Pairing: Eddie x Reader
Word Count: 781
Prompt: @fluff-cember Day 1: roasted marshmallows
Summary: Eddie teaches you to roast marshmallows the Munson way.
Warnings: Fire hazard, mild language, mentions of childhood struggles.
The crisp winter air nips at your cheeks as you tug your jacket closer, watching your breath form little clouds in the dim light. Eddie’s trailer stands behind you, its metal exterior dusted with frost. Before you, a small bonfire crackles and pops, the orange glow illuminating Eddie’s mischievous grin. His wild curls halo his head, and his denim jacket is layered over a frayed hoodie, the scent of smoke and pine clinging to the fabric.
"Alright, sweetheart," Eddie declares, holding up a marshmallow skewered on a slightly bent metal rod. "Prepare to witness greatness. This is how you roast the perfect marshmallow." His dark eyes glint in the firelight, his enthusiasm infectious as he crouches by the flames.
You sit cross-legged on an old blanket spread over the cold ground, your own marshmallow at the ready. “Is this one of your many hidden talents?” you tease, leaning forward to get a better look.
“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re about to experience the art of marshmallow roasting, Munson style.” He gives you a mock bow, flourishing the skewer like a sword.
Eddie holds the marshmallow just above the flames, turning it with exaggerated care. “Patience,” he intones, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “The trick is to rotate it evenly—don’t let it burn. You want that golden-brown perfection. Anything less is sacrilege.”
You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. “So no charring? No flames?”
He shakes his head gravely. “Flames are the enemy, my dear. Unless you like eating crispy, sugary disappointment.”
For a moment, you think he’s actually got it. The marshmallow starts to take on a lovely, golden hue, just as he promised. He glances back at you, smirking as if to say, See? Told you so. But then—predictably—it happens.
With one careless flick of his wrist, the marshmallow plunges too close to the fire. Flames leap up greedily, engulfing it in an instant. Eddie yelps, jerking the skewer back and waving it wildly in the air. “Shit! Abort! Abort!”
You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach as Eddie frantically blows on the blackened marshmallow. He manages to extinguish it, but the damage is done. The marshmallow is a charred, drooping mess, bits of molten sugar dripping off the stick.
“Well,” he says, holding up the ruined confection like it’s a battle trophy. “Not my finest hour.”
“Not exactly golden-brown perfection,” you manage between giggles.
“Hey, it’s all part of the process,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “Even geniuses have off days.”
You shake your head, still laughing, and reach over to hand him another marshmallow. “Here, try again. Maybe with less...flair this time?”
Eddie plops onto the blanket beside you, taking the fresh marshmallow with a mock bow of thanks. “I’ll let you take the reins next. Can’t have you thinking I’m a total disaster.”
The fire crackles between you, its warmth chasing away the bite of the cold. Eddie’s hands linger over the flame for a moment before he settles back, his shoulders brushing against yours. “You know,” he says after a pause, his voice softer now, “when I was a kid, Wayne used to build bonfires like this behind the trailer. It was one of the only times we didn’t care about the bills or whatever crap life was throwing at us. We’d just sit out here and talk.”
You glance at him, his face lit by the glow of the fire. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s seeing those nights all over again. “What did you guys talk about?” you ask gently.
He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stupid stuff. Stories about his wild days when he was my age. Advice about girls—none of which I ever followed, obviously.” He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes, he’d just let me rant about whatever sucked at school. He always listened, you know? Never made me feel like I was being dumb.”
The raw honesty in his voice warms you as much as the fire. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he tilts his head to rest gently against yours.
“Thanks for this,” you say after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper.
“For what? Setting marshmallows on fire?” he jokes, but there’s a tenderness in his tone.
“For this,” you say again, gesturing to the fire, the stars overhead, the quiet comfort of his presence. “It’s perfect.”
Eddie looks at you then, his grin softer now, and he bumps your shoulder with his. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “It kind of is.”
