maiden track and the sounds of the street began to die down; it was well past two a.m. in an empty parking lot, quiet and dark, leaving the two of you alone in that confined, tense space.

Bucky felt his heart hammering against his ribs. If he could freeze time, he would stop it right here. It was just the two of you—you sitting pretty in the passenger seat of his beat-up car, his favorite band faintly playing. It was perfect. All that was left to do was kiss you.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mumbled so quietly it was more for himself than for you.

His face immediately burned when he saw the mischievous glint in your eye and the curl of your lips.

You leaned in closer, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing—taunting. “Am I?”

He shuddered. “The prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, making Bucky’s breath catch in his throat. Before he could react, you closed the remaining space between you and pressed your lips against his.

His body melted instantly at your touch, as if he’d been anticipating this very moment, and he let out a low groan as his fingers slid into the strands of your hair, his grip tightening just enough to hold you still against him as his lips explored yours hungrily.

You felt him push his tongue past your lips, exploring frantically, tasting you as much as he could—his body moving in a way that was filled with desperation, yet still savoring the moment. He kept kissing you until you were both out of breath. He pulled away, his hand still tangled in your hair, not wanting to let go. He sighed softly and pressed your forehead against his.

“Fuck, princess… I…” he breathed, pressing another messy kiss to your lips. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all night.”

You huffed a breathless laugh. “I know you were. I could see it in your eyes the minute you picked me up.”

He gave your hips a gentle, yet possessive squeeze as his hands moved up your thighs and around your waist. “There are so many things I want to do to you,” he managed, swallowing hard. “And it fucking kills me knowing I can’t.”

“Do things like what?” you teased, your fingers tracing the pattern of his T-shirt across his chest.

His jaw went slightly slack. He watched your fingers graze his clothed chest, breathing hard. “Like… lift up this tiny skirt,” he muttered, his hand playing with the hem of your miniskirt, “push your panties to the side, and fuck you right here on my lap.”

A small, complacent smile tugged at your lips as you gave your hips a subtle roll, feeling the thick bulge of him against his jeans.

“Yeah?” you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his. “You want me to ride you? Right here, in your car?”

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as his hands shoved the hem of your skirt higher, his erection straining against his denim as he caught sight of your bare and supple thighs.

“Don’t push me, princess,” he muttered, his fingers slinking underneath your panties, gently grazing your mound. His thumb found your clit and rubbed, his fingers dipping a little deeper, and his eyes darkened once he felt how warm and wet you were.

You whimpered, your hips immediately bucking into his touch. Your heart hammered in your chest and your legs felt like jelly just from being so close. The way Bucky called you "princess" made you feel something no other man ever had. You had been called plenty of pet names before, but none of them ever came from the campus dirtbag, Bucky Barnes.

“Call me princess again,” you pleaded.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding behind you, squeezing your ass through your panties and pulling you impossibly closer. “You’re a princess, my fucking princess. Fuck. I worship the ground you walk on, and I want to keep you all to myself. And you know that—you know you’re my pretty little princess, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Bucky smiled softly at you, but every word that left his mouth was filthy. “You’re such a dirty little girl, yet you still want to be called a princess?” His hands found yours and guided your fingers down to his belt. “If you’re such a princess, why don’t you go ahead and help me out, baby? Go on. Help me out of these pants.”

Your manicured nails clinked against the buckle of his belt as you worked to remove it and unbutton his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, strong enough to hold you up, and helped you pull his cock free from the confines of his denim. He was already hard, already slick and pulsing—begging for your attention.

You gasped softly at the sight. You cupped him in your hands and began to pump him slowly. His hips immediately jerked, his mouth hanging open as he savored the feel of your smooth hand against his warm cock.

It had only been a few weeks since you had last seen him bare and aching for you, but it felt excruciatingly long. You watched him, mesmerized by the way his brows furrowed and his eyes kept fluttering shut under your movements. You knew he missed you just as much as you missed him.

“Does that feel good, Bucky?” you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

He sighed. “So good, angel… don’t fucking stop.”

While your palm worked his dick, you slowly rocked your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your clothed pussy against his thigh and making the car shake. Bucky watched the provocative sight; the roll of your hips, the way your miniskirt rode up to your waist—now a sad excuse for a belt.

The sight alone was enough to make his cock throb in your hands.

You looked down at him, letting out soft sighs and moans to help him along. Your hand began pumping him faster and harder, the speed quickly overwhelming him. And as much as he loved the feeling of your soft hands and the sight of your pretty nail polish around his cock, he couldn’t fight his greed.

He couldn’t control the burning desire to be buried deep inside you.

