‘Stranger Things 2’ Episode Posters By Butcher Billy

Eddie is the opposite of a nonchalant boyfriend

Masterlist

Context: Nonchalant boyfriend was an internet phenomenon where girls were talking about their, you guessed it, nonchalant boyfriends avoidant attachment style lowkey saying things like, "when he's nonchalant and u never know if he actually likes you or if he doesn't even care abt ur existence" and, "pov: dating a nonchalant guy who never compliments you when you're a words of affirmation girl"

Asks are open, please for the love of god talk to me about Eddie.

Warnings: mentions of a period, a pinch of spiciness, that's it.

WC: 1.8k

A/N: Have this thought that turned long while I continue writing my magnum opus, it is an Eddie x Popular!Reader enemies to situationship to lovers based on the song imgonnagetyouback by Taylor Swift. It's currently at 14k words and I haven't even hit the real drama yet lmao. If anybody applies the slightest bit of pressure on me I will fold like a wet noodle and give you guys an excerpt. I've been planning it out and drafting it this whole week so it should be a well-structured story unlike my other long one.

Eddie declares war on all nonchalant boyfriends. 

He’s never been nonchalant about anything in his entire life, and he’s not gonna start now, not with you. 

No longer will you wonder if your boyfriend thinks you look pretty or if he thought about you that day. 

With Eddie, he thinks about so many things during the day, you included, that he has to write the ones about you down so he can tell you later when you both get home from work. 

He runs down the paper like it’s his grocery list, “Okay, first of all Joe was playing the radio in the shop today and Queen came on and it made me think of you.” 

Your heart flutters at the sentiment, “Aw, what song was it?” You’re curious to know what it was so you can go listen to it, even though you’ve more than likely heard it a million times. You just want to listen to it from his perspective, imagining what lines made him think of you. 

You giddily wonder if it was Killer Queen, you do have an insatiable appetite for him. Or maybe it was Somebody To Love, you swoon at the thought of Eddie hearing the choir-like chanting, ‘Find me somebody to love,’ knowing he’s coming home to you. His somebody. 

Your rose-colored thoughts are dashed when he quips his answer. 

“Fat Bottomed Girls,” he’s got a proud grin stretched across his face before he looks at his lengthy list once more, quickly moving on. 

Your eyes deaden, lips pressed into a thin line, “Okay.” A tone of defeat saturating the word, you should’ve known better. That’s about right for Eddie, your perpetually horny boyfriend. 

He continues as if he’s presenting on a time limit, too much to say, please hold all questions ‘til the end. 

“Okay, up next, I stopped at Bradley’s Big Buy on the way home and bought you a new bag of tootsie rolls.” He reaches into the paper bag on the chair beside him and plops the huge bag of the sugary treat on the counter. “I checked the pantry this morning and saw we’re running low. Plus, your period is supposed to come this week and I can’t be without my greatest allies.” He finishes by patting the crinkling bag. 

You furrow your brow, jerk your head back, eyes flutter-blinking in a questioning manner, how did he know you’re supposed to get your period this week?

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he waves off your confusion as if it’s preposterous, “I keep up with my girl, and my girl’s girl.” He gestures vaguely to your lower half, it makes you snort. 

“Did you just refer to my vagina as sentient?” Your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes alight with mirth. 

He shrugs, “You know me.” He’s so blasé with it, as if those three words explain everything. 

What you don’t know is he keeps a little pocket calendar that he uses to mark your menstrual cycle. He wants to know when his girl isn’t feeling very good, but he also wants to know when his girl is feeling extra good. 

“Moving forward,” he shouts with a finger up in the air, turning his nose up as if frustrated by your incessant interruptions. Such a drama queen, you think. 

“Gareth asked me if we want to go on a double date with him and Jenna this Friday, I told him I’d ask the old Ball & Chain.” He’s grinning when he says it, preparing for your inevitable smack. 

And you do smack him, right on his shoulder. “Hey! I’m not a Ball & Chain until you lock it down,” is your only response, you can’t help but smile at the glee in his eyes when you mention being his forever. 

“You’re so right, my dearest, how very silly of me.” He says it in a stilted overly-formal voice like he’s a 1940s business man puffing on a cigar. “But mark my words, you will be my Ball & Chain,” he says in a playful threat, “When you least expect it, that’s when I’ll strike.”

You shake your head, smiling at his stupidity. He’s smug at the fact that you don’t know he’s been wearing the engagement ring he bought you around his neck, beneath his clothes, for the past four months just waiting for the perfect moment.

“Yes, let’s do dinner, what’s next,” you question, craning your neck forward to get a glimpse at his chicken scratch writing. 

He jerks the paper away from your view, it’s then that you realize he’s written all of this on the back of a purchasing request from the shop. You see the logo for ‘Joe’s Cars’ at the top of the page, god, you hope they didn’t need this document for their files. 

He holds the paper to his chest, reprimanding you like you’re a nosy kid, “No peeking!” 

You laugh as you settle back into your stance in front of him, waiting for what he has to say next. 

“On my way home I saw a banner on the mall advertising a sale at the Gap and I figured we could go get you that dress you saw in the catalog the other day. Maybe you can wear that to dinner with Gareth and Jenna,” he suggests. 

It’s so straightforward the way he says it. He’s waiting for your response, but you’re nearly choking back tears at the way he loves you. The way he sees you.

You had shown him the dress last week while he was building you a shelf for your joint bedroom. The shelf would be a place for you to put your romance novels, a lot of Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins, something your ex would’ve never done. He always made you feel bad for reading those types of books, but not Eddie. Eddie built you a place to display them proudly in your room, no longer having to dig under the bed to reread them. 

When you showed him the dress, you didn’t think he actually remembered the interaction. He gave you his attention when you talked about how pretty it was and how much you liked the pleated skirt, but you just thought it went in one ear and out the other. You thought that he was probably nodding, ‘oo’-ing and ‘ah’-ing until you’d go away, leaving him to work. 

But here he was a week later, having remembered the exact dress and the exact store, offering to buy it for a silly little dinner. 

You smile at him with watery eyes, nodding, “Yeah, I’d like that very much,” you move to kiss him, but he holds up his hand to stop you. A pinch of worry squeezes your heart before he says, “Hold on I’m not done yet!” 

His hand still held in the air, he dutifully looks at his list as if he’s reading something lengthy, preparing to recite the next thought he had at work that he needed to share with you. 

He takes a big breath in before turning to you to share the last thing, “And- I love you.” He says it with the sweetest smile on his face, just happy to talk to you, happy to come home to you. 

It takes you a minute to grasp what he said. That was it. That was the last thing he thought at work that he needed to tell you. Wrote it down and everything. 

He stopped your incoming kiss and affection to tell you that, he gave you pause thinking you rudely cut him off again. But he just wanted to tell you he thought about how he loves you while at work.

He’s so stupid, you think fondly. He’s your stupid, silly, dramatic, lover boy. 

Your close-mouthed smile is so big it makes your eyes squint shut, nose scrunching as you shake your head at his antics. A huffing laugh leaves your nose as you reach for him, his arm pulls you in for the sweetest kiss, the one you get to have every day with him. 

“I love you too, stupid face.” 

You love your non-nonchalant boyfriend. 

Bonus: 

On Friday, you’re getting ready for the double-date in the bathroom, touching up your makeup in preparation to show Eddie. 

“Teddie!” You call out the fond nickname, he loves when you call him that, it liquifies his insides. You always make him melt. 

You can hear his soft thudding steps into the bedroom, a slight squeak of the bed as he sits down. 

“You ready to see?” Your voice echoes from behind the door, he can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him smile. 

“So ready,” he grins, “Gimme my prize, baby. Show me what’s behind door number one!” His imitation of a game show host is weirdly good, he blames it on Wayne’s addiction to old reruns of Let’s Make A Deal.

You open the door, stepping out, nervously brushing the nonexistent wrinkles out of the skirt with your hands. You look up at his face, asking a hesitant, “How do I look?”

He’s frozen in his spot, his eyes are wide as they take in the angel in front of him. He finds you sexy any way you come, but he does love when a gift is covered in pretty wrapping. 

Your confidence grows at his speechlessness, you know him well enough to know it's good speechless. 

He stands up abruptly, “Excuse me- I gotta-hold on-,” and he’s out the front door. You have no idea where he’s going, but knowing him, this is for dramatic effect. So you sit down on the bed and wait, crossing one healed leg over the other, leaning back on your arms, bobbing your foot idly. 

When he comes back in thirty seconds later his black suit is disheveled, his hair no longer neat in a ponytail. The shorter curls are windswept as they frame his face, he’s unbuttoned his dress shirt to his sternum, he’s breathing hard and ragged. You stand at his entrance, hands on your hips, an amused glint in your eyes. 

His cheeks are pink with exertion and sweat beads at his hairline, “Sorry, you’re so hot I literally had to take a lap, I’m back now, we’re good to go. You look amazing, by the way.” He leans in to hold you in a kiss, but you put your hands up to stop his body from touching yours. 

You're giggling at his antics, ‘Ew, you’re all sweaty now,” you whine. 

He grins mischievously, “Oh good, then it won’t matter if I get even more sweaty.” Next thing you know he’s clumsily grabbing the sides of your head, pulling you in for a comically sloppy kiss, and pressing his body to yours desperately. You can feel his leg hitch onto your body like he’s about to climb you like a damn tree. 

You break the silly kiss with a loud laugh, tossing your head back, “Eddieeeeuhhh!” 

A/N: please like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it. Comments encourage me to write more, they're like a shot of espresso to my heart.

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High Water | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. Bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own, and it’s almost too late to pull you back.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: self-destructive behavior, implied suicidal ideation, self-injury, trauma responses, PTSD, medical neglect, emotional suppression, therapy, recovery/healing themes, canon violence, referenced eating irregularities.

Word Count: 12.9k

Author’s Note: hi friends—this one started as a simple request, and it ended up becoming much more than i originally intended, something much bigger, heavier, darker, and more vulnerable so please take care while reading and only engage with this if and when you're in the right headspace! there are helpful links and resources on the original request here if you need them <3

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Bucky didn’t like working with new people.

It wasn’t personal. He just didn’t trust the way most of them moved—too fast, too loud, too cocky in the spaces between orders. The ones who’d never had a knife held to their gut didn’t flinch when doors slammed. The ones who hadn’t been broken thought everything could be fixed.

You were different.

You came in quiet, already carrying whatever past had earned you the clearance to stand beside him. Torres had said you burned out in intel. Too good at your job. Too bad at pretending it didn’t eat you alive.

You hadn’t confirmed or denied it, and he hadn’t asked. He didn’t need the backstory. He could read it in your shoulders—how they tensed before anyone entered a room. How you always tracked the exits. How gunfire didn’t phase you, but the clang of a dropped fork sent a shudder down your spine.

More than that, you didn’t try to fill the silence. Not the thick, awkward kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that settled after the adrenaline wore off and the ghosts came out to stretch their legs. That kind of quiet made most people talk just to drown it.

You let it sit. Let it breathe.

He respected that. Maybe too much.

Your last mission had been nothing special. Your seventeenth time working together, not that he was counting.

It was a low-stakes intel grab that went a little sideways thanks to a hot-headed contact and a busted comm. You handled yourself fine—better than fine. You moved like someone used to ducking and fought like someone who wasn’t scared of getting hurt. That last part always stuck with him. 

You never really avoided damage. You just treated it like something inevitable. Routine.

There was something about the way you took a hit—clean, mechanical, almost practiced. No wince, no curse, no flinch. You had rolled your dislocated shoulder back into place like you were brushing lint off a jacket more times than he could count. 

