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danysdaughter · 2 months ago

Note

i need some absolute heart shattering angst about bucky "dying" and then a few years later he suddenly shows up at the door

AND YOUR WRITING IS SOOOOK CHEFS KISS 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

lmao babe, I'm not gonna lie, this was soooo vague so I went off the rails with this one a bit, lol, which means I accidentally wrote a mini 15k fanfic

Come Home To Me

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & platonic!steve x reader

word count | 14.7k words (lowkey this is like a three part story put together)

summary I during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.

but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire.

tags | (18+) brief smut, canon divergence, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft!bucky barnes, strong female character, angst with a happy ending, angst and feels, domestic fluff, pregnancy, bucky barnes needs a hug, period-typical attitudes, racially ambiguous reader, no use of y/n

a/n | I hope this satisfies you guys for the rest of the week, because I will be working unfortunately. lowkey have no idea where this idea even came from, but I'm actually in love with this. for context, they're all the same age so, 1936 - 18, 1941 - 23, 1944 - 26, 1946 - 28

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, Summer of 1936

Bay Ridge streets smelled like hot pavement, coal smoke, and fresh bread — if you were lucky. If you weren’t, it was just piss and heat and someone hollering three blocks away.

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #steve rogers

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cacoetheswriting · 3 months ago

Text

dear stranger, | chapter two from right where you left me.

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (modern day au) word count: 5.2k

summary: a weekend gateway to with your old high school friends? sounds like a dream! only it’s not really as it’s been three years since you last saw them. three years since you left hawkins without so much as a goodbye, and certain people tend to hold grudges.

content warnings: forced proximity, angsty, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, mentions & descriptions of underage alcohol consumption / substance abuse, recreational drug use, discusses sobriety, emotional hurt / no-comfort, eddie is a bit of an asshole, a little mutual pining, also touches on topics of: divorce, death, grief, self-doubt / insecurities, love triangle?, unrequited love — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

Eddie’s first interaction with you, a short conversation outside Benny’s one faithful Thursday evening, only solidified the idea of a potential relationship, but he was a couple of years older and coming from a completely different world to yours. Trailer trash, and whatnot. He simply didn’t think you’d be interested in him like that.

Instead, riddled with self-doubt, Eddie opted to go down the friendship route and being your friend was easy.

Despite not sharing a lot of the same interests, the two of you always managed to find common ground and the conversation flow came naturally.

Eddie, in his fuck-the-patriarchy and everything-that’s-cool way, introduced you to a wide variety of hobbies which, in your world, were considered wildly out of the box: Dungeons and Dragons, Warhammer, all sorts of Anime, punk rock and heavy metal music. The list goes on.

Hoping to humanise your lack of interests aside from your social status, you taught the metal-head all things pop culture. Cue marathons of various seasons of different Real Housewives, making him read Twilight and asking him to choose Team Edward or Team Jacob, and judging celebrity red carpet looks.

There also appeared to be a few short things you both agreed on:

The colour blue sucks.

Lord of the Rings franchise is one of the best book to movie adaptations to ever exist.

Pizza is clearly the best food and can be eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Additionally, a debate arose one night to potentially include point four: Leia is a cute name for a girl. Eddie looked at you with those pretty brown eyes and smiled wide in agreement ‘cause even though you were still just a couple of kids, the potential of a future that saw your friendship blossoming, one way or another, excited him. However, the conversation happened when you were both quite high. Point long forgotten by the time the sun greeted the morning sky.

All in all, Eddie worshipped the ground you walked on. Back then, he would’ve done anything for you, you merely had to ask. The not-so-secret crush blossomed with every interaction and he swore if anyone ever dared to hurt the girl he told himself he couldn’t have, all hell would break loose.

How come, a hellish three years later, he’s the one doing the hurting? The question, of course, is rhetorical. He knows exactly what led to the breakdown of your friendship. That doesn’t mean however, he’s not completely riddled with guilt for how he just reacted to seeing you for the first time since the end of Senior Year.

His focus remains locked on where you’re after disappearing as his hand rubs the part of him you’ve just bumped, and Eddie swears he can still feel your arm against his shoulder. A tingle, an imprint, a ghost. His fingers curl into a fist against the material of his jacket and he eventually drops his head, sigh escaping his lips. Nancy is going to kill him for making you cry.

Upstairs, there’s a knock on your door.

You quickly wipe any last tears that have trickled down your cheeks and call out to whoever is on the other side that it’s open. Robin reveals herself, head tilting to the side as she notices the miserable look on your face.

“Nancy is already crucifying him,” is all she says before wrapping her arms around you, pulling you in for a comforting hug.

“She doesn’t have to do that,” you protest, resting your chin on her shoulder. “He’s got every right to be upset with me.”

“But the thing is, babe, everything we told you is true. Like, he does ask about you constantly, and he didn’t even have an issue with you coming this weekend when Nancy told him you accepted her invite,” she elaborates, pulling back from the embrace and leaning against a set of drawers.

“He’s just acting like a dweeb ‘cause you hugged Harrington first.”

You whine, a little too dramatically, while burying your face in your hands. It oddly feels therapeutic. Robin huffs out a laugh at your reaction, poking your arm to get you to look back at her.

“He’s never going to forgive me, Rob.” You sigh.

“Yes, he will.”

“How can he forgive me when he doesn’t want to listen to my apology? He practically said to pretend he’s not here.”

The blonde rolls her eyes. “Honey, you realise that all you have to do is listen to his stupid-ass request?” She says it as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “The second you start giving him the cold shoulder, he’s gonna want your attention.”

And Robin was right, of course.

You didn’t notice it at first, fully understanding of Eddie’s request to steer clear from one another, plus dinner prep was a perfect distraction from his lingering presence.

Nancy tasks you with making the potato salad. A simple request and one you are happy to oblige. She positions you at one of the counters, your back to the kitchen island where Eddie is sitting nursing a beer. He’s messing around on Spotify, skipping through songs, and it takes everything you have not to comment about how he should just fucking pick one playlist and let it be.

The one person definitely unbothered by the constant switch in music is Argyle who fell asleep at the table. Body completely relaxed on the chair, head hanging backwards, and light snores escaping his parted lips as Rob tries to balance a stack of Pringles on his forehead.

Jonathan is Nancy’s sous chef, her helping hand, fulfilling every little request she has while preparing the rest of the grand meal. They’re giggling together and you can’t help but smile to yourself, thinking about how lucky they are to have found someone they feel so comfortable around.

Eddie was that someone for you, the thought crosses your mind, sending a twinge signal to your stomach. The twist in your gut is a sort of pain comparable to slicing your hand open, and at that moment your gaze shifts to the knife in your hand, grip tightening. You’re frozen for a minute. Unsure how to continue with the salad when all you can think about is the boy behind you. The boy that wants nothing to do with you.

Yet, unbeknown to you, also the boy who immediately notices the pause in your movements.

Eddie doesn’t act on it though. He thinks about it, only for a second too long because Steve approaches you first, briefly placing a hand on your back to gauge your attention, before leaning against the counter next to where you’re chopping potatoes. You smile at him. Eddie can see that it’s timid, small. Clearly there’s something on your mind and he feels guilty for most likely being the person that’s caused your dampened mood.

“How are you doin’?” Steve asks, crossing his arms across his chest, eyes glued to the side of your face.

“Good.” It’s not entirely true, but you know Eddie, as well as everyone else currently alert in this kitchen, can hear your conversation. “Delaying cutting these onions ‘cause I know they’re gonna make me cry,” you joke.

Steve chuckles. “Well, all you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.” He says before twisting in his spot and reaching for a chopping board. “I happen to be a pro at cutting onions.”

The light laugh that escapes your lips causes Eddie to roll his eyes. Not that you see his reaction though. You also don’t see how his grip tightens on the bottle of beer, or how his jaw clenches when Steve’s arm brushes against yours while you both work on the salad.

But despite the anger — the jealousy — bubbling inside of him, Eddie doesn’t stop listening in on your conversation with Harrington. In fact, he shuffles his chair closer, lowering the volume on the laptop by one. He can’t help himself. He’ll forever be invested in you, even if he says he’s not and that he doesn’t care. It’s all a pathetic lie to cover up the fact that he’s never quite gotten over you.

“So, how’s Vegas treating you? Bet it’s all parties and no responsibilities,” Steve nudges.

“God, I’d be disowned if that were the case,” you reply, chuckling lightly. You don’t tell him you’re sober, it doesn’t feel like the right time. “First year I was there, I worked. My dad scored me a reception job at his firm, so I saved a little cash and moved out on my own, just in time for the following year, when I started my degree.”

Steve hums, impressed. Eddie’s feeling proud, then a little sad because you got into college and he wasn’t there to congratulate you. Seemingly, no one from this group was.

“Gone into teaching, like you wanted?” Steve asks.

“Not entirely,” you pause briefly, “But what’s with the third degree? We’ve got all weekend to catch up.”

Harrington snorts out a laugh. “True,” he agrees with a smile, “I guess, you’re just such a mystery now. The usual social stalking doesn’t work ‘cause you haven’t updated anything in three years, and whenever I tried to call, you didn’t answer.”

You’re not sure what to say since he’s not wrong in his words, so you opt to say nothing at all. Steve seems to understand your reverence, nudging your arm with his own in the form of a silent assertion that he’s really not mad.

Eddie starts to feel guilty for being the one who isolated you from your friends, your support system. Though you never said it, he knows you left because of what happened at Chrissy’s stupid party. Ashamed of your actions and how they affected the group. Actions that were a result of his rash decisions.

“Fucking— Are you seriously going to listen to me spill my feelings for you, then try and jump into bed with fucking Harrington?!” Eddie’s yelling, arms stretched out as if he’s daring you.

The sound of Nancy clearing her throat forces the memory to freeze. Eddie glances up at the petite brunette, whose got one eyebrow arched as if to ask what the fuck he’s doing. He shrugs, taking another swig of his beer, then glances back down at the laptop and continues his not-so-secret eavesdropping.

“Tell me this, though,” Steve prompts, glancing at you, “are you happy?”

You pause your own movements, taking a moment to ponder his pretty loaded question. When you meet his brown eyes, you smile a genuine smile, surprising even yourself as to how easy it is to answer.

“Yes,” you state simply, “I’m happy.”

The screech of a chair being pushed back fills the air, causing both you and Steve to turn around, at the same moment that Eddie walks out of the kitchen. Nancy is quick on his heels, only flashing you an apologetic smile, and the entirety of the last twenty-odd seconds leaves you even more confused.

All throughout dinner, you notice how Eddie is oddly quiet, only chiming in when someone — not you — directly addresses him. No one comments on his unusual behaviour, though Robin shoots you some knowing looks from across the table every couple of seconds.

Then when the group agrees to move outside, while you get comfortable on the patio furniture, Eddie deliberately chooses the chair closest to the steps, as if he’s planning for a quick escape. He lights a cigarette, staring out at the lake, and your entire body is screaming to ask what’s on his mind, but then again, he’s made it quite clear he wants nothing from you.

So you decide to continue pretending his sullen mood isn’t affecting you.

“Merlot or Pinot Grigio?”

“Hmm?”

Steve’s at the door, a bottle of red and white wine in each hand. He lifts them up slightly, repeating the question, then waiting patiently for an answer. Although he doesn’t have to wait long because you quickly shake your head a firm no.

“I uh… I actually don’t drink anymore.”

Eddie’s ears perk up at your answer, though he doesn’t actually look in your direction. Still pretending to focus on the ripples in the dark water ahead.

“Oh.” Steve shifts awkwardly. “Well, now we know why Nancy didn’t offer any with dinner. Assuming she knows?”

“She does.”

“Then I’m sorry for offering.”

“Don’t be,” you say and it’s true.

He goes back inside without another word, leaving you alone with Eddie.

The silence is overwhelming and frankly, a little awkward. It’s odd to be so close to one another, yet feel as though you’re oceans apart. It’s also odd to have revealed this new and intimate detail about yourself, yet since it wasn’t said directly to him, Eddie might as well still not know.

You don’t know how to act, so you take out your phone.

There’s a text from your mom, ‘Really hope you’re having a good time, honey. Send some pictures, if you can.’

‘surviving ;)’, your fingers work across the keyboard, then you go into your album and select a photo of yourself with Robin and Nancy. The only one taken so far. ‘everyone says hi.’

‘Everyone?’

Your eyes flutter to where Eddie is sitting. He’s still looking at the lake.

‘almost everyone…’

As the three dots appear on the screen, your phone dings with the unmistakable sound of an Instagram notification. Your super secret secondary profile makes itself known, and you hold your breath for a split-second. But if Eddie heard it, he doesn’t say anything.

When you open the notification, the corners of your lips twitch upwards.

That, Eddie notices. Well, he noticed the sound too, but he’s not going to pry about your use of social media after pretty much telling you to fuck off earlier. His mind however, is running in circles. The metal-head knows you haven’t posted anything new on Instagram since you left Hawkins, so you must only be using the app for messaging, but who from your old life — that isn’t here this weekend — would be dming you at this hour of the evening? The second you smiled, at whatever the fuck you were after seeing on your phonescreen, well, Eddie wishes he handled your reunion earlier a little better because maybe you’d privy him to that information. He wants, no, needs to know who else you’ve been in contact with.

And he knows exactly who to ask.

A little too lost in your dm’s, you don’t notice Eddie put out the cigarette he’s been smoking and stump back inside. You don’t notice him approach Steve, mumble something in the guy's ear and point to his phone. You don’t notice them glancing at you through the large window, or whisper manically back and forth. You don’t notice Nancy joining in on the conversation, hands on her hips like a disapproving mom.