“Fuck—baby,” he grunted, his hands clamping down hard on your hips suddenly. “Hold on.”

“Hold on?” you raised a mocking brow. “But you just told me not to—”

He mumbled something grumpily under his breath that you couldn’t catch, his hands coming roughly to the waistband of your panties and trying to push them down. But his movements were clumsy, urgent, and desperate—nearly tearing your expensive, lacy underwear in his grasp.

“Bucky, baby—wait! You’re going to rip them. They’re my favorite pair—”

He groaned as he tore angrily at your panties, ripping a hole right in the center to expose your wet slit. You let out a sharp gasp at the sudden roughness, but his frenzied need for you sent butterflies to your stomach and made your core clench with anticipation.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathed, though he didn’t sound sincere at all. His hand found the base of his shaft, already positioning the tip toward your wet entrance. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t help myself around you, pretty princess. Especially not when you’re right here…” his tip caught your entrance, slowly pushing in—testing you, “…sitting so pretty in my lap, just asking to be ruined.”

Your hands steadied on his shoulders, your hips instinctively pulling away, intimidated by the size you haven’t had in weeks. “Bucky…”

“Don’t shy away now, baby,” he grunted, guiding your hips down. He slowly sank you deeper onto him.

You tossed your head back, gripping his shoulders tighter as he guided you down onto his lap. Your walls were warm as they fluttered around him, clenching down as you took him in slowly but eagerly.

“Fuck, princess…” he moaned, eyes locking onto yours. “You remember how to take me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, trying to maintain confidence. You nuzzled into his neck, pressing a soft kiss. “How can I not after the way you fucked me in the bathroom—oh!”

Your words were cut off by a sharp moan as Bucky rutted his hips up, his cock completely sheathing inside you in one hard motion. You shook in his lap at the rough thrust, and Bucky’s arms immediately hooked behind you, wrapping you tight against his chest as your face remained snuggled in the crook of his neck.

“Fuuck,” he moaned into your hair. “That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so good, aren’t you?” another hard thrust up, but his arms held you steady against him so you wouldn’t jolt again. “I bet your pretty little pussy missed me so much, is that right?”

“Yes!” you moaned into his neck. “I missed you so much, Bucky—”

“Yeah? You missed me?” he groaned, one of his hands tangling into your hair.

You yelped as he gave your hair a harsh tug, pulling your face away from his neck so you were forced to look at him. He held you absolutely still as he continued rutting up into you, his cock fucking you hard and deep. His tight grip on your body immobilized you, forcing you to take every inch of his relentless thrusts.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I missed you s-so… so much. God, I missed you so much, Bucky!” you moaned, your neck slightly arched as you looked down at him.

A low, seductive sound rumbled from his throat, and he smiled—a nearly sneering grin. “Goddamn, you’re so cute when you tell me that,” he growled as his hips continued to pound into you, setting the driver’s seat creaking and the whole car shaking.

“I missed you too, princess. I missed you so much—your body... the way it’s pressed against mine... fuck, I missed holding you close—” he rushed out, staring at you with lustful, hazy eyes. “Now, tell me how good I’m fucking you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel—how no one else can fuck you as good as I can.”

Despite being trapped in his arms, you rocked your hips in time with his thrust, desperate for more friction.

“You’re fucking m-me… so good, Bucky. Oh my god, don’t stop—!”

“Now, will you tell me how no one else can fuck you as good as I can?” His voice turned soft and pleading, yet every word felt rough and demanding. “Tell me that I’m the only one for you—that I belong to you and you belong to me. God, please. Will you make me the happiest boy and tell me that, princess? Please?”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as he pounded upward into you. You clung to his shoulders even tighter, your walls fluttering and clenching down on him as he only fucked you deeper; your chest pressed tightly against his with the force of his hold.

“I-I belong to you, Bucky. I only belong… to you!” you moaned, your voice pitching into a whine. “I’m yours, all yours—”

“Goddamn, you moan so pretty, baby,” he said softly.

A soft laugh left his lips as his thumb came up to wipe your tears, smearing your mascara and eyeliner. You felt his cock throb inside you at the sight—teary-eyed, mascara running, and eye makeup everywhere.

“Look at you, princess,” he breathed. His eyes were soft and admiring, but his thrusts were anything but. “You’re a crying little mess on my cock. And your makeup…” His fingers grazed beneath your eye, then gently pushed messy strands of hair away from your face. “You look so fucking beautiful like this. I want to keep you like this, a crying mess on my lap forever.”