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the metal table beneath you doing nothing for your already sore joints.
worth it though
You watch as Rick stretches, arching his back, and turn away, running a quick hand through his sweat, dampened hair. He pulls open your fridge and grabs the first alcoholic beverage he can find. The domesticity of the movment is made humorous by his stark nakedness. You sigh, catching your breath, and give out a small laugh as your adrenaline rush calms and your brain catches up with you.
that was fun
You slide off the table and pull up your small, cotton panties from around your ankles and back onto your hips with a small snap. Fixing your hair with a swish, you follow Rick's initiative and grab a cold beer.
could have been better though. .
He's more than halfway done by the time you crack your own lid, and you continue to watch him as he gulps the rest down. His throat so slim and his collar bone so prominent, to a glancing eye he looked as wirey as a string bean; but you knew better. The muslce tone in those thin arms and narrow torso were a force to be reckoned with - and you had. On several, often unexpected, occasions.
but he was. . . off today
Rick lets out a burp, wipes his mouth with his wrist, and tosses the can into the sink. There's a moment of silence as you imagine what he might be thinking as his eyes begin to glaze over. The wrinkles forming there make no movement, and you touch your own skin absent-mindedly, wondering when your wrinkles might begin to show. You aren't old enough quite yet, but you aren't getting any younger either. You'd noticed plenty of stray grays in your thick, untamed hair by now. It doesn't really bother you, but something about those crows feet. . .
You light a cigarette and slump down into the aluminum chair next to the table. Its freezing compared to the heat your skin still radiates and your skin breaks out in goose pimples. You take a drag and let it warm you. Letting the smoke slowly drift through your nose, you speak, hopefully breaking Rick out of whatever reverie he's entered.
"Did I wear you out, daddy?"
He huffs a laugh, barely smirking, eyes still distant.
"Yeah. Wore out my bladder. I'm gonna go piss." You lift the corner of your mouth as he walks by, resisting the temptation to slap his bare ass. He snatches the cigarette from your fingers as he passes.
"That's my line, dickhead."
You lean back, tilting your head, and look at the ceiling. Stains on the stucco and flies stuck in the light fixture.
It had been three months since you'd last seen Rick, which was actually a pretty short amount of a time. He had seemed fairly edgey - more than normal - when he'd suddenly portaled into your bedroom as you were getting dressed for work. You had just gotten your top on, only to have Rick stalk over and tear it off your body and kiss you, all in one fluid motion.
work can wait
Work could go straight to hell for all you cared. One moment in Rick's arms was like forever in a thunderstorm of ecstasy. It was loud and elegant, dark and pure, and orgasms were like millions of lightning bolts in the heat of a summer night.
But edgey Rick was different. At least, an edgey Rick that was unsure of how edgey he really was, was different.
You hear the flush of the toilet and decide it was high time you put a shirt on over your bare tits - but glancing around the room, and not wanting to move, the prospect seems like more trouble than its worth. Rick walks up behind you and puts his hands on your shoulders, beginning a light massage. You hum and lift your hand up towards him. He gives the cigarette back and you bring it down for another deep drag before putting it out.
"I hope an empty bladder is gonna make round two more enjoyable."
You imagine him raising an eyebrow at your comment.
"It takes two to tango, sweetheart," he says.
You chuckle darkly.
"Yeah, well, it seems like you've got two left feet." You say as you quickly get up and spin around on him. His defenses are down so it doesn't take much for you to push him towards the couch and then shove him down. Your glad you neglected the shirt.
Rick is still fully exposed. When you straddle him, its all skin on skin, still cooling and still ever so slightly sensitive. He makes a low groan. You lean over him, his eyes looking into yours.
"Now that I have your attention." He looks down at your mouth, as you twirl you tongue behind partially parted lips.
"Sex won't solve your problems - as much as we act like it does. So whatever bullshit is going on up here," you say softly, poking his temple. His brow furrows slightly, and you lean in towards his ear.
"I'm gonna need you to get rid of it. Cause if you're looking for a therapy session, you've come to the wrong office. And if you make me work *now*, I'm gonna have to charge you."
He grins devilishly.
"Is that a threat, or are you switching professions?"
"Get your shit together, Sanchez." You say, not sure if "off" Rick is worth another go. "Or you really can go find yourself a Vantrexian hooker." He growls again, taking you by the hips and throwing your back onto the sofa. You let out a quick yelp that's muffled by Rick's mouth on yours. His tongue tangles itself into yours and you moan in response.