Bucky had seen people trained out of pain responses before, had watched entire rooms of Hydra operatives bleed without blinking, but this was different. Yours wasn’t discipline. It was something else. Something harder to look at. Something all too familiar.

You had tells. Little ones. He’d started clocking them without meaning to a few months back. How you never reacted to shallow cuts but always stared a little too long at the deeper ones.

How you’d press a palm flat against bruises when you thought no one was watching, not to soothe them—but to feel them. 

Once, he saw you slam your hand against the edge of a crate when the briefing tech locked up. No outburst. No tantrum. Just one sharp motion, knuckles first, and then a blank look like you hadn’t even done it. The sound stayed with him the rest of the day.

He told himself not to keep track. That it wasn’t his job to take inventory of other people’s ghosts. But your file was getting thin. Too thin. And the pieces you left behind were starting to take shape.

You didn’t act like someone trying to survive. You acted like someone trying to burn off whatever was left. Quietly. Efficiently. Without leaving a mess.

That unsettled him more than anything else.

He hadn’t planned to check in on you after the mission. He just conveniently happened to be passing the med bay on the way to nowhere in particular, and paused. 

He told himself it was habit—old soldier instinct, routine perimeter checks, whatever excuse came easy. But then he saw the door ajar, the flicker of movement just beyond the frame. 

You never used the damn step stool.

That was the first thing Bucky thought when he found you half-balanced on the edge of the supply cabinet on the counter, rifling through gauze packs with your unwrapped wrist pressed tight against your chest like it wasn’t already swelling.

You didn’t look up but Bucky knew that you could sense his presence before saying a word.

“Don’t say it,” you said flatly.

He stopped just inside the door. Leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching you from beneath the heavy slope of his brow.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were,” you said. “You were building to it.”

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the moment pass like all the others—but there was something in the way your shoulders hunched, spine curled forward like you were bracing for a blow that never came, that stopped him cold. 

The cabinet edge bit into your hip, your hand already trembling from the strain of holding yourself steady, but you stayed there like it meant something. You stood there like you knew exactly how far you'd have to lean to hit the floor from the counter. Like the fall wasn’t an accident waiting to happen, but a choice you’d already measured. He didn’t realize his jaw had locked until it ached.

“You’re gonna fall,” he said finally.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

There was no heat behind it—no bite. Just exhaustion, scraped raw and held together by whatever dry humor hadn’t abandoned you yet. 

Before Bucky could even begin to think about how to respond, you jumped down without ceremony, boots hitting the tile with a solid thunk. The movement jarred something in your side. He could tell. You didn’t flinch, but your jaw set just a little too tightly for it to be nothing.

You walked past him, dropped onto the bench without a word, and started tearing the gauze open with your teeth. Your wrist shook on the third pull. Barely. A twitch, maybe. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

He did.

He didn’t ask before moving forward and taking the roll from your fingers—just reached out, gloved hand closing around it with quiet finality. You looked at him like you were weighing something before finally letting go.

“You're not a medic,” you said.

“You're not either.”

He sat across from you, your wrist already in his hands before you could protest. 

It was already red, swelling around the joint. He turned it gently, noting the way your knuckles twitched. You didn’t wince, but the tension in your shoulder gave you away. 

He worked in silence, measuring the wrap with muscle memory and years of being too careful. He was always too careful now. Always calculating how much pressure, how much distance, how much weight a person could take.

There was a part of him that hated how steady he was now. How easy the calm came when he needed it. He used to think that was what healing looked like—discipline, composure, control. But it felt more like taxidermy. All the danger still underneath, just frozen in place. Stuffed into the skin of a man who knew better than to be seen for what he really was.

He tightened the wrap. Your face didn’t flinch, but somewhere in the back of his mind, something scratched.

He’d seen people dissociate through pain. Seen it in the field, in trauma units, in mirrors. But the stillness in your body didn’t feel like shock. It never did.

It felt like practice.

“You didn’t log this.” His voice wasn’t accusatory—just quiet, like a loose thread he already knew would pull something loose. “You filed a full report. Debriefed like clockwork. But nothing about this.”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, the skin there already darkening beneath the surface.  “What was it this time?” he asked, even though he already knew it wasn’t the mission. Not really.

“Doorframe. I think.”

“You think?”

You gave a small shrug, the kind that looked more like a concession than an answer.

“I was pissed off. The contact flaked. We almost lost the drop point. I...took it out on the wall.”

He didn’t say anything else, just wrapped your wrist slowly, evenly. 

He didn’t like how familiar your skin looked under his hands. Not in a way he could name, just in the way his gut clenched when he saw your bruises lining up with places he’d struck in another life. 

And maybe that’s why he kept his gaze fixed on the wrap, not on you, because something about your quiet made his own feel louder—like if he looked too long, he’d see himself in the stillness you wore like armor.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said eventually. Not bitter. Just quiet.

He kept working. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It pressed in tighter. Less like space, more like weight.

He meant it. You didn’t ask for help, not once, not even when your wrist went limp trying to remove your jacket in the quinjet. You bit down on everything, discomfort, pain, maybe even gratitude, like it owed you rent. 

He couldn’t judge you for it. He just recognized it. The same way Sam had once looked at him, eyebrows low, mouth grim. The look that said: I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know why you think you have to.

When he finished the wrist, you didn’t pull back. You stayed seated, hands in your lap, body turned slightly away from him. The back of your shirt had risen when you sat, just enough for him to see a few inches of skin beneath.

He wasn’t looking for it. He wasn’t trying to notice. But it was there.

A bruise. Faded, old enough to be from another week, maybe longer. It was large enough that it likely reached along the edge of your ribs in a sickly spread of yellow-green, the kind of mark you only get from hitting something too hard and too fast.

Or hitting it more than once.

“You’ve had that one a while,” Bucky said, and the words landed heavier than he meant them to. He almost didn't even speak.

You stiffened. Subtle, but not nothing.

You shifted your shirt down, slow and unbothered. “Yeah. Couple days ago.”

He waited. Not because he expected honesty—he wasn’t naïve—but because part of him wanted to believe you might offer it anyway. That maybe the room was quiet enough, the moment still enough, for you to meet him halfway. 

But you didn’t. You just sat there, unreadable, like the bruise meant as little to you as the silence did.

“What happened?” he asked finally, the question leaving his mouth like it had to push through something on the way out.

“Table corner. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He nearly scoffed. He had heard better lies from Hydra agents. Worse ones, too. But never so... bored. Like you’d already had this conversation a hundred times, with yourself. With anyone else who tried.

“That’s a hell of a table.”

“I hit hard.”

There was something about the way you said it. Flat, mechanical, like the pain wasn’t worth the breath it would take to lie better, that needled under his skin. He’d known people who wore their wounds like armor. You didn’t. 

You wore them like afterthoughts. Like they weren’t worth tending. Like you didn’t think you were. And that did something to him he didn’t have language for.

It wasn't pity. Never that. But something close to anger, maybe, pressed tight behind his ribs—not at you, but at whatever kept teaching you this was normal. That damage could be shrugged off, that hurt meant nothing if it was quiet. 

He knew that logic. Had lived in it for years, let it hollow him out, let it keep him moving. And still, watching you now, he wanted to shake the silence out of you. Wanted to say your name like it might make you look at him. He hated how badly he wanted you to lie better. Hated that you didn’t even flinch at being caught.

But all he could manage was: “You ever get those checked out?”

You snorted. “You think I go to a doctor every time I get a bruise?”

“No,” he said. “I think you forget half of them are there.”

He didn’t mean to say it like that. Didn’t mean to show his hand, but it was too late. You looked at him then. Eyes sharp, not surprised. Just... measuring.

He met your stare, steady.

And beneath it all, that same thought clawed at the edge of his mind again. Familiar, but unwelcome. Like recognizing a song you didn’t want to remember the lyrics to.

Because there was something about the way you looked right through him—unafraid, unbothered, half-daring him to keep pressing—that felt like a challenge. Like you’d already decided he wouldn’t.

When you finally spoke, your voice was almost calm. “You don’t get to do that thing where you try to figure me out.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Too late.”

He moved before he could think better of it. Not away from you, just far enough to breathe. The ache in his jaw told him how tight he’d been clenching it. He reached for the cabinet with the same control he used in combat: not rushed, not casual. Just exact. Like precision might hide the fact that he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

The ice pack he grabbed crinkled in his hand as he turned and placed it in your palm, watching your fingers curl around it like they weren’t sure what to do. That hesitation again—so quick most people wouldn’t see it.

But he wasn’t most people.

It wasn’t even about the cold. It wasn’t even about the bruise. The swollen wrist. It was really giving you something to hold that wasn’t your own skin.

“Thanks,” you said, low.

He gave a single nod. “Use it this time.”

The words came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t walk them back. He just watched you press the cold to your ribs like you were trying to freeze the damage into place. Like maybe, if it stayed cold enough, it wouldn’t spread.

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Bucky had stopped leaving sharp-edged or blunt things in the briefing rooms.

Nobody noticed. Not Torres, not Sam, not any of the rotating agents who filtered through between assignments. Nobody noticed when the cracked tablet screen on the west wall stayed unrepaired so you couldn't break it again. Nobody mentioned the disappearance of the busted chair with the metal bar that dug into your side when you always sat in it too long. And if anyone wondered why the gym’s weighted slam balls had quietly replaced the old concrete-filled med balls, they didn’t say it out loud.

But Bucky noticed. Because Bucky put them there.

He never said anything about it. Never drew attention to the way he started arriving early to training rooms, or the way his eyes tracked what your hands did when you thought no one was looking. You didn’t punch walls anymore, crack your knuckles too hard, or bite your lip until it bled, not while he was in the room. Maybe because the moment you twitched toward contact, his voice was already there—level, quiet, asking a question you’d have to answer out loud.

You were smart. You knew how to pivot.

But he knew that look. The way it simmered just beneath your skin, desperate for a release you didn’t have language for. So he gave it shape. Misdirected it. Rebuilt the landscape around it until it had fewer sharp corners to cut you on.

He started stocking the freezer. First it was one extra ice pack, then five. Then ten. Lined up behind the frozen stir-fry meals. There was always one ready. Always within reach. He never said anything about those either. Just made sure the stock rotated, that the seal wasn’t broken, that there was no excuse for a bruise or injury to go untreated.

Some nights he’d catch himself lingering in the hallway near the shared kitchen after missions. Listening for the hum of the freezer door. The low click of the pack drawer sliding open. If he heard it, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. If he didn’t, he lingered longer.

There were other things too. The black coffee you always left half-finished, now poured into a travel mug with a lid you couldn’t slap against the counter, material too thick to shatter. The reinforced strap he stitched into your field bag where the weight used to strain your shoulder when you refused to wear it normally. The tiny ceramic dish on your desk that hadn’t been there before—a place to put your rings, or your tension, or whatever else you’d started taking off at the end of the day.

He didn’t watch you use any of it. But his body tracked you anyway, across rooms, across shared mission floors, across the space between not-trusting and not-sure-how-to-care. His eyes would flick to your hands before your face. Always. Noticing. Counting. Waiting.

There were a dozen things he wanted to say. None of them came out right in his head. He didn’t know how to ask Are you okay? without sounding like a lie. Didn’t know how to say Don’t do what I did. Don’t go quiet the way I did. Don’t become a locked room nobody has the key to.

There was no blueprint for this. No mission protocol for how to keep someone from unraveling. He remembered what it was like to chase sensation—sharp, fast, punishing—because the silence underneath felt worse. Because numbness made a liar of the body, and pain, at least, was something you could feel happening.

He remembered walking out of Hydra cells with blood on his hands and not knowing whether it was his. Remembered slamming his fist into concrete until something gave, praying it would be bone. Remembered the look in Sam’s eyes the first time he said You’re not fine, and how it felt like someone opening a window in a room that had long since stopped needing air.

