Simplicity At Its Finest

Female. ‘93. swansonron’s fic rec side tumblr. :) i follow back on that page. Mostly stranger things and mcu fic recs.

[ddejavvu]

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: you meet azriel's family for the first time- well, they meet you, and you're blissfully unaware

Azriel doesn't often pray.

It's not so much a practice that many Fae engage in, but a lifestyle that few adopt and leave the many out of. Azriel is not an extremely religious man, but he's praying to whoever wants to listen to him- be it the Mother, the Cauldron, hell, even a human god - that no one is awake when he gets home.

You're snoozing against his chest, one of his hands under your knees while the other curls around your back to support your weight. You'd dozed off on his shoulder down by the bank of the Sidra and he's sure that he would have had to be a vile, cruel man to wake you. Instead he'd scooped you into his arms, walking at a steady pace and shielding you from the chilly night air with a blanket of his shadows that were all-too delighted to swarm your sleeping figure. They adore you, and Azriel feels a phantom pull at the corner of his mouth that he doesn't indulge in, instead readjusting his hold to tuck you further into his chest.

You let out a sleepy sigh against his neck, face burrowing there like a heat-seeking missile. Your breath fans out over his neck and down his chest, warming him and chilling him all at once. He nearly stumbles in his path, suddenly overcome with the privilege it is to be able to do this- to hold you, to feel you, to love you, to carry you to bed when you doze off on his shoulder like he makes you feel safe.

You're newly mated but taking it slow. You haven't made him food yet, and he doesn't want you to, because he wants to savor moments like these. Moments where you're leaning into his touch not because your body tells you to, but because your heart does. You'd gazed up at him earlier and told him you'd seen a black cat roaming the streets outside of your job earlier, and you'd thought of him. You'd said it so sweetly, 'It made me think of you- I think it was you coming to say hi to me, wasn't it?'

His heart had nearly beat right out of his chest. Your pretty eyes when you'd said it, your pretty voice, the way you'd leaned closer to him until your legs were brushing his were all so much to bear that he'd almost stopped breathing. This tender sweetness isn't slow to him, it's not boring or excruciating or anything else that Cassian has described not bedding Nesta as, and he's more than happy to take his time with you if it means carrying you home after date nights by the river.

The only problem is, he can't take you home. Not to your apartment; you're already starting to shiver despite his shadows which means it's too cold to walk you the length of Velaris, and he'd wake you if he flew. The distance between your apartment and his residences has never been an issue due to his wings, but the last thing he wants to do is wake you, so he carefully treks up towards the River House and prays for an empty foyer.

What he gets, of course, is his entire family awake and alert.

If they'd known he was going out on a date earlier, they hadn't said anything. But Morrigan had looked long and hard at his attire, and Amren had scathed about the cologne he'd chosen, griping about how she hated special occasions because 'the boys switch their stenches'.

He ascends the staircase as steadily and gently as possible, his senses on overdrive as you breathe against him and he tries scoping out the environment simultaneously. It's rather hard to focus and so he takes a deep breath, sending a shadow to open the french doors in the garden and stepping into the seemingly empty space.

Damn his family- they'd been too smart to sit within eyesight.

They're bunched up on couches and chairs to his left and his right, eyes widening and filling with glee as he carries in a sleeping woman. There are shadows clouded around your face that keep you shielded from the bright lights of the foyer, but Rhysand throws out a hand anyways to dim them.

"Well-"

"Don't." Azriel and Cassian speak in unison, two brothers going head to head as Azriel tucks you tighter against him, "She's asleep, and she will stay asleep. We can talk later... I will talk later. Just- let her sleep."

"I'm expecting her for breakfast." Rhys warns, and Azriel will be sure to smuggle you out before the table is set should you wish to escape the chaos.

"She's pretty," Feyre breathes, her eyes glittering, her and Morrigan craning their necks to catch a glimpse of your face, but everyone keeps their voices low and no one protests as he heads for the stairs. Azriel can sense that they very much want to, but he thanks the mother at least for their respect as he stars up the stairs, shoes tracking wet footprints against the carpeting that he's sure will be magically expunged by morning.