“She’s not in touch with anyone else,” she says and because she sees Eddie in particular is not buying whatever she’s selling, Nancy adds, “She’s got a second profile.”

Both boys are stunned, albeit only for a minute. Then the back-and-forth begins again. Questions arise. How long has Nancy known? Why doesn’t anyone else know? What’s the handle? Why not just use the old, original profile?

“It’s none of your business,” she tells them in a hushed tone of voice, “If she wanted you to know what is going on in her life, she’d post on the profile she created in high school, okay?”

Steve huffs, wine long forgotten, instead opting for something a little stronger. He pours four glasses of whiskey before motioning for Eddie and Nancy to take one, the last being for Robin who disappeared to talk to her girlfriend again. He takes a sip, liquid burning down his throat.

“I just don’t get the secrecy,” he says with a shrug.

With the glass pressed to her lips, Nancy looks out the window to where you’re sitting. A sigh escapes her lips. There’s a small smile present on your expression, focus remaining on your phone, and Nancy hates herself for being the person that’s ruined that, along with breaking the promise she’s made you about seven months into your time in Vegas.

She wanted to know how you were getting on. Considering by then you told her you weren’t coming back to Hawkins any time soon — one of the only texts you’d sent her since the time you left. The brunette girl wanted to know you were safe, happier. Calls weren’t going to work since you were barely replying to messages, and it’s not like at that point in time you were keen on letting the rest of the group know what you were up to, so your main Instagram account was out of the question.

Nancy suggested a second profile.

Then she promised she wouldn’t tell anyone.

“There’s two things you should know,” she breathes, glancing between Steve and Eddie. “First thing’s first though, you need to fucking forgive her.” Poking Eddie’s chest, her expression is stern. “You’ve forgiven Harrington here, so the least you can do is have a normal conversation with her.”

“Nance—”

“Eddie, I swear to fucking Christ. If you’re actually incapable for swallowing your pride for one fucking second—”

The sound of the sliding door causes her to halt her words and the three of them turn their heads to where you’re now standing, wide-eyed and apologetic because it seems at first glance you are after interrupting a very important conversation.

“Sorry,” you say with a meek smile, “I just came to get a glass of water.”

And you don’t mean to eavesdrop when they start whispering amongst themselves as you fill a glass with ice. In your defence, however, they’ve never been good at keeping their voices quiet, and they’re no better now. You hear your name escape Eddie’s lips, then something about Instagram coming from Steve.

Oh.

Having filled your glass with water, you turn back to look at the three of them.

To your surprise, the metal-head is already looking at you. His expression is hard to read, but regardless, it makes your heart skip a beat. It also makes you think that the only way for him to start trusting you again, he deserves to know what you’ve been up to these last few years — even by means of a now not-so-secret Instagram account.

So you call Steve’s name, not looking away from Eddie at first. When Harrington doesn’t react, in too deep with Nancy, you say it again, louder. He spins on his heel then, at the same time that you shift your attention in his direction.

Sighing softly, you tell him to pull up Instagram and then you dictate the handle and although you’re watching Steve type in every syllable that escapes your lips, from the corner of your eye, you can see Eddie’s fingers also work the screen of his phone.

Proof of both their curiosities dings in your pocket.

You quickly take out your own phone, silently accepting their follow requests while choosing not to comment on the fact that there were two: Eddie’s name gracing your notifications for the first time in three years.

With a quick refresh, there in all its Las Vegas glory, is the last three years of your life.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy says, now standing in front of you, “They’re relentless little fuckers.”

“Hey!” Steve’s offence is melodramatic and Nancy just rolls her eyes at the boy, before linking your arm with hers and leading you back outside. Having one quick glance at your newly found account, Harrington follows quickly behind.

Eddie on the other hand is frozen in place.

He tries to keep a straight face as opens the first image, quickly scanning the caption, before focusing on the picture posted two days ago. Apparently you were in Fort Wayne, visiting your mom. There’s a smile on your face that he hasn’t witnessed since high school and his heart tightens thinking about how he’d do anything to be the reason for your happy expressions again.

Did you stomp all over his heart? Yes. Rationally, Eddie should hate you for that alone, not even mentioning how you flushed years of friendship down the toilet. And for a long, long while, he did. Eventually, the metal-head realised the hate was superficial because he was actually more angry with himself.

“Your behaviour is fucking desperate.”

“Fuck you, Eddie.”

That stupid party, and putting you in the position he did, all while you were clearly too drunk, was a huge mistake on his part. It wasn’t the right place, nor the right time. Eddie just thought you looked so beautiful that night, and the alcohol cruising through his own veins clouded his judgement.

Then you reacted the way you did. When Eddie found you in the downstairs bathroom of Chrissy’s house in the arms of Harrington, well, you both said some equally rude things in the aftermath. They came from a place of anger, but he could never actually hate you.

You left without a word, before Eddie got a chance to apologise for his shitty behaviour at the party. Before he got a chance to tell you that he doesn’t care that you kissed Harrington, or whether you feel the same way he does. All he cares about is being in your life.

Now, your life resides on a profile Eddie didn’t even know about until mere minutes ago.

He’s scrolling, slowly. Taking the time to examine each photo, down to the comments left behind. Each image only adds to the ache in his chest. There’s experiences here he selfishly thinks he should’ve been a part of, as opposed to the people you’ve actually tagged. He’s known you for far longer than this dude Jax, who you seemingly went and got a tattoo with.

What hurts the most though, is seeing the proof of how happy you’ve been the last three years. How happy you’ve been without him in your life.

“So, babe, who the fuck is Jax?” Robin asks with a smirk.

Having been the last person to find out about your secret account, she was sure to take her time to tease you in retaliation. Starting light, with small jabs on the new wellness hobbies you’ve picked up over the years like hiking through the Nevada Trails Park, sunset yoga in the desert, and a new affinity for green smoothies. Then moving quickly to your new choice of friends, not judging them by any means, more expressing curiosity as to why these specific people replaced the group from Hawkins.

“Jax is a friend,” you answer simply.

“Looks awfully cosy for just a friend,” she teases, glancing up at you briefly before twisting the phone in Steve’s direction, to show the picture.

You roll your eyes ‘cause there’s really nothing going on between you and the boy in question, so the teasing you can take. You’re not ashamed.

“He’s great as a gym partner, honestly, he’s great for most boyfriend related activities, but he would, one-hundred per cent, make a terrible actual boyfriend.” You say with a soft laugh, sinking further into the cushioned seat as you further let your guard down.

Steve smirks. Satisfied. Clearly glad there’s nothing between you and Jax, though you don’t comment on his reaction. Instead, your gaze momentarily shifts to Eddie, who still hasn’t said a single word.

The brunette boy is staring at his hands. Fidgeting with the metal rings that coat his fingers. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about, and it takes everything you’ve got not to ask him. Is he proud of the person you’ve become? Or is his continuous resentment spiralling out of control, because maybe he’s wondering why you could change for those strangers, but couldn’t change for him? But that, you couldn’t even answer for yourself.

“So you haven’t been dating anyone?” Robin further probes into your new life.

When you glance back at the blonde, she raises a brow, and you know she’s only asking because she wants the same thing as you: some sort of reaction out of Eddie.

You shake your head. “No.”

But it’s Steve who reacts instead.

“Come on, sweetheart!” His tone is full of disbelief. “You mean to tell us that no one in Vegas tried to sweep you off your feet?”

You let out a soft laugh.

“They sure tried. I’m just not interested,” you answer with a smile, then reach for your glass of water, bringing the brim to your lips.

“Why?” He asks.

“Steve—” Nancy tries to cut in, aware of what you’re going to say next. Aware of the reason why you haven’t dated, and no, unlike everything else that’s happened since you’ve seen this group last, this decision you made not to date wasn’t because of Chrissy’s party.

“I uh…” You clear your throat. “I haven’t dated since Billy.”

The group goes silent. Suddenly it’s all really… awkward.

“Jesus, babe,” Robin exhales dramatically, “That’s like—”

“Forever?” You interject, trying to keep your tone of voice as positive as you can. “I know.”

There’s a beat of silence. No one in the group is really sure what to say next, how to steer the conversation away from this topic.

You glance at Eddie who, for the second time this evening and to your surprise, is already looking at you. Brown eyes full of compassion. They say more than words ever could and you’re suddenly feeling hopeful. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe you could be friends again. Maybe…

Though there’s still a lot of mending to do before any of that can happen. Starting with:

“Billy dying really fucked me up.”

Acceptance. Admitting your flaws, owning up to your mistakes. Making amends with the people that tried their very best to stand by you in the worst of times, even when you made it damn near impossible to do so.

“I kinda fell off the rails and I uh—“ You swallow your breath, gaze shifting from the brunette boy to the lake behind him. The sight of water soothing to your soul. “Well, I made some mistakes and I’m sorry. To all of you.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Nancy says quickly and the rest of the group nod along. Aside from Eddie, who is back to fidgeting with his rings.

One by one, everyone eventually says goodnight. Jonathan and Nancy are the first to go, citing an early wake-up excuse and reminding everyone the canoes are rented for eleven in the morning, so breakfast would be at ten. WIth that information in tow, Argyle checks out next. You learn how he hates the open water, so he’s hoping extra sleep will make him less nervous in the morning. Robin gets a call from Vickie. She says she’ll be back shortly but after she disappears, Steve jokes that the next time the blonde will be seen is breakfast. This leaves you with a less than desirable duo.

Steve and Eddie.

Silence stretches for minutes at a time. Out of some sick and twisted principle, you don’t want to be the first to leave because that might get misinterpreted as running away, and this entire weekend is about proving how you’ve changed. Plus you’re not going to give Eddie the satisfaction of seeing you walk away twice in the span of one afternoon.

Luckily, awkwardness never seems to phase Harrington. Not for long, anyway.

He makes small talk, asks further questions about your new life, wonders if you are open to visitors and practically plans a trip out to see you in Vegas: sooner rather than later, as he puts it. He gets you to laugh on a few occasions and the sound comes naturally, no reservations or concerns.

You make note to apologise to him privately for everything you put him through the night of Chrissy’s party, although you already know he’ll tell you it’s no big deal because Steve Harrington has a heart too pure for this world. It makes you momentarily sick that you took advantage of his kindness in a moment of drunken despair.

“Okay kids,” Steve begins and stands, stretching, “If I tuck in for the night, will you kill each other? Or should I stay to play peacekeeper a little bit longer?”

“We’ll be fine,” Eddie answers shortly. The sentence being his first set of words in hours.

You exchange a glance with Harrington, who seems just as surprised as you by the metal-heads response, and offer up a timid smile.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You say kindly.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” Then he turns to address Eddie, “‘Night, Munson. Don’t be a dickhead.”

Eddie grumbles something under his breath, but you don’t quite make out the specifics. Instead, you watch Steve’s frame disappear into the lake house and once he’s fully out of sight, a sagging feeling settles in the pit of your stomach — what now?

Although, nothing happens. Silence settles around the two of you. Only the sound of the night, the woods, the water graces your ears and, despite the company, it all feels quite peaceful.

Eddie lights a cigarette. Hesitantly, he offers you one, avoiding your gaze as he holds out the box. You politely decline, further wrapping yourself up in your hoodie and sinking into your seat.

After a few more minutes of utter quiet, Eddie exhales, blowing smoke into the midnight air and finally looks up in your direction. You’re aware instantly, that his chocolate-button eyes are latched onto you. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine. Clearing your throat, you tilt your head to meet his wide eyes then, surprising yourself, you offer him a small smile.

The metal-head surprises you too. For not only does he smile back, he says: “I’m sorry.”.

“You don’t—”

But he cuts you off. “I do. About earlier. I was an ass and yeah, I’m sorry.”

All you can do is nod. Not like you don’t believe him, you do. You know Eddie well enough to tell he’s being genuine. Unfortunately, a lot has gone down in the past and three years have passed since. Plus, only a few hours ago, he told you to practically shove your own apologies which can only mean he’s not really interested in having you back in his life. For that, you can’t blame him and as much as you’d want “I’m sorry” to fix things, it’s not that simple — you understand that now better than you did when you first arrived here.

You just need to get through this weekend, you remind yourself and slowly stand up, your own self-deprecating thoughts getting in the way of what you really want to tell him.

Eddie’s eyes remain on you, as if he’s analysing your every move, which, unknown to you, he sort of is. This girl he thought he knew, now a mystery and it’s in part all of his fault. He’s aching inside because everyone else seems to click with you easily, like no time stole memories they’ll never get to experience. Steve cracking intimate jokes mere moments ago causing something vile to bubble inside of the metal-head.

An apology for his earlier comments is a good place to start rebuilding, that’s what Nancy said. He likes to think he listens to advice, even if he doesn’t think it’s good, so he did what his friend told him too and now he wishes he hasn’t. Even more so when you clearly don’t want to hear anything from him.

“I appreciate your apology, but we don’t have to talk about it,” you say matter-of-factly, “We don’t have to talk at all, just like you wanted.”

And Eddie can’t dig himself out of the hole he jumped into.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

story masterlist

& tagging some cool people that expressed interest in this story: @ali-r3n @thelazyarchangel @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @peculiarwren @fxoxo @losingmygrasponreality @kellsck @sp1dyb0y1008 @mmmunson @somethingvicked @darknesseddiem @scream4mami @pineapplechuncks @sophiejayne-illustrations713 @emxxblog @bl0ssomanddie @theladyhellfire @gracelouiseoneill @emquinn94 @transparent-enemy @rach5ive @knew-better-forever-girl-two @lemonmarquee @mossgh0st @probablyin-bed @dustbowleddie @residentoftomlinsonsass @heart-eyed-love @munsonburn3r @helsa3942 @althaiareads @theladyhellfire @v1per1ne @sugarplumsweetiepie

#right where you left me.#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson series #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n

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cannibal-alien · 1 month ago

Note

🛏️ WITH SHEDLETSKY?

