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inneedofsupervision · 4 months

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The Big Bad Wolf And The Itsy Bitsy Spider

As you can read above, I've got a prompt. I took the liberation to alter it since I'm not comfortable writing "reader insert" fics, so here you go with some Bucky, Steve and Peter being dorks and bonding over snow I guess?

Summary: It takes some level of boldness to attempt a snowball assassination of Captain America and the former Winter Solider, but someone has to be the one to throw the first snowball and step onto the thin line that divides braveness from recklessness.

(Or, how Peter thought it would be fun to annoy two super soldiers)

Read on Ao3

"On your left!"

"You've got to be kidding me."

Bucky grimaces at Steve's voice penetrating his ear, breaking the peaceful silence. He blinks a straying snowflake out of his eye before glaring at the back of Steve's head. When did the punk catch up to him? He doesn't try to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at his friend speeding up to jog a few meters ahead, shoulders shaking in poorly hidden laughter. Bucky should have shoved Steve out of the cold and locked the door like Sam suggested when the other asked if he wanted to join him on the running track. The snow-covered running track, he might add. Bucky effortlessly catches up to Steve and shoves him, snickering as it causes the other to stumble, clearly unprepared for getting hit in the side by solid vibranium. Steve huffs, quickly collecting himself before starting to level up from his jog to straight-up running, passing Bucky but not without pushing him in retaliation.

Yes, they are very mature for their age.

"I liked you better before the serum. You've become a show-off, Steve!" shouts Bucky after him before he starts falling into a faster pace.

"Someone's gotta keep you in check, Buck," answers Steve, and Bucky frowns at the smug grin the blond's carrying. It is just like back then, Steve acting like a little prick. Not that he wasn't happy he could actually go for a run with his friend without the anxiety of an upcoming asthma attack sitting in the back of his mind. Steve just got a little too overconfident for Bucky's taste.

"Like the little punk he is," mumbles the man as he watches Steve running, probably sporting a grin like usual when he gets to pass Bucky. He played with the thought of running up and shoving the man into the piles of snow lying next to the running track. He decides against it. Being friends with the man for years, Bucky figures it would end up in petty revenge plotting, and he didn't want to spend much more time in the snow than he needed to.

"You're not sleeping, are you, Bucky?" teases Steve, still running in front of him. They are reaching the end of the track when Bucky feels the overwhelming need to throw a snowball at his friend's head. Bucky bends down mid-run and collects a handful of white fluff from the ground, skillfully forming a dense ball. He was acting childish, but damn it, his toes felt like they froze off. Steve deserves at least that for dragging him outside at six in the morning at 24,8 Fahrenheit. Just because he was frozen once doesn't mean he enjoys staying out in the middle of winter in the daytime when the sun decides to grace the horizon. The man straightens up, hand drawn back and ready to smack his little work of art against Steve's back of the head when someone beats him to it.

The ex-assassin's eyebrows shot upwards as he only caught the movement from the corner of his eyes. Before he could call for Steve to watch out, the snow projectile already hit its goal, the force great enough to let the ball crumple into pieces. Bucky grimaces in sympathy as a fair share of snow runs down the blond's neck and into his sweater, probably completing its mission to soak the backside of his shirt with icy water and causing it to stick against his skin in the most annoying way possible.

A thick silence settles onto the running track as Steve's hand slowly reaches upward to get the snow out of his hair and off his skin. Blue eyes cold as ice pin Bucky in place. Bucky finds himself backing away slightly.

"So that's how you like to play, sore loser," says Steve, but the glint in his eyes betrays the soft tone of his voice. Bucky let out a short cough. Not because he was trying to buy some time and avoid answering Steve.

It's not like he was intimidated by that punk or anything.

Bucky inconspicuously glances towards the compound, measuring the distance between himself and the entrance. He drags his eyes back to the blond.

"Steve, I swear that wasn't me."

Steve gives him a pointed look.

"And what's that?" the other asks, nodding towards him. Bucky looks down and draws his eyebrows together as he catches sight of his hand still holding onto the snowball.

Well, that certainly looks misleading.

"I know how this could come off as, but-"

"Good, we are on the same page then, Buck." interrupts Steve.

Bucky swallows as the blond starts pulling his sleeves up and going as far as to crack his knuckles. Oh, that dreaded smile. That smile tells you Steve Rogers wouldn't let go of this. Why did he have to befriend this punk again? If anyone asks, Bucky denies having taken a step back. He tries again to reason with his friend, squinting his eyes as Steve bends down to grab a fistful of snow.

"Steve, I didn't throw that thing."

"And I'm not about to push you face-first into the snow."

Bucky let out a frustrated groan. Steve was already closing the gap between them, and he wasn't close to taking a listen to his reasoning. It leaves Bucky questioning, where did that snowball even come from?

Bucky was too old to wrestle in the snow. Literally. Why did this kind of thing have to happen to him? The man holds his hands up in defense, ready to go and push the other off if he needs to, when another snowball flies at the pair of super-soldiers.

This time, it hits Bucky.

Right in the face.

The explosion of ice transforms into cold wetness trickling down his jaw, chin, and neck before sickering into the fabric of his training shirt as the snow melts instantly on his slightly above-human-average heated skin.

Without a word, he slowly reaches upwards and wipes the snow that has begun to melt out of his eyes. His face turns into a deep scowl as Steve's hearty laughter carries over to him.

"Stop laughing. I swear, I shove this in your face, Steve!"

Bucky narrows his eyes at the blond, still holding onto the snowball and contemplating throwing it in the blond's face but deciding against it. Before that, he has to figure out who would dare to throw a snowball at him. Bucky had to give the silent shooter credit. It took him a few moments to spot him. If it weren't for the slight color difference of the light gray accent on the guy's shoes, he wouldn't have spotted him in his thoroughly white outfit, blending in quite well into a blanket of snow. Successfully creeping up and keeping out of sight from not one but two trained super-soldiers was not an easy feat. Steve is busy chuckling when Bucky slowly puts a finger to his lips, signaling him to be quiet. Steve raises an eyebrow, and Bucky slowly turns his head, jerking it towards their silent visitor. His friend catches on quickly, and Bucky can tell by the minimal widening of Steve's eyes that the latter has spotted the hidden shooter. The two soldiers held a wordless exchange of glances and came to a silent agreement before Steve let the snow fall from his hands.

"Let's go back inside. It's too cold if we're only standing around."

"Sure. Wouldn't want you to turn into Stevie the Snowman."

Steve rolls his eyes before walking up to Bucky, sending him a silent nod.

They start walking, pretending to end their little workout, and leave the running track. Steve's eyes hang on the lump of "snow" lying next to the track as they approach from the side. When the two reached the same high as the uninvited visitor, Bucky's left foot took a side step, shifting as he twisted his hip, repositioning his body weight. In a split second, his metal arm shoots forward, throwing the snowball with all his might at the person lying in the snow. The two men watch with more fascination than surprise how the well-camouflaged figure rolls to the side with a shriek, snow-projectile hitting and leaving a rather impressive hole in the snow pile where the person's head had been a moment before. The previously silent attacker is quick on his feet. His move to the side brought a small distance between him and the soldiers before coming to a halt in an uncannily familiar crouching pose. The person who had successfully kept their identity hidden until now slowly raises their head. Steve's lips twitch upwards on instinct while Bucky narrows his eyes at the sight of brown curls hanging over equally brown eyes that sparkle in a mix of unmistakable mischief and amusement.

"Hey, Steve. Hi Bucky."

Peter has the nerve to give a small cheeky wave in their direction, still crouching and looking not an ounce apologetic. The two adults watch, with slight confusion, how the teen's positive expression changes into a frown, leaving the two adults confused about what could have caused the sudden change in Peter's mood. Bucky watches him slowly straighten from his position on the ground. He wants to roll his eyes as he feels Steve twitching next to him, the worry-wart. He can sense Steve's need to ask the kid what was wrong. Peter surprises them by drawing closer to them, towards Bucky, to be more specific, a frown still present on his young face. Before Bucky can react, Peter stands on his tip-toes and reaches his hand out to carefully peel a crumble of snow out of a stray set of Bucky's dark hair. Brown eyes narrow at the sight of the snow in his hands before they settle on Bucky. The teen tilts his head to the side, almost as if he were confused if it weren't for the minuscule twitch of his lips, giving his poorly hidden amusement away.

"Sorry, you've got some snow there. Steve got you good, huh?"

Bucky's fists clenched at the sound of suppressed laughter from the blond to his right. He elbows Steve in the side before he glances back, only to meet the face of a mischievously grinning Peter Parker. He swears that kid is full of shit. But Bucky will be the last to laugh today after he shoves that kid in the nearest snow pile. He feels a grin tugging on his lips at the panic taking over the teen's features as he strides forward, right into Peter's personal space, ready to grab him.

His plan doesn't work as the teen, in one swift movement, manages to dive under the incoming metal arm that took a swing at him. With ease, the vigilante emerges behind the older man, a winning grin painting his features. But the euphoria of escaping a pissed-off Bucky Barnes lasts only a moment. Bucky grins as the teen lets out a shout of surprise at the pair of very fleshy and muscled arms, almost tackling him to the ground.

The ex-assassin turns around, a taunt for the Spider sitting on his lips, but the words couldn't leave his mouth quick enough before the kid began moving again. Steve didn't know what was coming for him, as from one moment to the next, the Spider-Teen vanished from his vision by jumping up. Peter skillfully escapes the bear hug about to send him to the ground by leaping and pulling his feet up to his chest mid-jump, feet hovering over Steve's head for a moment. Steve grunted in surprise as a foot set down on his shoulder, and he could only glance up, catching a smug grin that the teen had to have learned from none other than Stark himself. Bucky could only watch how his best friend gets abused as the kid's personified springboard, Peter setting a foot down on Steve's shoulder and pushing himself forward to perform a neat somersault over the blond's head. The sheer force of the jump is enough to send Steve tumbling. While Steve takes a dive face-first into the snow, the teen lands with practiced ease on the balls of his feet, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

That little shit.

Peter's smug expression switches into shock-widened eyes and a surprised squeak getting pushed out of the teen as a metal arm slings around the back of his knees before a shoulder crashes into him. Gloved hands flail around before finding hold of the thick textile of Bucky's jacket as Peter tries to push himself off where he got thrown over the man's shoulder. A laugh escapes the teen, the latter involuntarily rendered in watching the world from upside down. Bucky unconsciously grins at the sound before he lets go of Peter's legs. He grabs the teen's jacket with both hands, ready to haul him into the snow. His hands are firmly on the teen's waist, pulling with strength, but, for some unexplainable reason, Bucky couldn't lift the boy. The body on his shoulder wouldn't move an inch, only shifting slightly along with the movement of his jacket. A short moment passes before Bucky tilts his head to get a look at Peter's face, eyes squinting with accusation.

"Are you sticking to me?"

The disgust in Bucky's voice sends Peter into a laughing fit, not having expected the sheer horror in the man's voice. He couldn't even form a coherent sentence from how much he was cackling while hanging over Bucky's shoulder, the latter still glaring at him. It wasn't easy to get a genuine reaction out of Bucky, the ex-assassin carrying a neutral expression most of the time if he wasn't scowling at someone or showing a smirk. The surprised tone of the super-soldier's voice, mixed with a spark of horror and disgust, had caught Peter off guard.

Bucky and Sam always reacted rather strongly at the display of Peter's most spider-like trait. Solely for that reason, he used his ability more than once just out of spite to annoy them. Their reactions are hilarious, and although they tell him to keep the "freakiness down a notch" while putting a hand over their chest in Sam's case and accusing him of trying to give them a heart attack, Peter finds himself not minding the teasing. As the youngest of the group, he often has to live with the jokes thrown his way. If sticking to the ceiling at three a.m. is a way to hand back some of their medicine, Peter gladly let go of the chance to get some sleep. The teen made it his challenge to get the two men used to his abilities, and if that meant he had to freak them out until they grew used to him sticking to stuff, then that's what he calls a win-win on his side.

"You, Peter Parker, aren't as innocent as you pretend to be."

That's what Mr. Stark had told him with an amused tug of his lips as he had to call someone to repair the hole in the living room, a keepsake from Peter's last little prank on Bucky.

Peter is still hanging over Bucky's shoulder, clinging to him with his hands efficiently sticking against the man's clothes. The latter can feel the teen shaking from laughter and shakes his head at the teen's antics with a little grin. "I'll get you off. Just wait, Parker," threatens the man playfully as he gives the body on his shoulder another experimental tuck. As expected, Peter wouldn't budge an inch, shaking his head at Bucky's words. Bucky rolls his eyes, having caught a glance at the large grin plastered over the teen's face. The kid was enjoying this way too much.

"Steve, get your frosty butt up. I need a little help here."

As soon as the words leave his lips, Bucky can feel the body on his shoulder stiffen. The man quickly fastens his grip on the teen. And he did so not too late because just a moment later, the struggle began. Bucky laughs. "What? Now, you don't want to stick close?"

He smirks as he hears Peter groan at his bad joke, the movement halting for a moment before it picks up again. Peter is pushing his hands against Bucky's back, trying to lift himself off. His movement grew more erratic, and Bucky raised an eyebrow. One glance at Steve gives Bucky an idea of why Peter's effort to escape is increasing tenfold. Steve frowns at the pair as he runs a hand through his short golden hair, wiping ice water and snow off. The blond had managed to climb out of the snow but gave off a comedic picture. Captain America covered from top to bottom in white, an unamused expression on his face.

"Do you want to go first, or should I?" asks Bucky Steve, his grin widening as he feels the kid's fingers curl into his jacket, holding on for dear life and probably fearing Steve's revenge. Knowing Steve, the latter would, despite getting kicked into the snow and laughed at, go soft on the teen but said teenager didn't know about that. Steve playfully scowls at Peter, hands on his hips and giving him the disappointed-Captain-America-PSA-look that the kid had probably seen too often during school.