You hadn’t let anyone open yours.

So he did what he could. He changed the layout. Softened the noise. Kept your gloves clean and your path clear and the ice always stocked, like any of it might make the difference between a bruise that faded and one that you couldn’t stop tracing.

But the past few days had felt off.

You’d started pacing again. Not the usual kind, the kind you used to work through tension with your eyes half-closed and your hands stuffed in your jacket. No—this was sharper. Jittery. Your shoulders were too tight, your hands kept flexing like they needed to do something. Like your bones itched under your skin.

It was small things at first. The way you’d stopped wrapping your fingers before training. The way you skipped debrief and lingered too long in the equipment room, too interested in the shelves labeled discard. You were sleeping less. Eating less. Drinking your coffee like it was a dare.

It was almost enough to have Bucky pull you off the next mission. But they were short on bodies. Half the roster rerouted for a border raid in Belarus, and the rest grounded from a blown cover op in Cairo. You were the only one cleared who knew the terrain, the entry points, the grid rotation by heart.

And you’d volunteered before he could suggest otherwise.

They’d landed an hour before sundown, dropped low behind the industrial strip on the edge of the city where the power grid cut off and the roads turned to gravel. Intel had said six armed guards. Maybe seven. Standard perimeter for a black-market tech handoff. Small crew. Clean location. Nothing flashy. Get in, get the drive, get out.

But Bucky’s shoulder had been twitching since you stepped off the quinjet.

You didn’t say much during the brief. Just nodded once, already pulling your gloves on, jaw set in that way that meant don’t ask. Now, crouched beside the fence line with shadows bleeding up the length of your arms, you were vibrating with tension. 

Bucky clocked the way you gripped the chain-link, tight enough for the metal to groan, like you might try to tear it down with your bare hands. You didn’t. You just released it and gave him the signal.

Two fingers. Clear.

He moved up beside you, silent, crouching just behind your left flank. He always took your left. He didn’t know why. Just felt right.

The warehouse was twenty yards ahead—low, square, the windows blown out and tarped over. Lights flickered dim behind the stained-glass haze of the plastic wrap. One truck. Engine off. Two men visible through the broken slats of the door. Voices muffled, low and sharp. One of them laughing.

“Visual on the target?” Joaquin’s voice crackled in his ear.

Bucky pressed his comm gently. “Affirmative. Two outside. Might be more inside. Moving in three.” He glanced toward you, already moving. Too early. You didn’t wait for the count.

You darted low along the wall, shadow hugging shadow, not reckless but fast. Too fast. He followed, jaw tight, senses peeled raw as you reached the first guard and struck without hesitation. Quick elbow to the solar plexus. Heel to the knee. Knife to the collarbone, pressed just hard enough to drop him with a wheeze.

The second one turned. You could’ve waited for backup. Could’ve signaled.

You didn’t.

You ran straight at him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and moved, covering ground in a blink, but you were already on the guy, shoulder slamming him into the metal siding, fists snapping in sharp, surgical strikes. Not out of control. But close.

Too close.

He reached you just as the man dropped. You turned, panting through your nose, mouth drawn tight, not winded. Not even surprised. Like you expected him to be there, already cleaning up whatever you left behind.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded once. Too quickly. “Peachy.”

Your voice didn’t match your eyes.

He wanted to stop. To grab your wrist. To say something—but the moment passed, and you were already signaling toward the next entry point.

“North entrance,” you said. “Should be unlocked.”

You didn’t wait for his reply.

He followed you in silence, teeth gritted, pulse ticking under the metal plate in his arm. Something was off. Worse than usual. And he didn’t like the way your shoulders moved, like you were chasing something you hadn’t found yet.

The two of you reached the door. You went to breach, but Bucky caught your wrist.

“Hold,” he murmured, voice just low enough to pin you in place. “You’re running hot.”

Your eyes snapped to his. Wide. Clear. Dangerous.

“I’m focused."

You pulled your wrist back—smooth, efficient, no heat behind it, like his hand had just been another obstacle to move through. And then you were gone, slipping into the dark.

Bucky followed, jaw locked tight, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

The warehouse interior swallowed everything. No lights. Just the flicker of a dying bulb swinging at the far end of the room, casting erratic, ghostly shadows across pallets stacked in half-toppled rows. Machinery sat quiet, half-stripped for parts. The air tasted like rust and mold and something chemical under the surface. He could hear your boots ahead, controlled. Calculated. Coiled.

You didn’t move like you were tracking. You moved like you’d already made contact in your mind and were just catching up to it physically. He hated that he recognized it. Hated the way it twisted under his skin.

It wasn’t enough to make him call it. You’d run hot before. Moved like that before. You were sharp, reliable, relentless. You got the job done. And he’d gotten good at giving space when you needed it. At trusting his read. At trusting you. At trusting himself to cover your six if it came to that.

He passed through the entryway and hugged the wall, scanning. Your silhouette flashed ahead—knife drawn low, footsteps absorbed in the filth-clogged concrete. 

Static cracked in his ear, then Joaquin’s voice—tight. Focused. “Got movement ahead—cluster of heat signatures just lit up. Southeast corner. Looks like a nest. You two are headed straight for it.”

Bucky stopped just short of the next pallet stack, eyes tracking your back as you kept moving. “How many?” he asked, low into comms.

“Four, maybe five. Can’t get a clean count—they’re shifting.”

You didn’t wait. Didn’t respond. No hand signal. No check back. Just straight through the gap in the machinery like it was routine. Like walking into five heat signatures wasn’t worth a breath.

“Hey, hold up,” Bucky said. To you. To no one.

A shot rang out toward where he should’ve been if he hadn’t stopped two steps too far behind to respond to Joaquin.

Suppressor. East wall. Nest above the compressor vent. High ground.

“Contact, right!” Bucky snapped into comms, already moving—

But you didn’t duck. You ran. Toward the sound.

He nearly shouted your name. Held it in. Swallowed it like bile.

You vaulted the pallet stack, caught the edge of a rusted pipe, and swung up onto the adjacent platform like you’d rehearsed it.  His eyes swept the shadows, angles and cover points burning through muscle memory, but his focus was on your back—your speed, your silence. The way you didn’t wait.

“Hey—hey, Y/N, you’re moving too fast,” Joaquin cut in over comms, voice sharper now. “Pull back, you’re ahead of your flank—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, clipped. Calm. Like you weren’t running straight into something with a heartbeat.

Another shot. Closer.

You dropped down into a side corridor without checking what was waiting.

Bucky lunged, caught sight of movement to the left just as the barrel lifted from the shadow. Timing was too tight. You were too fast. Too exposed.

No time to yell.

So he moved.

His boots hit concrete with a crack that echoed too loud, too sharp—but you didn’t turn around. Didn’t look back to see who was behind you or how close danger was pressing in. You dropped into the corridor like you knew something was waiting for you.

The muzzle flash came before the sound. Clean burst. Controlled pattern. Not panic fire.

You ducked low, barely missing the first round as it shattered a pipe inches from your head, steam hissing out in a burning rush. You didn’t flinch. You rolled beneath it, came up in a crouch, and bolted forward, fast enough to make the shooter shift his stance. It was a kill zone. Exposed, tight, bad angles, no cover.

And you kept moving.

Bucky hit the far wall and pressed himself flat, gun raised. He tracked the shooter’s position just as the man shifted his aim. Not at him. At you.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, breath catching sharp in his throat.

But you dodged again. Not random. Not sloppy. A calculated pivot just inside the arc of fire—fast enough to look like instinct, but it wasn’t.

Bucky fired once—center mass—dropped the man before he could realign. But by the time the body hit the floor, you were already moving again.

“Shit—guys, hold up,” Joaquin cut in, static spiking. “We’ve got more heat signatures. North end—five, no, six. That wasn’t in the schematics. They're shifting fast—looks like a flanking pattern.”

“Pull back,” he said, tighter now. “That’s not containment—it’s a box.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “Copy. Redirecting. Fall back to extraction—”

But you were already halfway down the hall.

“Could be the handoff,” you said, too steady, eyes flicking ahead like you wanted the confirmation. “We don’t want to lose the buyer.”

“This op was recon, not pursuit,” Joaquin snapped. “Pull back. Regroup and reassess—”

“Just need eyes on the target,” you replied, already rounding the corner. Another door. Another unsecured hallway.

Bucky cursed under his breath. He hesitated a second too long before pushing off the wall and following.

You kicked the door open so hard it snapped off its bottom hinge and went clattering into the dark. The echo rang through the warehouse like a dinner bell. You stepped into it like you were stepping off a ledge.

Bucky followed, pulse howling in his ears now, lungs burning. 

“Got more heat lighting up the grid,” Joaquin barked in his ear. “East quadrant, converging on your position. Fall back, now—both of you.”

Three came out of the dark fast—one close, two on the flank. Bucky dropped the first with a clean shot between the eyes, spun, caught the next with a punch that cracked his helmet and sent him sprawling. He barely registered the scream as he turned, gun raised, out of rounds, and took a blade to the arm.

Metal met muscle. Pain flashed white, but he didn’t stop. He twisted, slammed the attacker’s head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then drove a boot into his chest to keep him down.

Another pop of gunfire. Not at him. Ahead.

You’d already dropped one, but another was already engaging you—and you hadn’t even pulled your weapon.

The man’s fist connected with your side hard enough to stagger you, but you didn’t go down. You turned with the momentum, used it to drive your elbow into his throat, then kneed him in the gut hard enough to buckle his legs. You caught his wrist when he fell and twisted—a sick snap of bone. He screamed once, then dropped.

You stood over him, breathing hard.

And Bucky saw it.

The way you rocked slightly on your heels, like you were waiting for someone else to come. Like the blood rushing in your ears hadn’t peaked yet. Like you hadn’t gotten what you were after.

His stomach twisted.

He turned—too late. Another three coming fast, one already firing. He dropped behind the nearest crate, reloaded and returned fire, clipped a shoulder, rolled and came up behind the second. He slammed the man into a pipe, heard the breath leave his lungs, but didn’t wait to confirm. 

A boot connected with his ribs, hard, and Bucky dropped to a knee, gritted his teeth, twisted, and drove a knife into the attacker’s thigh. The man screamed. He yanked it free and threw it, end over end, into the throat of the one aiming at your blind side. Blood sprayed.

Still not enough.

Still more.

A fourth surged from the dark, and Bucky barely caught his arm in time—metal hand crushing bone, human fist swinging wide, a sickening crunch somewhere in the scuffle.

His shoulder jarred, pain sparking down the length of his arm. He took a punch to the gut, then another to the jaw, sharp and high, right where the comm was fitted in his ear. The crack of it was drowned out by the static burst that followed.

Joaquin’s voice cut in mid-command—“You’ve got two more coming in from the—”

Then nothing.

By the time he got to his feet, breath ragged and vision swimming, you were already rushing forward, still fighting, and something was wrong.

You weren’t reckless, but you weren’t guarding. You met your next opponent with clean moves, efficient strikes, but you weren’t ducking fast enough. Not checking your flanks. You were exposing yourself between each hit.

You kicked one of the attackers square in the chest, sent him flying into a stack of crates, and didn’t reach for cover. You stood upright. Open. Breathing hard but not alert. 

Bucky’s chest seized as he landed a punch of his own on another attacker, barely parrying the blade slicing toward his throat. He slammed the man’s head against the wall until he went still, vision tunneling, ears ringing.

There was a wide stretch of open space ahead, scattered crates, broken shelving, a flickering light still buzzing weakly from its hanging cable. One doorway, half-collapsed. Poor cover. Shit visibility. 

And still, you kept going.