Every sense was overwhelmed—the sharp scent of his cologne, his lustful, hungry gaze, the contrast of his gentle hands against his brutal thrusts, the soft sweetness of his voice delivering filthy words. You tightened around him, nearly coming undone.

Bucky groaned, driving another hard thrust as he felt you clench around him. “Fuck, baby, are you gonna cum?” his hands wandered back down, gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you. “Shit, princess. I’m gonna cum too—”

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, you whined and moaned like a desperate slut as he drove you to release.

“Bucky!” you cried out his name, shaking and trembling in his lap as your climax hit you hard and fast. “I’m cumming—fuck—h-hold me—”

He cooed softly into your ear, his arms never losing their grip. “I’ve got you, baby. That’s it. Cum all over me, baby. Fuck—I’m gonna cum too—”

His words died in his throat as he tucked his face into your neck. Melting into one, you were impossibly close as he gave one final, hard rock of his hips upward, burying himself completely deep inside you. His cum filled you—warm and thick.

“My god, princess—you’re fucking... takin’ everything inside—shit...” he babbled, his hands wandering greedily and desperately all over you. Your waist, your thighs, your back, your hair. Everywhere.

Both of you were left panting in the driver’s seat, his body warm as he held you close. You kept your face buried in the comfort of his neck while he pressed soft kisses to your head. His arms now loosened their hold, his fingers grazing lazily—and lovingly—up and down your spine.

A soft smile curled at your lips. You loved this. You loved being nestled in his lap, held close after the nasty, filthy love he’d made to you. You loved the safety you felt in his arms—a feeling no one else could ever give you.

And in this moment, tangled up in each other’s grasp, you never wanted to leave.

“That was…” you panted, “really, really good—”

“Come to my show on Friday.”

“Bucky,” you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, keeping your voice light with a soft, tired laugh. “I told you. I can’t—”

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice breathless. “There’s nothing that I want more than seeing my pretty girl in the crowd, cheering me on.”

You bit your lip, hesitant. When he looked at you like that, it made saying no feel impossible.

“Would your band even want someone like me in the crowd?” you asked quietly. “Your friends make fun of girls like me.”

He sat up straighter, as if sensing your slow agreement, and you nearly tumbled out of his lap before he held you still.

“Come on, think about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “How good I’d look with my arm around you. Everyone would be talking about us. The band would start getting recognized, and you—” he paused, his thumb brushing your waist, “you could finally stop pretending. Listen to whatever music you want. Do whatever the hell you want…”

Bucky kept talking, but the only words that stuck were “how cool I’d look with my arm around your shoulder,” “everyone talking about us,” “my band will start getting recognized.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut—the very fear you’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface. He didn’t want you. He wanted what came with you. The attention. The status. The boost.

He wasn’t any different from John Walker—except this time, you had actually slept with him.

He kept rambling, excitement spilling from his mouth, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Without saying a thing, you slid off his lap, tugged your skirt back into place, and crawled over to the passenger seat.

Bucky blinked, his confusion clearly visible at your sudden withdrawal.

“Take me home,” you mumbled, trying to straighten your clothes back into place.

He frowned, reaching a hand toward you. “Hey—”

“I said take me home,” you bit back, your glare suddenly harsh. “I want to fucking go home.”

His brows rose at your sudden change in tone. “Did I say something—”

“I told you to take me home, Bucky!” you yelled—practically screamed—loud enough that it made him recoil in the driver’s seat. “I shouldn’t have asked you to pick me up, and we shouldn’t have done this.” You motioned a finger between the two of you. “I’m not going to your gig. A girl like me should never be caught with a loser like you, anyway.”

You had to turn back to face the window, because the hurt on Bucky’s face would have otherwise crumbled you to pieces. But you needed to put yourself first. You were tired of being an accessory for men.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, adjusting his seat and quickly putting the car into drive. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

The drive home was silent. Bucky kept stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you refused to look back—staring hard out the window, putting miles of distance between you even as you sat side by side.

It was obvious he had more to say, but the words never came.

It was Thursday afternoon.

Bucky hadn’t seen you since the moment he dropped you off. He kept replaying every second of that night in his head—the look on your face when you begged him to take you home, the crack in your voice when you called him a loser. He tried to go back to his usual routine, attempting to drown out every thought of you with band practices, loud drums, and hanging out with his bandmates.

But it was no use.

Tomorrow night, he had his gig. And you had your party.

Maybe that’s how things were supposed to be in the end. He was the dirtbag loser in his corner of loud music, instruments, and dark clothes. And you were the pretty princess on your throne, surrounded by mean girls and boys who only cared about their own backs.

Maybe this was exactly where the two of you belonged.