He lays you in his bed with reverence. He can't believe he gets to put you there- it doesn't matter to him that your clothes are on or that your hair had gotten frizzy against his shoulder, that your fingers are cold to the touch or that your breathing is starting to thicken in soft snores. You couldn't be more beautiful to him than like this: peaceful and safe in his bed.

He backs away and surveys you like a masterpiece. He nearly forgets to cover you, but his shadows drag his thick duvet up around your shoulder as you turn on your side, nose pressing into the pillow Azriel is sure smells like him. Then he remembers he's getting in with you, and dazedly wanders to his dresser to get changed. He opts for a respectable amount of clothing instead of his usual briefs, and tears prick at his eyes when you roll into his arms the second the bed dips beneath his weight. You let out a hum- a sound so groggy yet satisfied that it thrums in his ribcage, playing at his heartstrings like a harp. He found you. You found him. He gets to do this for the rest of his life.

He's never fallen asleep faster than he has with his arms around you, and it'll be well worth the interrogation he receives from his family tomorrow morning.

[thisiszahraa]

[faux-toast-deactivated20260114]

𝕷𝖔𝖚𝖉𝖊𝖗

summary: eddie is OBSESSED with the sounds you make, one tiny whimper will bring him to his knees, and he’ll do anything to hear you loud and clear.

pairing: eddie munson x !fem! reader

word count: 700

warnings/tags: smut, 18+, mdni

"Louder, sweetheart, please," Eddie begged, his voice a ragged, desperate pant against the shell of your ear. His hips snapped against yours, the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin the only other sound in the dimly lit trailer. "Please, I can't hear you."

You were face down on the mattress, fists clutching the tangled sheets, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts. A high, breathy whimper escaped your lips, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

"Not that," he groaned, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. He slowed his pace, a deliberate, torturous roll of his hips that made you gasp. It was a punishment, a tease. He was trying to force it out of you. "I need the real thing. You know what I want."

You turned your head to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, trying to look at him over your shoulder. His face was a mask of raw need, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes dark and wild. He looked like a man possessed.

"Eddie," you breathed, the sound barely a whisper.

It was a spark to dry tinder. His eyes lit up, a hungry, predatory gleam. "Yeah," he hissed, picking up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, punishing. "Again. Say it again. Louder.”

He was hitting that spot inside you, the one that made your toes curl and your vision blur. The pressure was building, an unbearable coil of heat low in your belly. Another sound tore from your throat, this one louder, a broken moan that was half his name, half a plea.

"Fuck, yes," he praised, one hand leaving your hip to snake around your waist, finding your clit. He rubbed it in tight, frantic circles, matching the rhythm of his cock. "That's it. That's my girl. Let me hear you. Let everyone hear you."

The thought of anyone else hearing you was mortifying, but the way he said it, the reverence in his voice, made a fresh wave of arousal wash over you. He wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping the sounds you made, like they were a sacred hymn only he was worthy of hearing.

"Please, Y/N," he begged, his voice cracking. "I'll do anything. I'll get on my fucking knees for you. Just… just say my name. Let me know you're mine."

The coil inside you snapped. Your entire body went rigid, a silent scream caught in your throat for a split second before it erupted. "Eddie! Eddie!”

Your voice was hoarse, loud, echoing off the thin walls of the trailer. It was the sound he craved, the one that made him feel like a king. He slammed into you one last time, a guttural groan of his own tearing from his chest as he spilled himself deep inside you.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor in the storm. For a moment, you both just lay there, panting, your bodies slick with sweat. He was still inside you, still connected, as if he couldn't bear to let go.

He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder blade. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice muffled by your skin. "You're so fucking perfect."

He slowly pulled out, and the loss of him made you ache. He immediately gathered you into his arms, pulling you flush against his chest, your back to his front. He nuzzled his face into your hair, inhaling deeply.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. His hand splayed across your stomach, holding you possessively. "I'm not gonna be able to sleep now. All I'm gonna be able to think about is how you sound."