🎉 100+ followers event! (closed)

🛏️: only one bed

💬 — ohhh i had fun with this one gee willickers. thank you 4 requesting and i hope this feeds you well ^_^

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

for reasons totally unbeknownst to you, the spectre thought it’d be such a wonderful idea to set your cabin on fire! or whatever it was that transformed your beloved safe haven into a great big pile of ash and debris... whatever it was, your cabin was mostly gone. well, except for that pathetic little broken wooden frame still barely standing. the mere sight of it left a heavy feeling of disappointment stuck in your chest. but you weren’t gonna start sobbing over some old cabin, right? okay, yeah, maybe you were…

seriously, where the hell were you going to sleep now? out in the cold, vulnerable open? no! no way. not when you’re going through hell every single damn day. you deserve SOME comfort at the very least! so you did the only thing you could do, which was walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. yeah it was a little humiliating, but hey, it does beat freezing your ass off outside… anything but that.

you didn’t really care about whose cabin door you were knocking on, feeling utterly desperate. you just needed somewhere not burnt down to crash. it took maybe a second or two, but then you heard slow footsteps faintly approaching. the door creaked open, and there he was, shedletsky.

“well hey there, stranger! you don’t look so happy,” he teased with a lopsided grin, but there was a hint of concern in his expression. you sheepishly rub the back of your neck, gesturing vaguely toward the sad lump of ash that was previously your cozy cabin.

shedletsky glances over at what used to be your cabin, the charred remains of it, and doesn’t seem all that phased. although he did grimace, feeling pretty bad for you. “yeah, i saw that whole mess go down while you were out. i already talked to builderman about it, said he could fix something up for you. no promises on luxury, but it’s still better than ash. really sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

you respond with a slow nod, accepting his condolences. meanwhile you’re trying hard to figure out how to ask if you could crash there for the night… or a few more. also, mental note, make sure to thank builderman later! maybe give him some bloxy cola or something.

“so, i was maaaybeee thinking i could crash here for tonight? only if that’s cool with you, y’know, i just kindaaa don’t wanna-” you gesture behind you, likely towards hypothermia.

shedletsky chuckled, moving aside as he swung the door open wider. “yeah, that’s fine, no big deal. unless you snore, then we’ll have problems,” he joked, trying to lift the mood a little. and it worked, you managed to crack a small smile despite everything.

you weren’t really expecting much. the spectre did build identical cabins for everyone, but then it hit you, those things were just so tiny! no couch, no spare anything, and just a singular bed with one pillow. a slightly wider than twin bed. hardly enough room to keep your dignity. shedletsky looked at you, then at the messy bed, then back to you again, humming in thought.

“this is gonna be a thing, isn’t it?” he sighs, and you felt heat pooling in your cheeks.

“well… that’s fine, i can just sleep on the floor,” you said, grateful he even let you inside, and you didn’t want to make things awkward.

but the second those words left your mouth, shedletsky shook his head, dismissively waving his hands. “no no no, you take the bed. pretty sure you need it way more than i do, anyway.”

you let out a stubborn little huff and crossed your arms. “i’m just glad you even let me in to begin with! please sleep in your own bed, shed. i’ll be fine.”

your stubborn refusal put him in a tough spot, and shedletsky wasn’t about to just hog the bed. felt too wrong. so he came up with the next best plan.

“okay then, hear me out. what if we both sleep in the bed? problem solved, right?” he plopped down on the bed and gave the other side a little pat, motioning for you to join, and you did.

“that’s… uh, fine. i can do that,” you muttered, slipping under the blanket while staring at shedletsky, cheeks a light shade of pink, brain very confused. you weren’t entirely sure what was going on.

“you sure?” he asked, one brow raised as he mimicked your movement, now under the covers with you.

“yeah, don’t worry,” you nodded, laying your head on the edge of the pillow, barely having any. honestly, it’s because you were a little nervous. shedletsky chuckled, scooting closer and shamelessly hogging most of the pillow, teasing you for being so skittish. you could almost feel his back pressed up against your own. god he was warm, almost like a human space heater.

“what are you doing?” you ask with playful suspicion as you kept your attention on the opposite wall, fighting back a smirk.

“just getting comfy in my bed. since it is technically mine, sooo…” shedletsky chuckled, a genuine smile curving at his lips. not that you’d be able to see it, still facing the other way. he liked the way you always giggled at his dumb comments. they never missed with you. suddenly, you scooted back on purpose, stealing half the pillow like it was yours. shedletsky let out a grunt, clearly not expecting the force.

“hey, ow, that actually hurt a little! you could’ve just asked, you know,” he feigned distress, shifting some to get more comfortable, but not backing off in the slightest.

it wasn’t like you budged either. finally feeling warm and safe, exhaustion was settling in quick. “yeah, well…” you started to say, but before you could finish, something interrupted you.

a loud “SNOOOOOOOORE” suddenly echoed through the cabin, and you instantly let out a defeated sigh. it’s gonna be a long night.

#forsaken x reader #shedletsky x reader #wow this has a lot of dialogue in it #don’t think i’ve wrote that much since… gosh…#17 centuries ago #I HOPE ITS OKAY IM NOT A BIG DIALOGUE PERSKB #and shed is an enigma 2 me

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uniquethingtastemaker · 1 month ago

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I've been working on a series called "Dreaming of You.” The premise is that when you jump into the romantic interest’s dream in Chapter 7, you’re there as their significant other

This is an update to this post, since much has changed! I'll add my writing status for them. I'll also include some samples for the ones I've been writing for. I'll put this on the Masterlist for everyone to see as I update it!

Another aspect that will be included in this series is showing how each love interest fell in love with Reader in the real world. This is usually formatted as a few flashback scenes from his POV, but some of them are special

(The writing status list from beginning to end is [Concept-> Idea-> Outline-> Writing])

Riddle — [writing. currently 34k, closest to done] Spicy! However, the focus is on character development. Multiple panic attacks with comfort (what can I say? the man is unstable). Lots of screaming from the cast. Riddle learns affection. Samples: Spicy! Hilarious. Serious. Deep.

Trey — [concept] Vague, but supporting Trey in Riddle's dream is what I want. Parent couple.

Cater — [outlining/writing. suspected to be 30-40k] Angst with comfort (gut-wrenching. the type where you have to pause, get up, and hold your head because your heart hurts. Don't worry, there's comfort!! A lot of it. that's why it's so long). Character deep dive and analysis. Peeling back Cater's mask to find insecurity, pessimism, low self-esteem, and more. He gets the attention and love he deserves. Still funny. It can't all be dark

Deuce — [idea] If Azul’s dream is most embarrassing in canon, Deuce’s is the most ridiculous in this series. I love him, but he can be so unobservant at times.

Leona — [concept] Leona's not happy in his dream... Idk what's going to happen, but it's going to be angst with a happy ending. (It's not like Cater's. That one can sneak up on you. This one is obvious depression)

Azul — [writing. currently 10k] Despite the cringe context, Azul is a good and dedicated boyfriend. Money's on the mind even in his dreams. MVP Floyd (it's a delight). Business power couple (be scared, run away). A few deeply (often unwillingly) vulnerable scenes with Azul due to outside circumstances. Reader swoops in to save the day, Azul style. Samples: Hilarious

Jade — [idea] He likes you the best, and it shows. Reader is vocal, honest, generally kind, and genuine. Jade gives a real, soft smile when he watches them.

Floyd — [idea/outlining] After falling in love with you in the real world, the line between reality and dream blurs for Floyd. Things take an uncanny and disturbing turn in his relationship, and he freaks out. He tries everything to bring you back to your usual self, but nothing works… He’s never been that skilled with the emotional stuff. That was always your job. Now, you’re not the same, and he can’t ask for help. He forces himself to leave before the situation gets worse. It seems like you’re a lost cause… He kinda hates you, but also misses you a lot. When you meet him in the sea, all he wants to do is get you away from him. Floyd doesn’t trust himself to not accidentally hurt you again…… (that was a noice summary on my part) Original Little Mermaid reference. Floyd gets ADHD meds and uses his newfound powers for chaos. Everyone should watch out, because he’s become consistently smarter. My second favorite is Azul. Although Jade is beyond exceptional.

Kalim -- [idea/outlining] Kalim gets help in the real world! Yay! He acquired more self-sufficient skills. (You helped him, but didn't become his parent... Lilia became his dad, though lol) Unexpected intro to dream, but makes way too much sense once you think about it. He's surrounded by too many competent people, including himself, surprisingly (we like character growth here). It's a problem... Kalim has really good intuition

Vil — [outlining/writing] I’ve had to gut this one. Struggling with it.

Rook — [concept/idea] Rook usually takes a spectator role. It's not too different in his dream. Just a little more involved in Reader's happiness. A lot is unclear for this one

Idia — [idea/outline] "My family saw my search history and crush. Now I have to work with my target LI to defeat the ultimate boss, but my family and their company keep trying to wingman me," the fanfic. I love the Reader in this one. It's so funny

Malleus — [concept] Ace uses his unique magic on Malleus to put him to sleep. Unclear about the content

Silver — [idea/outline/writing? unclear. it's been through phases] Soft Silver. Helping the Diasomnia crew with their fundamental problems (Malleus-> Time management, Silver-> Narcolepsy accommodations, Sebek-> Racism). Getting Lilia's approval. Intense fight scene (it's so good. so tense, but so good). Sample: get wrecked sebek

Sebek — [idea/outlining] Reader schools Sebek, then chooses him over anyone else to confide in and trust (this is so important for him. I could do a whole analysis about this, but not here). Tactician Reader! (Sebek needs a strong leader figure, let's be honest) Multiple near-death experiences (was not expecting it to be this intense). Sebek steps up and does the right thing to protect Reader. Sweet relationship. Sebek is a little shy. Rollercoaster of emotions. It's intense

What do you think? Who are you excited for?! Leave it in the comments. It motivates me. Do you see how long my fanfics tend to be? I work hard lol. I need max support!

(I hate tags. I need more of them)

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wheels-of-despair · 3 months ago

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Ride the Lightning Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: In September of 1984, a girl who would one day be known as Evil Woman stepped into the halls of Hawkins High School for the very first time. A few minutes later, she met the love of her life. Contains: First day jitters, first encounter with O'Donnell, love at first sight, and the first day of the rest of Eddie and Evil Woman's lives. Words: 2.3k

This is it, gang. The day Evil Woman met her Eddie. 😍

You woke up this morning ready to kick ass, take names, and make Hawkins High your bitch.

You put on your favorite outfit, scarfed down a good breakfast, and stepped out the door with a new backpack and a head held high.

It took approximately three seconds inside Hawkins High, the new school that would be your prison for the foreseeable future, to make you change your mind.

The thing about small towns is, even on the first day, almost everyone already knows each other. With such a small student body, newcomers are incredibly obvious.

Which is why every eye in that bright white hallway is on you and your baby brother, and you wish you were invisible.

Gareth feels it too. He's been tense since he stumbled into the kitchen this morning. You'll die before you admit he was right to be.

"Where's your locker?" you ask, tugging on his flannel to drag him to the side and out of the flow of traffic.

He pulls out a paper teeming with valuable information, such as class schedule and assigned counselor and locker number, and hands it to you. You glance at it, and then at the numbered metal plates lining the hallway.

"These are going up," you note. "You're probably that way." You gesture vaguely to a turn in the distance. "Want me to go with you?"

"No."

"Okay," you shrug, handing him his schedule back.

His hands shake when he takes it. He looks like he wants to bolt.

"You'll be fine," you say under your breath, hoping no one else hears. People are still watching you. "See you in a few hours."

Gareth heaves a sigh and trudges down the hallway.

You wander around, trying your best to ignore the extremely obvious stares, until you find your own locker. You open it, gaze into the empty space for a few seconds, and close it again. You have no idea what you'll need today, so you might as well keep it all with you.

A chirp of the bell sends your audience to scattering. Probably a warning bell; it wasn't nearly jarring enough to be official. But still, you should probably find homeroom. You look at your own very important paper to get a room number and start hunting. At least everyone's in too much of a hurry now to focus on you.

When you arrive outside the classroom that will be your homeroom for the next year, you hesitate. Would it be unreasonable to turn around and walk away? Just go sit in the woods for a few hours, rather then be trapped inside with all these strangers?

Gareth would kill you if you bailed without him.

"Move it, loser," a tiny girl in a big letterman jacket orders, knocking into you from behind as she passes.

Well, at least everyone's friendly.

You take a deep breath and step inside, seeing Little Miss Letterman Jacket in line behind a few others. The teacher is directing them to assigned seats. Assigned seats, at your age? This place is ridiculous. But still, you stand in line and wait like everyone else.

"Name?" an old lady with a gray perm and big glasses asks, checking off something on her clipboard when you approach. You tell her, and she looks up at you briefly.

"I haven't seen you before."

"I must be new," you deadpan.

She fixes you with a withering glare before looking back down to her clipboard. She scribbles something, then points toward the back of the room without looking up.

"Back table, left side."

"Check."

She looks back up with raised eyebrows, and you scurry toward your assigned seat. Way to make a great first impression. You are killing it.

At your old school, this was where the burnouts went. The kids who would probably spend the whole time sleeping. Even if they didn't gravitate there on their own, the teachers would send them there eventually. Put them as far away from the teaching as possible, so they wouldn't bother the good little children who came to learn.

Good, you think as you drop into the plastic chair. Something tells you that you'll be spending most of your time at Hawkins High trying to fly under the radar anyway. You're off to a great start.