Summary: An AU where Sam and the reader have a huge interest in art.
Warnings: very little mentions of death
A/N: I've had this idea of artsy Sam flirting with the reader over art. I actually wanted them to have an interest in renaissance art but it ended up being something else. This challenge has pushed me to stop procrastinating on this idea! I enjoyed writing this nonetheless! This was done for @jayankles Bailey's 1Y Everything Challenge!
Pics and gifs below the cut!
Art. A three letter word that seemed to take over your life. It was something you loved and something you wished you were good at. But that didn't stop you from admiring the beauty that every art piece held.
There was art in everything you seen. The way people danced, how their feet moved peacefully with eachother. The way people sang and how they put so much feeling into their voices. You admired the way people played instruments, feeling the vibration as they played with their eyes closed.
You especially found the art within paintings and drawings. You could easily see if they had a heavy hand or planted no weight on their drawings. You could tell whether they were right handed or left handed. In paintings, you appreciated the different strokes you seen, whether the painter painted side to side or up and down.
In a world full of war, you seen beautiful art.
One of your favorite places to visit to see such pieces of art was the art museum. The walls were filled with numerous pieces, each by different artists.
There was one that you loved most. You remembered when you were little and your mother loved the flowers. Sunflowers filled the kitchen as she decorated everything with Van Gogh's famous sunflower paintings. You always disliked the color yellow, until the kitchen was decorated with it, and it just made your mother look...happy.
That was until you noticed your mom remove every single sunflower painting from the kitchen and replaced it with Van Gogh's Starry Night. You didn't know at the time that the Starry Night indicated the mental illness that Vincent VG had. You were clueless about your mom, until she took her own life away.
You shared the same love interest in art that your mother had. She used to take you to the art museum all the time and the two of you would just sit there and stare at the paintings all day.
You were there again, today. Revisiting the paintings for the tenth time that month. Nothing would be able to keep you away from it.
You walked into another room of the museum and sat at the bench that was provided for the art lovers.
Large canvas' of drawings were displayed across the wall, and you stared and smiled at them as they showed pictures of happy children and their families.
"Beautiful", you heard a voice say. It made you lose the story that you were imagining in your mind, and you turned to who it was.
It was a man you never seen at the museum. You were a usual at the museum, knowing the workers and guards and almost every other usual person there.
But this man was a definite stranger. He had seemingly long hair and he was dressed in a large flannel with a satchel across his body. He didn't look like the art type, but you didn't want to discriminate.
"Excuse me?" You assumed he was purposely calling you that, as he was staring at you when you looked at him.
He smiled and it slowly faded. "The drawings. They're beautiful."
You nodded your head in agreement. "They look so happy. You could tell the artist had a happy childhood."
The man looked back at the drawings. "You can see all that in a drawing?"
You nodded your head, not caring if he seen your silent response or not. "It's beautiful, really. How much a drawing can say about a person."
The large man searched through his bag and took out a book. He looked through the pages and took one specific page out, slowly handing it to you.
"What does this drawing say?"
It was a unique drawing. The artist drew it with one pencil and they had a light hand. The picture depicted a woman with a white dress standing side by side with two little boys. All three of them held no expression.
"The artist seems to be sad. Or missing someone? I can't really tell, the picture is sending me mixed signals. I can see that the artist had a traumatizing childhood by the way the two little boys look. It also looked like the artist went through a depression phase, as it looks, the mother is sad as well."
You gave back the drawing to the man and he raised his brows. He placed the drawing back where he got it from and looked at you.
"Looks like you're pretty good at that," he said, adjusting the strap of his bag.
You smiled at him, mentally thanking him. "Who's the creator?"
"Me," he said smiling.
You slightly raised your brows, not expecting the answer he gave. "Was I right?"
The man's face dropped and you knew you were being too personal. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that."
You looked back at the drawings on the wall, feeling slightly uncomfortable now.
"You are," the man mumbled out. "I had a very troubling childhood and lost someone that I wasn't old enough to get to know."
"I'm sorry to hear about that. What's your name?" You asked. It sounded more random when you asked his name, but it seemed like the normal thing to do.