Bucky shouted something, he didn’t know what, but his voice ripped hoarse as he blocked another strike, caught a forearm, twisted until it snapped. He shoved the attacker into a rusted beam and kept moving, kept looking. 

Kept his eyes on you.

Because he knew these moves.

Not in theory. But in muscle. In memory. In the way you angled your body just a little too far from the nearest exit. The way your hand hovered near your hip but never reached for your gun. You weren’t preparing to defend. You were giving them time to aim.

His mouth opened again—this time, nothing came out.

You didn’t see the two from the side hall. Or maybe you did and just didn’t care. One with a knife. The other with a rifle half-raised, hesitation written in the slack of his stance but not enough to stop him. 

Bucky surged forward, but something slammed into him from the left. A body, heavy and fast, barreling him into a stack of old scaffolding that cracked and collapsed under their combined weight. He grunted, drove his elbow backward, felt the attacker’s jaw snap beneath the strike. 

But another was already on him before the first one hit the ground. Fists rained down, wild and clumsy. He blocked two, absorbed the third with his shoulder, and twisted, slamming his knee into the guy’s ribs until he dropped.

He caught a glimpse of you between bodies, just a flicker of your profile in the flickering light.

You weren’t running. Weren’t crouched. You were locked with one of the last men, close range, his hand fisted in your collar as he shoved you hard into a rack of rusted shelving. But you didn’t fight like you should’ve. You weren’t trying to break the hold. Your elbow came up late. Your balance was off. And for one sick second, it looked like you were letting him keep you there.

Something twisted in Bucky’s gut, deep and hot.

Another one grabbed at him from behind, arms like steel cables, trying to lock around his throat. Bucky dropped his weight, slammed backward into the nearest wall, heard a crack, but didn’t stop. 

He ripped the man off and flung him into the others just as another attacker charged from the side. Blade raised. Aim precise.

He ducked, caught the wrist mid-swing, and drove his metal arm into the man’s chest so hard it crunched through armor. Blood hit the air. Bucky shoved the body aside and turned—

And saw the rifle level at your chest.

Something shifted in the corner of his vision, movement too close. Another attacker, sprinting toward him, blade glinting under the flicker of the overhead light. 

Bucky didn’t break stride. He turned just enough to meet him mid-charge, metal arm snapping up and crashing into the attacker’s throat so hard the cartilage gave out with a wet, crunching collapse. The man crumpled before his body even registered the hit.

Bucky was already moving past him.

Boots pounded concrete, blood roaring in his ears, breath caught between a curse and a scream.  You were still locked with the man holding you, his grip pinning your upper arm, your weight tilted wrong.

Bucky could’ve used him. Could’ve let the bastard take the shot meant for you, just one more body between you and the barrel. But the angle was too tight. The shot was already coming. And Bucky didn’t risk things he couldn’t afford to lose.

He didn’t hesitate.

He closed the distance like the air had stopped resisting him, like gravity owed him one. His hand caught the edge of your jacket, and yanked hard. Ripped you clean from the other man’s grip with force that sent you both reeling.

Hard enough to twist your body out of line—just as the round fired and punched straight into his back.

He didn’t feel it right away.

Just the force. The hot pressure. The way his knees buckled as he used his weight to drive you both behind cover, shoulder-first into the busted scaffolding that exploded into splinters around you.

The floor came up fast. His back hit harder.

Pain bloomed wide. Viscous. Familiar.

Metal met blood. His breath caught. But his arms were already around you, dragging you flat against him, shielding you from the next volley before it ever came.

────────────────────────

Bucky hadn’t seen you in fifteen days. Not properly.

There were sightings—passing flashes in corridors, your voice down the hall in conference rooms he knew you were in. But the moment you caught sight of him, you disappeared. Not subtle. Not polite. Not passive.

Sam had benched you two days after the mission. You’d barely made it out of the med bay before it happened, barely had time to snap at the nurse trying to check the stitches Bucky had bled through. The report said you’d deviated from protocol. That your “judgment in the field had been compromised.” 

Joaquin had called for backup the second you pushed deeper into the warehouse. Said he didn’t like how quiet you’d gone. That you’d shut off your comms the minute you hit the second corridor. Said Bucky’s weren’t working either, not after the jaw hit, just open static until the exfil team found them both half-conscious under the scaffolding, Bucky still bleeding, you refusing to let anyone touch him until they confirmed they were friendlies.

You said it was a misread. A gap in the heat signature intel, faulty comms, fragmented chain of command. You said you pressed forward to confirm the buyer before exfil because the window was closing and it was a judgment call. Nothing more.

You said it all too calmly. Too clean.

Like you'd practiced it. Like it was easier to call it a tactical error.

Bucky hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned. Couldn’t. Not with bruises still darkening along his back and the memory of his body nearly not moving fast enough still looping in his skull.

He remembered the weight of you beneath him. Not from the fall. From the way you’d gone still in his arms. Like you were waiting for the hit. Like you still thought it was coming anyway.

He hadn’t told Sam that part. Didn’t know how to.

Now, you spent your time down in logistics—sorting mission reports, filing armory requisitions, locking yourself in the comms tower at odd hours pretending to run diagnostics. You didn’t have to. Sam hadn’t assigned it. But you stayed at HQ, floating somewhere between idle and insubordinate, burying yourself in busywork and carving out the parts of the building Bucky wouldn’t be in.

Which wasn’t easy. But you were precise.

He’d find a fresh mug on the kitchen counter, the one only you used, still warm, and know he’d missed you by a minute. An open file drawer in the comms room with your notes, underlined sharp and angry. A single chair pulled out at the far table in the library, pages from an intake folder half-folded inside a book on tactical restraint.

You stayed busy. Stayed invisible. Stayed just far enough out of Bucky’s reach to make it clear it wasn’t an accident.

And yet he felt you in every fucking hallway anyway.

You hadn’t texted. Hadn’t acknowledged the hit he took. Not the blood. Not the fact that he couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder for three days after. Not the way his vision had whited out for a second when your weight hit him and he thought maybe, just maybe, he’d been too late.

And maybe that’s what gutted him.

Because you had been counting on that.

You hadn’t looked surprised. Not really. When he yanked you out of the way, when the shot slammed into his back, when you landed hard and scrambled to your knees with your hands still bloody—you didn’t look horrified. 

You looked stunned. Like you’d miscalculated. Like he was the mistake.

He kept replaying it. Over and over. The angles. The timing. Your body language. The fucking stillness in you when that rifle raised and you didn’t move, didn’t fight against the body holding you there. 

It hadn’t been shock. Not like he’d wanted to believe. It had been something closer to... acceptance. Or resolve. A kind of surrender he didn’t know how to look at without remembering how it used to feel in his own bones.

But the thought wouldn’t hold still.

Because his brain refused to believe that you’d wanted that—that you’d truly been hunting pain, no—death, something irreversible. That the person he’d come to watch as closely as his own pulse had stepped into the line of fire on purpose.

And yet, It made sense. Too much sense.

Which is probably why he’d been staring at the same half-finished mission report for the last hour, pen resting idle against the table while the rest of the building went quiet around him. 

He hadn’t meant to stay late. But his thoughts had been crawling too loud in his head, and the hum of the desk lamp had felt like the only thing tethering him to the present.

He closed the file without reading the last two lines. His hands were shaking again, just slightly. Just enough that he turned off the monitor before he could watch it. It was too quiet in the office. Too still in the air.

He needed out.

The corridor was cold and empty. Most lights dimmed to nighttime security mode. His boots echoed softer than usual as he made his way through the back wing and pushed open the glass door to the side balcony overlooking the north forest.

When he opened the balcony door, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there.

But the second the cold hit his face, he saw movement—still, but unmistakable. Just a fraction ahead and to the left, someone already leaned against the railing. No, not leaning, exactly. Perched.

Your spine curved ever so slightly against the silver rail, one leg drawn up, boot resting on the edge, the other dangling loose over nothing. You sat like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like you didn’t even register the ten story drop. The light from the hallway behind him didn’t quite reach you. Just enough spill to catch on the edges of your boots. The rest of you was silhouette, cut sharp against the tree line.

Your head was tilted slightly back. Toward the sky. Toward the dark.

Bucky stilled.

One foot over the threshold, breath caught at the top of his throat, pulse kicking hard enough against his ribs that it almost felt like warning. His hand lingered on the doorframe longer than necessary.

The glass door clicked shut behind him.

Your shoulders jumped and your head snapped around so fast it looked like it hurt.

He hated himself for it. For coming out here. For disturbing you, even when he didn’t know you’d be out here. For being part of the reason you were like this to begin with.

For half a second, your eyes landed on him. Wide. Not surprised. Not afraid. Just sharp. Like you were deciding how fast you needed to leave.

He raised both hands a little, just enough to show they were empty. If that even mattered.

“Hey,” he said softly. Voice worn at the edges. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away immediately either.

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer before drifting back toward the trees. The forest stretched dark across the horizon, the sky hanging heavy and moonless above it. The only light came from the spill of windows behind him and the faint glint of your boots shifting against the metal.

Before he could psych himself out of it, he took a step forward. Careful. Intentional.

The wind pulled at the edge of his coat as he came to rest beside the railing, not close—he didn’t dare be close—but near enough that the chill coming off your body seemed to reach him before your voice ever would. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Let the quiet spread wide between you.

“You always come out here this late?” he asked eventually, but his voice barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as tilt your head toward him. The forest below swallowed sound. Air too still. No bugs. No wind through the trees. Just silence and steel and the ache in his back where the rounds had gone in, still healing slow beneath the scar.

He folded his arms against the railing. Forearms pressed to the metal. Let his gaze drift out with yours, out over the black line of trees he couldn’t see past. He thought, stupidly, of how quiet your breathing was. How still you were. How if he hadn’t followed the wind out here, he might never have noticed you at all.

“You’re mad at me,” he said, quieter now. Not an accusation. Just a fact he’d been bleeding around for days.

You scoffed under your breath. Not loud. Just enough to let him know it wasn’t the right thing to say. But it wasn’t a no, either.

“You’re mad,” he said again. “And I get it.”

Still, no answer.

He swallowed, jaw twitching. His voice stayed low.

“You’ve barely looked at me. Haven’t said a word. Haven’t let me say one either.”

A beat passed. Another. Then your voice came, brittle and flat.

“You think there’s something to say?”

He turned his head. Not all the way. Just enough to see the line of your jaw in profile—the hollow under your cheekbone, the set of your mouth. 

“I think there’s a lot to say,” he replied.

You had barely moved since he’d come out here, but now, with the light behind you casting your face in angles, he could see it. The tiredness. Not exhaustion, not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from being done. 

Worn out in the soul. Your eyes were dull in the way his had been once. Not empty. Just... disconnected.

There was a bruise, faint but sharp, just under your right eyebrow. Thin, purple-green. Not healing from the field. You hadn’t been on a mission in almost two weeks. 

He didn’t have to guess where it came from. The edge of a sink. A wall. The wrong angle of a door when you turned too fast and didn’t care whether you stopped. The kind of thing people brushed off with a lie they’d already rehearsed.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the railing. Not hard. Just steady. Too steady. Like the tension had nowhere else to go.

He should’ve said something. Weeks ago. Months ago. 

The first time he saw you press your palm into a bruise like you were checking it was still there. The first time you didn’t log an injury. The first time you bled without blinking and he just helped—quietly, silently—like that made him gentler, not complicit. 

He’d told himself words might push you further, that staying close without pressing was the better option. That if you didn’t flinch from him, it meant he hadn’t failed you yet. But watching you now, half-lit and barely holding yourself upright, fuck, he knew better. 

He’d waited too long. Let you burn slow beside him while pretending he wasn’t also holding the match.