More students filter in, and you observe them from your place in the back. Isn't it amazing how you can tell what clique a person belongs to just by their clothes? The jocks are easy to spot. The princesses. The nerds. The rich kids. The losers. The--

Holy shit.

A blur of untamed hair and faded denim bounds into the room just as the bell rings.

"O'Donnell!" he greets, clapping the surly teacher on the shoulder. She flinches, like he'd just smacked her with a dead rat instead of a ringed hand. "Bet you thought you finally got rid of me, huh?"

"Take your usual seat, Mr. Munson," she glowers.

He grins, showing off his white teeth and deep dimples, and it lights up the entire room. Until his eyes land on you, and you feel your stomach drop, along with his smile. You've been staring, fuck, you've been staring so intensely he's probably creeped out already.

He saunters toward you, unblinking.

He's not sitting here, is he?

Please sit here.

Before you can argue with yourself any more, he dramatically plops into the chair next to you. You pretend to focus on the teacher at the front of the room, but watch out of the corner of your eye as he leans his chair back on two legs and rests his back against the wall. He smells like cigarette smoke and warmth and comfort and some kind of cologne or maybe just a strong deodorant. And he's staring at you.

"What'd you do?"

Is he talking to you? You tilt your head and meet his eye. He is.

"What?" you ask, surprised that you were able to get the word out.

"She usually throws me in the back corner by myself," he explains. "Either we're full-up, or she hates you too."

Your face is on fire.

"Uh…" you rack your brain for an explanation. "There may have been a tiny bit of sarcasm when I first walked in."

He snorts, then drops his chair back onto all fours with a clank.

"Eddie Munson," he says, holding out his hand. His many silver rings catch your eye, and you tilt your head to stare at them in fascination. You've seen a guy wear one or two rings, maybe, but how does he even lift his hands with that much metal on them? "It's okay, I washed them this week... or maybe it was last week?"

You chuckle and take his hand, giving him a brief shake and introducing yourself. A moment of silence follows. You can't stop looking at him. You want to memorize every detail of Eddie Munson, because he's the most beautiful person you've ever seen. You want to stare into his eyes until you learn all his secrets. You want to hold his hand and inspect his rings. You want to touch every patch and pin on his jacket, and let him tell you how he acquired each one. You want to know which bands are his favorites, and which of their albums, and which song from each album. You want to know everything.

"Nice shirt," you finally get out.

Eddie Munson looks down and pulls his battle vest aside - an actual battle vest with metal patches and pins in Nowhere, Indiana - to reveal more of the Ride the Lightning album cover you'd spotted.

"Thanks," he beams. "You like Metallica?"

Of course you like Metallica. You were waiting at your hometown record store's front door when they opened on RTL Release Day. The assistant manager told you they didn't have it yet, and only after you'd threatened to sue did he pull the cassette out of his pocket with a grin. You miss that place.

"No, I just thought the logo was cool," you smirk.

His face falls.

Fuck.

Fuck!

FUCK!

"Oh," he says, deflated. "Well, they're a badass band. If you like metal, I mean... do you?"

"Everyone quiet down for the announcements!" O'Donnell barks. Seconds later, the loudspeaker crackles to life, and a voice starts rambling on it. You should probably pay attention to this. Don't want to fuck up your high school career more than you have already. You smile apologetically at Eddie, knowing you've blown whatever this could have been, and attempt to focus on the announcements.

You give up after a few minutes of sports and club-related news, and instead berate yourself for being too you, too soon. You have to ease people in, a little at a time. You are an acquired taste. You know this.

When the announcements end, O'Donnell goes to the chalkboard and writes a numbered list of forms everyone was supposed to get signed and bring in. Paper shuffles as everyone starts digging into backpacks and trying to put them in the requested order.

A few minutes later, your neat pile rests next to Eddie's crumpled mess, and the sight makes you smile. You glance at him with an eyebrow raised in amusement, and his face becomes the shade of a tomato. He's so adorable.

"Papers to the front!"

You reach for your pile of paper at the same time Eddie does. Your hands brush, and a small shock of static electricity makes you both jump and pull your hands away. He smiles apologetically and picks up the papers, combining them and putting the stack into the meaty hands of the striped polo shirt in front of you.

You suddenly feel the need to shed your denim jacket, and twist away from Eddie to hang it on the back of your chair. And then you remember what shirt you're wearing, and feel a surge of hope shoot through your veins. Perhaps all is not lost. You try your best to keep a straight face when you face the front again.

"I'm passing out additional forms that need to be signed by a parent or guardian and returned to me by the end of the week. Do not lose them. You may talk quietly amongst yourselves until the next bell."

Now's your chance. Maybe your last one.

"So," you begin, slightly angling yourself toward him. "Are all the teachers here as fun as this one?"

Eddie grins and turns to you to answer, but his face falls when he sees your shirt. He stares at the fabric for a moment, then meets your eye. His brow is furrowed. He reminds you of a confused puppy. Slowly, you see the realization spread across his face.

"You were fucking with me."

You look down pointedly at your own Ride the Lightning shirt, which matches his, and then lift your head to meet those big brown eyes again. You scrunch your nose and nod. Eddie laughs, and the sound makes your stomach flip. You join in when you remember how.

"The new girl likes metal," he grins, shaking his head in disbelief. Hell, you'd like anything he wanted you to. "Alright, very serious question." He leans closer, his face suddenly somber and his eyes intense. You can smell his cologne clearer now. You fear you're going to pass out. "Do you know what D&D is?"

You're torn. Do you keep fucking with him, or tell the truth and make his dreams come true?

"Dickheads & Doorknobs?" you whisper.

Eddie throws his head back and laughs, a loud and wicked cackle that makes your whole body vibrate. You fight the urge to steady yourself by combing your fingers through his long shaggy mane.

"You ever played?" he asks, snapping you out of it.

"A couple of times," you grin. "My brother's a big fan, though."

"Your brother plays?" He sits back, his eyes wide. "Is he here? Like, in the building?"

"Yeah," you answer. "He's around here somewhere."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"He like good music?"

"Taught him everything I know," you tease.

"Fuck," Eddie breathes, eyes blazing. "You uh…" He licks his lips. "You wanna meet the rest of the Hawkins High Metal Lovers?"

"If that's your gang name, I hate to break it to you, but it's kinda lame," you snicker.

"It's a club, thank you very much," he says, putting a hand over his heart like you've offended him to the core. "We play D&D as The Hellfire Club."

"Okay," you nod, "that sounds pretty badass."

Eddie grins.

"Can I see your schedule?" he asks. And then he tenses. So do you. What just happened? "If you want, y'know, I could take you to your next class. Or show you around or whatever. If you wanted me to."

Is he backpedaling because he thinks he overstepped, or because he doesn't like the way you're looking at him, or because he just remembered he has a girlfriend who's going to murder you both?

Screw it.

You pull out your schedule and slide it across the table to him. He looks it over, his eyes darting from line to line.

"We don't have much together," he says regretfully. "But I uh… I could still…" He bites his lip, like he's afraid to finish his sentence.

"Would you?" you ask, voice quiet and heart pounding. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble?"

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile. It's a battle he quickly loses. You can't help but smile back. You're still grinning at each other like idiots when the bell rings.

"Trouble's my middle name," he grins, his perfect dimples making another appearance as he rises from his chair. "Shall we?"

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman #eddie munson

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tumbleofdorks · 2 months ago

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Okay, Cardassia, Soviet Union, 90's cultural relevance, here we go.

*deep breath*

The late 80's into the 90's was a super weird time, in general, but it was especially weird for the Soviet Union/Russia, and it all happened quite publicly, globally speaking. This absolutely and clearly influenced the creation of the Cardassians, and even more so their arc throughout Deep Space Nine. First, we gotta go back further for some context though, come on, take my hand.

Ah, here we are.

Right, so the primary writers for DS9 were mostly in their 30s and 40s when the show started (Ira Steven Behr was 39 for example), which means the looming threat of the Red Menace was omnipresent in the American psyche their whole lives. I cannot emphasize enough how much space the USSR took up, rent free, in the minds of Americans throughout the many decades of the Cold War.

Every spy novel, comic book series, and action movie had to have a Russian-accented baddie for the noble American hero to fight against. A quick aside, this is why Chekov being on the bridge in TOS was a Big Deal. Roddenberry was basically saying, "Someday all humanity will be working together in harmony, yes, even the Russians." Anyway, my point is, Russian villains saturated the media that the DS9 writers would have grown up with.

While the fiction was popping off, the real stories of life in the USSR from defectors were being consistently drip-fed to the outside world. Stories of dramatic show trials, where the guilt was already determined and the whole trial was just a display to sway public opinion. Stories of prodigious propaganda on every street corner, in every newspaper, and on every TV and radio. Stories of forced labor in gulags in the many USSR occupied territories. And oh yes, let's not forget the NUMEROUS stories of the Secret Police, the most infamous of which was the Committee for State Security, the dreaded and powerful KGB. A spy agency, full of sleeper agents behind enemy lines, experts in deception, espionage and assassination. Hm, now, where have we seen such things?

Also, let us be frank, we have the Romulan empire, the Klingon empire, the Terran empire, lots of empires, but Cardassia and its occupied territories are the Cardassian UNION? C'mon.

Okay, but then we get to the 90's and DS9, and this is where it gets REALLY juicy, so bear with me here.

In January of 1991, the Next Generation episode "The Wounded" introduced us to the Cardassians, and "Ensign Ro" in October set up the Bajoran occupation. While they didn't have the accents, they had a few likenesses to the American idea of Russian authoritarianism, a brutal military, religious suppression, gulag labor camps, strange torture methods, but it was still vague at best.

However, in December of that same year the USSR collapsed, the Soviet Union was no more, and it was WIDELY televised. The Western world watched on in various degrees of shock, joy, and trepidation as the seemingly invincible Soviet Union broke apart. The formerly occupied regions declared their independence, and the Russian central command (seemingly) withdrew all of their forces and government operatives quite suddenly back to Moscow.

Half a year later, in the Summer of 1992, Deep Space Nine began pre-production, and the Cardassians were chosen as the primary initial antagonists and the abandonment of Bajor as our backdrop. Through DS9 Cardassians gained a notable spy agency, the Obsidian Order, and a reputation of beuracratic record keeping and efficiency (the USSR was famously meticulous in its record keeping and "at least the trains/shuttles ran on time"). We explored their kangaroo courts, the friction between their military leadership and their civilian leadership (Stalin taking over from Lenin, anybody?), the consequences of rapid withdrawal of a controlling force, and the effects of economic instability on a super power. Mere months after the real collapse and withdrawal of the USSR, the DS9 writers choose to make the collapse and withdrawal of an authoritarian Union the driving plot point of their new show?

The writers, as they developed the show, were clearly exploring the themes that were playing out in the world around them. To the folks watching at home these would have been immediately recognizable, something that could be connected to contemporary events, as well as the lifetime of USSR figures in media that they were accustomed to. It was a familiar string to pull on and draw the audience in.

Ahem, so as you can see, the depiction of the Cardassian Union not only parallels the Soviet Union, but was uniquely relevant to an audience in the 90's that was watching the collapse of the USSR in real time on the nightly news.

However, it wasn't all the standard anti-soviet themes one would expect, which is how we ended up with Garak. The ways the writers used him thematically were so fascinating and so uniquely Star Trek. He LOVES his planet and his people, he's almost a spiritual successor to Chekov in that way: blindly loving of his home, claiming it is the best in all things. In the face of decades of anti-soviet media Garak was depicted as a morally-gray spy, yes, but in classic Star Trek fashion also fiercely loyal, noble, loving and multi-faceted. An enemy that can be made a friend if one tries hard enough, as long as there is a kernel of "humanity" within you both.

Star Trek hopecore is present even in the darkest of the TNG sibling shows.

#star trek #ds9 #I finally did it!#This took so long to write...#and honestly I could go even more into it #Star Trek has always been political #star trek ds9 #cardassians #Cardassia #Elim Garak #star trek meta

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stevieschrodinger · 11 months ago

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Part One Part Seven

“Hey Buddy, you got dressed.”

“Dessed,” Eddie plucks at the sleeve of the pullover, then rubs his arms, copying what Steve did to show what he meant by cold, Eddie even does a fair approximation of Steve's, ‘brrrrrr,’ sound. “Good?

Steve can see from here that the inside of his closet is a disaster; Eddie must have pulled things down while he was hunting for something to wear. Steve figures he can fix it later.

“Yeah, really good. Come on, lets make a grocery list.”

“Go-ser-eee list?”

“Yeah, all the things you like.”

Eddie follows Steve carefully down the stairs, and Steve is pretty sure he can say good bye to the sweater the second Eddie goes outside; at the very least the bottom part will be dragged along the floor everywhere Eddie goes.

Eddie pulls himself onto a seat at the breakfast nook while Steve gets a pad and a pen, “right. What would you like?”

Eddie leans forward so he can see better as Steve writes – Steve’s already listing stuff like milk and bread and coffee and cereal. “Celery. Cucumber. Peas. Apple. Grape. Pear. Many pear,” he’s watching closely, waiting while Steve writes out each word after Eddie says them.

Eddie leans an arm over the table, pointing at where Steve has just written, ‘pear’, “many,” he insists, “many pear.”

Steve crosses out ‘pear’ and writes ‘many pear’ instead, “that okay?” Steve’s sure Eddie can't read what hes writing, but he does understand the concept of ‘many pear’ being two words and not one, which means he’s grasping this whole thing really, really fast.

“Paper,” Eddie adds.

“Okay, got it. More paper.”

“Okay. Stee go out?”

“Yeah, I need to go to work, and I’ll bring the groceries home with me.”