But as he walked into the student union to hang up a few last-minute posters for his gig, he saw you.

Same corner table. Same group of people. You were laughing as if nothing between you and Bucky had ever happened. John Walker was sitting right beside you, leaning close, whispering something in your ear that made you smile wider.

Bucky stopped in his tracks, the posters clutched in his hand. For a moment, he thought about walking over there—just to say something, anything. Even if it meant a public humiliation ritual in front of your posse. But the look on your face told him he didn’t belong to you anymore.

He crumbled the papers in his hands and turned the other way.

It was Thursday night, the night before his gig. He lay in bed, the screen lighting up his tired eyes. He typed and deleted the same messages over and over.

bucky: can we talk?

bucky: i’m sorry

bucky: i miss you

Then, he sucked in a breath and finally found the courage to send one.

bucky: you looked happy today.

He watched the screen, his heart beating loud in his chest. A few seconds later, the message was marked Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Just that tiny, mocking word at the bottom of the screen—reminding him that you’d seen it. That you were choosing silence.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, the screen of his phone fading to black. He’d written a dozen crappy songs about heartbreak before, but none of them had ever felt quite like this.

Like losing someone who was still right there, just out of reach.

It was Friday morning.

Bucky’s gig was later that night, and the campus was already bustling with energy for the football game. Across the square, he spotted you—surrounded by your friends, all dressed in pink and laughing. It was ridiculous how much they all took after you, trying to be you.

In his hand, he clutched a small pink gift bag. He had spent half the week working up the nerve to bring it to you, the other half designing what was inside—his band’s shirt, but re-imagined just for you. Soft pink cotton, delicate script instead of bold print, a design that looked more like something you’d actually wear.

You hadn’t spoken since that night. But he couldn’t let today go by without trying.

He crossed the quad, his worn Converse crunching over the gravel. Your friends noticed him first—a few stifled laughs, some whispered comments he tried hard to ignore. One of them even elbowed you just before he reached your group.

He stopped in front of you, the gift bag dangling awkwardly from his hand. “Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

You blinked. “Hey,” you drawled awkwardly, acting as if he wasn’t speaking directly to you.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, then held the bag out toward you. “This is for you.”

Your friends exchanged looks, trying and failing to hide their amusement. One of them muttered something under her breath that made the others snicker, but Bucky didn’t care. His eyes stayed on you, earnest and pleading.

“I made it,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

You stared at the pink tissue paper peeking out from the top of the bag, then back at him. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his denim jacket slightly frayed at the cuffs. But he looked sincere.

With a nervous hand, you reached into the bag and pulled out the shirt. The hoops of the bag dangled on your arms as you spread the fabric wide.

Your eyes widened.

He had made you a shirt, just like he said he would.

“Bucky, I—”

Before you could finish, one of the girls spoke up behind you, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Aww, that’s so cute. He made you a band shirt?”

Laughter rippled through the group, but you weren’t laughing. Your eyes stayed on him.

“Civil War?” one of them scoffed. “Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re probably not that good.”

All their words sounded like a blur to you. You tuned them out completely, focusing only on Bucky, who was the only thing in front of you.

Every word those girls spoke hit him hard, but he tried to hide it. As if sensing your guilt, his jaw tightened. But he didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” he said under his breath, offering you a small, crooked smile that was supposed to be reassuring—it wasn’t. “I just... wanted to see you and tell you that I’m sorry.”

But before you could say anything else, Bucky gave you a small, dismissive nod and turned away. You watched him go, the gift bag still dangling uselessly from your wrist. His broad shoulders—slumped in defeat—disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the square.

And behind you, the girls were still laughing obnoxiously.

“Oh my god,” one of them giggled. “Did you see his jacket? Does he smoke or something? I swear, I smelled cigarettes.”

“And that shirt,” another snorted, gesturing at the one still clutched in your hands. “Did he print that in his mom’s basement or something?”

“Please,” someone added, “I can only imagine the kind of songs he wrote for you. That’s so creepy—”

You turned sharply, the sound of your heels cutting through their laughter.

“You done?” you asked, your voice calm in that terrifying, icy way that threw every single one of them off guard.

They exchanged awkward glances. “We were just—”

“No, really,” you interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Please, finish. I want to make sure I hear every single shallow, brainless thing that comes out of your bitchy mouths.”

One girl stammered. “E-excuse me—”

You took a step closer, the pink shirt still balled in your fist. “You sit here pretending you’re better than everyone because you wear pink and flirt with mediocre football players who can barely spell your names,” you sneered, almost laughing in their faces. “But in reality—all of you whores are a herd of sheep who just can’t seem to stop copying me and wanting to be me—”

One girl tried to laugh it off. “God, what’s your problem—”

“My problem?” you cut in, flashing a perfect, pristine smile. “My problem is that I’ve spent way too long pretending you’re all my friends when really, you’re just discount versions of me with worse hair and cheaper shoes.”