"Hand the Spider over, Buck."

To the untrained eye, Steve looks convincingly pissed off, but Bucky could see past the stern facade. Steve is successfully messing with the kid. Said kid is easily fooled and starts pleading, nervousness dripping from every word, and Bucky notes with amusement that the hold on his jacket grows even tighter. The teen wasn't even realizing that clinging to Bucky wouldn't help him in any way.

"Steve? Come on, that was not that bad, right? You were frozen before. Stuck in a bit of snow is nothing new to you."

Steve wears an incredulous look on his face as he raises an eyebrow at Peter's words. He glances at Bucky, silently asking the man if he misheard or if Peter just added fuel to the fire. Bucky shrugs his shoulders. Peter seemed to realize that his nervous stumbling over words wasn't helping him out of this mess. Bucky has to put some strength into his hold on the teen, throwing Steve an amused grin at the teen wriggling like a worm.

"Whatever you're thinking of, please don't do it. Steve, I'm serious. Steve, no. Stop right there! Don't come closer!"

Despite his words and the evident panic in his voice, some nervous giggles are slipping between the teen's words. Bucky shakes his head at Steve, the latter wearing a stupidly wide grin as he draws closer, clearly amused by Peter's panicked rambling.

"Stay away, Steve!" shouts Peter as the blond reaches out for the squirming teen, ready to fling him into the snow. It's a good thing they are at the compound, far from the eye of the public, because the scene unfolding on the Avenger's training grounds would have drawn various headlines in the news. It was quite a sight, the former Winter Soldier holding an unknown teenage boy captive while Captain America tries prying said teen off of his shoulder.

"You're one sticky punk, aren't you?"

"Language, Bucky."

There is no real bite in Steve's voice, the blond too busy trying to avoid getting hit by a lanky arm that flails around while Peter tries to hold onto Bucky and simultaneously tries to push Steve away. Peter keeps shouting at Steve to leave him alone, threatening to stick to him if he gets too close, all the while laughing. His threats only last for so long before Peter lets out a yelp in surprise. His fingers let go of Bucky's jacket that was now lying on his lap, and he stared at it for a few moments, a puzzled look on his face. Peter slowly lifts his head, sitting on the snow-covered ground, dazed. His eyes fall onto Steve's and Bucky's faces. He swallows as the men smirk while looking down at him. In a blur of motion, Peter throws the jacket at its owner, successfully covering his head with it and earning a colorful curse. He uses the few seconds where Bucky is occupied with taking the jacket out of his face and tries dashing between the two men, choosing the fastest way back to the compound.

The empathize is on trying.

Steve stepped forward, grabbing the teen by the waist before Peter could run off. Peter let out a grunt as he was successfully tackled to the ground by a body twice his weight.

"Let's see how much you like playing in the snow."

Steve grins down at the teen pinned under him who, despite his earlier panic, throws back a challenging look at the super soldier. Steve raises an eyebrow, surprised at the smugness on the teen's face. It was typical for Spiderman to act confident, but he hasn't seen that look much in Peter Parker. It suits the kid.

Steve's eyes widen in surprise as a small hand clamps around his wrists. With one powerful tug, their positions reverse, and the blond finds himself pressed into the ground, one arm pinned above his head. Peter leans over him with a wide grin on his face. Steve notices the teen's free hand has grabbed a good amount of snow, and it doesn't take a genius to guess what the kid was planning to do. The teen opens his mouth, probably to throw some witty remark at him, only to wipe his head to the side so fast it nearly causes Steve to flinch. He catches the widening of Peter's eyes.

"Don't!"

The command hits deaf ears, and before Steve knows what happens, he's not looking at a grinning Peter but at the cloudless sky above. He turns his head towards the noise on his right, and a grin spreads onto his face. Steve watches a ball of limps rolling a few meters with a chuckle. Bucky had successfully tackled Peter off of him, and he and the kid were now fighting for the upper hand. Steve grins at his best friend grumbling about hyperactive teens and Peter trying to shove the man off him, laughing at his complaints. He laughs as Peter lets out a shriek of protest when the older man starts to put snow into the opening of his jacket.

"Stohohop, it's cold!"

"That's the point, punk."

Peter trashes under Bucky, who had made it to his challenge to shove as much snow as possible under the teen's clothes. Peter tries prying the icy fingers of his skin, laughing but shuddering at the coldness running through his body. Steve walks over, amused by his friend playing around like a kindergartener, watching the spectacle for a few minutes. In the beginning, Peter had been fiercely fighting back, but after some time, Steve noticed the teen growing tired. If it were anyone else, Steve wouldn't have wondered about giving up against the strength of a playful super-solider, but this was Peter. Spiderman doesn't grow tired this easily.

"Peter, are you alright?"

Steve's words cause Bucky to stop wrestling with the kid. He also had noticed the teen's movements become sluggish, but Peter hadn't earnestly told him to stop, and the older man hadn't put much thought into it. Now that he hovers over the teen, not holding him down anymore, he notices the complexion of the kid's face as unusually pale. Brown eyes glance up at them, a sheepish grin on the teen's face, and if Steve didn't know better, he would say the teen looks almost embarrassed.

"Too cold. Can't thermoregulate."

At Peter's words, Bucky turns his head at Steve, raising an eyebrow in silent question, hoping his friend knew what the teen was talking about. Steve wears a frown on his face, telling Bucky without words that his friend feels as much out of depth as he does with the short explanation. Peter must have caught their troubled expression as he tiredly tugged on Bucky's sleeve, gaining his attention.

"It's because of the spider DNA. I cannot regulate my temperature. My body struggles to create body heat like yours does. If it gets too cold-"

"Your body grows weak because it needs a certain temperature to function," finishes Steve Peter's sentence while looking down at the teen, the latter looking out of it but still nods at him with a small smile. Steve shakes his head at the teen, and Bucky doesn't feel like smiling at all, scowl deepening at the sight of a bluish hue on the boy's lips.

"Damn it, Peter, why didn't you say anything sooner?"

Before the teen could justify his lack of explanation, he finds himself bundled up in a jacket three sizes too big, the initials S.R. adorning the front. Not taking any risks of the teen being out in the cold for much longer, Bucky, despite the weak protests from Peter, throws the boy over his shoulder.

"Don't think we are letting you off the hook that easily," mutters the man under his breath as he carries the teen towards the compound. The automatic doors of the entrance already stand open when Bucky walks in. He kicks his running shoes off mid-step and hurries into the joint room. Despite his grumbling, the older man carefully puts Peter down on the couch. He straightens up, looking down on the freezing teen with a frown. Peter is cold, but the lack of shivering was a bit off-putting, giving little clue about what stage of hypothermia they are dealing with.

The absence of shivering must have to do something with being unable to thermoregulate. Bucky had to ask Banner about that, not trusting the kid to give him all the information.

"Friday, can you tell us Peter's body temperature?"

"Mr. Parker's body temperature currently lays around 94,64 °F. I recommend taking measurements to get the temperature up. It is beyond his average. A long-term drop in body temperature could cause health concerns, Mr. Rogers."

"Thank you, Friday."

Steve turns towards Bucky, who controls the urge to roll his eyes at the kicked-puppy stare his friend is wearing. "He'll be fine, Steve. Go search for a blanket and make some tea or something. I'll take care of him."

Steve sends him a small smile. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky shakes his head when his friend walks out of the room, not liking the guilty-ridden expression painted on the blond's face. Knowing Steve blames himself for not noticing something was up sooner was typical of the man. It made Bucky want to beat some sense into his best friend. He faces Peter again, the latter, at least looking relatively more aware of his surroundings thanks to Friday having raised the room temperature. He watches the teen fumble with the zipper of his jacket, a frown drawn on his youthful face as his fingers wouldn't work how he wanted them to. Peter stares at the metal hand popping up in his vision and pulls down the zipper he struggled skillfully. His jacket gets peeled off of him the next moment before a gruff voice causes him to lift his head.

"Arms up, punk."

"Hmm?"

Brown eyes throw him a confused look, and although Bucky would have teased the teen for being not quick to take on, he swallows the comment. He had time to make fun of the kid after he got rid of the blue on his lips.

"You need to put on dry clothes. If you get sick, Stark will throw a fit."

That coaxes a reaction out of the teen.

"Not keen on Mr. Stark threatening to take your arm off?" asks Peter with a little smirk.

Oh. Bucky grins. Seems like the teen isn't that out of it after all. He flicks Peter's forehead, earning a glare.

"I'll hear that every day. His threats don't work on me. Now, arms up."

Thankfully, Peter wore snow pants, which are relatively easy to pull off the teen. The thick sweatpants he wore under his outdoor clothes were dry, but Bucky couldn't say the same about the kid's socks and shirt. The gray shirt is soaked, sticking to Peter's skin all around. Thankfully, Steve wasn't here to see this, or Bucky would get an earful again. The soldier watches as Peter tugs at the front of his shirt, grimacing at the feeling of the wet fabric pulling off his skin, only to stick back when he lets it drop.

Maybe he went a little overboard with the snow. With a sigh, he bends over and gets a hold of the end of the wet shirt. Peter made a noise of protest as Bucky pulled the undesirable article of clothing over his head, leaving him in nothing but his pants, but at least he was left with only dry clothes on his body. Bucky scans the room in search of the blankets he had seen other members of the compound use before the voice in the ceiling spoke to him again.

"If I am allowed to interfere, Mr. Stark has arranged a range of special clothing for Mr. Parker in cases of a temperature drop."

"So Stark is aware of this problem of yours," says Bucky, glancing at the teen. Peter caught him looking and nodded.

"It wasn't fun when he found out. Mr. Stark caught on mid-February with winter almost over." The kid's expression is solemn as he talks. Bucky almost reaches out to ruffle his hair, amused by the seriousness with which Peter was telling him this as if it had been one of the worst days of his life and not his mentor being rightfully concerned. Instead, he gave a little shake of his head, a corner of his lips tugged upwards while walking over to a closet. He hears some shuffling behind him as he pulls out a set of blankets, almost throwing them at the kid in frustration as he sees the teen has stood up.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Peter sighs as he gets pushed back to sit on the couch with Bucky standing before him, sternly looking down on him. A person shouldn't be able to look as intimidating with an armful of baby blue blankets.

"I was about to get the shirt Friday told you about."

"You will sit here and wait while I get that shirt. It's in your closet?"

Peter nods while pulling the blanket around his shoulders but not without rolling his eyes, letting out a small yelp as Bucky flicks a finger against his forehead. The teen glares up at him, but Bucky merely raises an eyebrow at him, a silent dare. Bucky gives him one last glance, checking that the teen is bundled up tightly and behaving, not wandering around on his own before he retreats. With Stark's AI speaking to him and giving directions, it is relatively easy to find the clothes despite the chaos in Peter's room.

"This looks pretty tight."

The man eyes the almost plain-looking textile in his hand. Bucky wasn't sure what he had expected, but knowing Stark, he thought whatever this was, it to be more eccentric as he took in the dark gray clothing. Maybe the billionaire held back on his desire for extravagance to accommodate the young vigilante's preference for simplicity. He had noticed that aside from throwing in some colors and graphic shirts, the teen likes to dress easy on the eye.

"It is, but it does a good job. Mr. Stark made several of these. They are great. Maybe you could ask him to make some for you and Steve too?"

Bucky refrains from telling the kid that he and Stark weren't on the level for him to ask the kid's mentor any favors, although the hopeful sparkle in the kid's eyes tells him that Peter thought about that matter differently. Shrugging his shoulders, he skilfully avoids giving him an answer. The man stretches the sleeves to form an opening and holds it out for Peter.

Peter tilts his head to the side, his eyes wandering up to meet Buckys, giving him a look before settling back onto the clothing held out for him, confusion evident on his face. Feeling merciful, Bucky takes Peter's wrist. "You do have to put this on to work, you know?" teases the man while pulling the teen's hand through the sleeve, noticing with a smirk how a hue of pink spread over the teen's ears. Maybe he should start acting more like this if it's this easy to make the kid sputter around in embarrassment. Oh, he has to tell Sam about this. The kid tugs at his wrist, checks growing red as Bucky tries to pull his other hand through the second sleeve. When he was about to pull the shirt over Peter's head, the teen had enough. He pushes the hands away, sending a frown at the man.

"I can do this on my own!"

Catching the smirk on Bucky's face, it dawns on the teen that the ex-assassin was doing this on purpose. Peter quickly realizes that protesting wouldn't work on the man. Bucky had the mission to embarrass him, but Peter wouldn't let that happen. He was Spiderman, for crying out loud. Peter was perfectly capable of dressing alone. Getting cold slowed the process down, he had to admit. But still, Peter's sixteen years old.

He knows how to wear a shirt. Not planning to play along with Bucky, the now slightly frustrated teen leaned back into the couch and slid down to avoid the hands pulling further on the long sleeve. He uses the new-won distance to roll to the right, trying to make a run for it.

"Get back here, punk," scolds Bucky, but the playful twinkle in his eyes betrays the stern tone of his voice.

"I won't let you mess with me."

It would have sounded more convincing if Peter wasn't kneeling at the end of the couch, both arms stuck into the shirt but glaring instead of pulling it over his head, wearily observing what the man a few feet away from him was planning to do. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, amused.

"Doesn't look like you do a good job."

Peter squints at the words.

"If I pull this over my head, are you leaving me alone?"

Humoring the kid, Bucky acts thoughtful before grinning a shit-eating grin that Peter has seen too often.

"Why should I do that? I've got to make sure you are wearing it correctly. I cannot trust you to keep yourself warm."

The teen deflates at the words, almost sounding petulant now.

"I would have told you and Steve! Sooner or later..."