“Go-ser-ee in work?”

“No...I have to go to work to earn money to buy groceries,” Eddie stares at Steve blankly, “wait here.” Steve comes back with his wallet, and fishes out a few dollar bills and puts them on the table, “So I go to work, and earn money,” Steve slides the dollars closer.

Eddie touches the corner of one of the notes, “one.”

“That’s right Buddy, that’s the number one. This is a one dollar bill.”

“One dollar bill.” Eddie repeats dutifully.

“So I take this,” Steve points to the bill, “to the store, and I can get an apple.”

Eddie frowns at the money, “one dollar bill in work Stee...one dollar bill in store...Stee apple?”

“Yeah, yeah buddy.”

Eddie nods, “Eddidie in work? Eddidie one dollar bill pear.”

Steve snorts a laugh at the thought of Eddie in a Family Video vest, probably shouting, ‘no,’ and, ‘bad,’ at customers who put the tapes back wrong. Steve’s pretty sure the general public could break even Eddie’s spirit.

“No buddy, you have to stay here, where it’s safe.”

“Safe,” Eddie points in the vague direction of down the hall; Steve understands what he means, Steve does the same thing to illustrate to Eddie that he’s going out, “not safe?”

“That’s right.”

“Stee not safe?” Eddie cocks his head, frowning spectacularly.

“Oh boy,” Steve sighs to himself. “Okay. Okay Buddy, out,” Steve points, “safe for me, not safe for you.”

“Why?”

And oh Steve is really starting to loath the ‘why?’

“Because...you’re different buddy,” Steve sticks a leg out and points to it, then points to Eddie’s tail where the end is curled on the floor.

Eddie frowns, but doesn’t push it any further.

Eddie’s inside when Steve gets home, and Steve’s kind of glad, it’s definitely chillier now than it was a couple of weeks ago. Eddie might have his tent, but Steve has no idea what kind of temperatures are tolerable for Eddie; he must be pretty fucking sturdy to live in the Upside Down, but still. Steve has no clue if Eddie’s just mimicking him, because Steve has told Eddie it’s cold. He doesn’t even know if Eddie feels temperature like a human. Still, he probably wouldn't be voluntarily wearing the sweater if it was making him too warm.

Eddie’s laid out on the lounge floor, his book open, surrounded by colored pencils. It looks like he’s making an attempt at drawing some sort of tree, surrounded by grass and sky. It’s not terrible; Steve can even tell pretty much what it’s supposed to be, at least.

Steve's got to tell Dustin that Eddie can definitely see color just fine.

“Hey Buddy, you want to help put your things away?”

“Eddidie help,” Eddie follows Steve into the kitchen, “idge door. Idge. Cold in idge. Pear in. Grape in. Celery in.” Eddie chatters the whole time he unpacks the paper grocery bag, narrating everything he’s doing. He eats a pear when he’s done.

“I got you more notebooks, too.”

“Paper?”

“Yeah Buddy, as much as you want.”

Steve dumps a can of spaghetti into a pot on the stove, then turns as he hears a loud scraping noise; Eddie pushing a chair across the kitchen.

“Hang on,” Steve gets it for him, moving it to the side of the stove. Eddie climbs up, sitting on his tail to make himself tall enough to watch Steve making toast and grating cheese.

“You want to try?” Steve offers the wooden spoon to Eddie.

Eddie frowns at it, “warm?”

“Many warm. Hot. Here,” Steve blows on the spoon for a moment.

Eddie leans forward and licks it. Eddie pulls an assessing face, and then finally volunteers, “good bad.”

“Yeah. I get you buddy.”

Eddie turns on the TV when they go into the lounge, Steve sits on the couch to eat, “I think the kids are coming over tomorrow. They’re coming over to watch movies.” Eddie tilts his head, “TV. The kids are coming to watch TV.”

“Max. El. Dust bin. Lu-cas. Mike. Will.”

“You got it buddy, the kids.”

“Kids. Mongrels.”

Steve laughs so hard his toast nearly slides off his plate.

Mike shoves a bag in Steve’s hands as he passes him in the doorway, “Nancy told me to bring this over for Eddie. It’s all Holly’s old stuff.”

Steve looks inside the bag and finds a couple of kids coloring books; neither of them used at all. A handwriting book, the kind where you trace the letters and numbers before doing it yourself. A very basic math book, probably for really little kids, but on the first page is a picture of four plus four, represented with two groups of four apples. Steve’s confident Eddie will like that. There’s a couple of other things, and Steve’s sure it’ll all be useful. It’s actually a great idea. One of the books has pictures of clocks, and the digital time; Steve really should teach Eddie to tell the time. Maybe he could get him a little battery clock for his tent.

“Thanks Mike.”

“Yeah whatever,” Mike grumbles, already making popcorn and generally just helping himself to Steve’s shit.

Steve sits in the middle of the couch, El to one side of him, deliberately keeping an empty space on the other. All the other kids are sprawled out on the floor, eating red vines and dipping into bowls of popcorn. Eddie’s watching from the kitchen doorway; he’s clearly still uncertain about the kids.

They’re all lying quiet though, engrossed in the film. It’s probably half way through when Eddie finally risks it; Steve pats the couch cushion to encourage Eddie up next to him. Eddie does.

Usually he sits like a person, the end of his tail laid on the floor like feet would be, but tonight he pulls it up and curls it under him, all protected.

El leans forward, whispering over Steve, “hi Eddie.”

Eddie nods, volunteers back an uncertain, “hi El,” and then promptly hides his face in Steve’s shoulder.

As Steve suspected, the front six inches of the yellow pull over are worn and filthy, marred with grass stains.

Steve leaves him there for a little while, and waits until curiosity gets the better of Eddie. Steve offers him some popcorn; it’s buttered and salty, and Steve’s a solid ninety percent sure Eddie won’t like it. He’s right. He watches Eddie chew with his mouth open, a look of absolute disgust on his face, for a solid thirty seconds before Eddie finally swallows.

Steve leaves El with the popcorn and goes and gets them a beer to share, it’s the least he can do.

Eddie’s interest in the film seems to waver, depending on what grabs his attention the most. He seems to be watching the kids for...well. Eddie probably thinks of them as loud and erratic; it wouldn’t surprise Steve if Eddie had interpreted them as danger. Even if Eddie’s getting braver, that feeling clearly hasn’t gone all the way away just yet.

Steve feels him twitch, on high alert, every time one of the kids shifts.

Steve offers him a red vine; Eddie sniffs it but crinkles his nose up in disgust.

They decide to put on another movie; when all the kids get up to forage and grab drinks and go for toilet breaks, Steve thinks for a moment that Eddie might make a break for it. He sinks down further into the couch cushions instead; pressing close to Steve.

He doesn’t leave though, and the kids, mercifully, practically ignore Eddie. Lucas says ‘hi’, and Eddie answers, which Steve takes as a massive win.

One of the kids drops something in the sink; it clatters loudly, Eddie sitting up straight, whole body on high alert and turned towards the doorway, one arm flung back protectively over Steve's chest.

“It’s alright buddy, don’t worry. It’s just the kids. They’re noisy sometimes,” Eddie does lower himself again at that, and when he finally looks at Steve, Steve offers his hand. Eddie takes it. The webbing stops their fingers linking together all the way, but the contact has the desired effect and seems to reassure Eddie that there’s no danger, and he’s more relaxed by the time all the kids come back in.

They start the next movie, Eddie nestled right up against Steve, their joined hands resting on his thigh.

Part Nine

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #ficlet #ao3 author #pre steddie #mermeddie #mermaid eddie #upside down creature eddie #Fish Guy Eddie #creature eddie munson #creature #getting together

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moonshapedbox · 4 months ago

Text

swan shaped heart — part two

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter

a/n: OMG where do i begin…first off thank u all sm for all love chapter one received i’m truly so touched!!! this is the first fanfic i’ve ever posted in my life so it means a lot!!! also sorry it took so long to complete part 2, college has been beating my ass as of lately. trying to update semi regularly but we’ll see!! its still extremely self indulgent though once again bc i’m working lots of things out in my life rn that i think arthur can fix. you can read chapter one here <3

tags: lots of fluff and romantic tension :D hint of age gap, kissing, no smut but fairly suggestive, arthur is kind of mischievous, angsty in some parts if u squint, religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 reader is in her twenties. read at ur own risk.

wc: 5.9k

part two – peaches

“You still coming to the picnic?”

Her words reverberated in his ears like tinnitus. He arrived back at his lodging to grab a few things he forgot, throwing and shoving items into his saddlebags. Was he going to the picnic? That’s all she had to say? He looked up at the sky again, the sun barely cracking up the pale blue sky, humidity in the air from the previous day's rain was suffocating.

Truly, he hadn’t decided yet if he was going to change his mind about it all. It was no mistake, the preacher’s daughter stirred up things in him he hadn’t felt for years. It was foolish to attend, he kept reminding himself of that. He needed to get back to camp, there was his own folks to take care of and business to attend to. Dutch was probably in the middle of some half baked scheme that he concocted to have Arthur lead in, John and Abigail were most likely arguing and needed a mediator, and there was the other women, Hosea, and little Jack.

So was he going to the picnic? It was something he would have to ponder on his way back to camp.

For the preacher’s daughter, things were shifting. Big changes and waves of emotion had shaped her irrevocably since that morning. She sat in the pews, front row like always, but for once she wasn’t really listening to her father’s sermon. She wouldn’t nod along to what he was saying, or open her Bible to turn to the verse and chapter he referred to. Instead, her eyes found a place to gaze over and bore a hole into it with her vision, mind wandering off to Arthur. The only times she was brought back was by her mother, who would gently yet lovingly tap her on the knee, to get her attention, silently gesturing to listen to her father. She would continue her days like normal, but completely enamored by Arthur, what he said, what he did–or lack thereof.

A couple of days later– the annual town picnic had finally reared its vague and complicated head. Typically, the picnic was always an event that she had always been enamored with. She looked forward to it every spring– her hand would be the first to raise when asked about volunteers or who should be in charge of planning the event, but now; the idea of going made uneasiness twist in her stomach. The thought of Arthur being there is all that mattered to her, although with their awkward and incomplete farewell, she didn’t know where she stood in his eyes.

The picnic was a lively affair, with almost the whole town participating in the activities. The crowd gathered outside the church where it was being held, enjoying the food and each other’s company. The warm spring breeze picked up the light atmosphere and covered everyone’s spirits with joy. There was music and dancing and lots of laughter. While the preacher’s daughter was usually the one to be in the crowd, socializing with fellow townsfolk– she found herself dismayed, as she sat on the steps of the church, knees pressed to her chest and a weary look staining her face.

“You gonna eat something dear?” her father’s voice broke her out of her trance, “Your mama made that chicken salad you like.” She sees him getting closer and shakes her head, “I’m not very hungry Papa.” she lays her head on her knees. The preacher walks up to her and observes his daughter, before sighing and sitting next to her. “Want to tell me what’s going on? You barely spoke a word all day, hardly participated on Sunday..”

She sighs and hesitates to say anything before continuing, “Remember how I told you Mr. Morgan stopped by the house the other morning? He found my necklace.”

“Yes, it was kind of him,” Her father blinks and nods, “Is this somehow relevant as to why you've been such a sourpuss lately?”

She opened her mouth but then stopped before she could start her sentence. She realized that if she were to tell him exactly what happened—it meant that she would have to tell him everything that took place in the kitchen that morning—the touching, the lewd remarks, and worst of all— she had her innocent and dainty fingers in some strange man’s mouth. This would most certainly kill her father, so she finds a way around it.

“Well, I feel like I might have offended him and I feel bad about it…that’s all.” she explains, it technically wasn’t a lie, a small pang of relief hitting her chest.

“What could you have possibly said that could offend him, dear?” her father asks, sincere in his words, genuinely wanting to make his daughter feel better. For her, this was the tricky part, trying to find the words without saying anything at all, “I told him he needed to leave…because I had things to do that day.”

Technically a lie, technically the truth. It was a moral dilemma she’d contemplate later.

“Aw, is that it?” he gives her a sympathetic smile, “Oh don’t even fret about it I’m sure he’s alright. Honestly, it says more about him if he took offense to a sweet ol’ thing like you.” He lovingly pinches her cheek and plants a kiss on top of her head, before rising to his feet, “You’ve always had a problem being in your own head too much sweetheart.” She nods in agreement, wanting the conversation to end, “I guess so. Thank you papa.”

A voice calls out to her father, interrupting their conversation. He looks over to the source of where the voice came from. He pats her on the back before walking off to greet more of his congregation that decided to stop by. Maybe her father was right, perhaps she was in her head too much. Of course, her father did not have the context like she did, but this false sense of reassurance passed the time well.

She continues to think about what Arthur said.

“Ever think about a man lovin’ on you baby?”

She is now. Arthur planted the seeds of desire in her, and the roots that grew traveled up her veins and made her heart race. She couldn’t get him out of her head no matter how hard she tried. She looks to the farthest distance she can, wondering what he was doing right now– what he was wearing and what path he was travelling. Far out, she notices a brown figure moving at a rapid pace, her eyes narrow. It’s just a horse– a beautiful one at that; a deep chestnut brown. Her gaze softened as it got closer in view, she noticed the horse had a splash of white on its nose– with a man mounted on top.

Her head lifts from her lap, was that him? It couldn’t be–or it could. She squints a bit harder, waiting for the man to come closer. She leans forward in her lap, eventually standing on the steps. She could recognize that gambler’s hat from anywhere.

It was him, Arthur had come back.

“Mr. Morgan!” she runs to him and looks up at him on his horse, “You made it.” she smiles. He gets off his horse and secures it, “Of course. Why would I not be here? You invited me.” he responds flatly, not caring to make eye contact with her.