The group went silent.

You didn’t bother wasting another breath on them.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, the sharp click of your heels echoing against the pavement as you disappeared into the crowd.

It was Friday night.

The air of Thunderbolt’s Bar, the kind of off-campus dive that always felt held together by duct tape and noise, was thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and cheap stage smoke. The crowd was better than usual—shoulder-to-shoulder, the low sounds of conversation punctuated by the clink of bottles and the occasional cheer from someone already half-drunk.

Backstage, Bucky sat on an old amp case, his knee bobbing—a nervous habit—as he twirled a drumstick in his hands.

Steve was pacing, hyped as always before a set. “Place is packed, man. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, glancing toward the heavy curtain that separated them from the crowd.

He stood, shoving his drumsticks into his back pockets. He wiped his palms on his jeans and peeked through a slit in the curtain for what had to be the tenth time. The front row was full—faces he recognized from campus, people holding drinks, heads bobbing to the warm-up playlist blasting from the speakers.

But not your face.

“Hey,” Sam called, tuning his guitar. “You good, Buck?”

Bucky forced a smile. “Peachy.”

But his stomach twisted as he looked out one last time. He’d imagined you there all week—standing in the crowd in that pink shirt he made for you, smiling at him like you used to. He had hoped, maybe, you’d show up after all.

Yet, after that night in his car, and after the poor choice of words he had strung together, why would you come to a dump like this for him?

You called him a loser. You told him that a girl like you should never be seen with a guy like him. You had stood there while your friends laughed at him.

And yet, deep down, Bucky knew you didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have.

What you two had—it was different. It wasn’t just some party fling or a drunken mistake. It was late-night drives at two in the morning, listening to Iron Maiden in his car and making love. It was greasy chili dogs. It was smudged eyeliner and band shirts.

He wouldn’t call it love. He wasn’t stupid. Love was too heavy, too final a word for what you two shared. But he cared for you—God, he cared for you so bad it hurt. It sat heavy in his ribs, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how big the status quo was or how hard he played his drums.

And he knew you cared for him too, even if you tried to hide it behind the perfect hair, the designer purses, and the flawless smile you put on for everyone else. He’d seen you without all of that—barefaced, soft, and real. The kind of real that made him forget to breathe.

He cared for you so much that maybe it was love.

He just didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“Barnes,” Nat called, slipping her bass strap over her shoulder. “We’re on. You ready?”

Bucky forced a nod, his chest tight. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stage lights dimmed, and the peaceful hum of the crowd turned into eager whispers. He followed Nat and Steve through the side curtain, the heat of the stage lights hitting him hard. The noise was instant—cheers, laughter, clinking bottles, the pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the bar’s floorboards.

Steve was the first to step up to the mic, flashing his trademark grin. “Alright, you beautiful people,” he called out, his voice amplified through the speakers. “We’re Civil War, and we’re about to make your Friday night a hell of a lot louder!”

The crowd erupted. Steve was a great lead; he always knew how to hype them up.

Bucky settled onto his seat behind the drums, his heart thudding in his chest. His fingers tightened around his sticks, the familiar feel of the wood trying to calm him. He looked up, scanning the sea of faces under the flashing pink and blue lights—people pressed against the stage, heads bobbing, phones raised.

He wasn’t looking for fans. He was looking for you.

He knew you wouldn’t come. You said you wouldn’t. He told himself he didn’t care. But the ache in his chest betrayed him, growing sharper with every passing second he couldn’t find you.

As Steve started strumming the opening riff, the sound Bucky had complained about all week, his gaze swept over the crowd. A sea of faces blurred together; sweatshirts, hats, flashing phones—none of them were you.

Until he saw pink.

There, near the middle of the crowd.

You stood out like you always did—soft, glowing, completely out of place and yet exactly where you should have been. You were wearing his shirt, the one he’d made just for you, the one your friends had laughed at. The pink fabric stood out sharply against the black sea of band tees and denim jackets, and somehow, you made it look like the most beautiful thing in the room.

And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Your eyes met his across the stage. A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. And from there on, Bucky knew what this was.

This was love.

You mouthed two words that hit him harder than he had hit any drum.

“Hey, loser.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!! i didn't anticipate this fic to be any more than 7k+ words but unfortunately i can't stop yapping.

but anyway. i hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!!!! <333 it means a lot to me.

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.