When the man raises a single eyebrow, the teen huffs in frustration. But he is not making a move that shows he agrees to let Bucky help him. The tension hangs thickly over the room as the two hold a stare-off. Both are waiting for the other to make the first move, Bucky watching the teen with rapt eyes while Peter's muscles are bulging under his sweatpants, ready to jump over the couch at any second. Bucky was the first to move. Without looking, his arm shots to the side, grabbing a hold of a stray pillow and throwing it at the teen while rushing forward. Thanks to the room's raised temperature, Peter wasn't as sluggish as before but still nowhere near his usual speed. His spidey sense prevents him from being hit in the head, raising his arms along with the thermo-shirt around his wrists to block the flying pillow. Peter's brows draw together in confusion as his spider sense still acts up, even after keeping the pillow from colliding with his face.

"Holy-"

The rest of his sentence gets lost in a high-pitched squeak as a metal arm wraps around his middle, tackling him successfully into the couch. Dark strands fall onto Bucky's face, the man grinning down at the teen who glares up from his position under him. It's a little insulting how easily he got him pinned on his back, straddling him by sitting on his tights and throwing him a winning grin that irks Peter just by looking at it.

"Get off," whines the teen and is about to push at Bucky's chest to shove him off, but the older of the two catches the shirt hanging between Peter's wrists and presses it down, forcing Peter's hands away.

"You're not in the position to make claims, kid."

While forcing the teen into the shirt, Bucky grins, an occasional chuckle leaving his lips at the glares sent his way. By the end of the ordeal, Peter let his head fall back onto the couch in defeat, looking absolutely done with everything. His hair is a tousled mess of brown curls hanging in his eyes, the tips of his ears red again from embarrassment. The teen rolls his eyes at Bucky when the latter asks if he is still feeling cold with a mild dose of sarcasm. The man catches Peter's expression, poking him in the now finally covered stomach. "Don't get sassy, punk," he threatens with a grin promising no good. He is about to poke Peter a second time, for good measure, when his hand gets caught in a firm hold. Peter lifts his head, sending him a glare.

"Don't."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"What? You're ticklish?

When the teen doesn't answer immediately, Bucky pokes him again, this time in the side, eyes trained on Peter's face. Peter's jaw is clenching under the pressure of trying to keep his facial expressions under control, but the unmistakable nervousness creeping on his face is almost too easy to detect. Without batting an eye, Bucky frees his hand out of Peter's hold, ignoring the confusion written all over the teen's face as he places his hand over the teen's middle. He just let it hover there, a few inches over the teen's tummy and not moving, never taking his eyes off the teen's face. Peter glances from the hand up to Bucky's face and back to the hand, eyes widening as he sees a single finger twitch. He observes with the morbid curiosity of someone watching a horror movie how the rest of Bucky's hand stays motionless while one finger moves as if independent of the rest of the body. Peter wasn't sure if it was because of the prosthetic, but somehow Bucky managed to wiggle just one finger, then two, and then three, while the rest stayed static. Under other circumstances, he would be fascinated by this observation. In this instance, it merely serves to freak the hell out of Peter. All of the vibranium fingers are moving now in a manner that only indicates one specific outcome of what happens next, and he is not ready for it.

When the hand starts to descend, he breaks. Before the wiggling finger could close the gap, Peter loses his will to pretend to be tough in front of Bucky.

"Okay, okay, I admit it. I'm ticklish, alright? You can stop now. You don't have to prove anything!"

Bucky merely raises his eyebrows in amusement at the panicked words stumbling out of the teen's mouth, accompanied by a pair of hands gripping his wrist, hindering his hand from moving further down.

"After your stunt from earlier, I'm not sure to believe you. Better check this out myself, just to be sure."

"You don't have to do tha-AHAHA! NOAHAHAH BUHUHUCKY!"

"I'm not convinced, Peter. Does this count as ticklish?"

A grin grows on Bucky's face as he watches the teen under him squirming like a worm on a hook. He had not even touched the teen before nervous giggles slipped out Peter. As soon as his fingers actually dug into the flesh of the kid's stomach, Peter's resolve had broken. He didn't try to hold his reaction back, fueling Bucky's curiosity to see what other noises he could coax out of the teen. His stomach has to be a rather good spot by the way Peter threw his head back as Bucky focused his wriggling fingers to dig into the sides of his tummy. Slender hands tried to catch his, but it was too easy to bat them out of the way to get back on skittering his fingertips over the smooth material of Peter's shirt. The shirt clung tightly against his lean body, making it very easy for the metal digits to glide over the middle of Peter's tummy, earning him little jumps whenever he traveled towards his belly button or his lowest rib.

"Is that a bad spot?" The answer was obvious, but it was too fun to pass the opportunity to watch Peter struggling to answer. Bucky grins as he watches the teen trying to form a coherent sentence between his laughing fit.

"Yes, yes, yes, yehehehes! It's sohoho bahad, it's bahahahad Buhucky!"

"It's that bad?" asks Bucky, acting surprised as he sends ten fingers onto the small patch between the teen's waistline and belly button, feeling the muscle contracting under his fingertips as the teen tries to curl into himself with a shriek but is unable to. His hands get shoved off by flailing arms.

"It's that bad," confirms Peter with a glare, taking the chance to catch his breath while the super soldier had mercy on him.

"That's too bad. I like that spot," muses Bucky as he looks down on the said spot, catching the nervous look Peter throws him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Don't you dare," warns Peter, failing to sound intimidating while grabbing onto Bucky's wrists.

"Oh, scary," mocks the man before letting himself fall forward. Peter lets out a panicked squeal and throws his hands up to catch the heavy body that's about to collapse on him. Bucky lessens his fall just in time with one arm probed against the back of the couch while using the chance to get a hold of the teen's arms with his free hand, wrestling them over Peter's head and pinning them there. Brown, wide-blown eyes stare up at him before Peter shakes himself out of puzzlement.

"You tricked me!"

"I thought you're smarter than that."

"And I thought you don't use dirty tricks."

"Seems like you've got some things to learn, punk. Now, where were we?" Bucky asks with a grin, challenging a Cheshire cat as he wriggles his fingers in Peter's face before focusing on the teen's stomach.

"No, nohohoo, Bucky pleahesehe, anywhere but there!" begins the teen to plead, tugging at his captured wrists, lifting his head, and trying to see what the man was doing. Bucky grins.

"You want me to try a different spot? Sure."

"NO! Thatahat's not what I mea-AHAHAHAH STOHOP! YOu know thahahat's nhohot whahat I meant! You ahahre suhhuch ahahahan. Suhuch ahahan-NO! DOHOHON'T!"

Peter's legs hammer down on the couch behind Bucky's back. The ex-assassin worries for a short moment if the furniture would withstand the constant abuse of a spider-kid kicking his legs around uselessly. His focus is back on Peter when he hears a high-pitched squeal escape the teen before a wave of hysterical cackling fills the room. Bucky raises an eyebrow at the reaction, concluding that he found the second worst spot on the teen. His right hand hovers between Peter's armpit and highest rips, fingers digging into the place with vigor.

"I'm almost convinced you told me the truth about being ticklish."

"Almohohohst? Whahahat do yohohu mean almost?"

Bucky stops tickling, eyes trained on the red-faced teen who tries catching his breath, body shaking when occasional after-giggle slips past his lips.

"Just saying, when I do this," he pinches Peter's hipbones, earning a full-body jump and a cackle, "or this," Bucky claws his free hand between Peter's ribs and let his fingers skim over the space between the bones to send the teen back into a high-pitched giggle fit, "I would say you are ticklish."

"Are you kidding me?" asks Peter. He wears a bewildered expression. "I've told you from the beginning, I'm ticklish!"

"You could have been lying," retorts Bucky.

"Are you seriously not believing me anymore because of earlier?" asks Peter. The man had another teasing remark already sitting on the tip of his tongue but halted as he caught something akin to hurt playing on the teen's face. Bucky feels thrown off. He knew he should do something, but looking at Peter's face and seeing the wounded expression, he caught himself out of depth for a second time that day. That's why he needs Steve. Steve is better at this kind of stuff.

Peter is still looking at him, but as the man above him doesn't answer, the younger man's expression turns hard. Bucky's eyes widen as he gets shoved off, unable to withstand the power behind the thin arms that were now easily pulled out of his grasp. It seems that the spider-kid had his full powers back in play. Watching the kid silently collect his belongings, Bucky blinks slowly before getting a hold of himself. As Peter was about to walk out, he called after him.

"Peter, please wait!"

Whatever the teen heard in his voice, it had to be convincing enough for him to stop in his tracks and turn around to send him a questioning look, daring him to give a good explanation.

"Can we sit down and talk about this?"

Bucky nods at the couch. There is a spark of hesitancy flickering on Peter's features, and the teen is about to open his mouth to answer when Steve walks into the room. Steve glances at his friend standing behind the couch. Something must have happened for Bucky, who looked troubled with his eyebrows pinched into a frown, and Peter, the latter holding his wet-dripping clothes in his arms, wearing an expression far from the cheerful smile Steve is used to seeing on his face.

"I made you some tea, Peter. Would you like to sit down with us?"

Steve watches Peter throw a glance at Bucky, the latter having not moved from his position behind the couch before letting out a small sigh that Steve wasn't sure he was supposed to hear.

"Okay," mumbled Peter, sounding defeated, but walks back to the couch, leaving his wet clothes on the floor next to the couch table.

Steve throws Bucky a questioning glance before putting the tray on the table and handing Peter a cup of tea.

"I also found these," Steve said and pulled a bundle of fuzzy Captain America-themed socks out of his pants pocket, letting them drop on Peter's lap.

"Nice try, Steve, but I won't wear these around the tower. I like the lab privileges."

"Could have worked," says Steve and slaps his knee in faux disappointment to lighten up the mood. Peter's lip twitches at the reaction before he takes a small sip of his tea. "It's good. Thank you, Steve."

"I'm happy to hear that, Peter."

While Peter takes another gulp of his softly steaming mud, Steve subtly nods towards Peter, telling Bucky to fix whatever he has done. Bucky rolls his eyes but gingerly sets his cup of tea down and leans his forearms on his knees before addressing the teen sitting between them.

"Peter, I want to apologize. I was worried about you earlier, but I wouldn't stop believing you because of what happened, even if I were still upset about it. I meant to tease you a little, but I overdid it. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or make you believe I don't trust your words. I'm sorry."

Bucky glances at Peter, who sits still, looking at the cup in his hands with a thoughtful look. "I guess I should have told you about this earlier," began the teen, cutting both soldiers off when they opened their mouths to protest. "I trust you to have my back. It's not like I believe you would use that information against me. We are a team, after all," Bucky watches Peter's thumb absentmindedly running along the edge of his cup, halting as the teen continues. "I guess I was too embarrassed to tell you."

"Embarrassed?" asks Steve, head tilted to the side in confusion. Peter nods before directing his eyes at him, a shy smile tugging on his lips.

"Isn't it kinda silly? I've got all these powers through the spider bite altering my DNA, but when it gets too cold, I become fatigued. Meanwhile, you are this strong, and the cold doesn't bother you two.

I know you can't compare the changes of the serum with my enhancements, but sometimes I think about it and, you know, feel kinda useless."

Steve hums, fingers drumming against his leg as he thinks about Peter's words. Before he comes to voice his thoughts, a voice on his right beats him to it. Bucky's eyes are trained on the young vigilante sitting between them.

"You will never be able to beat that flaw of your powers, but stressing about it will get you nowhere." Steve frowns at the harsh words, but when he glances at Peter, he finds him paying close attention to every one of Bucky's words. The latter puts his hand over Peter's knees, hovering there before putting it down, giving it a short squeeze. "Knowing your flaws is one of your biggest strengths. Just keep that in mind."

Peter sends the man a soft smile.

"Thanks, Bucky."

Bucky glances at him from the side, the corner of his lip tugged upwards.

"Don't mention it, punk."

#ticklish! peter parker #ticklish spiderman #marvel tickle fic #marvel fanfic #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #tickling #bucky barnes #steve rogers #captain america #winter soldier #avengers fanfiction #the avengers #marvel

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imagistation · 6 months

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Rushed Thanksgiving Doodle w/ Dreamfinder and Figment and Earlie the Pearlie, SMRT1 and Horizons Robot Butler. Guest starring a poorly drawn Handwich.

Someone remind me in 2024 to add more Epcot originals. Please and thank you all for supporting me. Even just looking. :)

#fanart #epcot center #walt disney world #journey into imagination #disney parks #releaseearliethepearliefromthedisneyvault #figment

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gctchell · 2 months

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@arachnaemboss asked: 💋 from wife good friend mayhaps?

The first 5 Asks to send 💋 get a kiss // 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 ( 4/5 )

A night of shattered glass and busted waterlines within Carmine Industries was finally drawing to a close with the arrival of morning. The entirety of the bottom floor was swallowed in thin puddles, and blood was in the water, led straight to the pile of foolish upstart Sinners who had just begun to make a name for themselves in the Pentagram, and went too far in trying to further that name when they stormed the building. Their varying degrees of death blows spelled out those poorly thought out ideals.

The building itself, as well as its Overlord, were well-fortified - a fact that most seemed to know. It was a doom sentence. The only bothersome factor was that the numbers were in a high count, drawing out the encounter to be more laborious and time consuming than Carmilla would have liked. How unfortunate it was that also, due to this preoccupation, Zestial would come to arrive upon the situation himself once a nightly call was both not made and missed. Something was wrong, and he was right.

What followed with the arachnid's arrival was a bolstered and empowered dark satisfaction, a dance of viscera spun like spider webs and necks clipped like hedges, heads sent to roll with the kicking of flipping heels. The flight of limbs divorced from their torsos and the sweep of a tall gentleman, weaving perfectly with his long-term companion as he would draw a double-barrel armed aquarian taut for her to cleanly puncture through with the tip of her shoe, snapping a spinal column. The rush and the vicious sadism they experienced would be deemed a sickness, and it only proved to be why they both belonged here in the boughs of Hell, doing what demons do and relishing in it together.