"Sam," he said, reaching his hand out to shake yours.
"Y/N," you said, copying his actions. "I didn't see you as an art type."
Sam bobbed his head back and furrowed his eyebrows, scoffing a little with a small smile. "What does that mean? What does the art type look like?"
You shrugged your shoulders. "Don't really know. You just have more of a fighting vibe than an artsy vibe."
You looked back at the drawings on the wall, trying to send a hint to Sam that you wanted to be alone with the art.
You looked back at him as you noticed from the side of your eye that he wasn't leaving. Instead, he was actually admiring the art.
He looked at you, catching you staring at him, and you patted the bench, offering him a seat beside you. He smiled and sat down, removing his bag and placing it aside.
"Do you draw or paint?" He interrupted you again.
You shook your head. "No, I'm not that talented. I just study it."
"I can teach you," he said. The both of you didn't look at eachother, but were still comfortably speaking to one another.
You shook your head and laughed. "You can't teach talent into someone. They're born with it. If you show someone how to do something and they become a natural at it, well, in my opinion, they always had talent. They just needed a push to expose it."
This time, Sam laughed. "I don't agree."
"You don't have to. It's my opinion. Not everyone thinks like me."
Sam laughed through his nose at your response. "Want to go out for coffee?"
You looked at him confused. You hoped you weren't giving him the wrong idea. Then again, you didn't see a problem in dating, but you didn't feel in the mood to deal with that either.
"Just a coffee. That's it, I swear," he said, bringing his hands up in surrender.
You thought about it, chewing on your lip and weighing the chances of something going bad.
"Okay," you agreed, "where did you have in mind?"
Sam got up quickly with a huge grin across his face. He placed his bag back across his chest. "I know the best place for coffee."
Sam reached his hand out for you to grab it and you hesitated. "Come on beautiful."
He smiled and you blushed embarrassingly too much. You realized that he did, in fact, call you beautiful when he walked in.
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Summary: Sam and Dean find out who, and what you are, with a little help from a feather friend ;-)
Word Count: 1959
Warnings: Cursing, adult themes, violence, blah blah blah. Don’t read if you aren’t 18. :-)
So here you are; staring down the barrel of Dean Winchester's gun. His large strong hand still wrapped around your neck, keeping you still and just barely making it difficult to breathe. He wanted you like this. On the edge and scared shitless. You're hands were grasping his arm in front of you, holding tight-but you weren't able to escape his grasp.
'What the hell have I done?'
"How much harder do I need to squeeze for an answer?" His voice was too calm for comfort. Your (y/e/c) eyes widened at the statement as he squeezed your throat hard, making you wince.
You were gasping for air, clawing at his arm in a plea to release you. After what felt like an eternity (it was probably only about 30 seconds) of his strangulation, he finally let go of you. He took a half step back but kept his gun aimed at your head.
You collapsed down to the floor, holding your neck like that would help you catch your breath.
You faced the floor on your knees, coughing, trying to form words as fast as you could before he could shoot you. "Okay! O-Okay-" Your dry bruised throat paid you no heed. More coughing. "I'll tell you everything. I swear. Please-d-don't kill me yet…" You started to cry again.
'Grow the fuck up!' You told yourself. You dared to look at Dean through strands of your (y/h/c) hair that hung in your view.
Dean's face contorted in a way you couldn't read. And just like that he lowered his weapon.
"Get the hell up." He ordered.
You reached for the bed to pull yourself up, your weak legs were unreliable again. Not being able to walk for a few weeks would do that to a person. And thankfully you were able to stand.
In that moment, the tension between you and Dean was indescribable. Your eyes pierced one another's. You were about to open your mouth and spill the beans-about everything. Who and what you were, your real last name even. You'd tell him if it meant you'd get to leave…alive.
But just then, Dean holstered his pistol in the back waist band of his dark blue faded jeans.
"Come on. Let's go." He ordered.
Dean reached for your upper arm, and in fear you tore away from his grasp. That only made it worse for you. Dean found your arm once more, gripping it so tightly you thought he'd rip it off-and he began walking out of his bedroom pulling you forcefully behind him.