She looks down and back up again, “I know but that was before…” she reads his face, pausing an explanation to feel out if he knew what she was implying, “Listen, Mr. Morgan, about the other morning, I–”

“No need darlin’,” he puts his hand out before dropping it to his side, “I understand,” He puts his weight on one hip. “I was planning on headin’ back, and I–uh made it halfway, then I got to thinkin’…” he pauses while scanning her features for a moment, “And I came off a little strong. I realize that now. Didn’t mean to frighten you if I did.” he looks down at his boots, still caked with mud from the rainstorm days ago.

She gingerly touched his hand, “All is forgiven, Mr. Morgan.” He looks up at her under the brim of his hat, and she swears she can see a hint of a smile and a smudge of red grace on his cheek.

So can her horrified father, who had been watching the interaction between the potential lovebirds from a distance the whole time. A worrisome dread sunk in him as he decided to make his presence known. He hurries toward them before calling out,

“Mr. Morgan! That you, son?”

Arthur whips his head back around, “Father! —uh reverend—shit”

“Wrong denomination son” he chuckles, loosening his tie. “I also would appreciate you to refrain from using profanity around my daughter. She’s a impressionable young lady y’know”

“Of course. Sorry, sir.” Arthur flashed a sheepish grin, before realizing he hadn’t shook the preacher’s hand yet. Out of respect he extends his hand, and they lock into a strong handshake. A pang of guilt hit Arthur, here he was shaking the man of the Lord’s hand when not even two days ago he was all over this man’s only daughter, in his own kitchen nonetheless.

“I invited Mr. Morgan to the picnic, figured he might want to visit a little more before he leaves.” she explains, innocently swaying her hips, giving her skirt a little movement as she rocked side to side.

“I can see that dear,” The preacher smiles at his daughter before shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to make friendly conversation. Anything to try and keep Arthur from sweeping his daughter off her feet, “So, how’s that cattle ranch of yours, son?”

Cattle ranch? Oh right, that was the story he pitched the town initially. It was the perfect small lie given the circumstance. The cattle rancher to save the town from cattle thieves, you couldn’t write a better story. “Just fine. Hard work. You know how it is. Cattle can be…temperamental.”

Stupid stupid stupid. He was bombing this and he knew it was over the second the words left his mouth. He grimaced in his mind at the interaction.

“Right,” the preacher drawls the word, trying to detect any honesty in Arthur’s claim, “Well regardless of your business, we’re glad you could join us,” he says, tone friendly but his words having an edge to them.

She smiles, “We got plenty of food why don’t we eat–”

“I thought you weren’t hungry?” her father whips his head to look at her.

She flashes a half smile, “Well I am now, ‘sides I don’t want to be rude and not eat in front of our guest, papa.”

Her father looked between two, he knew exactly what was happening and he didn’t like it one bit. He had no reason to be distrustful of Arthur, after all he did save his town from that reckless gang, but something wasn’t right. Although, to save his beloved daughter from embarrassment, he decided to play along– for now.

The eating and socializing made time fly by, Arthur enjoyed the peaceful and innocent fun with everyone, it made him forget about all his stress and worries for a couple of hours. He smiled along to a song played on a mandolin, he listened to her fill him in on all the local happenings that occurred while he was away, she clung onto his bicep as he won a couple games of dominoes against the shopkeeper, and before either of them knew it– the sun was starting to set. Arthur sat next to her at the picnic table, enjoying the sounds of soft conversations in the distance, but mostly he enjoyed her company. He exhaled deeply and looked over at her, “Let’s take a quick stroll, whaddya say?” She looked back at him, “That sounds lovely, but the sun is setting…I don’t know…”

“And?” He stands up and stretches up as tall as he can, she looks over his huge, broad frame growing taller as he pulls upward, her heart skips a beat at the sight of his muscles moving under his shirt as he shifts around. “You’ll be safe with me, let’s go girl.” he motions with his head and grabs his satchel. His sudden firm tone made her pulse quicken, not fully understanding why she liked it as much as she did.

Eventually, she and Arthur wander off into the path into a nearby trail, enough daylight to see where they were going as well as the beauty of the mountainous region, she looks up at him, his face concentrated on where they were headed.

“So where you takin’ me?” she asks.

“Nowhere in particular, unless you got somethin’ in mind,” he responds as he adjusts the weight of his satchel. She thinks for a moment and a bright smile spreads across her face, “I got an idea, there’s a lake nearby, it’s so beautiful. You’ll love it I promise.”

“Okay, the lake it is then,” he nods. Despite not speaking a word to each other, she smiled to herself that she was finally getting to spend more time with him like she always dreamed of. “Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout?” Arthur’s voice broke the prolonged silence. She shook her head, “Nothin’. Just having fun that’s all.” Arthur smiles back at her, “That reminds me, I almost forgot somethin’,” he stops in his tracks and she follows his lead.

“I know you’re supposed to bring somethin’ for a picnic and I didn’t know what to bring but–,” he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a can, “hope you like it.”

She grins with playful confusion, “A can of….” she tries to examine the can further, the text on the label rubbed off almost completely, “...peaches?” She walks slowly alongside him, still looking down at the can.

He nods, “You like peaches, hon?” strolling in tandem alongside her.

“Yeah, I like ‘em even better in pies though,” she responds.

“Peach pie?” He raises a brow, “I ain’t ever had that before…apple, yes. But peach? That’s a new one.”

“Oh I gotta make you one then. They’re real easy.” she says before letting a beat of silence encompass them.

She exhales an airy chuckle, “Reminds me of the time when Papa took me to a preacher’s convention in Saint Denis – well more like I begged him to take me– but anyway while I was there I had a peach pie with ice cream. Ice cream of all things, can you believe it?” she grins brightly, “They call it peach a la mode, isn’t that brilliant? Makes me feel sophisticated” she rambles, her hands gesticulating for emphasis.

He scoffs, “So that’s what rich folks are eatin’ huh? They can’t be ok with pie itself they gotta go add ice cream on it too.” he muttered, gesturing broadly as they strolled down the path together. She laughs loudly, “You’re a silly man Mr. Morgan… Ain’t seen a person upset with ice cream before.” He shook his head, he wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but it was like a symphony to his ears.

“Was it good?” His question broke the beat of silence.

“Hm?”

“The peach el mood?” he motions.

She bursts out laughing again, “A la mode? Definitely, it was divine.”

There it was again–he smiles lovingly at the sound of her laugh.

“You might have to make that for me too,” he grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.

The sound of both them walking down to the lake absorbed any beat of silence that could have been there. The crunching of gravel beneath their feet and sound of birds chirping accompanied their walk. Arthur picked up rocks he thought were compelling enough to shove into his jacket pocket. He picks up another rock and fidgets with it, and glances over at her for a second, eyes trailing down to her slightly exposed sternum which cradled that heavenly swan pendant necklace.

“You like swans, huh?” he inquired, throwing the rock like a skipping stone. “Why swans? And not like– I don't know a dove or somethin’.”

“A dove? That’s awfully cliche don’t you think?” she smirks. They finally make it to the lake. Seeing a big tree log that somehow found itself at the base of the lake, they both take a seat there. Arthur shrugs at her previous comment and adjusts next to her.

“I just like ‘em that’s all. Y’know it’s said that swans represent beauty, grace, wisdom. I think it’s a good symbol to look upon. It’s always been quite reassuring to me.” she places the can of peaches she had been holding down onto the ground.

“Ah, so it’s your lucky charm?” he grinned.

She waves him off, “Oh Mr. Morgan, I don’t believe in luck,” she looks out into the lake, “To tell you the truth, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to see a swan in the wild. I’m holdin’ out for hope I’ll get see one.”

“You will someday, I’m sure.” He looked over at her peaceful demeanor, his heart felt so warm just by being in her presence. The realization that all he wanted was to be with her overcame him. As it came, a familiar thick and oily guilt suddenly swallowed him upon the thought that he hadn't been exactly truthful with her. Quite frankly, he was a liar– lied about what he did for a living, lied about the true nature of his arrival 4 years ago, the lies started to collapse on his throat. If he was even to consider a life with her in it, he had to tell her everything– there was no cattle ranch, the only money he had technically didn’t belong to him, he was originally going to rob her town– that he is an outlaw.

He wanted to make this work, he lost so much in his life already that he knew she was an opportunity of genuine love and care. Surely enough, someone so loving and forgiving like her would be able to handle his baggage, right? If not, he was willing to put it all on the line anyway. He rubs his jaw and exhales a breath before speaking.

“Look darlin’, there’s something I need to tell you–”

“--You gotta girl ain’t you?” she interrupts flatly.

He exhales a laugh, “No, I ain’t got a girl. Not for a long time at least,” taken aback by her boldness, he continues to chuckle to himself.

“Why are you laughin’? It’s not that much of an odd assumption to make. You’re handsome and smart and you got that big cattle ranch so it’s not crazy to assume gals wouldn’t be all over you–”

“You think I’m handsome?” he whipped his head to look at her, his cheeks warmed at the compliment, trying to hide the surprise in his voice as he never truly felt comfortable or confident with himself.

“Stop it, you know what I meant,” she blushes, “I’m just sayin’ you’re a catch, that’s all.” He continues to smile at her bashful ramblings, shaking his head at her behavior. A sense of mischief creeps up in his mind, and he couldn’t help but entertain it, “Anyways, why ain’t you married yet? I’d figure some young buck would come sniffin’ ‘round after you as soon as you got to marryin’ age.” he asks, watching her put a hand over her face.

“Very classy Mr. Morgan, you’re a real gentleman,” she groans, resting her head in her hand, “I don’t know. I don’t like any of the men at my church. They’re…stupid.”

“How so? Despite the obvious,” he inquires.

She exhales and tries to think of the words to articulate how she feels, “It seems they want me barefoot and pregnant and that life–” she pauses, “I don’t believe that’s what God intended for me. It’s not my path." She picked up a stick and started tracing patterns on the dirt.

“What’s your path then?” His heart softens at the conviction in her tone.

She hesitates for a moment, scared that he would judge her for passions. He nods at her, “You know you can tell me anythin’ darlin’” he says softly, wanting to know what was in that beautiful mind of hers.

She exhales again, “If I may be so bold– I want to preach,” the tension leaving her body after she confessed, “and I want real love– but I don’t know if I’m the marryin’ kind… I think if I met the right man, I’d marry. But only a man that would let me be free…I don’t think I’ll ever find that Mr. Morgan.”

I could be that. If you allowed me to. He thought to himself, but he was not brave enough to voice it. Instead, he gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Ah.” he said softly, before crossing his shin over his thigh.

“You don’t think I can do it huh?” she murmurs, kicking her feet mindlessly against the stump of the tree. His brows furrowed at her accusation, “No I do, I think you can. Hell I met a lot gals who fight for stuff like that,” he gesticulates, “I could picture you doin’ it.” he smiles.

She suddenly remembers what he said at breakfast the other morning: “If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.”

She grins to herself at the thought, “Hey, if I preach does that means you’ll start comin’ to church.”

Arthur scoffs playfully, “Is that so? Who said anythin’ ‘bout that?”

“You said it yourself at breakfast!” she lets out an airy chuckle.

Arthur shakes his head before leaning in closer to her, “Well…that ain't what I meant by that, so we’re just gon’ have to see. Aren’t we?” he smirks. She looks over his face, blush reddening her ears. The moment was so perfect, he wanted to bask in its tranquility. The opportunity to tell her the truth about his livelihood was fleeting and before he knew it, it was gone. He couldn’t get it back and he hoped that soon he could find another opening. An opening that was perfect and would hurt her the least.

She breaks her gaze and looks down at the can of peaches beside her, “Well, I don’t know about you but I could go for a little sweet.” She leans over to pick up the can. He gazes her over body while she wasn’t looking, staring at the soft curves of her body and before stealing a prolonged glance of her rear, “Yep–somethin’ sweet would be real good right about now,” he hums, trying to hide the growl in the back of his throat. She sits back up again and hands him the can of peaches for him to open. The act of him stabbing the top with his knife and prying it open made her feel warm. He passes the can back to her, letting her have the first bite. She scoops a piece up and crams it into her mouth before the juice drips on her dress.

“Mmph, really good!” she exclaims while still chewing, “Where did you get these–” his hand cuts off her sentence as he wipes away a small droplet of juice from the corner of her mouth. She stops immediately, gazing back at him. A pang of excitement reverberates in the pit of her stomach. It was biscuits and gravy on Sunday all over again.

He smiles softly back at her without a second thought, before taking a piece of the fruit out for himself. She watches him eat the slice of peach, briefly sucking the excess juice off his fingers. So messy and desperate–something about watching him eat like a feral animal sparked a need in her so deep that she abruptly whips her head away just to attempt to hide it.

Although, these were not new feelings she was having: not before he filled her imagination with salacious ideas, not before he lovingly stroked her chin or accompanied her to the picnic– it started just before breakfast on Sunday morning, with her finger in his mouth. Although Arthur was no fool–oh the contrary, he could hone in on this like a falcon. The memory of her fingers in his mouth would plague him at all times. He decides it was ultimately time to break the tension.

“Honey you can’t tell me that having your fingers in my mouth ain’t done something to you. You haven’t been able to look at me the same since,” a growl in his voice reverberates in him, trying to keep his urges in line.

“What?” she swallows thickly. “I-I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Yes you do. Don’t be coy.” He places the can next to him and turns his body toward her, “I know that’s how you was raised– to be ashamed of it. But you can’t go denyin’ these feelings forever.”

“It’s not like that…I’m not ashamed. I-I’m not.” she stammers. Arthur frowns, he can see right through her walls.