Once the final body fell, these reveling nightmares folded back into their refinery as if they had not just wrought final death. Their feet, soaked and dripping, found recline as they took their seats at the dining room table side-by-side. Finally, quiet, save for the crack of thunder in the distance and the yellow-green flash through the floor length windows. An acrid scent peppered the air, hinting at the impending arrival of acid rain.

Quiet and the rumble of a storm on the horizon. A strange peace settling in now as the two finally took their breather.

Carmilla opened her eyes and looked at Zestial, watching him with a slow blink. In her chest, deep in her chest, there was a pounding even now after the adrenaline of violence had drawn to a close. He came. She did not call as she tended to, and he knew something was wrong. He came without hesitation and took part just as fluidly.

A yellow flash lit up the dim room, mute lightening, casting favorable light to crawl over the jagged mouth and the gleaming green eyes. It pronounced his sharp features and almost made him glow. He was beautiful.

The wooden chair the weapons dealer rested in creaked as she rose in her seat and leaned across the way, three fingers resting beneath Zestial's chin to draw him down to her level, meeting her lips on his cold, cold cheek. It was almost too close to the jagged lines of his mouth, just almost, and it held. It was not soft and it was not swift, it was firm and it was warm, holding for a handful of beats of a fast-racing heart.

His complexion, dark as it was, would completely hide the dark lip stain left in the wake of the kiss. Carmilla drew back with her fingers tracing from his chin to his shoulder, which she squeezed very tenderly as she looked in his eyes.

"Thank you, Zestial."

"Won't you stay for breakfast?"

#(( rains in a detail or two from our convos.#i love them ur honor. they can have a little murder dance as a treat. hope this was ok. <3 ))#arachnaemboss #[ carmilla; ic. ]#carmilla&zestial.#[ asks. ]

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trulybetty · 11 months

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Chiffon | Chapter One

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Warnings: implied alcohol abuse, implied drug abuse, reference to a previous volatile argument, angst. Word Count: 4,049 Summary: It's been almost a year since Bryony and Dieter have been in the same room, the last time had ended in raw truths and bitter words. AO3: Linked

x.chiffon masterlist.

Chiffon Chapter One.

Los Angeles, Present Day.

The Chateau Marmont, a timeless Hollywood icon, had borne silent witness to countless tales of glamour, scandal, and whispered secrets of the entertainment industry. If its walls could talk, they would spin legendary tales that would captivate any audience.

The Chateau's gardens had been transformed into a sparkling Eden, with fairy lights twinkling amidst the dark foliage. The normally humble pool, now under the luminous glow of floating lanterns, had been transformed, their flickering lights casting playful shadows. The scene was straight out of a vintage Hollywood film, radiating an opulence that spoke of the golden days.

The invitation had drawn Hollywood's crème de la crème to the 'Silver Screen Soirée: A Night of Legends,' a nostalgic nod to the glorious era of Hollywood, echoing the grandeur of Steve McQueen, Elizabeth Taylor, and Paul Newman. A notable industry event, it was hosted by one of the major studios, their flair for the dramatics was evident in the enchanting surroundings.

Dieter made minute adjustments to his suit jacket as he ventured into the lavish scenery. Respecting the theme, he had donned an impeccably tailored, single-breasted white suit jacket that nodded to the classic aesthetic. Underneath, a pristine, pleated bib tuxedo shirt peeked out, complemented by a sleek black satin bow tie. The ensemble was harmonized with black trousers and loafers, exuding elegance.

Tonight marked his first venture into the public eye since embarking on his quiet journey to sobriety. Already, the contrast was startling. The incessant heckling from the paparazzi, once an easily shrugged-off annoyance, now stung sharper in his newfound clarity. He’d struggled to maintain a façade of cheerfulness when an interviewer, with poorly masked glee, referenced the catastrophe of 'Cliff Beasts 6', suggesting that his career couldn’t plummet any lower.

Forcing down the lump in his throat, he replied, "Art, you see, is art. It's not confined by genre or bound by expectations. It's about exploring new horizons, experiencing diverse narratives." He paused, catching his reflection in the lens of a nearby camera. "After all, isn't that what makes us humans so extraordinary?"

He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his lips, the taste of his feigned pretentiousness threatening to make him retch. Yet, at that moment, standing under the lights at the Chateau Marmot, Dieter Bravo realized that the journey of self-discovery he was on would not be without its struggles.

He navigated through the kaleidoscope of Hollywood's elite, and expertly sidestepped the waiters who wove through the crowd, offering flutes of champagne on silver trays. Each offered glass was a gentle reminder of his recent commitment. While he hadn't gone completely teetotal, with the odd glass of wine at home on a rare occasion, he was certainly limiting alcohol at events like this that were usually a trigger, a resolution that he was intent on keeping that evening.

He surveyed the extravagant hotel grounds, an elaborate tapestry of luxurious flora and lavish decorations. The grand estate bore witness to countless debaucheries and the hedonistic exploits of celebrities past and present. The Marmont, as insiders affectionately referred to it, held as many stories as it did secrets, with Dieter's own personal narrative interwoven among them.

His memories of this place were often hazy, like a reel of film exposed to too much light. One particularly wild memory surfaced—a late-night post-premiere party where decorum had long since been abandoned. Recollections of naked bodies plunging into the pool in the early hours of the morning, lines of cocaine arranged with meticulous precision on gleaming silver trays just like the ones the waiters now carried—these were all fragments of a past he was striving to move beyond.

He had been one of them, a part of the revelry that night, swept up in a wave of reckless indulgence. The night had ended with him and a group of fellow stars in a hedonistic attempt to recreate the infamous pool scene from 'Showgirls'.

Now, sober and more self-aware, Dieter felt an odd disconnect. He was still a part of this world, but he no longer fit into it the way he used to. The ghosts of his past indiscretions still lingering.

Dieter approached the bar, bypassing the familiar allure of the myriad of alcoholic options on offer. He ordered a soda water with a slice of lime, choosing the drink for its tart taste that encouraged slow sipping. This way, he reasoned, his glass would always be in hand, providing a silent yet effective rebuttal to any offers of alcoholic drinks. While he was not ashamed of his decisions, he wasn't particularly interested in it becoming a subject of speculation or casual party conversation.

This journey towards sobriety was not his first rodeo, but it was the first one he was genuinely committed to. He had no desire to hear sarcastic references to his previous failed attempts—one of which had culminated in him making a show of checking into rehab for the benefit of the paparazzi, only to sneak out through the back door moments later, greeted by an idling limousine while having already downed half a bottle of vodka.

He murmured his thanks to the bartender and discreetly slid a generous tip across the smooth surface of the bar. Then, as if on cue, in a moment that seemed to be plucked straight out of an old Hollywood movie, the crowd of people momentarily cleared, and his eyes landed on her. Across the sprawling gardens, she was a vision, her deep brunette hair catching the light, creating a halo that seemed to set her apart from everyone else.

As he drank in the sight of her, a pang resonated through his chest, his heartbeat skipping in the familiar dance of yearning and remorse. It twisted his insides, a poignant reminder of what he had lost, of the love he had carelessly squandered.

Bryony.

She stood out even amongst the sea of Hollywood's glitterati. Many guests had adopted a relaxed interpretation of the 'Old Hollywood' theme, but Bryony had gone all in.

Her gown, a stunning blush pink that was reminiscent of the days when film was silver, fell to the floor in a cascade of silky fabric that hugged her. He watched her turn to greet someone who had called her name, the cape of the dress skimming the floor twirled with her in a bright upturn, much like the smile that now graced her face.

It was a visual homage to the bygone era, a nod to the glamour and sophistication that old Hollywood was known for. It was breathtakingly, heart-stopping beautiful—much like the woman wearing it.

Luxury was on grand display. Champagne was flowing in bountiful fountains, cascading down towers of crystal glasses that sparkled under the twinkling lights. Feathered centrepieces graced each table, adding an air of old-world glamour, while black and white portraits of classic movie stars from the 40s and 50s were scattered strategically across the sprawling hotel garden.

One particular portrait caught her eye. A golden-framed black and white photograph of Steve McQueen alongside his iconic car from Bullitt. She couldn't help but smile at the slight oversight. After all, Bullitt was a classic from the late 60s, missing the party’s theme by a good couple of decades. Nonetheless, the charisma and rugged charm of McQueen felt right at home among the vintage allure of the evening.

As she stepped into the luminescent garden, Bryony couldn't shake the feeling of being somewhat on display. Her attire for the evening was a pure work of art, something that she would have no business in purchasing for herself. Who, after all, could justify splurging a few thousand dollars on a dress that might never see the light of day again? Luckily, having a best friend who was a renowned stylist had its perks. Cricket, in her eternal resourcefulness, had procured the stunning dress for Bryony, a freebie loaner for a friend, that was worth a small fortune. Which also added to the anxiety Bryony had for the evening.

When the invitation came through for the event, Bryony had been reluctant to go, but with a script she was having a hard time getting traction on she needed the opportunity to network and pitch. So she had turned to Cricket for help, or a more apt explanation was that once Cricket got wind of Bryony attending an actual real in-person party for the first time in what seemed forever, even if it was a work event, had badgered her until Bryony gave in to Crickets request to dress her.

What followed after was a back-and-forth of emails with ideas and sketches from the stylist before Bryony off-handedly mentioned a love for a particular movie from the 40s and then as quickly as the emails had started they stopped. Communication abruptly ceased for three days, Bryony had been puzzled but also grateful for the break from the seemingly never-ending emails. Then, without any warning, on pinged her inbox. Its subject was impossible to ignore: 'THIS IS THE ONE, STOP LOOKING NOW & OPEN ME!!!'.

The dress was breathtaking. A meticulous modern reinterpretation of Lucille Ball's iconic outfit from "Du Barry Was A Lady" - the film Bryony had casually mentioned. Its unique cut emphasized Bryony's figure, while the ombré beadwork on the left shoulder added a touch of subtle opulence. The pièce de résistance, however, was a flowing cape that accompanied the dress. The cape swirled around her, making her feel as if she was wrapped in a bubble of glamour, and she found herself wondering if capes could become a staple in her everyday wardrobe.

As she navigated through the crowd, sipping her champagne and exchanging pleasantries with industry execs, she couldn't shake off the niggling feeling of anticipation. A sense of déjà vu washed over her as if history was about to repeat itself. Scanning the crowd, she spotted a few familiar faces. Some of them peers, others industry veterans, and a few up-and-coming talents.

And then, there he was.

Suddenly she was trying to catch her breath, her voice stolen. A wave of heat surged from the pit of her stomach, spiralling up and coiling around her neck. It settled as an uncomfortable lump at the back of her throat, a silent testament to the onslaught of chaotic emotions coursing through her.

The universe truly had a cruel way of throwing her in Dieter's path over and over again when she least expected it.

Dieter was holding sway over a crowd on the other side of the lush gardens. Even from this distance, his magnetism was unmistakable. His laughter, as infectious as ever, ricocheted, piercing through the dull murmur of scattered conversations around her. Each echo was a sharp twinge in Bryony's chest, her anxiety gnawing at her as she considered the possibility of crossing paths with him.

He appeared changed. He had filled out, shoulders broader and posture more commanding. His healthier appearance was hard to miss, an added vibrancy to his aura that made him seem more... alive. He bore striking resemblances to the Dieter she had fallen in love with all those years ago.

This was the first time Bryony had laid eyes on Dieter in nearly a year, marking the longest duration of time they had been apart since their initial encounter in New York half a dozen years prior. With each passing month, the notion that Dieter was genuinely a figure from her past gradually solidified. It had allowed Bryony to seriously consider, and even start to embrace, the prospect of moving forward without him.

The last time they had been in each other's presence, it had ended in a blazing argument of bitter truths. Bryony hadn’t held back, wanting to hurt him, and she did. She’d screamed at him until her voice was hoarse until he’d become silent at the viciousness of her words. Even then she hadn’t stopped, she had told him she didn’t care what became of him, even if he ended up in the gutters and to top it all off, that she would be happy to never see him again.

It was all lies.

She wouldn’t forget the hurt that had crossed his face at those words, the ones that had sobered him on the spot enough that he didn’t even have a trademark retort to throw back at her.

Hot tears on her face, she had just wanted him to feel the pain that she had been nursing ever since their bitter breakup years before. Wanted him to experience the ache that he constantly tried to drown in a sea of drugs and alcohol. She had wanted him to understand the depth of the wound he had inflicted on her—a wound that seemed to open anew every time they crossed paths.

As their eyes finally met over the din and sparkle of the party, a moment of acknowledgement passed between them. A moment stretched into a small eternity in which the noise of the world seemed to dim and their shared history came rushing back. The tension between them was palpable, even with a sea of people separating them.

Suddenly, as if a bubble had just popped within her ears, the pressure of the muffled noises around her dissipated and their silent exchange was quickly drowned out by laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the undercurrent of Hollywood gossip.

Her attention was pulled back by the gentle squeeze of her date's hand, Craig—a quiet, unassuming gesture that felt both comforting and alien. Looking up at him, she was struck by the contrast he presented to Dieter. Her date was not a magnetic force like Dieter, but he was solid, reliable. His eyes held a softness that offered security, a trait that was in stark contrast to Dieter's intense gaze.

As they moved deeper into the party, Bryony's mind was a tumult of thoughts. "You look stunning, Bryony," Craig murmured into her ear, his warm breath tingling against her skin. He pressed his body against hers, his hand finding its way to the small of her back, offering silent reassurance.

A practised smile graced her features as she replied, "Thank you." It was a token of appreciation for his compliment, one that felt hollow in her chest.

They waded through the claustrophobic, jostling crowd, the ceaseless buzz of conversation, the clang of glasses against each other echoing around them. Bryony's gaze inadvertently flickered back to the far side of the garden to where she had just seen Dieter, he was gone now. A sharp uninvited pang of melancholy pierced at her chest that had her reaching up and placing a hand against it as if to stop the feeling from spreading, but it was too late. The anxiety and sadness that Dieter’s presence brought her seemed to be a permanent cross she was due to bear and she wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve it.