His stomach turned. Something deep in his chest caved in on itself. You must’ve felt his gaze, because your fingers twitched against the railing and your jaw tightened. Then, without a word, you stepped down from your perch and turned from the edge, already moving.

His body moved before his brain did.

He reached out. Caught your wrist. Gentle. Certain.

You froze. Your spine straightened. And when you turned, your voice was sharp enough to cut through both of them.

“Don’t touch me.”

You tried to pull back. He held firm, but not rough, not controlling. Just there. Solid. Like a hand pressed against the door of a burning room.

“I can’t let you walk away.”

Your arm jerked, a reflex. He didn’t loosen his hold.

Not after the last time. Not after the image of you standing too still in that warehouse, breathless and wide open, had lodged behind his eyes like a round that never made contact.

You tried again. “You don’t get to decide—”

“You’re not okay.”

The words tasted like metal. Not because they were hard to say, but because they felt late. Like throwing water on a fire that’s already gone to ash.

You scoffed. That bitter kind of sound that pretends it’s anger, but Bucky had made that sound himself too many times not to recognize what lived underneath it.

“Jesus, Barnes, let go—”

“No.”

It came out quiet. Firmer now. Not from his throat but somewhere lower, heavier. His grip adjusted slightly, still gentle, but definite. Like he was anchoring you in place, like if he let go now, you’d drift so far he wouldn’t be able to find you again.

You didn’t look at him at first. Just breathed hard through your nose, like the air might burn less that way. He watched your throat work, the way your lashes flicked down. You always looked away when it got real. So did he.

“Why?” you said finally, voice thinner now, not quite cracking but close. “So we can have whatever conversation you’ve been rehearsing? So I can cry in the hallway and you can feel like you helped?”

The words landed harder than they should have. Harder than maybe you even meant them to. But they stuck. Sharp, sudden, true enough to hurt.

“I don’t want you to cry,” he said.

It was the only thing he could say. The only truth he had left that didn’t sound like a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

The words lashed between you, sharp enough that they left something splintered in the air. Your wrist was still in his grip, but the fight had gone out of it, not physically. Not all the way. But enough for him to feel the shift.

Something in you had already dropped. Fallen back.

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, but the shape of the words wouldn’t come out clean. They sat there, behind his tongue, thick with everything he didn’t know how to explain. His jaw flexed, throat tight. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. But he couldn’t leave this one unsaid.

“I want you to stop hurting.”

You flinched. Not from the grip. From the way his voice sounded—like he meant it too much.

His fingers loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.“I want to stop watching you walk into rooms like they’re loaded. Like you want them to be.”

You looked away, eyes glassy in the low light. Jaw clenched so hard it shook your whole face.

“I want you to stop doing that thing where you ask for the quietest seat before briefings so no one will notice if you leave early. I want you to stop skipping lunch and acting like coffee makes up for it. I want you to stop tying your boots too tight.”

Your breath caught, but you masked it with a scoff. It was weak. Brittle. You tried to yank your arm away again, but he held you fast, stepping in closer, his tone still low, still quiet, but firm now. The kind of quiet you couldn’t outrun.

“I want you to look me in the eye again without checking the floor first.” He exhaled slow, barely controlled. The kind of breath that had been sitting in his lungs for days, weeks. Long enough to rot.

“I want one goddamn day where I don’t have to wonder if I missed it—if this is the time you don’t come back and it’s my fault for not saying something sooner.”

That landed. Not in your chest, but your knees. They bent just enough for him to notice the shift in your stance, like something inside you had buckled under the weight of it.

He stepped forward once more. Close enough now that he could feel the tremor in your shoulders.

“But mostly,” he murmured, “I want you to stop pretending that none of this fucking matters. That you don’t matter.”

Your head snapped back around, eyes wild. But it wasn’t anger anymore—it was panic.

“Why are you doing this,” you whispered. “Why are you saying this?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. The weight of his gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Because, you— you were standing out in the open like you wanted to be hit,” he said, voice raw. “Because I can’t stop seeing it. You, just—there. Still. Waiting.”

You made a sound. Not a word. Just air twisted into something like grief.

“You can’t—” your voice cracked hard, “—you don’t get to turn this into some kind of fucking—redemption arc for you, okay? You don’t get to drag me into your shit and—what—heal through me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I’m not.”

“Then why the fuck did you take the hit?!”

The words exploded out of you, louder than they should’ve been. Louder than you’d probably meant. But it was out now—ripped free from wherever you’d been hiding it. Your whole body shook with it. And when Bucky didn’t say anything—couldn’t—you shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved.

“You think I don’t know what that was?” you spat. “You think I haven’t played it over a thousand times? That I didn’t feel how fast you moved? That I didn’t see the way you looked at me after?”

Another hit landed square in his chest, open palm, not full strength, but solid. You weren’t trying to hurt him. Not physically. But your hands kept coming anyway. Another shove. Then another. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

“What was I supposed to do, huh?” you snapped, fingers curling into fists before slamming into him again. “You think I didn’t know what that meant? You think I haven’t had to lie awake every fucking night since then hearing that gun go off—feeling it—and knowing it should’ve been me?”

His breath caught, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You kept hitting him—his chest, his shoulder, the flat of your palm against the thick fabric of his jacket, no real damage but a growing tremble behind every strike. Your voice cracked on the next one.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said. “You don’t get to just throw yourself into it and look at me like that afterward. Like you knew. Like you saw me. Like you fucking understood.”

Another hit. Sloppier now. Your movements had started to lose coordination, your shoulders shaking too hard to stay steady.

“Stop it—stop just taking it,” you choked. “Say something.”

He didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t say what he really felt. That he had understood. That he had seen you. That some part of him had known, and worse, he’d recognized it.

So he let you keep going. Let you shove and strike and start to cry without saying a word. He let you unload every fractured piece onto him because he could take it. 

Because he’d done it, too. To walls, to enemies, to the people who tried to help him when he didn’t know how to ask for it. Because if this was what it took to pull some of it out of you—if this was what you needed just to keep standing—he would let you break his ribs before he told you to stop.

You stumbled forward, the last shove turning into something smaller. Your fists barely made contact before falling limp. Your arms trembled, body swaying forward like the strength had finally run out. Your knees buckled half an inch before he moved.

He caught your wrists, gently, palms firm but soft, just enough pressure to keep you from hitting him again. Not to restrain you. To hold you in place. And in the space between one breath and the next, you sagged, shoulders collapsing, forehead thudding softly against the center of his chest.

He barely had time to react before your full weight leaned into him.

His arms wrapped around you in a single movement to keep you from tumbling to the floor. One hand settled at your back, the other curling gently around your upper arm as your breath hitched against the fabric of his shirt.

You were so warm.

That was the only thing he noticed. Not your tears, not at first. But your heat. Like your body was trying to stay here. Trying to anchor itself against something even as your mind pushed to fold in and disappear.

He could feel your heart stuttering beneath the layers between you. And god, you were trying so hard not to make a sound. Like that would’ve meant surrender. Like silence still kept you safe.

His own throat burned.

“Don’t make a home out of pain.”

His voice didn’t lift, didn’t crack—it just came from somewhere low in his chest, as if it had been there waiting all along.

Your breath hitched hard.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

“I did that for years, decades,” he murmured, forehead tilted down, the words barely brushing the space above your ear. “Built a life in it. Slept beside it. Let it tell me who I was.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not pulling away.

“I thought if I carried it quiet enough, no one would have to see it. That maybe I could burn it out of me piece by piece.”

You made a sound, something caught between a sob and a breath. Sharp. Shallow. Your shoulders jolted against his chest, not in protest, but because you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I didn’t mean for it to be you.”

It came out broken. Shattered at the center.

“I didn’t mean for you to be the one to—”

You choked on it. He felt it. The hitched inhale. The way your hands dug into the fabric of his jacket like you needed something solid to hold you here.

“I didn’t think—fuck, Bucky, I didn’t think anyone would even—”

He held you tighter, just a little. Just enough.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible against his shirt.

“If it had worked, if it had actually worked, you would’ve thought you weren’t fast enough. That you didn’t stop it in time. And I—” another sob cracked through, raw and shaking—“I almost let you carry that. I almost left you thinking that you failed. That you would’ve had to live with that.”

His jaw clenched. The ache behind his eyes lit up like static. He didn’t speak, couldn’t—not yet—but his hand slid up your back, slow and steady, palm warm between your shoulder blades. He pressed it there, like he could hold your ribs together from the outside. Like he could brace what was caving in.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was so quiet it felt like something sacred.

“I would’ve.”

You choked on another sob. He held you tighter.

“I would’ve carried it,” he murmured. “Every goddamn day. Thinking I was a second too slow. That I missed the one thing that mattered.”

You didn’t say anything.

But your breath caught sharp, and he felt your head shake once against his chest—not a no, not really. Just a movement. Something small trying to fight its way out of the wreckage.

Your voice came out raw, barely formed. “That wasn’t fair.”

He stayed still.

You pressed the words into his jacket like they might burn less if you didn’t say them to his face. “That would’ve fucked you up forever.”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“And I—I almost did that to you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered again. No blame. Just truth.

You curled tighter into him, like the sound of it hurt worse than the thought.

Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket, knuckles digging into the seams, and he could feel the tremor in your body shifting—less from rage now, more from exhaustion. From the come-down. From the weight.

It took a long time before you spoke again, voice rasped out against his chest, barely audible.

“I thought if I kept it small… it wouldn’t count.”

He didn’t move.

“I didn’t throw myself into traffic,” you murmured, like that excused it. Like that still meant something. “Didn’t slit my wrists. Didn’t take anything I couldn’t walk back from. I just…”

Your throat locked up. His hand didn’t leave your back.

“I just hit things,” you whispered. “Hard. When it got too loud in my head. Walls. Doors. Tables. Sometimes myself.”

The last two words were quiet. Not ashamed—just tired. Like they’d been buried too long under rationalizations and bullshit and had finally surfaced with nowhere else to go.

Bucky didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

He stayed exactly where he was and let the words live in the space between you, heavy and sharp and true.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you added, softer still. “Not all at once. Not at first. Just… wear myself out. Bit by bit. So I couldn’t feel anything else. But lately I just…it wasn’t enough.”

That’s what broke something in him.

Not the admission. Not the method. But the logic of it. The way you described it like it made sense, like it was reasonable. Like the exhaustion had been the goal all along.

Of course you hadn’t cared about the bruises. Of course you hadn’t remembered when or how most of them happened. It was never about the moment. It was about the aftermath. About the ache in your joints the next day, the dull throb in your knuckles that reminded you you were still there, still capable of impact, even if nothing inside you felt real anymore.

He thought of your hands. How small they felt when he caught your wrists. How bruised and swollen one of them had been that day in the med bay, knuckles scraped raw and shoulders tight with something you hadn’t named.

You’d looked him dead in the eye when he saw the bruise on your side and said table corner.

And he’d let it slide.

Because he hadn’t wanted to push too hard. Because he’d been afraid of being wrong. Because some part of him had recognized it and still pretended not to.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you said.

“I did,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I noticed.”

You didn’t say anything. But he felt the tension spike again in your shoulders—guilt, maybe, or panic at having been seen too clearly. He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to keep you from pulling away.

“I saw every mark,” he said, voice low. “Every time you looked at a bruise too long. Every time you didn’t. Every time your hand shook when you thought no one could see.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he went on, slowly, steadily. “But I knew.”

His throat worked hard around the next words, like they didn’t want to come. “I know what it looks like. When someone’s trying to bleed in ways that don’t leave trails. I’ve done it. Every way there is.”

“I didn’t want you to carry it,” you said.

His answer came without hesitation.

“I’d rather carry it than bury you.”

────────────────────────

The reception area smelled like too many kinds of tea.