“Then why’re you always shakin’ like a damn near leaf whenever I get ‘round you?” he questions.

“I don’t know.” She murmurs, her shoulders going limp in defeat. He gazes back at her wilted expression before reaching out and gently cradling her hand, “Y’know darlin...people lovin’ on each other, ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” softly tracing patterns on the back of her palm, “It’s beautiful, really.” She gazes up into his eyes, her heart rate picking up at the sight of him being so close to her. He scans her face before glancing down at her slightly parted lips.

“Mr. Morgan?” she whispers.

“Mhm?”

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

“Do you want me to, baby?” He whispers back.

She stares up into his eyes and nods ever so softly. A genuine and loving smile spreads across his face. He inhales gently, before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. As he gently cups her jaw in his right hand, he leans down, and before he realizes, she instinctively turns her head away. “I’m scared” her voice barely above a murmur, “ain’t never done this before.”

He couldn’t deny that the idea of being her first kiss made his pulse quicken, and as guilty as he felt, he also couldn’t deny her naivety turned him on beyond belief. Of course, part of him also felt bad for being her first kiss. He thought to himself that she deserved a better man, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted this just as bad as she did.

“Well what do you know ‘bout it?” He strokes her hair gently.

“Nothin’ much…just what I've read in those dime store romance novels.” she murmurs, somewhat embarrassed at her inexperience. He tenderly strokes her cheek with his thumb, “Shh it’s okay sweetheart. Just relax and let me lead– can you do that for me?” he whispers lovingly.

She nods and instinctively closes her eyes, he tilts her head up and leans in to press a warm and tender kiss on her lips– even softer than he ever imagined them to be. He kisses her again, and again, before pausing and gazing lovingly into her eyes. He wishes he could live in this moment forever, “You okay so far?” He murmurs against her lips, softly nodding at her, she nods back. The mix of her orange and vanilla perfume catching in the slightly smoky and chill dusk air is intoxicating to him.

He leans back down he kisses her again, but this one was different. It was longer and deeper than the one from before, he deepened the kiss even further for a moment, working his fingers through her hair. Both of their heartbeats rise in tandem, she leans against his chest and places a hand on his thick thigh, trying to find balance against him. Something that could be acquainted with electricity pulses in her stomach, never truly realizing a sensation could feel so good. His tongue grazes her lip and she softly gasps at the feeling. Surely the taste of his lips would sear into her mouth for eternity, smoky and something that was attributed to only him. His lips still sweetened from the nectar of the peaches they consumed together, now all she wanted was to consume him.

He pulls away and rests his forehead against hers, panting softly. “Arthur,” she exhales gently, her breath fanning his neck. The ease of his first name leaving her tongue made goosebumps rise on the back of his neck and arms. His hands still tangled in her hair, making their way down to rest on her shoulders, “My sweet babydoll, so so perfect.” he whispers.

He plants a soft yet firm kiss on her cheek and back to her lips again. She sinks into his arms. She feels so safe yet, a sensation akin to lead creeps in and weighs her soul, an anchor of remorse that makes her stomach drop. Without second thought, she pulls away from the kiss and cries. Fear spikes in Arthur’s chest at the sight of tears rolling off her supple cheeks, “Oh no no no baby, what happened? Did I do something wrong?” he panics, terrified he hurt her or crossed a boundary he wasn’t aware of.

It truly wasn’t anything he did, she really didn’t know why she was crying. Truthfully, she was overwhelmed with feelings and emotions that she didn’t know how or what to do with. The way he gently cared for comfort and boundaries touched her beyond words or actions, she never felt so loved by another man before. Was this love that she was feeling? She didn’t know what to make of it all– and it scared the hell out of her.

“No…I don’t think so…W-we shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry,” her lip continues to quiver and tears roll down and drop into her lap. His heart twists in chest at her words, his mouth partly open from bewilderment, “Stop it. You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, “Tell me what’s going on darlin’.”

She cries again and the sight chisels away at his heart, “I-I don’t know…you did nothin wrong. I just ain’t ever felt like this before,” she reaches up to fidget with her swan pendant necklace once more. He knew exactly what was going on. She was touch starved-- it was years of pent up and repressed romantic desire that was finally boiling over– for the first time in her life, she was finally starting to learn how to love romantically.

He gives her another sympathetic smile and pulls her into his big arms, “S’okay angel, ain’t no shame in what we did,” he breathes. “It’s all new, I got it. We’ll go slower.” After a moment, she stops crying and pulls away, feeling a bit embarrassed. He can see the crimson spread across her cheeks, “I’m sorry Arthur. I don’t know what came over me.”

He shakes his head and strokes her hair, “Don’t worry ‘bout it baby, I was just scared I did somethin’ wrong,” he pauses, “or you didn’t like it.” Her eyes widen in realization, “Oh, no not at all! I liked it a lot…maybe too much.” she softly responds, her words carry an edge of caution.

“Yeah?” he smiles, tongue darting out just enough to wet his bottom lip. She nods in return, whispering a ‘thank you’ before giving him small kiss on the cheek to reinforce it.

She looks up at the sky, the sun finally tucking itself behind the mountain, “We need to get back to the picnic now. My parents are probably waitin’ for me,” she stands and fixes her dress.

Arthur nods and rises to his feet. “I’ll walk you back, hm?”

She nods and waits for him, "Arthur?"

He perks up at his name as he starts to walk with her, she looks down at her feet, "Once again, I'm really sorry I cried.” she replies softly, feeling humiliated by her reaction, "I really do like your company."

“No need to apologize, I got you girl," his big hand cradles the small of her back as they walk back to the church together, " 'Sides, we got plenty time to practice anyway. Get you more comfortable." He grins. She smiles at the thought, deciding to fill the silence again with small talk.

“Wasn’t the lake beautiful?” she asks.

“Y’know I couldn’t see it too well. Got distracted by somethin’ else.” he smiles to himself.

The sun had set by the time they got back, the picnic had been over for a while now, and there was no one in the church. So Arthur decided to walk her back to her house. He didn’t realize that they were gone for that long– his stomach dropped when they finally arrived at her home, seeing the preacher, sitting on his porch whilst rocking back and forth in his rocking chair. He and Arthur share a look, before he springs up at the sight of the two. He makes his way down the porch steps.

“Papa we–”

“Get in the house young lady.” he ordered firmly yet calmly.

“Papa please don’t be mad we were just walking around and–”

“I’m not…mad...just do what I say and go inside.”

She looks up at Arthur and nods before scurrying away, mouthing a goodbye to him as her boots clunked against the porch steps. Arthur’s blood pressure rises as he tries to de-escalate the situation, “I ain’t mean no harm sir– we really was just walkin’ and talkin’.”

The preacher shook his head in disapproval, “Y’know, I’m really disappointed in you son. See, I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you had pure intentions here– especially with my only daughter around, but I guess I was a fool.” Arthur glares under the brim of his gambler’s hat, narrowing his eyes at the preacher, “What you mean by that exactly?”

“Don’t play dumb, boy…I see the way you been lookin’ at her.” he says with an accusatory tone. Arthur cocks his head to the side, “And what way is that?” he responds, feigning innocence.

The preacher shakes his head and breathes a humorless chuckle in disbelief of Arthur’s pretend innocence, “--Like a dog licking its chops for a bite of somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”

Ah. Of course…

Arthur exhales a chuckle, “Well sir– If I was, I would have already taken a bite by now, if that’s what you’re implyin’.” he smirks and pats him on the shoulder twice, before walking off. The statement makes the preacher’s blood boil, “I ain’t stupid! I been your age before! You stay away from her, you hear me boy?!” he calls out to Arthur.

He whips his head around and saunters back to the preacher, “Y’know your lil girl ain’t gonna be yours forever. She’s a beautiful young woman and men are lookin’ at her different now,” he leans in closer, “Now you got a decision to make. ‘Cause one of these days some man is gon’ come along for her, and I can bet you anythin’ he’s gon’ be worse than me,” there’s an edge to Arthur’s voice that alerts the preacher, but he would never give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing him buckle. He stares blankly back at him.

Arthur nods slowly, “You can think about that when you say your prayers tonight,” he turns to walk away, looking to the right of him to catch a glimpse of her bedroom window, hoping to see her one last time. He chuckles to himself, before calling back to her father.

“'Night, preacher man.”

thank u for reading thus far !!! once again thank u for all the support it means the world. taglist is currently open so lemme know if u wanna be added <3

taglist 🏷️ @dilf-luvr-4evr @joelsprettyprincess @i-will-give-you-love @necktattooed

#i think i proofread it okay i'm tired of rereading it bc im starting to overthink now #also sorry i keep using food as plot device it will happen again #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 community #— rinnie writes ♡

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kiame-sama · 6 months ago

Text

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 29

(Art of Bakeneko Che'nya made by the talented @twisted-desires )

Warnings; yandere, multiple yanderes, platonic intentioned yanderes and romantic intentioned yanderes, yandere poachers, sit-down talk with guard yanderes, general boundaries being set, surprisingly rational yanderes, irrational yanderes, facing yandere poachers, tough on yandere poachers, use of the word 'rape' against poachers, emotional harming and manipulation, emotional moments, Harpies, Merfolk, Nemean Lion, Gnoll, Drider, Unicorn, Nymphs, Various Fae Species, Kelpie, Werewolf, Naga, Genie,