As if sensing her upset, Craig offered her a warm smile. His fingers intertwined with hers, their connection tethering her amidst the sea of chaos. His voice was a gentle hum in her ear as he tried to distract her with humorous anecdotes from his recent project. She laughed, the sound echoing around them, a semblance of normalcy in a situation that was anything but. Yet, even as she laughed at Craig's jokes, her gaze would drift, time and again, towards Dieter.

Elegantly weaving through the throng of industry professionals, producers, and artists, Dieter had managed to disengage himself from the mundane conversation he had just been a part of. He had been distracted by the presence of Bryony, her solitary figure amidst the sea of people, was all the motivation he needed. Her face was alight with a reserved excitement that made his heart skip a beat, even after all these years.

Approaching her, he watched as her gaze shifted, from abstract greenery around her to him. He watched Bryony’s eyes widen a fraction before looking around for a likely means to leave before he got to her. The uncertainty in her eyes as he got closer formed a knot in the pit of his stomach causing him to frown. There had been a time that his presence of just his name in a conversation would light up her face.

"Hey," he said softly as he finally reached her, "It's been a while."

She was as beautiful as he remembered, perhaps even more so. His eyes traced the elegant curve of her jaw, the softness of her lips, and the bright spark in her eyes that had always captivated him. He remembered how those eyes used to soften when she looked at him, how they used to light up with laughter.

"Dieter," she greeted, her voice steady, betraying none of the tumultuous feelings stirring within her.

She had spent the evening skillfully sidestepping any chances of coming face-to-face with him. Her heart pounding as she manoeuvred through the room, engaging in animated conversations, laughing at all the right moments, sipping her drink just so. To anyone watching, Bryony was the epitome of poise and grace, unflappable in the spotlight. But beneath the composed exterior, her thoughts were a chaotic jumble.

Every conversation seemed to revolve around Dieter to some degree, the industry insiders speculating on his noticeable sobriety that evening, questioning the sincerity of his recent rumoured attempt at rehab. They spoke in hushed tones, taking bets on how long until he would relapse. Dieter had earned his reputation as the Hollywood bad boy over the past three years for due reason, his erratic behaviour and substance abuse issues leading to him being blacklisted from all major studios.

Whenever his name surfaced in conversation, she'd listen politely, an unreadable smile on her face. Then she could she would expertly steer the conversation in another direction.

And now, here he was, standing in front of her. She couldn't deny the lump in her throat or the slight fluttering in her stomach. Again, taken aback by how good he looked, it really was as if he was glowing.

For a moment, they stood in silence, an undercurrent of nostalgia and unspoken words passing between them.

"Da-" his nickname for her on his tongue, not sure if he was allowed that formality anymore he corrected himself, "Bryony," he replied, his voice more husky than he intended. "It's good to see you."

Bryony eyed him for a moment, she hadn't missed the slip in the almost use of his nickname for her. There hadn't been a moment since their breakup where he hadn't relished using it or dropping it in conversation. The fact that he'd stopped himself left her conflicted, one part was thankful that he was finally respecting her boundaries, while another part mourned the loss of the intimacy the endearment had represented.

The mental back and forth of the evening was giving her a headache.

"How are you?" she asked, purposefully avoiding the question of whether she was glad to see him, especially when she was still working that one out herself.

"Good," he responded, the word so simple, yet full of meanings she wasn't sure she wanted to decipher, "I'm doing good."

The awkwardness, the formalities, and the fact that he hadn't made a sexually inappropriate comment yet were disarming to Bryony.

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only with the ambient noise of the party. As they stood there, a sudden gust of wind rustled through the leaves overhead. A stray lock of Bryony's dark hair was caught in the breeze, obscuring her face momentarily. Acting on reflex, Dieter reached out and gently tucked the strand behind her ear.

It was then he spotted it. The delicate outline of a triangle nestled inside another triangle tattooed just behind her left ear— a small, discreet, yet significant mark. His breath hitched slightly, memories flooding back with poignant intensity.

"You didn't…" he started, his voice just a whisper. The tips of his fingers traced the tattoo's edge, she stiffened at his touch.

"Dieter…" her voice was low, almost a murmur. She didn't meet his eyes, in fear of what she would see there.

He moved his hand away, a torrent of emotions swirling within him. Betrayal wasn't one of them. Hurt, maybe. Confusion, definitely.

"You said you had it removed," he said quietly, his gaze now fixed on her profile.

Long ago, still hurt by his actions and their recent breakup, she had claimed the tattoo was removed. She recalled the flicker of hurt that crossed his face, swiftly masked by his trademark grin as he ordered another round of shots for the group he was entertaining.

With a playful twirl, he had left Bryony alone at the hotel bar, his arm already slung around a blonde bombshell who seemed all too eager to whisper sweet nothings into his ear—her tongue not staying entirely in her own mouth. The memory lingered, a poignant reminder of the complicated history they shared.

She finally turned to meet his gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. "I lied," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the soft rustling of leaves and the hum of the party around them.

His mind was spinning, old emotions and new revelations colliding within him. Yet, he knew this wasn't the time to unpack everything. She'd lied, yes, but she'd also carried their shared symbol with her all these years.

"That's… surprising," he finally said, his tone carrying no accusation, just raw honesty.

She nodded, her eyes still locked with his. In that silence, a new understanding passed between them. Their past was complicated, their present even more so.

Over the months Bryony had imagined so many different ways of running into Dieter again, each one she’d act nonchalantly and give him no time of day. What she hadn’t planned for in all of these theoretical scenarios was that he could show up seemingly sober and looking like her Dieter, the one before Hollywood got their claws into him.

Her breath catching in her throat, anxiety bubbling in her chest she clutched the champagne flute in her hand so hard she was afraid she was going to break it. She needed to leave, she needed the calm that only came with distance from Dieter.

She finally turned to look at him, unable to meet his eyes, afraid she could easily slip into old habits

“It was good seeing you Dieter, I'm..." she paused, grasping at what to say, before she settled on, "I'm glad you're doing well.”

“Bryony,” he pleaded, unsure himself what he wanted from her, but knowing he wasn't ready to see her leave.

“I have to go,” she finally muttered before quickly turning away from him,

Dieter watched her go, slipping into the crowd and disappearing out of sight. He was very much aware that he held no claim over her, and had no entitlement to any part of her.

The chase of his first highs had hit a wall in the aftermath of his Oscar win. He had tried and failed to recapture the intoxicating ecstasy of that victory. The newfound pressure that came with the title of "Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo" was a weight he was unprepared for. It had sent him spiralling, the chase of his initial highs morphing into a desperate escape from the reality of his faltering grasp on everything.

He’d taken advantage of Bryony being there, secure in the belief that no matter what he did, she would always be there to pick up the pieces. Because no matter what shit he pulled, she always showed up.

Until one day she didn’t.

He knew that he couldn't lay claim to any part of her. He had forfeited that right when he had chosen everything but her and expected her to be okay with it.

He was left standing alone in the crowd, his heart heavy. The echo of her absence was a grim reminder of the price he had paid for his choices. And as the party went on around him, Dieter was left struggling with the sobering reality of his actions and their fallout.

He had a long way to go and many bridges to mend.

Bonus:Cricket's email...

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the bubble

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felteppsters · 2 years

Text

Landslide

Pairings: Eddie Munson X fem!reader

Rating: PG13? I mean, there really isn’t anything here but lots and lots of fluff. A few swear words but.

Summary: You’re bored. You complain to Eddie about not getting to have a real adventure in Hawkins. He of course takes it into his own hands to give you the best day ever.

Word Count: 11.1k - oops?

A/N: So, hey guys. This isn’t a writing blog, but I had this idea and I wasn’t able to shake it. I had to write it down. It’s going to suck, and you really don’t have to read it but .. here it is. I wanted to thank @lordhalbrand @blueeyesatnight @something-tofightfor @st-eve-barnes and @withoutaplease for backing me up and helping me out when I needed it. Plus, convincing me to post it! Specual thanks to @justabitofbna foe helping edit! I don't know if I'll ever write anything else - but please enjoy!

1993. Hawkins, Indiana.

“Eddie… where are we going?”

“Princess - it wounds me that you don’t trust me enough to take care of you. I promised you an adventure, let me give it to you.”

Letting out a soft huff and unable to resist the pull of a small smirk to your lips, you cross your arms, and settle deeper into the passengers seat of Eddie’s old beat up van. You loved this rust bucket just as much as he did. Hell, you were there with him when he bought it; a 1971 Chevrolet. The medium green (more of a grass in your opinion), and white paint job reminded you of some stupid sitcom from the 70’s that your parents still watched the reruns. The passenger side mirror had a dangerously precarious crack that you were worried one heavy slam would split the glass completely into two halves. You were almost positive that the overwhelming smell of lilacs would never leave the fabric. Now it was drowned out by the strong scent of nicotine and the faint scent of weed. Eddie always thought that his black, metal lunch box hid the smell, and for the most part it did its job, but sometimes a rogue bud escaped the plastic wrapping and ended up beneath the drivers seat.

It wasn’t anything special, but to Eddie, oh to your best friend, it was. It wasn’t his first taste of freedom, but it was a catalyst to the untouchable horizon.

Ever since he was a kid, Eddie had more freedom than most. With his mother’s unfortunate passing when he was five, and his father’s seven-to-ten year jail sentence, seven year old Eddie wasn’t being looked after by anyone. It wasn’t until he had to move in with his Uncle Wayne in Forest Hills, that things seemed to settle into a normalcy for the young boy.

This led to the fateful day that young Eddie Munson, ran into you. Quite literally. You had your eyes on the ground, counting number by number as you jumped square by square. Your high ponytail bounced with each jump as you made your way back and forth over the poorly drawn hopscotch in the grass. You were so busy staring, trying to read the numbers that you didn’t see the metal can soaring through the air and hitting you right into the back of your head.

You should have cried. The tin can had quite the velocity, but you didn’t. You picked up the invasive object, stared at the boy, and chucked it back in his direction. You got in trouble for it, of course, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Because that day, you gained a best friend. The best friend that a seven year old could have ever asked for. It was strange to think that a little tin can could have introduced you to the best thing that ever happened to you.

The two of you were thick as thieves growing up. You had sleepovers every Friday night, where you attempted to stay up in either your bedroom or Eddie’s, talking away but never being able to actually make it past eleven. You spent hours between your trailers, pretending you were dragons, and damsels in distress - you definitely made sure to play the dragon, or the knight as much as possible. You weren’t some damsel, and Eddie knew that.

It wasn’t until it was his ninth birthday that gave him the best birthday present, the present that would change his life and help carve out the nerd that you knew and loved so deeply to this day. You gifted him his very first Dungeons and Dragons book. It came out that year, and you knew he’d been so excited to get it. Money was tight; Wayne was working long hours to keep the lights on, keep the trailer cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and food in the fridge, Eddie had never mentioned it to his uncle, but he mentioned it to you. You saved up for months with your weekly allowance, but when his birthday came you were still short. Your parents loved Eddie as if he were one of their own, so they covered the last little bit and helped you get the dark wood-grained box.

A new excitement caused his eyes to glitter when he bought his beautiful, red and black B.C. Rich Warlock. It was like the second that lava-looking beast entered his life, he was complete. He called her his Sweetheart. You hadn’t seen his eyes light up with so much excitement like that in your life.

Of course, there was a little glint in Eddie Munson’s eyes - not too dissimilar to the one when he got his prized possessions - as he put his black and white skull bandana around your eyes. It screamed mischief, trouble, and though you knew that part of you should be a little bit worried at the grin that had crossed his beautiful features, you trusted Eddie with your entire life. He was your best friend, and soulmate. You knew he wouldn’t put you in any position that you wouldn’t want to be in.

When you told Eddie that you hadn’t been on any type of adventure, he first looked like you stabbed him in the heart. He was appalled and hurt that you wouldn’t consider your daily routines an adventure. He placed his hand on his heart, letting out a shocked gasp, shouting “My heart! It’s broken!” You giggled and shoved at his shoulder with a scoff and a roll of your eyes before a grin broke out on his face. He knew you didn’t consider the daily routines of school, guitar practice and movie nights with him an adventure, even though they were things you both held close to your hearts and promised you that he was going to take you on the best adventure of your life.

That was how you ended up here in his passenger seat; your fingers drummed softly on the plastic interior door, matching the beat of Metallica’s Master of Puppets. You could hear his hands banging against the steering wheel to the guitar solo, his metal rings clinking against one another each time his flesh collided with the leather. You rolled the window all the way down, your nose catching the scent of Summer slowly inching its way toward Fall. The breeze was cool as it brushed the bits of your face that weren’t obscured by the cloth.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering how for practically three weeks straight he worked on learning this song. You sat on his bed, with whatever book you were reading at the time in your lap as he listened to the song over and over. His ear picked up on each note, each beautiful string, and he copied it as if he was a member himself. You had to admit, it was quite the talent. You’d never say it to his face, because he would never let you live it down; but Eddie Munson was a guitar God.

You told him once that if he just thought of school like the music he loved so dearly that he might be able to focus on his work well enough to finally graduate. You had no idea that your advice actually hit home, and Eddie Munson was able to finish Ms O’Donnell’s class with a C and graduate. He walked across that wooden stage, his green cap and gown completely swallowing his thin frame. You stood with his beloved flock - the entirety of the Hellfire Club - your hands cupping your mouth as you celebrated in the crowd. Your grin was wide, and you couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. You were so proud of him.

For the past couple of weeks, Eddie had worked on another song. For a while, you thought maybe he’d been working on writing something for Corroded Coffin, but he wouldn’t let you anywhere near his trailer when he practiced. Which, admittedly at first, wounded you, but it was Eddie. You were sure that once he was ready for you to hear it, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“Eddie, seriously, where the hell are we going?” You shouted, having to raise your voice over the sound of both Eddie pounding his fingers against the steering wheel, and the guitar riff currently pouring from the speakers.