"W-Where are you taking me?" You whimpered. Tears stained your face, and you dug your heels into the floor, hoping to slow him down…but to no avail.
And from Dean came no reply. Only silence through his clenched teeth, his jaw bones protruding in and out in anger.
The two of you met the end of one corridor, then turned and started down another one you hadn't been down yet. It was darker, and looked like they didn't come this way very often. His stride was too fast for you to keep up with now, your long tan legs began to quake once more.
"Please Dean! S-Slow down, what are you doing?!" You begged him, trying your best to gain a response-a word, anything would have made you feel better.
In that moment you were so focused at trying to read his face, you broke your concentration on keeping your stride moving.Your legs give out as he is dragging you behind him mercilessly by your arm, the one he'd just patched up not an hour before.
You hit the floor and caught yourself with your free arm, crying out in pain at a searing pain in your left leg.
'Shit! My stitches…'
You're stitches burst at the abrupt landed you'd just had, a fresh trickle of crimson blood running down your leg.
Dean hadn't let go of your arm yet, the fall happened so fast. To your disbelief he paid the sight of new blood coming from your leg no attention, and ripped you off the floor by your arm once again.
He still said nothing.
Ouch.
You made damn sure you stayed on your feet this time. Dean Winchester was in no mood to carry you, that was for damn sure.
Dean drug you up to a door at the end of the second corridor, and stopped in front of it to fish out a pair of keys from his jeans' pocket. Turning the door knob he led you in past a sliding bookcase, then flipped a light switch to his left.
Terror flooded your eyes the moment you saw what filled this room-it was like a dungeon, or a torture chamber-you weren't sure which, but you didn't care. Shackles, hand cuffs and weapons hung from every wall, and the solitary light bulb illuminated a single chair in the middle of the room. Right in the middle of a Devil's Trap. The chair had it's very own set of restraints, with spell work galore.
You were fucked.
Dean's grip tightened as he sensed you were about to bolt, to try to fight your way out of this. And he was right.
'No no no!!! Not again. I can't….RUN.'
You didn't realize it but you screamed 'No' at the top of your lungs as you tried to break free of Dean's hold on you. You punched, slapped, scratched and kicked at him-you gave it all you could in your state.
"Stop!" Dean yelled, who had managed to dodge nearly every fist you punched at him. And just like that, fiercely he whipped you around to face away from him, held you flush against his solid body with his arms around your waist and lifted.
He carried you over to the chair kicking and screaming.
Dean planted you roughly in the steel seat, and before you knew what hit you you couldn't move your feet, arms, or even your head. Spelled metal restraints held you every which way, even around your neck to the back of the chair. Then you felt it…you couldn't explain it, but the spell work on the restraints and chair were keeping you in a way that made your spine quiver.
And you stopped. You stopped crying, you stopped kicking and trying to break free; you just shut down. You didn't know it then, but mentally you couldn't handle it. You'd just escaped the horrendous grasp of demons and torture, for weeks you'd endured pain you'd never imagined; you couldn't grasp going through something like that again. You were on auto-pilot.
"Dean?!" Sam's voice bellowed through the bunker.
'Oh my god, maybe he can talk some sense into him!!' You hoped.
"Sammy! In the dungeon!" Dean hollered back through the door way.
You're gut wrenched at the word, and you squeezed your eyes shut quickly. You didn't want to hear that word.
Sam's footsteps were nearing the door as he started to yell out to Dean again. "You okay?! I saw the blood in the hallwa-" He saw the scene unfolding before him. His mouth dropped and glanced between the two of you.
"-Dean what the fuck?! What the hell is going on here?!!" Sam jogged over to you. "Are you okay?!"
You only got the chance to meet his eyes before Dean cut you off. "She's not who she says she is, Sam!" Dean pointed his finger at you.
"What the hell are you talking about?!" Sam exclaimed, taking one quick step backward.
"Just trust me, okay?!" Dean rose his voice annoyed that his brother was questioning his judgement. He walked closer to Sam to explain.