There were five glass jars on the counter next to a kettle, each labeled in looping penmanship—chamomile, ginger, dandelion, tulsi, lavender. The paper sign said self-serve, but Bucky hadn’t touched any of them. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his hands had been too still in his lap for the last ten minutes and he didn’t want to break the spell of it.

The room was quiet. Not library-quiet. Not hospital-quiet. Just… soft.

A low lamp in the corner spilled a yellow glow across the rug. A record player in the back hummed with something instrumental and slow. There was a magazine rack in the corner with bent spines and a potted plant beside it that Bucky was pretty sure was plastic. 

He’d kicked it once by accident, just to check. The thing didn’t even wobble.

He didn’t know what kind of office this was supposed to be the first time he’d been here, at least not from the hallway. There was no plaque on the door, no framed diplomas on the wall, no receptionist typing quietly behind a desk.

He hadn’t asked questions when Sam sent him the address a few months back. Just showed up.

And then showed up again. And again. Every week.

The first few times, he waited for you in the car. The second time, he told himself he was only walking you to the door. Third time, you’d asked him—quietly, not looking at him—if he could stay inside just in case the session went bad. 

Now, he came in without being asked.

He sat in the farthest chair from the door. Always the same one. Kept his hands on his knees, palms down, fingers loose. Let his eyes flick between the door and the lamp and the coat hook on the wall beside it. Didn’t let himself drift too long in any one thought.

He hadn’t even realized the receptionist desk didn’t have a receptionist until the fifth visit.

The door clicked behind it sometimes. There were other rooms, other people in the back, but he never saw anyone else come out. No one ever went in except you. You, and the woman Sam had somehow managed to pull from a year long waitlist.

Bucky didn’t know what strings he’d pulled. He just knew the woman never looked surprised to see you. Like she’d already known you were coming long before you ever agreed to show up.

He didn’t know what the two of you talked about. He didn’t ask. But the first time he picked you up, your eyes had been red and your hands were shaking. You said nothing. Just got in the car and stared out the window until you got back to HQ.

He remembered waiting in rooms like this—but more gray, with more clipboards and laminated signs reminding you how to breathe. He remembered counting tiles. Flinching at coughs. He remembered that shitty little notebook his court-appointed therapist had made him fill out. All the times he left lines blank on purpose. All the ways he’d perfected saying I’m fine with a voice that didn’t shake.

He remembered her—Dr. Raynor. Tough. Clinical. Not necessarily cruel, just… blunt in a way that didn’t land right. A woman trained to treat a soldier, not the man stitched together from what was left of one. She’d called it progress when he stopped glaring. Called it recovery when he stopped resisting.

But this felt different.

The air in here didn’t feel heavy. No tension thickening in the corners. No judgment waiting behind the next sentence. It just was. Steady. Balanced. Like the space had been made soft on purpose. For people learning how to exist without holding their breath.

It had been three months. Every week, same building, same chair, same flickering lamp. You didn’t ask him to stay anymore. You never told him not to.

But you always looked for him first when you came out.

The door opened just as he exhaled, slow and quiet, like his body had timed the breath for your return.

You stepped through first, hood down, jacket slung off one shoulder, a pen still tucked behind your ear like you forgot it was there. Your eyes scanned the room automatically, and then settled on him.

Not just on him.

For him.

Like they always did.

Something passed across your face—too quick for anyone else to catch, but Bucky had been studying you longer than he ever studied enemy movements. It wasn’t surprise. Wasn’t even relief. Just something softer. Something that lived in the space between I’m still here and I’m glad you are too.

And you smiled.

Small. Asymmetrical. Real.

The therapist followed behind you, her steps easy, unrushed, her voice carrying that same warm weight the room seemed to hold—like she knew how not to push, only open.

“I know I’m sending you out into the world with a lot today,” she said lightly, a touch of humor in her tone. “But you handled the heavy part already. The rest is just practice.”

You turned toward her, adjusted your jacket with one hand while the other reached out, not instinctively, not forced. Deliberately. You took her hand, pressed your fingers around hers, and squeezed.

“Thank you,” you said. Voice steady, but soft. Like you hadn’t needed to rehearse it this time. “I’ll see you next week.”

She nodded once, her smile faint but proud. “And don’t skip your check-in list this time.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you probably would, but less often than before.

Bucky stood as you turned toward him.

Not in a rush. Not like he’d been waiting for his cue.

But like the motion itself meant something. Like it mattered to meet you upright, at eye level, the same way he had all those weeks ago when you staggered into him sobbing and shaking and wrecked from holding yourself together too long. The same way he’d stood between you and a bullet. Between you and the weight you had been carrying alone for far too long.

“You good?” he asked quietly, stepping aside so you could pass.

You shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t brush it off as the two of you exited the office. “We’re on the part where I have to start noticing what I do before I do it.”

He nodded. Not because he understood, but because you were talking. That was enough.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, fidgeted with the zipper as you headed down the stairs. “She wants me to keep a log.”

“Of what?”

“What I’m trying not to feel when I reach for something to break.” You said it without flinching. “She says if I can name it, I can sit with it. Even if it sucks.”

His chest ached in a way he didn’t have a name for.

“And if you can’t name it?” he asked.

“Then I get to ask someone else to help.” Your fingers toyed with the seam of your jacket sleeve. “That’s the part I’m supposed to practice.”

At the end of the hallway, he pushed the glass door open for you. The air outside was colder than he expected—crisp with spring, the edge of something green just starting to break through the concrete. You stepped through first, your jacket flaring slightly behind you, and he followed a step behind.

Bucky let the door ease shut behind him, the click muffled by the wind and the weight of the last few months. His boots hit pavement a second behind yours. You didn’t wait for him—but you didn’t walk too far ahead either. Close enough that he didn’t have to reach. Close enough to hear you when you said, quietly, like it might break if it was said any louder—

“I hate logging shit.”

He glanced sideways.

“I figured.”

You huffed—not a laugh, not quite—but he caught the corner of your mouth tipping up. Just for a second. Just enough.

You crossed the darkening lot in silence for a few steps, your boots scuffing over a patch of half-melted ice. Bucky’s truck sat in the far corner, the passenger-side mirror still cracked from a parking garage you’d refused to admit you couldn’t clear nearly a year ago. He never got it fixed. Neither of you mentioned it.

“You still keeping yours?” you asked as the truck came into view.

He blinked. “My what?”

“That little black notebook from your sessions.”

He squinted at you, brows raised. “You asking if I keep it, or if I use it?”

You looked at him then, really looked. And he saw it: that thing in your eyes that used to live there like a threat, like a warning sign. It wasn’t gone. Not entirely. But it wasn’t sharp anymore.

He shrugged. “It’s hidden in the bottom of a drawer somewhere.”

You smirked slightly, nodding once. “Fair.”

He reached for the handle and opened the passenger door for you—not like a reflex, but like something intentional. Like a habit he wanted to have.

You blinked once, surprised maybe, but didn’t say anything. Just climbed in with a small nod, the same way you used to shoulder through debriefs and disappear down hallways. But now, there was no rush in it. No escape. Just motion. Movement that didn’t mean retreat.

He shut the door gently once you were settled, then rounded the front of the truck, boots scuffing over the cement. The sky overhead was softening and stretched thin, all dark cloud and late-evening haze, and for a second, he just stood there, one hand braced on the hood. Watching your silhouette through the windshield. The way your fingers tapped against your thigh like they hadn’t decided what to do with the quiet yet.

Then he climbed in.

The truck creaked beneath him, the seat familiar, the steering wheel warm from the setting sun. He turned the key, and the engine came to life in one slow, coughing breath.

“You know, if you’re not doing anything,” you said, still watching the road ahead like it might turn into something new if you stared long enough, “I could uh…go for some food.”

His brow twitched. “Food?”

“Yeah. You know. That thing we’re supposed to do three times a day.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just kept your gaze locked forward, like the windshield gave you more room to breathe than the air between you. But there was something in your voice, something brittle at the edges and unfinished in the middle, like you were still figuring out how to let a sentence stretch into a want.

You hadn’t said you were hungry. You hadn’t said you needed company.

But the invitation was there. Quiet. Barely dressed up. 

The kind of thing that would’ve passed him by a few months ago if he hadn’t learned your rhythms. If he hadn’t spent night after night memorizing the difference between your silence and your distance. Between the tension in your jaw when you were angry and the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were just trying not to vanish.

That landed somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t show it.

“Anywhere in particular?”

You hesitated. Then: “Something greasy. Something you eat with your hands. Fries that are so fresh that they burn your fingers a little.”

His lips twitched. “You’ve been spending too much time around Torres.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“There’s this place he won’t shut up about. Little burger joint off 89. Says they make onion rings the size of your face.”

You tilted your head. “Onion rings the size of my face?”

“He said it like it was the highest possible compliment.”

That coaxed a breath out of you—half a scoff, half a laugh, but it stayed. Lingered in the cab like something warmer than the heater. Like something earned.

“He’s got good taste,” you said.

“He also once ate gas station sushi on a dare.”

“Okay,” you amended, “he has… passionate taste.”

Bucky didn’t look at you, not fully, but his smile lasted longer this time. Not a twitch. Not a reflex. Just the kind of slow, quiet pull that lived in the muscles only when they weren’t preparing for loss.

The truck rumbled steady beneath them, tires chewing up road like time. You adjusted your bag in your lap, then reached up and cracked the window half an inch. The wind didn’t whip in like a threat. Just drifted. Light. Sharp with spring and pine and distance.

“You sure you’re up for it?” you asked eventually. “Sitting in a booth, being perceived.”

“I’ve had much worse days.”

He let those words stretch. Let the road roll out in front of him, long and dark and a little less hollow than it had been an hour ago.

And then—soft, like it wasn’t meant to be heard—you said: “You’re the only person I’d ask.”

His grip on the wheel didn’t tighten. But his knuckles ached anyway.

He didn’t respond at first. Couldn’t. Not without handing you the whole story of what those words did to him, how many nights he’d spent convincing himself that showing up wasn’t enough. That driving you here and waiting for you to come back through that door wasn’t a kind of love, just a half-step toward pity. That whatever thread was weaving between you, slow and invisible, maybe you didn’t feel it too.

“You’ll sit across from me, right?” you asked, suddenly. The words came fast. Too fast. Like they were covering something else up.

“Why?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just… if I sit next to people, I don’t always know what to do with my hands.”

He smiled then. Not wide. Just enough for it to pull in his chest, warm and sharp.

“Across is good,” he said. “Easier to steal your fries that way.”

You huffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You didn’t say it like a challenge. You said it like a prayer, something that might’ve meant don’t go, if said in a different key.

And Bucky—God, he could’ve said a hundred things. 

Could’ve told you that of all the days he’s ever walked through, this one didn’t ache in the same way. Could’ve told you that your voice saying his name after weeks of silence had stitched something back together in him he hadn’t realized was still broken. Could’ve told you that when you’d said you’re the only person I’d ask, something in his chest had folded in on itself with the same brutal gentleness you’d folded into him on that balcony months ago.

There was a time he might’ve doubted that. Not because you didn’t mean it, but because he didn’t think he’d ever be the kind of man someone asked for—not when it wasn’t about intel or orders or damage control. But this was different. This wasn’t about what you needed from him.

It was about who you wanted near you when you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Don't worry, you can steal my fries too,” he said.

And maybe it landed like a joke—soft, thrown just off-center—but it didn’t feel like one. 

It felt like a door unlatched. Like a scar uncovered, not to be examined, just to be seen. The kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return, not even thanks. 

Just meant I’m not going anywhere. 

Just meant stay.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor

---

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

---

For the Love of the Game - Masterlist

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader 

Summary: Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it. 