You were exhausted, boneless, but you could feel the familiar, desperate energy already starting to hum through him again. He was insatiable, a man starved for a sound only you could make.

"Eddie," you mumbled, already half-asleep. "Go to sleep."

"Can't," he whispered, his hand beginning to wander again, tracing the curve of your hip. "Not yet. I think… I think I need to hear it one more time. Just one more. Please, sweetheart. For me?"

Authors note: this was just a quick little something i threw together in like 30 minutes?

Also!!! I really want to start doing requests for you guys so please feel free to send in some submissions❤️

[sexwithnocondom]

I COULDN’T HURT YOU but I did— Eddie Munson

SYNOPSIS— Best friends. One night that shouldn’t have happened. And the slow, brutal unraveling that followed.You were never just another night—but Eddie Munson treats you like one anyway, because loving you would mean admitting he wants something he doesn’t believe he deserves. When he decides he isn’t worthy of you, he pushes you away the only way he knows how.

CONTENT WARNING— heavy angst, heartbreak, self-sabotage, avoidance, unrequited feelings mutual but unspoken, guilt & self-worth issues, yelling PLUS emotional outbursts, abandonment anxiety and HEAVY emotional distress!!!!!!!!!!!

AUTHORS NOTE— hi 🖤this one hurt to write… that’s all.

By the third day, Eddie’s voice had started to sound wrong over the phone.

Not angry. Not upset. Just… thinner. Like he was holding it at arm’s length, careful not to let it spill into anything real. He still answered when you called—sometimes on the third ring, sometimes on the fifth—but his words came clipped, wrapped in jokes that didn’t land the way they used to. Yeah, yeah, I’m alive. Busy day. Shop’s a mess. Nothing you could point to. Nothing you could accuse him of.

So you told yourself you were imagining it.

Florida heat pressed down on you as you pushed open the door to the shop that afternoon, the familiar buzz of tattoo machines humming under classic rock bleeding softly through the speakers. The smell of ink and antiseptic settled into your lungs like it always did, grounding, familiar—his.

Eddie should’ve been at the front by now, leaning against the counter, boots kicked up where Marlyn always yelled at him not to. He was never subtle about being there.

But the chair at the station was empty.

Marlyn glanced up from her sketchpad when the bell chimed, brows lifting just slightly. “Hey,” she said, slow, curious. “You miss him?”

Something in the way she said it made your stomach dip, just a little. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, spinning her pen between her fingers. “He left early. Said he had a headache or something. Didn’t really explain.”

That didn’t sound like Eddie. He lived at the shop—birthday hangover or not. You laughed it off anyway, too quick, too easy. “Probably still recovering. I’ll wait a bit.”

Marlyn watched you for a second longer than necessary, then went back to her drawing.

You took a seat on the worn leather couch by the window, the one you’d sat on a hundred times before. Time dragged in odd, uneven stretches. Every time the door opened, your head lifted automatically—hope without permission—only to settle again when it wasn’t him. You traced the faint cracks in the armrest with your thumb, listening to the low murmur of conversation, the steady rhythm of machines buzzing.

An hour passed. Then another.

Eddie never showed.

When you finally stood to leave, confusion sat heavier than disappointment, dull and unformed. You told yourself he’d probably call later, apologize in that crooked, self-deprecating way of his, say he’d just needed air. It wasn’t like him to disappear—but then again, it wasn’t like you to overthink things either.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip, the sky bleeding orange and pink across the pavement. You glanced back at the shop once, half-expecting him to be there suddenly, leaning in the doorway like he always did.

He wasn’t.

And still, as you walked to your car, you didn’t think to name the feeling curling quietly in your chest. Not yet.

THREE NIGHTS AGO

The apartment had gone quiet in that way it only does after midnight, when the noise lingers in the walls but the people are gone. Empty bottles crowded the coffee table, ashtray full, music still playing low and warbled from the speakers like it hadn’t realized the party was over yet. Eddie was sunk into the couch beside you, close enough that your knees brushed every time one of you shifted.

Neither of you moved to fix it.