Extra Note: I will be adding more Royal Sword Academy students and RSA will continue to play a part in the story I just need to decide a few things for them (Names and Species) if y'all feel like sharing ideas, I am open to hear them.

~~~~~~~~

You looked outside at the group of gathered males and sighed to yourself. It had been a full two days of this lock-in since Malleus had decided to take up post and the Dragon had yet to move from where he settled. Crowley stayed with you in the dorm while the other professors went to teach their respective classes. Thankfully Idia had passed off a tablet to Vargas who then brought it to you in your dorm and you were able to virtual attend the classes you had that day.

Part of you worried that Malleus had not gone to his classes, but you had to remember he and Lilia were not at Night Raven to learn the material like the other students. They were present for Malleus to learn how to interact with others outside of his castle and learn how to deal with others who were unlike him. Naturally, the Diasomnia guarding group also switched out and several had pitched tents outside of your dorm to switch who slept, who went to classes, and who guarded. Clearly the Diasomnia group believed in Malleus and were willing to support whatever he decided to do.

Crowley had decided your scent was no longer that strong pheromone of ovulation and was moving away from that part of your cycle. As your cycle continued that meant you were going to have to call Malleus back to your side as you had promised the Dragon. Still, you wanted a moment of peace before calling upon the Dragon.

There was no way you were going to let things continue on as they have been, and serious changes needed to be made. Dealing with the past three days taught you that much.

First, you had to have a sit down with all of your guards, currently assigned or not, and have a conversation with them about the inappropriate behavior of trying to break into your dorm. Second, you would have to lay boundaries and you knew Malleus would like them least of all. Finally, you knew you would have to deal with those Fae poachers as they continued to refuse to speak to anyone other than you. Though you didn't want to speak to any of them, you would have to in order to ensure Erikír didn't get a simple slap on the wrist for his behavior.

There was so much you needed to do and you hoped vaguely that you would be able to keep the staff as your guards for the week before having another dorm selected. Being around them was an incredibly domestic feeling and it gave you so much peace of mind to have the nest to yourself for even the small amount of time. Setting boundaries would likely be difficult, given the clear disparity over what was considered appropriate to these beast men versus what you considered appropriate.

For now, you needed to tell Malleus you were no longer ovulating and uphold your promise. You would likely have to let him cuddle and hold you but you also figured Crowley could call the others counted among your guards to have this boundary setting conversation with them. All you could do was hope they listened and received the information well.

"Headmage?"

"Yes, my little bird?"

"I think it may be time to talk to everyone about this situation and what I am thinking going forward. Can you tell them all to meet here?"

"Yes, but are you sure you want to invite them in? It still may be too soon."

"My scent is no longer what it was when I was ovulating, right?"

"Correct."

"Then it should be fine. I have a few choice words to say to them, but first I need to tell Malleus. I did promise him, after all."

The Crow nodded, stepping away and tapping at his phone with a serious expression. Luckily, all of the professors were already back after their classes which meant they would all be present for this meeting as well. It made you feel a little more at peace with the idea of the extra protection given what the topic of conversation was supposed to be.

You opened the large front door and noticed the way the Dragon sitting a short distance away didn't even turn his head. He had no reason to as the sound could only be someone leaving seeing as he refused to allow anyone other than the staff entry into the dorm and no one was willing to challenge the Dragon. A few students had apparently tried several times, but Malleus sent them fleeing rather quickly.

"Tsuno?"

Your voice caused an extreme change in the Dragon, his large head immediately whipping around to stare at you with wide green eyes. As soon as he saw it was in fact you he easily rose to his feet and began a quick trotting pace to where you stood. You could feel his purr rumbling through the earth before you could hear it as the Dragon bowed his head and paused just short of touching you. His tongue flicked out slowly, retracting and telling his instinctual mind your season was over for now.

He was quick to return to his humanoid form, wrapping his arms, wings, and tail around your body as he nuzzled against your neck. Others standing nearby were quick to notice his change in behavior and you recognized several of those that had joined ranks and were keeping guard among the Diasomnia students. Naturally, the Hoard was quick to run over and join Malleus as they were all clearly overjoyed to see you again and have the Hoard be complete once more.

You had seen Lilia more recently than the others, but it was clear they all were almost stressed by the lack of time spent with you. Despite this fact that there has been distance between the Hoard, they were clearly happy to be around you once again. The memory of these beasts and their growing addictions flashed to the front of your mind but you were quick to push it to the side for the time being. If you were going to survive long enough in this world to escape it, you would need to use that affection and addiction of theirs to your benefit.

"Thank you all for guarding me these past few days. I'm probably going to have to make all of Diasomnia something yummy to say my thanks seeing as it looks like the whole dorm showed up."

"Not just Diasomnia, Mademoiselle Trickster."

You glanced over to see Rook, Epel, Vil, Jade, Floyd, Jack, Trey, Kalim, and Jamil also approaching. Malleus let out a low growl but didn't try to stop the approaching students who knew well enough to pause just beyond the Dragon's reach. Vil was first to hold up his phone, as if showing Malleus the screen was going to calm him.

"Relax, Dragon. The Headmage just sent out a group message asking all guards- current and prospective- to come to Ramshackle. Apparently (Y/n) wants to talk to all of us. You can stop growling at us now."

Some part of you wondered if Vil was so bold to talk to Malleus because he knew the Dragon wouldn't act out while holding you or because he didn't fear the intimidating beast. Still, Malleus seemed to begrudgingly accept the Harpy's words as truth while he continued to softly purr and growl in his mixture of joy to hold you and anger at the nearby monster men. Despite him continuing to growl, Vil seemed to accept this well enough and approached the doors to the building to enter.

"What are you up to, Schoenheit?"

"I'm going inside. If we were all called to meet here, I'm getting a seat while I can. Not all of us enjoy standing all the time."

With that, the Harpy slid inside and past the Dragon as the others began to hesitantly follow suit.

~•§•~

You sat facing the group with Grim laying on your lap, perched neatly atop one of the chairs you had dragged away from the dining table nearby. Everyone who was a guard or was going to be one of your guards had shown up to hear what you had to say and even several Royal Sword Academy students were called to this meeting. They all sat in silence as you regarded them one by one, even Malleus chose to sit among the others with his Hoard standing around him.

"As you all likely know by now, I have been at the whims of my cycle these past few days and have willingly sequestered myself from everyone other than the staff and Grim for my own safety. I am aware a certain- shall we say- mob formed outside of my dorm a few days back."

The silence was palpable as you spoke and judging from the way a few of the others glanced away from you, you could tell a few of them had been part of that mob. Still, you tried not to linger on the thought for too long as you continued to speak.

"I won't ask who here was among that mob. I don't truly want to know. What I do want to make clear is this; though I don't know who among you took part, I am extremely disappointed in everyone who had any part in that mob. None of you- I will say it again- NONE of you are allowed to choose my fate for me or use my cycle as an excuse for your own motivations. Now, I understand not all of you fully comprehend my cycle or what it means for me going through it. I intend to clear up that and quite a bit else about Humans and myself during this."

You saw the way Riddle seemed to lower his head somewhat, refusing to meet your gaze and you knew Vargas had to remove Riddle from Ramshackle several times. The way Rook glanced away from you as you spoke told him he likely regretted his actions attempting to scale the walls of the building to get in. Even Leona seemed to be taking your words like they were vinegar he was being forced to drink.

"My cycle is abnormal for many species, even where I come from, Humans had an unusual cycle compared to the other species. Our cycles are monthly and continue until we are no longer fertile. Each new cycle beginning again marks another loss in overall fertility until I am no longer able to reproduce. My overall fertility is nowhere near over and it will likely be years until that happens."

You noticed the way Malleus almost seemed to become distressed at this news and it unsettled him to think you could have a limit to your fertility. Lilia was equally distressed by this news as he secretly hoped for you to bear more than a few young and that just out a time limit. Jack seemed somewhat thrown off by this and his ears visibly drooped somewhat.

"Humans don't have a heat. We ovulate. It means increased fertility, not increased need to mate. We don't need to mate if we don't want to even during ovulation. I understand this may be different for other species that do have heats and can die if they are not bred. Humans are not one of those species, so get that thought out of your minds right now. There is no justification for acting like I am a slab of meat to be claimed because I sure as hell am NOT. Any who treat me as such going forward will no longer be permitted to be one of my guards. That does mean anyone."

You glanced pointedly at all Housewardens when you said this just to ensure you got your point across that they were not exempt either. Most refused to meet your gaze.

"If I am seeking a mate for the peak of these cycles or for general company, I will say so. If I don't say anything about it, then I am not seeking a mate and will not look favorably upon those trying to offer themselves as such. I understand there is a bit of a territorial dispute taking place among the various dorms regarding me, so I will say this now; I am not territory. I am thankful you all are willing to guard me, that does not mean any of you get to try and fuck me unless I ask. Again, if I am seeking a mate, I will say so. I am not currently seeking a mate. This is subject to be changed only by my wishes."

Ruggie's ears visibly flattened at this, but he did not argue with your words. Interestingly, Vil seemed to be nodding along almost eagerly and seemed quite content with your words. The staff- including Ambrose, who arrived with the Royal Sword Academy students- also seemed to be in agreement with your words.

"Now, that doesn't mean there aren't any of you who have caught my interest. There are several," you noticed Malleus tense out of the corner of your eye, "but even if I do choose to seek a mate, I will choose to progress that relationship slowly, so don't think my interest or me starting a relationship is a free pass to try and breed or mate me. It is not. I understand that what I consider acceptable and appropriate interaction is not the same as what is considered acceptable or appropriate here and vice versa. I would like to know what assumptions you all have about Humans and either lay these myths to bed or give a more detailed explanation to their accuracy."

You glanced around at them and they quickly realized you were waiting for one of them to speak. Naturally, Lilia was the fastest to think of something and was eager to begin this dialogue.

"It is believed Humans consider touches to their stomach to be sexual in nature."

"This is false. It is strange, but not typically considered sexual. I would rather no one touch me without my permission but I understand communal scent, grooming, and physical contact is a key part of socialization here. I just ask that my chest and between my legs remains a no-touching zone. I can concede to social grooming so long as it remains purely social. Anything else?"

Several more ideas were thrown out and you spent your time debunking these theories and proving them to be false or true. Even Riddle's question about the Queen's rules regarding Humans and their breeding patterns was brought up, despite how nervous it made the Unicorn. Theory after theory and question after question was asked by the group and you did what you could to answer them while also making your own stance on these situations clear in how they pertained to you.

Some questions were not really questions about Humans as a whole, but more questions about you personally and you still attempted to answer them accurately. Even as the group turned from shameful after your scolding to curious and interested, you kept going until they ran out of preconceived notions and questions. Eventually there was only one question left, and Malleus was the one to ask it.

"Now that the peak of your cycle has passed, are you going to choose other guards for the remainder of this week?"

"No. I think the staff are doing a wonderful job and I am enjoying my personal space."

"... Will myself and the rest of the Hoard be allowed in your nest again?"

"Yes and no. I would like to talk about the apparent lack of personal space I am given on a daily basis. I understand that I need to be guarded due to the poaching activity, though that need is not as high in here thanks to Idia's upgrades. I also understand it is rather normal here for beds to be shared and that the Hoard's presence helps you rest peacefully, but that doesn't mean I want bedfellows every day. Can you agree to sharing the nest every few days instead of every day? That way you get the comfort of your Hoard and I get to sleep alone some nights."

Though you would rather get your nest exclusively for yourself and Grim, you also understood that it was a wise idea to keep Malleus close. If he was your strongest ally, it would be better to keep him endeared and keep him close even if you wanted space for yourself. If anything, it would be wise to see if you can have a more in depth conversation with Malleus about the Hoard so you can both abide by the rules it has and keep the Dragon contained in a state of calm.

"... Will it make you happy if I agree?"

"Yes."

"This is... Amenable. Very well. I can agree to these terms."

"Wonderful, now to address the situation at hand, these Fae poachers, what still needs to be done with them?"

~•§•~

You sighed and tried to calm yourself as you were flanked by the three you had asked to join you. Naturally, others were accompanying you as well but would wait outside of the holding cells to ensure they could intervene if needed. Malleus, Lilia, and Crowley all agreed to simply be present but to allow you to talk to these Fae as it was their only condition to their cooperation.

The first one you planned to speak with was an almost visibly nervous Boar beast that waited anxiously for you to arrive. His pig nose twitched every few seconds as he idly scraped his tusks on the table in front of him, one leg bouncing as if he were trying to work out the stress he felt. Apparently, this was a familiar Fae to Lilia as he had fought alongside this Boar a several centuries ago before Humans died out. You had figured Lilia or Crowley would recognize several of these Fae from their own pasts and you hoped their presence would make the Fae more agreeable.

Still, they were here to see you and talk to you, so you knew you would be asking them most of the questions.

The Boar Fae tried to stand when the door opened and you walked in, his hands chained to the table in front of him so he couldn't rise to meet you the way he wanted to. It was clear the lack of mobility was bothering the Boar as he almost seemed to pull and struggle against the chain that kept him in place. All of that fight and struggle died when Lilia joined you, the Bat standing over your shoulder with his arms crossed as you sat across from the Boar man.

The Boar Fae stared at Lilia for a long moment, refusing to look away from the frowning Bat before you spoke and his eyes locked onto you. It was clear he was trying to figure out who it was he wanted to focus on, the Human he desperately wanted to see or the Bat he went through hell with.

"You wanted to be questioned by me, so here I am. I do expect you to answer honestly when I ask you questions. Understood?"

"..."

The Boar stared for a moment before letting out a soft sound that oddly registered to your mind, as if he were speaking another language but you could still somehow understand him. His noise was much like a chittering hiss but you still heard words among the almost garbled sound despite how you felt like you weren't supposed to be able to understand him.

"Finally... A Human. Beautiful, soft, little Human..!"

His hands reached out to you but the chain stopped him once more and he let out a distressed noise. It was odd to you to hear his words among the garbled noise and you vaguely wondered if it was normal to understand what he was saying. Perhaps it was some slightly different dialect that allowed you to understand what the Boar was saying.

"Yes, I am Human. No, you can't touch me. You've done enough harm by siding with that moron Erikír. Now, do you understand I expect you to be honest or did I make a mistake choosing to speak with you?"

"You... You can understand me?"

"Yes. I still expect an answer."

"... Yes. I will answer your questions honestly. I... I'm so sorry for what I agreed to."

You stared in silence for a moment before wordlessly opening a notebook you brought with you, writing down the assumed species of the Fae man and information that Lilia had once fought alongside him. Were this any other circumstance, you would have comforted the Fae who was clearly distraught and ashamed, but this Fae planned to allow Erikír to put his webbed hands on you and you couldn't forgive that. It didn't matter if he apologized, he was still willing to see you be enslaved by that fish-dick prince for his own gain.

"What exactly did Erikír promise you?"

"A half-Human half-Merfolk egg to raise as my own."

"And were the others promised the same?"

"Yes. We were all promised our own child for our aiding his endeavors."

"Did you feel even the slightest bit of guilt, knowing you were taking away my freedoms and imprisoning me for a man who planned to rape me so you could get this egg?"

"..."

The Fae went silent, his gaze looking away from you and his head bowing. You could see how his nostrils flared and he breathed heavier through his snout as if upset by your words. It was your intent for being so direct with him in the first place.

"Did you or did you not feel guilt for what you knew would happen to me?"

"Yes. I knew it was wrong and I did feel guilt. ... I just wanted my child back."

"What child?"

"My Human child. She- I found her in the arms of her dead mother, so trusting and helpless. Looking to me for guidance and protection. I just want my baby to come back to me."

You felt a twinge of pity for a moment but pushed it aside, knowing that you could show no mercy to these Fae. Just because they were hurting didn't mean they were justified with their abominable actions. Taking a moment to write down his answer and gather your thoughts.

You said you wanted to break their fragile hearts and minds for what they did to you, it would be remiss to back down now.

"Your baby is gone. You know this. Replacing her with a child borne of force and abuse is in no respect a good way to honor the memory of your child."

"But I-"

"You wanted a child so badly you were willing to imprison and sell that child's true mother into slavery to be raped and used as an infant factory. How would your daughter feel knowing you were willing to do such a thing?"

"I..."

"Furthermore, what if someone had done that to your daughter? Took her from you and raped her to give others her children?"

"... It's different-"

"How? How is it different? Because it is being done to you?"

"..."

The Fae was visibly upset and trembling at this point, your words cutting him deeply as he began to sob, his head falling to the table. He seemed to be trying to hold himself together as he gasped and shook, trying to stop himself from screaming in pain. You stood slowly and he reached out quickly, grabbing your wrist as he continued to sob and tried to pull your hand to his face for comfort.

With a quick twist of your wrist, you freed yourself from his grasp and he cried out, trying to reach you again. It was clear he was in mental distress as he sobbed so heavily and tried again to seek comfort from you.

"Wait-! Please don't go! I'm sorry! I'm-!"

"Would your daughter be proud of the man you have become?"

He went silent even as his tears streaked down his face, his hands falling limply to the table as he stared at you and watched you leave. The three followed you out of the room and you had to stop to lean against the wall, trying not to cry as well despite knowing you were still angry at the Fae. You felt such pity for him even with everything he did and it hurt you to be so painfully harsh to the man despite it all.

"(Y/n), you don't have to do this-"

"Yes. I do. All of them need to know their actions have consequences and that their selfishness has caused me pain. They can feel my pain and agony for what they chose to do to me."

Lilia cuddled up to your side in an attempt to soothe you, resting his head on your shoulder and wrapping a wing over you. The Bat was a wonderful comfort and you were surprised to feel feathery wings also wrap around you to hold you as Crowley mimicked Lilia's actions. It was soothing in ways you didn't know how to fully articulate despite it all.

"I didn't know you could speak Fae."

"What?"

"He was speaking the language of the Fae. Most non-Fae species can't understand Fae language. But you could."

"It just sounded like words to me."

"Something to figure out later. For now, are you ready to question the next one?"

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au

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