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol/drinking, Mild language, Angst, Minor injury, Smut (Minors dni, marked with **), Enemies to lovers trope!

a/n: This series is now complete :)

✶ Part One ✶ 

✶ Part Two ✶ 

✶ Part Three ✶

✶ Part Four ✶ 

✶ Part Five ✶ 

✶ Part Six ✶ 

✶ Part Seven ✶ 

Drabbles/One-shots (chronological after the main series, excluding the prequel) 

Bucky realizing he’s falling in love. Prequel one-shot.

First time**

The fight

Bucky gets injured during a game  

Going pro

What You’ve Got

In seven years

💙⚾️Playlist by @buckystarlight​​

---

body wash- bucky barnes avenger!fem reader x bucky ft bestie sam

A sweetness washes over you as you side up to Bucky and Sam, the familiar scent catching you off guard because it is not you who smells like that you are far from smelling pleasant. Dirt and blood cake your skin, tight braid holds your filthy hair back from your equally muddy face, but when Fury calls from a debrief, there is very little time to clean yourself up beyond a quick spray of the deodorant left behind on the quinjet and the canned summer floral breeze does little to mask the stench of earth and gore.

You file in between the two men. Sam equipped with his wings and Bucky's hulking shoulders do little to give you room to walk between the two of them but you manage, pushing back against your shoulders to keep pace.

"So which one of you two used my body wash?" you question as you turn the corner, eyeing Bucky, who is already staring at you, eyes narrowing before schooling his expression back into neutrality.

"Don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart." He quirks a smile at you before flicking his eyes to Sam. "But Bird Boy over there smells an awful lot like you."

"How do you know what she smells like, Barnes?" Sam is quick with his retort, knocking against your shoulders with his and on any other given day, you would have pushed him back but after the mission you had just been off, your body gave into the shove. Ricochetting into Bucky who is already holding his hands up and out to steady you as your sway on your aching feet.

Fingers slide over the small of your back, the other wrapping around your arm to hold you upright and just as quickly as you're knocked off balance, you're pushed back into equilibrium with the help of the super solider.

"You right, hon?" Bucky asks, voice softer than earlier, hands lingering on you as he waits for an answer.

For a moment the only thing you can focus on is the gentleness with which he holds you, never having experienced for yourself before only witnessing it on the battlefield and missions as he cared for women and children, soft hands and even softer tone guiding them to safety under his protection. It stirs something within you, something deep in your chest and even deeper in your gut, heat blooming where it should not. He is your teammate, your mission partner, maybe a friend on your good days so why were you feeling like you wanted him to hold you forever, to never move his hand from the small of your back, to grip you a little tighter, to... no.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you shake the thoughts away, the world swaying a little as your head moves in rapid succession. "Just a little tired."

Bucky does not remove his hands but the pressure on your arm lessens.

"Need me to carry you?" he teases, lips quirking in a smirk.

You debate taking him up on his offer not just because you are beyond exhausted but because you want to have him close. Find out if the muscles that fill out his shirt work, to feel the cold of his arm, his heartbeat, stubble on your forehead as he presses a kiss to your hairline. What would he kiss like? Is he someone who rushes with heavy breaths and lots of tongue or is he soft and slow pulling moans and gasps from you like honey from a jar? Would he hold your cheeks, stroking his thumb over your skin or keep you close with a hand on the back of your neck? Is he the type to savour the feel of your mouth on his or does he explore, tasting the skin of your neck and collarbones, following the line of your shoulder, then back and down and down and-

"Hey, kid! You alright?" You're shaken out of your thoughts, body swaying as Bucky tries to get your attention. "Do you need to go to the medic?"

"I... no....I'm..." your stuttering does nothing to ease the growing tension radiating from Bucky. "I'm okay, I just got a little distracted. I'm okay." You pull your body out of his grip, bumping into Sam as you wretch yourself free.

Another pair of hands grip your shoulders and hold you upright but even as Sam holds you with the same gentleness Bucky did, there is no fire, no static beginning to buzz in your fingertips, it's just Sam.

"Are you sure? Did you hit your head or something?" Concern creases Bucky's forehead as he ducks his head to get a better look at you. He clasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing your gaze up as he scans your eyes for concussion. Blue eyes frantically search yours and you feel the heat blooming again.

"Buck, I'm fine." you shake your face free, pushing against his shoulders to create distance in an effort to smother the fire building under your skin. "I've just finished a week-long mission, I'm tired and I stink and I just want to get this over with."

Sam's hands loosen on your shoulders as you step forward out from between them. "Honey-" Bucky tries again but you hold up a hand to cut him off.

"James, I'm fine. I just got distracted for a second thinking about which one you stole my body wash." the attempt to change the subject is weak but it's better than standing there with him so close. "I'm gonna see if I can get his meeting over and done with-" you jab your thumb towards the end of the hall. "and then if you don't hear from me by tonight, then you can come and check on me but let me shower and get back to being a human, yeah?"

Step by step you inch away from the two until you are far enough away you can turn and head to the door with heated cheeks and a racing heart. Fuck.

----

"What did you do to her, man?" Sam accuses, shoving Bucky's arm.

"I didn't do anything!" Bucky shrugs as he starts to go over the last few minutes in his mind but nothing stands out as out of the ordinary.

"Well, you obviously did something. I've never seen her freaked out like that" Sam gestures towards your retreating figure.

"Do you think it was the body wash thing 'cause I only used it 'cause I had nothing left." Bucky's confession is whispered, afraid you might hear him and come back for revenge. He knows how pedantic you are about your bath and body products but he really did run out of his usual soap and he wasn't not going to wash himself. "Plus it smells nice, I like the way she smells."

Sam squints at Bucky, trying to connect the pieces as to whether or not his friends had something more than they were letting on.

"I'll buy her some more in the morning." Bucky nods, turning his attention the the sound of the door closing at the end of the hall.

"I don't think it was the body wash, Buck."

---

Dog Tags

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky is looking for his Dog Tags, and you just so happen to have them.

Disclaimer: Mostly fluff and fun, kinda enemies/rivals to lovers vibes, open ended kinda, reader is mentioned to own a knife. Not Proof Read.

Bucky had been looking for them for weeks. 

His dog tags. His identity. His attachment to a life long forgotten. 

They’d been with him on his last mission; he was sure of it. He remembered clasping them in his hand before laying them under his uniform. And he never took them off unless…did he? 

“Buck. You’ve already looked in here. Twice.”

Sam’s eyes tracked Bucky around the room as if he was the madman’s doctor. Bucky wasn’t paying attention and nearly ran into Sam’s legs that were resting on the coffee table. 

“Dude.”

“They’ve got to be here,” Bucky kept muttering to himself. “They have to be.”

“Buck, I will get you a new set.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t want another set.”

Sam stood with a sigh, placing his bookmark in his book. “For all we know, they’ve been trampled into the mud on our last mission.”

“I would have noticed them. I never saw them.”

Sam watched as Bucky looked in every cupboard in the kitchen. He sighed, again. “Have you asked Y/n?”

Bucky scowled. “She doesn’t have them.”

“And you know this because…”

“I’ve already checked.”

Sam watched Bucky. “Did you ask? You know, before you ransacked her room.”

“I didn’t ransack her room.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two recently. It’s like you’ve gone from agreed silence to sworn enemies, but maybe you should just ask her. She might know.”

“I’ll ask Wanda.”

“Y/n’s better.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to Sam as he opened another cupboard. “But Wanda is my friend.”

Sam sighed before walking into the kitchen and shutting every door Bucky had left open. 

“Buck-“

“I’m gonna look outside.”

“Bucky!”

He wasn’t listening. But you were. 

“You know, all he’s gotta do is ask.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at you as you leaned by the main entrance. Bucky had left through the back. 

“Do you know where they are?”

You tried to hide your smile and shrugged. “I might do.”

Sam turned around. “Y/n.”

You gave in and walked inside. “Oh, come on, Sam. He kept my knife from me for, like, three months.”

That had been true. It was your favourite one. You’d lost it after being pulled away by Yelena for some ‘Kate Bishop’ emergency. Bucky had found it in the training room and kept it from you for three months. 

It wasn’t until you were both on a mission that you saw him flip it through his fingers before using it. He’d just chuckled when you called him an Ass. 

“Gotta be more careful next time, doll.”

You could have punched him in the face. 

So, when you found his dog tags on the ground, you made a decision. 

Originally, you were going to give them to him. But when you pulled your knife from your holster back on the jet, you were reminded of what he’d done. 

It was simply payback. 

“You know, he’s not gonna be happy when he finds out.”

You shrugged. “S’only fair.”

“Where are you even keeping them? He probably turned your entire room upside down.”

You nodded, “Oh, he did. But he’s never gonna find them.”

From under your clothes, you pulled out the military issued dog tags. Embossed on the metal was Bucky’s name, birthdate and blood type. On the second was his regiment. 

Sam gave you a slightly judgmental look but you could see the pride he was trying to hide. 

“You’ve gotta tell him eventually.”

“You’re not gonna tell him?”

Sam shrugged as he passed you and picked up his book. “I knew he had your knife. I didn’t help you, I’m not helping him.”

You gave a small gasp, “I knew it!”

Sam just laughed his way down the hallway. 

Meanwhile, you looked back at the dog tags with a light smile, your thumb brushing over his name. 

You’d give them back soon. But a little just desserts would do no harm to the super annoying, massive pain in the ass, super soldier. 

Bucky looked for two more weeks. His dog tags were lost forever. He had a feeling Sam know something since he’d suddenly changed his tune on issuing him some fresh dog tags. 

“Just hold out. Maybe they’ll show.”

“Who told you that?”

Sam shrugged, “I went to a psychic.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before trudging over and sitting beside his friend. He’d hold out for one more week, then he was gonna issue them himself. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes still on you. He was practically searing a hole into the side of your face. 

He’d been like that for three days. Watching you. Staring. 

“You know something,” he said when he finally cornered you. 

You acted as if you didn’t know what he was talking about. “I know nothing.”

“Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“Stop acting dumb,” Bucky told you. 

“Ever considered I’m not acting, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled a little. “Every day.”

You walked into that one. 

“But I know there’s a small part of you that’s a lot smarter than you’re letting on. So, I’ll ask again. Where are they?”

“Please.”

Bucky leaned back a little. “What?”

You clasped your hands behind your back and leaned forward a little, practically bouncing on your feet. “Where are they, please?”

Bucky stared at you before groaning. “Where are they…please?”

You stood tall and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Quit lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Bucky sighed. “Do you really enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what, Bucky?”

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. “You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side from day one.”

Your gaze hardened on him as you stepped closer. “And you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass. Look, don’t you think if I’d taken them, I’d have kept them safe? Safer than being hidden in my room? I know what they mean to you, Bucky.” 

You stepped back before you could let your mind wander to places further than just standing inches from Bucky in an empty hallway. 

“Kinda like my knife.”

Before you disappeared down the corridor, that last sentence only added fuel to Bucky’s fire. You had them. They were safe. But if they weren’t in your room, where the hell were they? 

It took him ten days to realise. And when he finally did, he hadn’t been thinking about them.

It had been just before he closed his eyes. It hit him. The safest place from him, was you. They’d been on your person the whole time. They had to be. 

And, despite the clock beside his bed telling him it was almost 23:00, he knew where you’d be. 

You hadn’t been sleeping much for the last few months. He knew because of how tired you seemed to move. A little slower, a little more distant. 

Zipping up his grey jacket, he padded his way down towards the training room. 

You hadn’t spotted Bucky standing against the wall, grey sweatshirt, white tee and darker pajama pants. If you had, you would have made some kind of comment about wearing plaid in Spring. 

“I figured it out,” Bucky called out calmly as he watched you. 