"Sammy, think about! Those demons-it's probably a freakin' set up man! I mean, SERIOUSLY -what if they knew we were on our way to gank 'em, huh? The whole…" Dean gestured to you as Sam's head was cocked in interest. "…The whole 'insanely sexy damsel in distress' dangled right in front of us…she's probably working for 'em! Maybe, just maybe they wanted someone on the inside of the bunker…"
Dean's voice trailed off, and damn it! If you were Dean you'd be thinking the exact same thing right now. Of course, it'd be perfect-but unfortunately for you, that was going to make it harder for them to believe you. And at the same time, your inner-goddess was blushing because Dean Winchester just called you 'insanely sexy'. 'Well, there's one win at least…'
You looked at Dean then at Sam, but they were completely ignoring you. You expected Sam to come to your defense, but when he didn't, your heart sank.
He ran his fingers through his hair and cursed out loud, with an angry huff. "Damnit! How could we have been so stupid?! I told you we shoulda left her at the hospital, Dean!" He pointed his finger at his older brother.
"Hey, excuse me for tryin' to help her out!!" Dean protested.
They were both angry at the scenario they thought to be true.
"No Dean, you got all googley-eyed over a pretty girl, and you let your guard down!" Sam yelled at Dean again, who's annoyance was building.
You wish they'd stop talking about you like you weren't there. But you guessed that was how they acted in front of monsters. Monsters.
'I am not a god damned monster…'
You knew you had to speak up while they paused. "Will you let me tell you the truth?…Please?" You managed the words out, they were quiet and broken, but precise.
They both turned to you, jolted out of their angry exchange.
Sam clenched his fists at his sides and stepped forward into the Devil's Trap. "Start talking."
Sam towered over you, waiting for you to speak. Dean joined him, both of them had their best 'bitch faces' on.
"I'm a hunter." You decided to start off slow, ease into the whole 'I'm the spawn of a Demon and an Angel' thing.
You paused waiting for them to reply, but they only raised their eyebrows waiting for you to continue.
You sighed a breath you'd been holding in for a long time.
"I've been hunting since I was 15. My Mom didn't come home one day, and I've never met my Dad." You looked down at the floor. This was harder than you thought.
"Cool story, we'll send you a sympathy card sometime-get to the part that matters!" Dean yelled.
You nodded, averted his gaze, and cleared your throat. "The-Uh…the special thing about my p-parents is…that they weren't completely human…"
Dean narrowed his eyes, and Sam crossed his arms; they were intrigued.
"My Mom…she-she was an Angel-IS an Angel, I mean I'm not sure if she's alive but-" You were interrupted by Sam.
"Wait, so you're a Nephilim?" He asked. You shook your head.
"Uh, no…not exactly. My Dad…h-he um…" You were tripping over your words, stuttering like an idiot.
"Oh for fuck's sake! Spit it out!" Dean screamed at you in frustration.
You jumped at the volume of his voice and opened your mouth to finish, when a man's voice you hadn't heard before boomed out throughout the dungeon.
"Sam, Dean! Let her go!" You couldn't see him, but Dean and Sam both turned on their heels to face him.
**Images above are NOT mine, I do not claim them in any way**
Word Count: 1,098
Avengers AU where it’s present-day, reader is main character and most characters are in their early to mid twenties.
Warnings: Angst, Swearing
Part Nine | Masterlist
It felt like an eternity passed before the cab reached the destination. My phone was buzzing like crazy but I ignored it diligently, not even wanting to look at it long enough to put it on silent. I thanked the driver as I passed him some cash, briefly regretting how much money I had spent tonight. Between the Chinese food, the cab fare to Bucky’s and then the cab fare across town… I sighed as I climbed out of the car. I tried to wipe the tears off of my cheeks as I walked up to the brown-brick apartment complex. It was considerably smaller than Bucky’s and quite a bit warmer feeling, even in the downpour of rain.
There was no doorman here to greet me. Instead there was a panel by the doors with various buttons for various apartments. I buzzed the one I needed and waited, the feeling of cold droplets of waters splashing against my bare shoulders and chest making me shiver.
“Hello?” Wanda’s voice came through the speaker.
“Wan, it’s me, (y/n), can you let me in?” I bit my lip, just now considering the fact that she might’ve brought Paul home. I cursed myself silently for my stupidity.