The music was turned down, and you felt a heat placing itself on your denim covered thigh. You could feel the bits of his skin peaking through the rips in the black fabric, and couldn’t help the slight shiver run up your spine. It was a good shiver, a very good shiver.

“Patience, princess. It’s a virtue, you know.”

His voice was like molasses, thick and warm that coated your insides in a specific warmth, while just a simple touch set your outsides on fire, like a forgotten cigarette.

Eddie Munson had no idea what his presence did to you, and for that you were both eternally grateful, and a little bit disappointed.

The times where the two of you were curled up in his trailer, while Wayne worked for the night, a blue ceramic bowl full of buttery popcorn placed in your lap, your legs nestled in his lap - he wouldn’t let them go anywhere else. He would place his palm around your ankle and give it a squeeze, a slight massage, or work his way up your calves. All the while his eyes were glued to the movie in front of you, but your heart would always beat painfully against your chest, your breath always short.

A squeeze to your thigh brought you back to the present again and you had to resist the urge to reach down, to link your fingers together.

“We’re here.”

You couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement run through you as you felt the van pull to a stop. Your hand blindly reached for the handle of the van, aiming to let yourself out but you heard Eddie scramble out of the drivers side, and could only imagine him racing around the hood of the vehicle. You were right on your assumption when the door was opened for you. Warm hands donned with the contrast of four cool, metal rings closed around your wrists to help you out.

You were slightly unsteady on your feet, but you felt the same set of hands move to grip you by the waist, “Steady, princess. I got you.”

Licking your lips, your hands went to his shoulders to hold yourself steady. The denim was rough beneath your fingers as they curled. “You gonna tell me where we are yet?”

His chuckle was a warm burst of air across your face. You could smell a hint of the minty toothpaste he used this morning as it battled to overpower the smell of his most recent cigarette. Your body was gently positioned and moved. It was if you were a doll being moved from place to place. He reached behind you, the van door closing with a soft slam, “You are the most impatient woman I’ve ever met.”

Though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the grin in his voice, and you couldn’t help but match it. “Yeah, but you love me, Munson.”

“Shh!” His hand immediately covered your mouth, ”Don’t be so loud! You might just ruin my reputation as the town Freak.”

You snorted behind his palm. Your tongue poked out to lick at it, and you snickered as he pulled it away with a scoff, “You can just pretend that you put me under some sort of Satanic spell or something.”

“That may work, but there is some logic missing in your explanation, princess.” You felt him guide you as if he were a Border Collie herding sheep toward a gate, toward whatever surprise he planned. “You’re labelled as the Queen of Hellfire. No one is going to believe that I was the one to convert you. Pretty sure people believe that you’re secretly the culprit to my downward spiral into devil worshiping.”

Your hand shot out to shove at his shoulder, but you completely missed as he dodged it. You stumbled, being ever so clumsy even when you could see, which caused him to chuckle. “You’re just doing this for fun, aren’t you? You’re enjoying my pain.”

“Now that, I will admit that I am eternally guilty of.” He started, his hands an ever calming, anchoring presence on your shoulders as he led you. “But I will admit that making you smile is also a guilty pleasure of mine.” Your body jolted to a sudden stop, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back as you could only imagine you’d made it to the surprise.

“Eddie…” you trailed off. Your hand blindly reached for him, your fingers closing in around the bits of leather that peeked out from beneath his denim vest. You wanted to tell him that he always made you smile, he didn’t have to go out of his way to do it. But you were silenced once more, this time with a finger to your lips instead of a hand. He gently pried your fingers from the leather and moved it forward until it grasped a cylinder style door handle.

With his hand surrounding yours, he used the grip supplied by both of your palms to pull the door open to the sound of whooshing air. You were immediately hit with a wave of scents; nacho cheese, stale beer, and some kind of disinfectant. There was the sound of dull rock music, multiple clunks echoing through the room, followed by what sounded like the roll of thunder. Your lips parted, before a grin broke out on your face. Your dark purple polished nails yanked the well-loved bandana from your eyes as you spun to face your favourite metal head.

“Eddie!” You squealed out. “Lucky Strikes?!”

Lucky Strikes was the newest edition to Hawkins, Indiana. It moved into the most recent vacant spot, just under a block away from The Palace; the arcade where you, and Eddie would take his little flock of sheep sometimes after a good campaign to wind down. It joined the towns roster shortly before Eddie had graduated, and you both had meant to check it out, but time never seemed to line up. Plus, you had no idea how much renting a lane, and shoes would actually cost, not to mention the food that Eddie was more than likely going to put away like a garbage disposal.

Eddie’s face was bright. His dark button like eyes resembled the stars sparkling in the night sky. He stood a few feet away from you, his arms spread wide to either side of him, as if presenting the bowling alley to you. “Surprise, princess. I know that you’ve been wanting to come by - sorry that it’s taken so lo-“

His voice was cut off by the force of your body slamming into his at full speed. The air was forced from his lungs, and it took him just a few seconds before he wrapped his arms around you in return. “Well, I expected some kind of thank you, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. Not that I’m complaining.”

Pulling away, your hands moved up to cup his cheeks. They were warm beneath your palms, his eyes glassy and his smile wide, “Eddie Munson, you are a God damn genius.”

“Ooh, taking the Lord’s name in vain - you sure you’re not the one that’s corrupting me?”

Quirking your brow at him, you backed up a little bit and decided to pull the same pose that he loved to pull on everyone else. You lifted your hands up to the sides of your head, pointer fingers up and your tongue slid out from between your lips.

Eddie just grinned, “That’s my girl.” He pulled away, extended his hand out to his side and bowed in your general direction, “After you, your highness.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.” Doing a little bit of a curtsey yourself, followed by that weird movement you do when you’re trying to shuffle past someone in the grocery store - so that you’re not in the way - you made your way further into the bowling alley. You could feel your body vibrating, and knew that you had a bit of a pep in your step, an excitement at doing something new.

Skipping further into the bowling alley with your hands clasped behind your back, you made your way up to the counter with your best friend in toe. Eddie bumped into you as he splayed his arms across the counter, taking up as much space as he could. His distinct scent, the Eddie scent, filled your senses. It drowned out the smell of stale beer and greasy nachos. What you could smell was faint smoke, leather, weed, cedar and the eucalyptus leaf scented shampoo that he used. It was so much, and yet not enough at the same time. His scent always made you feel like you were at home, like a blanket on a cold winters night.

You let out a gasp as a head popped up from behind the counter, both you and Eddie recoiling at the sudden intrusion. “Keith?” You blinked, staring at the man. “I thought you were working at Family Video?”

Keith, who always reminded you of a sloth in human form, leaned forward on the counter, invading what little space you and Eddie had left. He had a Twizzler pinched between his teeth as he eyed the two of you, before yanking on it and chewing what little bit was left in his mouth. His hand, still holding the red liquorice, pointed with the candy in your direction. “I am,” he replied through a mouth full of the candy.

You waited for him to continue with the conversation, but he didn’t. “O-kay…” You drawled out the word, glancing at Eddie out of the corner of your eye.

Before the awkward sentence could be drawn out longer than necessary, Eddie smacked his hands on the counter, still spread out, and gave Keith his award-winning smile. “We would like to rent a lane, and two pairs of shoes, if you would be so kind.”

Nodding, Keith typed in the prices for the lane - which according to the board was rented per hour - and the shoes, and mumbled out the total. Simultaneously, you and Eddie both reached for your wallets to pull out cash.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Eddie asked, blinking in your direction.

“Eddie, this isn’t exactly cheap - let me pay for my half.”

“Uh, that’s a big no, princess. This was my idea, I’m not going to have you pay for it.”

Glaring at him, your eyes narrowed as your fingers stealthily reached into the pocket of your wallet.You hoped you snatched the right amount of cash. Before you could slam it on the table, Eddie scooped you up around the waist, spun you around, and deposited you so that he was between the counter and your body. He spun himself back around, and quickly slapped the cash onto the counter, and a little extra so that he wouldn’t have to stick around and wait for Keith to give him his change. His arm made its way around your shoulders, leading you away from the counter and toward the shoe racks.

“You two are on lane five!” Keith called out to them, to which Eddie lifted his arm and waved backwards, letting Keith know that he was heard.

“You’re un-fucking-believable, Munson.” You mumbled, stuffing the wallet back into your back pocket, the chain attached to your jean belt loop. Just to make sure that it was secure in case someone decided to steal it. The wallet and chain had been a gift from Eddie for Christmas, when you had lost yours, thinking it had been secure in your pocket.

Eddie chuckled into your hair, pressing his lips to your temple, “Learn to let someone spoil you for once.” He teased, releasing you so that the both of you could search for a pair of the smelly, leather and rubber soles.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to smirk to yourself as he made a face once he located his size. Clearly, the shoes weren’t satisfactory. Then again, neither were yours. It made sense. When were bowling shoes supposed to look fashionable?

Sitting yourself across from your best friend, on one of the poorly cushioned plastic chairs, you continued to sneak glances up at him as you slipped loose the shoelaces on your black Converse. You pulled the offending leather shoe on, trying to forget that many other people wore this exact pair of shoes. At least everyone had to wear socks. Placing your hands on your knees, you used the leverage to push yourself up before sauntering over to the counter. With a smile to Keith you grabbed a pencil and piece of paper, you made your way back to Eddie, waving the objects in the air.

Eddie shot up, snatching the pen and paper from your hand and smacking it gently against your forehead. “Do you want to start, or shall I?”

“Flip a coin?” You asked, reaching into your back pocket once again to pull out your wallet. You searched for a reasonably sized coin in case you dropped it. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads.”

Nodding, you flipped the coin in the air, watching as it went end over end until you frantically tried to catch it. You wanted to do the cool thing where one caught it and put it on the back of their hand before the final reveal. But you missed it. You waited to hear the sound of it clinking on the polished floor beneath your feet, but Eddie seemed to have caught it just in time. He smacked it against the back of his hand, before revealing it.

Tails.

“Ha!” You grinned, tapping his nose. “Get ready to get absolutely schooled, Munson. I’m going to bowl you into the ground.”

“Absolutely school… bowl me into the ground?” Eddie scoffed, sliding into his seat. His arms spread on the backs of the chairs, his legs spreading as well as he eyed you from his spot. “Princess, I think that’s probably one of the lamest things I have ever heard you say. I think I’m going to have to revoke your Queen of Hellfire status.”

Plucking up one of the heavier balls made for a ten pin, you slipped your three fingers inside of it. You flipped Eddie the bird with your free hand. Satisfied with his laughter, you grasped the heavy bowling ball to help your three tiny little fingers with the weight. “Come on,” you murmured to yourself. “You can do this.”

Moving toward the line, you took in a deep breath and lowered your body. Pulling your arm back, you released the ball from your grip as you swung it forward. You let it go, your three fingers slipped from the holes and the bowling ball soared through the air for a moment, before crashing into the wood, it careening down the alley toward the pins.

Tilting your head, you did a tiny little shimmy, trying to magically pull the ball toward the middle, instead of the right where it was heading. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and let out a soft sigh when only one pin fell.

“Going to school me, huh?” You heard.

“Shut up. Nothing needed from the peanut gallery,” you murmured.

Fuck, that man was never going to let you live it down.

Trying to block the smug look on his face from your mind, you bowled once more. Unfortunately, not every pin was knocked down. There was that one final pin left on the left side, and you let out a low groan.

You pouted at the offending pin, watching as the machine at the end of the alley reset the pins for the opponent who sat behind you. You could almost feel him before his hands actually placed themselves onto your hips. It was like an energy that the two of you shared. Something that no one else understood. You finished each other sentences. Eddie would reach for your arm and pull you away from a puddle or a tree branch that you’d never noticed.

He spun you around in his arms, backing you up until the backs of your knees hit the plastic chairs. He gave you a slight little nudge so that you did in fact, sit down. “Here - why don’t you sit down and watch the master at work?”

Your lips parted to retort, but he already slunk off toward where the bowling balls gathered. Pausing, he took the snowflake obsidian ring that he wore on his ring finger on his left hand, and deposited it into his jean pocket. He stuck his tongue out, letting it press to the top of his lip in more concentration than was necessary as he chose a ball. Your brows shot up, blinking as he took longer than you expected him to until he picked a ball that looked like the night sky; black, with hints of purple and blue. All it was missing was stars to make up constellations.

Eddie took the ball and moved into position. He adjusted his stance like a pitcher, shifting slightly. He swung his hips from side to side, earning a laugh from you, which caused him to smile. He pulled his arm back and released the ball, watching, watching, watching until it decided to knock down only half. He went a second time, and managed to get a spare. He shot his hand up in the air with a hoot, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Yeah-yeah, don’t get ahead of yourself there, Munson. First one was just a warm up shot,” you shot back, moving to stand and wiping your suddenly clammy hands against your jeans. “Watch. Next one, it’ll be a strike.”

But you didn’t get a strike on the next ball, or the one after that. You managed it on your eighth frame, but Eddie wasn’t doing much better. You were both pretty close in scores. In fact, so close that the only way that Eddie was going to be able to beat you, was if he got his first strike.

The tongue was back out as he moved to the line for his final shot. You leaned over slightly to get a better view of the ball as he released it down the alley. The rolling of thunder as it barrelled down the lane toward the pins. You sat up straighter, leaned further, even stood up a little bit as you watched the ball stay on a straight path, colliding with the middle pin, and knocking them all down.

Your mouth fell open in shock as Eddie’s strike brought him soaring past your score. He won the game. He had that ever stupid smirk on his lips as he sauntered his way over to you. He placed his hands on either side of your shoulders and bent down far enough that you could smell the nacho cheese and canned salsa that you insisted on buying. He, of course, fought you on it but you snuck over to the stand when he took a bathroom break.

“What was that about bowling me into the ground, princess?”

“Oh, shut up,” you replied, though your voice had no bite, no bark, barely even loud enough to register in your own ears. “That was just a lucky shot.”