You ducked your head as if you’d just avoided a bullet. “What the- James.” You gave a huff. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Bucky just smiled casually and pushed himself from the wall. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” You asked, a little breathless. You’d been in the training room, alone, for the last two hours. 

“Where you’ve been keeping my dog tags.”

“Really? Who says I have them?”

“You and I both know you’ve had them since the beginning.”

You just watched him, studied him. A slight smirk broke out on your face. “I don’t know who took them, Buck. But I’d say it’s Just Desserts, wouldn’t you?”

“For stealing your knife?”

You nodded. “I’d say so, yeah.”

“Wanna know how I figured it out?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

Bucky shrugged. “You knew I’d find out it was you. But you also know I avoid you as much as I can. And I know you’ve done the same with me. That’s how I kept hold of your knife for so long.”

That much was true. It was just safer to avoid each other than it was to deal with the potential ramifications of being left alone together longer than ten minutes. 

You let Bucky continue as he walked closer to you. You remained fixed in place, just watching him. He looked so…domestic. Slightly bed ridden hair, freshly showered, relaxed. Cosy.

“So, the best place to keep my dog tags safe would be with you, at all times. All day. All night.”

“Really?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“And what makes you so sure I have them on me now?”

Bucky took a final step forward and looked you over. His body was in chest from you. 

“May I?”

You nodded, realising where his eyeline had fallen. Silently, his fingers reached out. Ignoring the way his touch felt against your skin, you watched as he pulled his tags from under your shirt. 

He examined them. 

“Found ‘em.”

You looked up at him with a knowing smile. “Seems we have a winner. I must say though, I can see why you get so attached. There’s something…familiar about having them with you all the time.”

Bucky nodded. But he seemed to be thinking. Then he smiled before tucking them back into your shirt. 

You were confused. “Don’t you want them back?”

He nodded. “One day. But, for now, you should keep them safe. They look good on you.”

You looked down, mostly to avoid his blue gaze.

There had been a few moments like this over the last few years. Moments where the ten minutes ran out and it was just you and Bucky, alone, barely inches from each other. All the while, comments passed between you both which made you think that, deep down, you didn’t hate him. 

And that he didn’t hate you. 

---

going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

---

Behind Closed Doors

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Everyone sees the Winter Soldier. But only you know what it means when he tugs your wrist and disappears with you behind a door, leaving the noise of the world behind.

The clink of champagne flutes, the low thrum of violins, and the hum of Manhattan elite conversation—none of it mattered. Not when Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he could set you on fire with a glance.

He was halfway across the ballroom, stiff in a black suit, nodding along as Tony Stark introduced him to some senator with too many opinions and not enough tact. But then his eyes met yours.

And then he was gone.

Your heart skipped. That look. That look always meant one thing.

You barely had time to excuse yourself from the agents chatting beside you before a silver hand found your wrist in the corridor—cool, familiar, and intentional. He didn’t say a word as he pulled you with him, down a side hallway where the music thinned into silence.

“Bucky—” you started, but the door to a closet swung open, and he backed in, tugging you along like gravity. The door clicked shut behind you.

And then his mouth was on yours.

He kissed you like a man unhinged—fingers gripping your waist, your neck, like he needed to hold you still or he’d lose the thread of reality entirely. You clutched at his shirt as his tongue slid against yours, desperate and aching, like this was the first time or the last.

Every time he did this—dragged you into quiet corners, tucked-away rooms, hidden places—it was like the world slipped away and left just the two of you. Bucky and you. Breathless. Real.

“Couldn’t wait,” he rasped against your lips. “You look too good in that damn dress.”

“And it took you how long to tell me?”

“Seventeen minutes,” he said, kissing down your jaw. “Don’t make me do that again.”

You laughed, high and breathless. “You’re completely obsessed.”

He grazed his teeth along your throat. “With you? Yeah. Unapologetically.”

His hands were everywhere—at your hips, your back, your thigh. One metal, one warm. He touched you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

In the dim light of that tiny closet, you felt more known than you ever had in your life.

The thing about Bucky Barnes was that when he loved you, it was quiet in public but relentless in private.

In the common room, he’d rest his knee against yours with studied nonchalance. At meetings, his hand would trail across your lower back like he needed to be tethered to something. But behind closed doors?

He fell apart for you.

He told you things he hadn’t spoken aloud in decades. Let you trace the scars on his shoulder blades and kiss the ones across his knuckles. He memorized your laugh and counted the ways you curled into him in your sleep.

That night, after the gala ended, and the stars claimed the sky outside the compound windows, Bucky walked you down the hallway to your shared apartment, hand never leaving yours. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

Inside, he stripped off his suit jacket, collapsed on the couch, and groaned. “How do you have the energy for these things?”

“I’m fueled entirely by spite and the knowledge that Stark hates being ignored.”

He smirked and opened his arms. You climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees bracketing his thighs. He leaned his head against your shoulder like he was coming home.

“Better?” you asked, fingers threading through his hair.

“Much.”

You ran your nails lightly over his scalp. He sighed into you, melting like butter on warm bread.

“Tell me something soft,” he murmured.

This was your favorite game.

“Okay,” you said, brushing his hair back. “When I was little, I used to pretend that stars were just holes poked in the sky so the light from other worlds could sneak through.”

He hummed, low and content. “That’s a good one.”

“Your turn.”

He paused. “When I dream of you, you’re always wearing light. Like… not a dress. Just light. Like you glow.”

You blinked. “Bucky…”

“I think my brain’s trying to tell me you’re too good to be real.”

You kissed him then, slow and deep. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Later, you curled up together under a worn blanket on the couch. His fingers traced aimless circles into your thigh, and your legs tangled like ivy.

“Can I tell you something ridiculous?” he asked.

“Always.”

“I get jealous,” he said quietly. “At parties. Of people who get to talk to you. Watch you laugh. I want to stand behind you with a sign that says ‘She’s Mine.’”

You grinned. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I think I’d look great in possessiveness.”

“You already do.”

He kissed the tip of your nose. “I just… I don’t want anyone thinking they can even try.”

“I’ve been yours since the day you offered me your hoodie in that freezing briefing room.”

He smirked. “I remember that. You were shivering.”

“I was shivering because you were wearing it before me.”

His eyes darkened. “Wish I could go back and kiss you right then.”

“Who says you can’t kiss me now?”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

It was almost 2 AM by the time you climbed into bed. The city glowed outside your window, soft light casting a silver sheen over his bare shoulder as he pulled you into his arms.

He curled behind you like a shield, metal arm tight around your waist, real one tucked beneath your head.

“Can I tell you something ridiculous?” you whispered into the quiet.

“Mhm.”

“I knew you were gonna kiss me tonight the second I saw your jaw clench across the ballroom.”

He laughed into your neck. “You read me too well.”

“You don’t even try to hide it anymore.”

“Why would I? You walk into a room and I forget how to breathe.”

You turned in his arms and pressed your palm over his heart. “You’re dramatic.”

He kissed your forehead. “Only for you.”

A beat of silence passed, thick with the kind of emotion that didn’t need naming.

“You’re the only part of my life that doesn’t feel borrowed,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine,” you whispered back. “Every hallway. Every kiss. Every night.”

He pulled you in closer, like he could memorize your warmth.

“You’re my peace,” he said, voice raw with truth. “Behind every door. In every quiet.”

And you believed him.

Because with Bucky, love didn’t need an audience.

It just needed a place where no one else was looking.

Taglist: @avengersfan25,@doilooklikeagiveafrack, @hits-different-cause-its-you, @fallen-w1ngs, @angelsoftbea, @a-century-of-sass

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---

Eddie Munson being totally in love with his best friend, then one morning after a night of drinking and pot, he wakes up with you tucked safely under his arms, in his bed... with no recollection of why you were there. The poor guys just really worried, because he doesn’t want the first.. something to have happened, and not even be able to remember it!

Eddie's initially surprised, but not panicked when he wakes up with a body beside his. He's the town freak, sure, but some chicks are into that, and this wouldn't be the first time he's woken up to feel skin-against-skin. But when he glances down and catches your face- your nose, your lips, your chin tucked into his chest, he blanches.

He's not particularly smooth, and certainly not good in a crisis. He doesn't think to gently ease you off of his chest or replace his arm with a pillow so that you don't notice you're being transferred- no, instead he darts out from beneath you, and your bleary eyes blink open in concern when you hit the mattress below.

"What- Eddie?" You ask, in your sweet voice, the one that Eddie notices is raspy, and if it's raspy for the reasons he thinks it's raspy he'll quit weed for good. And booze- he'll never black himself out again for as long as he lives if he'd missed a night of hearing that voice.

"I'm half naked." He notes, looking down at his bare, tattooed chest, "Are you wearing clothes?"

You nod, peering tentatively beneath the blankets to double check, "Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, we- I don't remember anything. And you're in my bed. And I'm shirtless. And I probably had so much last night."

"You did," You laugh, carefree and easy as you stretch out your sore muscles, "You don't remember anything because you were so far gone you tried lighting a pretzel stick. And I was in your bed because you made me watch a horror movie while we were high and I was too scared to be on the couch. And you always sleep shirtless."

All valid points. Eddie scratches lightly at his abdomen, "So you're saying we didn't- y'know? Do anything?"

"Relax. We both kept our pants on."

"Good." He nods, shoulders loosening from weight he hadn't realized was piled on them until it was gone, "I wouldn't have wanted to do that to you while we were drunk."

One of your brows raises, and like most of your facial expressions, this one sends a wave of impending doom over Eddie- he's so fucked- "Would you want to do that to me while we're sober?"

Eddie hopes that his flyaway curls, made even messier by his pillows, cover the pink parts of his face. He's usually a smooth-talker, never one to stutter but he's never managed to smart off to your face- no, in front of you he folds instead.

"I didn't say that." He manages, his hands finding purchase on his hips, "You're putting words in my mouth."

"Are they untrue?" You ask, brow only arching further, as a sadistic grin begins spreading over your face like you may be looking to steal Christmas from the Whos, "Because the only thing that did happen was you woke up with a semi."

"That just happens sometimes." Eddie's telling the truth, but in this particular instance, it could have had something to do with your perfume filling his nose, blacking out his senses, "That doesn't mean-"

"You've still got it." You refrain from glancing at Eddie's waistline, but you don't need to, "It came back when I started teasing you."

"You are ogling me." Eddie states, faux hurt in his tone as he fights a losing battle, "And I can't believe you'd strip me down to such base instincts without considering the deep nuance I hold."

"You'd better strip yourself down for a cold shower," You snicker, turning away and giving Eddie a truly unfair shot of your mostly-bare back where your tank top has ridden down your torso, "Or I think you're gonna nuance all over your pants."

---

-PUNK’S JQ MASTERLIST-

🕷Super Freak Series🕷

🕸 Your Web, I’m Caught (the 1st) 🕸

Summary: The one where you’re miserable and drinking on your own at a party. And you run into maybe the last person you’d have expected on the outskirts. 7.6k words.

🕸 Is It My Body (the 2nd) 🕸

Summary: The one where Eddie gives you a ride home after your friend ditched you at a terrible party. 6.9k words.

🕸 Power of Suggestion (the 3rd) 🕸

Summary: You see Eddie at school after he gave you a lift home the other night. There’s definitely something you need to resolve. It’s mind over matter and there’s something you’re both after. 5.3k words.

🕸 Head Over Heels (the 4th) 🕸

Summary: Eddie visits you at the record store where you work. You end up making out in the storage room. 7.6k words.

🕸 Was it Love or Nicotine? (The 5th) 🕸

Summary: Eddie can’t seem to see you at school. He thinks you’re avoiding him til he finds out you’re sick. And he climbs in your window one night to bring you a can of soup. 12k words.

Keep reading

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