“Of course!” She squeaked and I heard the lock on the door click.
I pushed my way through the heavy doors and into the quaint lobby. The elevator was out of service so I began to climb the tiled steps that led to Wanda’s apartment on the third floor. I was grateful she was only on the third floor and not the sixth or seventh.
Still freezing cold, despite the workout from climbing three flights of stairs in heels, I shivered as I knocked on Wanda’s door. The door swung inward within seconds but rather than Wanda, it was Pietro that I faced.
“(y/n)? What the hell happened? Why are you soaking wet?” his voice was full of concern as he pulled me into Wanda’s small two-bedroom apartment, “Wanda, grab her a towel, would ya?”
“Pietro?” my teeth clattered as I said his name. When did he get home?
“Shhh, come here, I’ve got you,” he said as he wrapped a blanket Wanda had thrown to him around me and pulled me into an embrace.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I stuttered, “I d-didn’t know you were h-here.”
“Why would you be sorry?” He asked incredulously as he pulled away enough to peer down at me. He must have noticed the streaks of mascara running down my face at that point, because his expression changed. It seemed to flicker from confusion to anger before softening. He kissed me on the forehead and pulled me toward Wanda’s bathroom, “You’ll feel better after a hot shower.”
“I’ll get you some towels and clothes, hun,” Wanda said before disappearing into her room. My heart swelled with gratitude toward the twins as they cared for me. I hadn’t even told them what had happened, but it didn’t seem to matter to them.
“I’ll wait out here,” Pietro’s voice was low as I left his side and entered the bathroom. I unwrapped myself from the now-soaking blanket and turned to face him.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I handed it to him.
The corner of his mouth lifted up in a half-smile, though it didn’t meet his eyes. His eyes were full of concern and anger. I knew he wasn’t angry toward me, he was angry toward whomever had hurt me. I dreaded explaining to him and Wanda both what had been happening behind the scenes with Bucky and I.
Wanda appeared and handed me a couple of plush towels stacked on top of one another, with a pair of pajamas I could borrow on top of those. She kissed me on the cheek before ushering me into the bathroom and telling me to make myself at home. I nodded before she shut the door.
Half an hour later I exited the bathroom. I wore one of the towels Wanda had supplied on my head, keeping my wet hair off of my shoulders and back. I was sporting a fuzzy pair of gray pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved black shirt, both borrowed from Wanda. The twins were sitting on her couch watching some tv show about women in prison, something about the color orange, I wasn’t sure. I quietly snuck into the room and sat in the open space between them. Pietro wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward him, kissing my temple before resting his head on the towel on top of my head. He didn’t say anything, just went back to watching the show. Wanda patted my leg before getting up and heading to the kitchen. From the sounds of it she was making some warm tea for us. I snuggled into Pietro’s side as I felt my eyelids begin to droop. I was exhausted, and out before I knew it.
“I fucked up, man,” Bucky’s voice was hoarse.
“What’d you do?” Steve answered, it was late but he had still been winding down for the night when his phone had lit up with Bucky’s name and number.
“That chick I took back home with me,” Bucky answered, he sounded panicked.
“Yeah…?” Steve’s voice took on an edge of concern.
“(y/n) walked in on us…on the couch…”
Steve took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. He knew he shouldn’t have let Bucky walk off with that woman when he was so clearly smitten with (y/n).
“What do I do?” Bucky broke the silence.
“Go to her, punk. Go to (y/n)’s right now, make this right. You can’t lose her, man. I know you both well enough to know you can’t lose each other now.”
“What if she doesn’t want to see me?”
Steve laughed, “Of course she won’t want to see you. That doesn’t matter, go anyway. Make sure she knows you’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ve called her, and texted, but she won’t answer…” Bucky said, almost absentmindedly.
“Go. Take a cab, not your bike, it’s too wet and you drank too much tonight.”
The line disconnected. Steve pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at it. How did he end up with such an idiot for a friend? He pulled up his texts and searched for (y/n)’s name. He typed quickly and hit send before he could change his mind.
Call me.
He hoped she wouldn’t ignore him, too. He hoped she’d let Bucky in, hear him out. He sighed.
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