Rolling his eyes, he moved to sit next to you. He removed the rented shoes to slip back into his Reeboks, while you did the same with your Converse. Eddie reached down for both pairs of shoes, and headed back to the racks. He placed them in the spot where they would be cleaned and ready for the next unfortunate soul.

Pulling his ring out of his pocket, he placed it back in its rightful place. He shrugged his two-piece jacket combo over his lean body. He then outstretched his hand toward you, waiting for you to place your smaller one into his, hauling you up to your feet. He didn’t let you go though. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

“Did you have fun?” He asked. His voice held an almost uncertain type tone hidden, buried beneath his normal cadence.

Slipping your arm around him in return, between his leather jacket and Metallica shirt, you easily stole some of his warmth. You smiled. “Of course I did.”

“Good. Good. Come on, m’lady. Your chariot awaits.” He paused, slipping his arm from you only to open the door to head back out to the parking lot. The setting sun was gone, replaced by a clear night sky, littered with stars to light the path of lonely travellers. “Besides me winning of course, what was your favourite part?”

“The shoes.”

“The shoes? You’re kidding me right now. Why the shoes?”

“I don’t know, never thought I’d ever see someone make bowling shoes look incredibly.. unattractive.”

Eddie paused in his step, just five or six paces from his van to stare at you. “I thought I made those look good!”

You snorted and moved to the passengers side of the van, “Absolutely not. You looked like you were wearing clown shoes. Now open the door, Eddie. It’s cold out.” You whined, your hand gripping onto the cool metal handle, tugging on it impatiently.

“No, not until you say it.” He retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Say what?!”

“That I made those bowling shoes look sexy.”

“Are you being serious? Eddie, for fucks sake.”

“Hey, I’m not the one that decided not to wear a sweater. You knew it was going to be cold before I even took you out.”

“Eddie…” you whined a bit, but he wasn’t budging. With a sigh, you stared at him over the hood of the van, “Edward Munson, you are the only person that I have ever known to make a pair of bowling shoes look so sexy. So sexy in fact, that I had to keep my hands off of you.” You paused, feeling a chill run up your spine as you said the words out loud. They weren’t all together untrue, you knew that. He made everything look good, even a stupid pair of bowling shoes. Licking your lips, your throat suddenly dry at the way he was staring at you from his side of the van, you broke the tension by yanking on the door handle again. “You good with that? Can you open the door now, please?”

Eddie paused for another moment, before shrugging and shaking his head as if he were clearing an invasive thought. “It’ll do.”

You waited for what felt like ages before Eddie climbed into the van, and unlocked the passenger door for you. He immediately placed his key in the ignition, and turned up the heat when he saw a shiver take over your body.

Thankfully he didn’t cover your eyes with his bandana again. It stayed in its rightful place in his left back pocket. It always draped down, just waiting to be snagged. Yet, by some miracle, unless he was wearing it or using it for nefarious purposes - such as keeping his best friend blind - it never left him.

Even though your sight wasn’t taken from you on this portion of the drive, it didn’t stop you from still being excited and anxious as to where he was taking you. It wasn’t long until you clued in and realized where he was taking you. You knew the streets like the back of your hand, you knew where he was taking you. There was only one reason he’d be going this way.

Your hand shot out, smacking at his arm in excitement. Multiple times actually, in quick secessions. A huge grin on your face, you almost resembled a child realizing that Santa left presents beneath the tree on Christmas morning. This man went all out and checked all of the boxes you couldn’t even fathom when it came to Eddie Munson. Of course, you wanted them to be checked by no one else but him. No one else clicked into place. It just didn’t make sense to you that he was purposefully checking them off.

A soft melody filtered through the air as Eddie found the perfect spot to park the van. With the window rolled down, you leaned your arms on the door, watching as people lined up in front of the best ice cream truck in town. The music wasn’t the same old tune that summoned children like the pied piper. No, It was an acoustic guitar, playing side-by-side with a set of homemade drums. The drums were upside down plastic tubs, but you liked the sound the wooden drumsticks made each time they collided with the hollow plastic. It wasn’t what one would call professional, but you actually found it endearing.

A small family owned the ice cream truck. They travelled around, but never left Indiana. The parents stayed inside the truck, while their daughter banged away on her plastic tub. Her husband was the one with the nimble fingers as he strummed his acoustic guitar. They weren’t Maiden, or AC/DC, or even Fleetwood Mac, but they weren’t bad. They had this hometown charm that put a smile on your face. Even Eddie never seemed to complain.

Smacking your hand against the window sill once, you climbed out of the van. Before you could take another step, Eddie skidded to a halt in front of you. His hands came to rest on your shoulders and moved you backwards until you could feel the cool metal against your back.

“You. Stay put.”

Your brows quirked as you stared up at him. “You know, if you keep treating me like a dog, we’re going to have a problem here.” You knew that your words were falling on deaf ears so you sighed, “What’s the big deal? I want to go and say hi! It’s their last night in Hawkins.”

Eddie let out a puff of a sigh, his hands dramatically placed on his hips. “Fine. Fine!” He stepped away, throwing his arm out fo the side, “After you - but don’t you get any funny ideas.” You just rolled your eyes in response, slipping past him with a pat on his shoulder.

The two of you made your way toward the line up, practically buzzing with excitement to get the homemade ice cream. There were about thirteen people in front of you, which wasn’t terrible for a Saturday night. Especially at this ice cream truck. You were expecting there to be more, with it being their last night in Hawkins. You weren’t about to complain though. Maybe it was the fact that it was getting a bit colder and a lot of people probably weren’t fans of eating cold things in the cold. You on the other hand, were a freak of nature in that sense. You loved to eat freezers, ice cream, even slushy drinks in the cold. Eddie made fun of you for it for a while. You eventually brought him over to your way of thinking. He would wake you up at two in the morning on the weekends to go for a late night run to the local convenience store. Just to get a multi-flavoured slushy drink.

Even with you and Eddie being number fourteen and fifteen in line, it didn’t take long at all to reach the trucks window. “Two cherry-chocolate swirls, please.”

The woman behind the window gave the pair of you a big smile, “Ah, Mr. Munson! I was wondering when you’d bring your fair maiden to our midsts.”

Before the heat could course through your entire body from the embarrassment, Eddie cleared his throat and lightly smacked his hand on the trucks windows edge. “Mrs. Clarke, you and I both know that if she doesn’t get your ice cream before you close for the season, she’s not going to hibernate properly. I’m just doing the world a favour.”

Rolling your eyes, you just gave Mrs. Clarke a soft smile and wave, thankful that Eddie didn’t notice your face. You cast your eyes down to the ground, kicking at the stones as Eddie and Mrs. Clarke had a little chat. Their voices were muffled. Mrs. Clarke was one of the adults that you could count on one hand growing up, that knew who Eddie was deep down. Sure, he liked to put on a parade, a spectacle and act like a bad ass. He wore clothing and listened to music that most of the people in Hawkins would shy away from. He stood on tables and yelled at the jocks, the nerds, the partiers.

The stuff he wore, the interests he had made him a pariah, which in turn put you in that category. But you never cared, never minded what people said about you. You had your small group of friends, you had Eddie, and that was all that mattered. You knew the real Eddie. You knew the idiot who tripped over his own feet while telling you a story, not paying attention to where he was walking. You knew the Eddie who took you out on top of his trailer to look up at the sky. The guy who took in freshmen who looked lost and gave them a purpose, a group, a family. Eddie Munson wasn’t a cultist or satanic murderer as some believed he was in the dark. He was just a dork. A dork that played a fantasy game. A dork that you were so irrevocably in love with that some days it hurt.

A plastic cardboard container was placed into your hands. Your head snapped up to see Mrs. Clarke smiling down at you, handing some change over to Eddie. “Thanks, Mrs. Clarke. Already can’t wait until you open back up next year.” There was something to the smirk on her lips, but before you could even try to figure it out, Eddie was saying a quick thank you to the woman and her husband. His hand made itself home on the small of your back as he led you toward the curb. As you reached it, Eddie slipped his hand from the small of your back, taking yours in his own. He spun you around, relishing in the giggles that spilled from your mouth. A wide grin split on his face as he did his best to dance one handed with you as you reached you're destination.

“Hold this, please.” You requested, handing over your ice cream as you attempted to sit yourself down on the curb without incident. There was a slight crack in your knees as you crouched down, placing your ass onto the cold concrete. Your hand shot up, pointing up at him, “Not a damn word.”

Eddie held up both ice creams as if he was holding his hands up in a surrender pose. “I wasn’t going to say anything!” He reached out to hand you your cherry-chocolate swirl before sitting down on the cool cement next to you. “You’re getting old.”

“You’re older than me, you ass.” Bumping your shoulder into his, his resulting laughter sent warmth throughout your body. Sometimes you wished you could record that sound. So that on nights when you were alone, where you didn’t want to do anything but lay in bed you could play it. It was like a shot of serotonin straight to your veins.

“Just eat your ice cream, Princess Brittle Bones.”

So you did. The two of you ate the cherry-chocolate ice cream in the cool fall night of Hawkins. Mrs. Clarke’s daughter and son-in-law playing some rendition of what you thought was a… Bryan Adams song? You couldn’t be sure. You’d heard it on the radio a few times back at home on the radio. Something about… looking into someones eyes? You couldn’t really remember.

A shiver ran through you. You weren’t sure if it was maybe the fact that it was the ice cream that settled in your stomach, or the chill of the night air. It could have even been the result from his thigh pressed against yours. It wasn’t more than a moment later that you were surrounded by leather. The returning smell of smoke, eucalyptus and cedar surrounded you. The cool air no longer brushing against your limbs as Eddie had draped his leather jacket and jean vest combo around your shoulders.

The air, even though out in the open, felt thick. It was hard. It was a struggle to get air to expand your lungs. This was a normal thing, but tonight it felt different. Everything did.

“Eddie,” you started, a small frown on your face. “You’re going to get cold.”

He shrugged, “Don’t worry about me, princess. I’m thick skinned.”

Looking at him in his Metallica t-shirt you shook your head and shimmied the vest off of the jacket and handed it back to him. “Compromise?”

With a soft sigh, you watched him as he relented and slipped the vest back on. It wouldn’t do much in the way of keeping his arms warm. However, at least it would keep his back and chest from the bite of the cool night air. Placing the empty carton of ice cream next to you, you slipped your arms through the jacket. The cuffs covered your hands. It swallowed you. Letting out one final shiver, you tucked your nose into the collar of the jacket as discreetly as possible, breathing in his scent.

“Ready to get out of here?”

Nodding, you moved to stand, doing your best to hide a groan. Looking down, you saw Eddie smirking up at you. You just rolled your eyes and held your hand out to him to help him to his feet. He groaned as he rose, his own knees popping from the position they’d been in. “Not a single word.” He pointed out.

Smirking, you reached down to grab your carton, and his to throw them out. You gave the Clarke’s one last smile and wave before climbing into the van. Eddie had already started it and put the heat on for you, for which you were grateful.

“Home time?”

“Not quite yet, princess. I have one last thing to close out what I officially dub ‘The Phenomenal Adventures of the Freak and the Princess.’”

“And they say you’re the best Dungeon Master in Hawkins. Such creativity.”

His finger was in your face, to which you immediately swatted it away as if it were a buzzing fly. “It’s probably safe to bet that you’re not going to tell me where we’re going right?”

“You are correct.”

It was close to midnight when Eddie pulled down a tree covered pathway. The dirt road bumpy and uneven from under use. It wasn’t the main path down to Lover’s Lake, but it was one that you and Eddie used on late nights like this.

Eddie had discovered this little trail one night when he stopped by Reefer Rick’s place. It was on the opposite side of his place, which was on the opposite side of the lake. Which you were okay with, if you were being honest. Reefer Rick used to give you bad vibes, and not just because he was wanting some of the heavier stuff from Eddie. The type of stuff he didn’t carry around every day. Thankfully, he’d been in jail since 1986.You were sure he wouldn’t be in much longer, but you would take every day that you got. He just gave you the creeps. At least Eddie wouldn’t have to deal to him any longer.

The heat shuts off the second the van does, but with Eddie’s leather jacket, you’re not as cold as you were. You nuzzle into the leather for a moment, before looking over at him. He was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. The tapping looked almost.. anxious? With one more hit to the steering wheel, he pulled himself out and into the cool air. You unbuckled your seatbelt, with the intention of opening the door, but Eddie beat you to it. He was already at the passenger side door. He opened it for you, his hand being held out in an offering for you.

“You’re being extremely chivalrous tonight, are you okay?” You eyed him, almost as if he had grown a second head.

“What? Is it that out of the norm for me to be nice to you?”

“Actually, yes.”

With a sigh, Eddie reached in to grab your hand and pulled you out. He was gentle of course. “Come on,” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“You’re not going to push me into the lake are you?”

“Oh, ye of little faith here. I’d never push you in.” Before you even had a chance to open your mouth he continued, “Okay there was that one time. I still stand by that you had a wasp in your hair - I was doing you a favour!”

“Right. Charging at me from the other end of the dock and tossing me in like a rag doll was doing me a favour. I’d hate to know what it’s actually like to have you do me a favour.”

Eddie led you to the back of his van and opened the doors. “You’re just going to have to trust me for once, princess. Believe in the Munson charm.”

You smiled at him as you shook your head, letting him help you up onto the bed of the van. You looked out into the water, watching as the lake had very soft ripples. It was beautiful, and calm. The van shook slightly as Eddie hoped up next to you, climbed in and began searching for something. There was the familiar sound of two metal clasps being unlocked. Eddie shuffled around some more, the van rocking with his movements before he finally settled into place next to you.

Turning, you noticed the familiar acoustic guitar that usually sat in the corner of his room. The words ‘this machine slays dragons’, were sprawled across the dark oak finish. You had told him once as he plucked away on it, and he loved the saying so much that he had you paint the words. He shifted into a more comfortable position beside you. You couldn’t help but grin at him, “Aw, Eddie, are you going to serenade me in the pale moonlight?”

The look he shot you was one that told you to be quiet. You hadn’t seen him look this nervous, this out of place since you were children. You moved your hand, placing it gently on his to give it a squeeze. You weren’t sure what he was so nervous about, why he looked scared, but you had to reassure him that everything was going to be okay. He never had to hide anything around you.

“I’ve,” Eddie paused for a moment. He shimmied in his position as he cleared his throat. “I’ve been working on this for a while. I know that you’ve been wondering why I haven’t let you come around for practice. I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

“Okay,” you replied, giving his hand another squeeze before placing both of yours in your lap. Your attention completely and totally devoted to the man who held your heart in his hands. “I’m sure whatever it is, is going to sound amazing. It always does.”

“Okay,” Eddie repeated your word. You watched him take in a deep breath as he placed his fingers into the right position. For a moment, you watched him fiddle with the strings, then with the sound until he was satisfied. It took him another moment before he began to play.

You were expecting something completely different. Something in the realm of a brand-new Corroded Coffin song. You were so sure that that was the reason why he’d kept you from watching him practice and teach himself something new, but as he played, the melody was familiar to you. Your brows furrowed, your eyes lifted from the way his fingers plucked at the steel string, up to his face. Eddie didn’t look at you. He had his eyes focused on the water straight ahead. It was almost as if he was afraid to even toss a glance your way.

“I took my love, I took it down.

I climbed a mountain and I turned around…

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills

’Til the landslide brought me down..”

Your heart hammered in your chest, your eyes wide as you stared at him. Landslide. Eddie Munson was playing your song. The song you listened to in the darkness of your bedroom. The one that you listened to when you thought about him. Thought about how the two of you would never cross that line. But here he was. Surprising you, as usual. He had actually gone out of his way to learn something that wasn’t metal. Something that didn’t even remotely interest him. You felt like you couldn’t breath.

“Oh, mirror in the sky

What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?

Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

Listening to Eddie play was always one of your favourite things to do. You could have sat there for hours as he taught himself something from scratch. It wasn’t just watching his fingers move nimbly across the strings either. His voice was beautiful. It was a rare sight that he ever sang something so soft, to anyone. It gave you goosebumps.

“Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’

‘Cause I’ve built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Even children get older

And I’m getting older too…”

Eddie continued to sing, which helped you realize that there was no better sound in the world than this. You wanted to sing along with him, as softly as possible, but you also didn’t want to ruin the little bubble he’d created. He looked so beautiful, so focused. His face hidden behind a curtain of his dark brown curls. You know that if you tried to get a better look at him, that his eyes would be closed, his face contorted in concentration. You closed your eyes, a soft smile fell on your lips. You moved to rest your head against the fame of the trunk. Just letting this moment wash over you like a warm blanket.

“Oh-oh, take my love, take it down

Oh-oh, climb a mountain and you turn around

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills

Well, the landslide bring it down

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hill

Well, the landslide bring it down

Oh-ohh, the landslide bring it down…”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. You opened your eyes to watch as Eddie placed his Dragon Slayer back in her case, safely hidden away.

With his hands now free of his guitar, you watched as he spun his rings around his fingers. It was his tell that he was getting a little bit nervous. You weren’t sure if it was maybe the silence that was getting to him, or he was wanting to say something but didn’t know how to get it out.

“Eddie that was… very metal of you.”

His shoulders shook with a soft laugh, causing you to smile. He sat up a bit straighter, his hand coming put to push his unruly hair from his face. “Yeah?” He asked.

“Absolutely. I’ve only been trying to get you to sit down and listen to Fleetwood Mac for what feels like years now.” You grinned, “Told you that they wouldn’t make your ears bleed. Stevie Nicks has one of the most amazing voices I have ever heard.”

“Yeah, I guess they’re not too bad.”

Another silence fell over the two of you. It was quiet except for the gentle breeze as it passed through the leaves. There was something that was bothering you. It wasn’t a bad bother, not even close, but you had to know.

“Eddie, can I ask you something?” You asked, your fingers picking at a loose threat connected to one of the rips on his black jeans. You had to do something to keep your mind from going out of control.

“Anything,” he replied, his voice slightly concerned.

Your mouth was dry, your heart pounded in your chest as you thought about how to say this out loud, about how to ask. He took you bowling, took you out for your favourite ice cream and danced in the street with you. Eddie Munson even learned to play your favourite song on the guitar to surprise you. There had to be a reason he was doing this, and you knew that you shouldn’t get your hopes up, but you had to ask.

“Why did -“ you paused, taking in a deep breath. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying the flesh between the white pearls. Biting your lip was a tell that you were nervous. You hated that he knew your tells, as seconds later he had reached his hand toward your jaw. Using his thumb, he gently pulled the reddened flesh from between your teeth. You could feel your face heat up as you took in another breath. “You know that I appreciate today. I really did, I just… Why?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did you go out of your way to do,” you paused, your hands coming up to gesture around you, “All of this?” The words finally made their way out of your mouth.

Eddie let out a soft sigh from beside you, his hands placed behind him so that he could put his weight on them. His beautiful, chocolate brown eyes gazed out at the water. Watching as the moon’s reflection was ever so slightly disturbed by the soft ripples.

“I don’t know,” he started. “I guess I just wanted to give my favourite girl the adventure that she deserves.”

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, almost distant as you looked down at the ground between your legs. Fingers slipped themselves from the rip they had been picking at. They moved to bit at the skin on the sides of your nails, trying not to focus on how disappointed you felt. How it suddenly hurt to breathe. On how your heart felt like a piece was slowly breaking off. You had known better. You knew you shouldn’t have thought anything other than that. Eddie wouldn’t have had an ulterior motive to spend the day with you.

“I was a chicken shit.” His voice cut off your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. You frowned, lifting your head to chance a glance in his direction. You were expecting him to still be watching the water, but his eyes met yours the second you looked up. A puff of a sigh passed his lips as he adjusted his position, his hands folding in his lap. You watched as he began to spin and fiddle with the rings that covered his long fingers.

You had the urge to reach out, to take his hand in your own. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to be holding hands, especially when either one of you were nervous and needed the other to be grounded. But the fact that he was quite obviously trying to get something off his chest, you felt like it might derail his thoughts. You kept your hands in your own lap, kept your mouth shut, and patiently waited.

“I was a chicken shit,” he repeated, “I have no idea how to do something like this with… anyone, especially you. I’ve never really had the opportunity or wanted to put much thought into planning a date, unless it was with you. I know, I know. I know I never asked you. I know that you had no idea that I was using the term adventure as a code word for date. Which, was absolutely the entire point.”

Pausing, he took in a deep breath, “I wasn’t sure if it would’ve been something that you were even into. Or if you were even into all this - “ he paused, gesturing to himself. “Especially with Harrington around. I know you guys are friends, I know that you hang out - and that’s totally cool! I just, Harrington is…. Well, he’s Harrington. He’s cool, and strong. He’s got great hair, and big eyes. He’s even a real cool dude. Hell, you’ve seen how much Dustin absolutely worships the guy, right? It’s really weird. Not that I’m jealous or anything.” He let out a sigh, “The point is. I would have understood if you were in love with him.”

You stared at him as if he had grown a second head, “Eddie, I’m not in love with Steve, but I’m starting to think that you might be.”

That caused the reaction that you’d hoped it would. Eddie chuckled, and it seemed to put the two of you into a different kind of space. He didn’t seem to be as nervous around you. His shoulders weren’t as rigid, they were relaxed. Even his legs swung back and forth as they hung over the tailgate of the van. It gave you the opportunity to do what you had wanted to earlier. You reached over, gently taking one of his hands into your own. Your fingers slid perfectly in place between his own. Eddie’s head tilted forward, watching the way your hands looked like they belonged together. He couldn’t help but caress the knuckle of your thumb with his own. His thumb was soft, softer than the rest of his fingers due to the callouses from his guitar. Even though weren’t harsh to your skin when they brushed against you.

“I’m haven’t been reading into anything wrong here, have I?” Eddie questioned, his voice softer than normal. Nervous still. It was kind of cute, if you were being honest with yourself. Eddie had always hid behind a guarded wall, a wall that he so often let down around you. To this day, it still never stopped you from feeling honoured that he trusted you so deeply to do so.

You shook your head, a small smile falling on your lips, “Not even in the slightest bit, Munson.” You replied, your voice just as soft as his. You were afraid to speak any louder, afraid to put a pin to the small bubble the two of you had created.

The silence that followed wasn’t a terrible silence. It didn’t fill you with dread, or worry. It was the type of silence that made you wonder where you went next. Both of you unsure of what to say. Was he asking you, without asking you, to be his? Either way, the answer would be yes - you’ve always been his. Giving his hand a squeeze, you opened your mouth, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no telling where you might be swept off to.”

Eddie’s head shot up, his eyes wide in shock and awe as he gazed at you. You held up the index finger of your free hand, bringing it to his lips. To keep him from opening the big, beautiful mouth of his and ruining what you were trying to say. “I will be a shield-maiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren. No longer do I desire to be a Queen.”

Eddie chuckled, the hand that was not currently laced with your own, reached up to take the one you had pressed to his lips. He then laced his fingers together with yours, so that both of your hands were nestled in his larger ones. “That is well, for I am not a King. Yet I will wed with the Queen of Hellfire,” he was grinning. His lips were spread wide in the most beautiful, radiant smiles. “If it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the Queen comes.”

“Slow down there, dude.” You chuckled, shaking your head, “Let’s hold off on the wedding talk for now, yeah?” But your face lit up. There was a grin nestled on it just as bright and side as his own. Butterflies fluttered around in your stomach so violently, you couldn’t help but feel like you were floating.

“Ah yes, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ll buy the ring on the third date.”

You snorted, prying a hand from his to place it on his face, covering it and giving him a gentle shove. Eddie reached up to take the offended appendage back into his grip, back down to his lap. When he was satisfied that you weren’t going to try and pry your hand away, he took the opportunity to reach up and cup your cheek, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. You felt like all the air was being sucked from the van, even with the fact that you two sat on the tailgate, the doors wide open. You nuzzled into his palm, your eyes fluttering for a moment, your hands coming up to grip on the edges of his denim vest. Your eyes opened to meet his, “Here you are, talking about marriage before you’ve even kissed me,” you whispered.

“Sweetheart,” he started, causing your heart to skip a beat. He’d never called you sweetheart in the entire expanse of your friendship. It had always been Princess, Queen of Hellfire, Psycho - although that one is more in jest, due to the fact that you were dubbed The Psycho alongside him being known as The Freak. Everyone that wasn’t in your small group of friends thought you were psychotic for being best friends with the big bad, satanic cult leader. Eddie hardly even called you by your own name. He only seemed to when the two of you were fighting, which wasn’t often, or when you were upset. You loved every name he called you, it was like music falling from his lips. But Sweetheart? Sweetheart sent a thrill up your spine. That name was always reserved for his guitar. “I’ve wanted to marry you since I hit puberty.”

With his hand still cupping your cheek, he slid it to the back of your neck, bringing you closer, closer until your foreheads were pressed together. Your fingers closed tighter on the blue denim, using the fabric like a lifeline, something to keep you grounded in the van with him. You gave the fabric a little bit of a tug, “You want to marry me, but yet you still haven’t kissed me, you idiot.”

Eddie chuckled as his hand slid along your jaw, pinching your chin between his fingers, angling your head up toward his, “I should probably fix that, shouldn’t I?” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing your own. You could feel his breath, could smell the cigarette from an hour ago as you nodded.

Minutes, hours passed when it was only a matter of seconds before he finally closed the distance. His lips pressed softly against your own, testing the waters. He pulled away, his eyes searching yours for some unspoken question. He seemed to have found it, as he closed the distance a moment later, pressing his lips harder to yours, causing your eyes to flutter shut. There was a soft tingle from his fingertips as they caressed your jawline to the back of your neck, angling you so that he could deepen the kiss.

It was over before you wanted it to be, the burning ache in your lungs as they were desperate for air. He didn’t pull away too far, just enough for you two to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed together, matching grins on your kiss swollen lips as he caressed your neck.

“Just so you know,” you started, “By the third date you’re apparently supposed to officially open up and be all mushy and shit.” Your hand came up, tugging on one of the curly, unruly strands that covered his head. “Since we can skip all that bullshit, you could maybe get me a ring. You know, only if you wanted to, I guess.”

“Cool.” Eddie grinned, “Maybe I’ll get you a promise ring. Just so that I can save up enough from the shop.”

Ever since Eddie had to repeat his senior year for a second time, he got a part time job at Thacher Tires. Up until about a year ago, when he quit and started a job at the record store in the Starcourt Mall. He was working to save up to help fix up the trailer he shared with Wayne, and work on getting one himself. He was so close. He’d been working so hard on saving up for it.

“I don’t need a promise ring,” you promised him, your hand smoothing his hair from his face. “I’ll take one of those ring pops.”

He still had that stupid smile on his lips, “Maybe one of those red ones? Cherry - maybe strawberry?”

“Keep it up with the talk of a cherry ring pop, Munson, and I might be the one getting down on my knees.”

“Well, if we’re going down that route…”

You snorted, your hand coming out to push him away but Eddie was too fast this time. He pulled you into his side, wrapped his arm around your shoulder, making sure that you were tucked nicely into his warmth. You instantly snuggled into him, breathing in his scent. For a moment, you were worried that things might get weird between you two, though it was immediately quelled. You have been inseparable your entire lives since you were children. You did everything together. Robin knew how you felt about him, and had always teased you. Saying that you should just ask him out, saying that Eddie felt the same way about you. She always said that you two already acted like you were dating. You had been absolutely adamant that he didn’t feel the same way about you.

Boy, were you wrong - and for once in your life you were thankful to be wrong.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson au #stranger things #joseph quinn #felts writes

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