He smelled like beer and clean laundry and the faint bite of ink that never really left him. His laughter came easy, loose, softer than it had been all night, and when he leaned back, his arm stretched out behind you, not touching—just there. The space between your bodies felt charged, humming, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking to you for just a second too long.

You nodded, smiling, and the motion brought you closer without meaning to. Your knee pressed fully into his now, warm and solid.

The song changed—something slow, dragging—and the room felt smaller for it.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The way his hair fell into his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth, the softness that only ever showed when the world wasn’t watching. Eddie’s gaze lingered on you, unreadable, and for a moment neither of you spoke, the silence stretching thin.

“Hey,” he murmured, like he was testing the word.

You don’t remember who leaned in first. Only that suddenly he was close—too close—and the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way his hand hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. When he finally did, it was careful, almost reverent, like you might disappear if he held on too tight.

You didn’t stop him.

By the time you got home, the day had already slipped through your fingers.

You kicked your shoes off by the door, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter, moved through your apartment on autopilot. The shop lingered in your mind only as an unfinished thought—Eddie not being there, Marlyn’s shrug, the way the door hadn’t opened for him even once while you waited—but it didn’t settle. Not yet. You weren’t looking for meaning. You weren’t pulling threads.

The shower steamed the day off you, hot water running against your shoulders until your skin tingled. You stood there longer than necessary, letting the noise fill your head, washing away the smell of ink and heat and the faint disappointment you didn’t have a name for. When you stepped out, you ordered Chinese from the place down the street—the one Eddie always complained about but ate anyway—and flipped the TV on while you waited.

Law & Order played in the background, voices bleeding together as you curled into the corner of the couch, damp hair clinging to your neck. The familiar rhythm of it all—takeout, television, the quiet hum of your apartment—made everything feel normal again. Like the day hadn’t been strange at all.

You reached for the phone without thinking.

Calling Eddie most nights had become habit sometime in the last two years. Easy. Automatic. A constant you didn’t examine too closely. The line rang twice before he picked up.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice was the same—rough around the edges, familiar—but there was something distant about it, like he wasn’t fully there.

“Hey,” you echoed, smiling despite yourself. “You left the shop early today.”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough to notice.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “Had some stuff to take care of.”

“Oh.” You shifted on the couch, eyes on the television though you weren’t watching it. “Marlyn said you had a headache or something.”

Another beat. “Something like that.”

You waited for him to fill the space. He didn’t.

“Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “we were supposed to grab lunch, remember? Guess I owe you now.”

A quiet exhale on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—careful, casual, too controlled. “Yeah, about that. I don’t think I can tomorrow.”

That gave you pause. Eddie canceled plans sometimes, sure—but never without turning it into a whole dramatic production. There was no apology this time. No joke to soften it.

“Oh,” you said again, softer now. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Totally. Just—busy.” He laughed, short and hollow. “You know how it is.”

You frowned, thumb tracing the edge of your phone. The sound of your show filled the silence between you, some detective raising his voice, the laugh track nonexistent, the moment stretching thin.

“So,” you tried, “what’re you up to?”

“Not much,” Eddie replied. “Just… stuff.”

Three minutes passed like that—small talk that didn’t go anywhere, words skimming the surface instead of sinking in. Eddie didn’t ramble. Didn’t interrupt you. Didn’t tease. He sounded like someone trying not to say the wrong thing rather than someone saying the right ones.

Then, suddenly, “Hey, I gotta go.”

“What?” You sat up straighter. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Early day tomorrow.”

Before you could ask anything else, before the confusion could turn into a question, he added, “Come by the shop, though. Tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

There it was. An invitation, almost. Or maybe a reassurance.

“Okay,” you said, easy. “Yeah. I will.”

“Cool.” His voice softened for half a second—just enough to remind you of how it usually sounded. “Night.”

“Night, Eddie.”

The line went dead before you could say anything more.

You stared at your phone for a moment, then set it down as the doorbell rang, Chinese food arriving right on time. The smell filled your apartment as you paid the driver, normal and grounding and real.

Still, as you ate on the couch, the TV droning on, Eddie’s voice replayed in your head—not what he’d said, but everything he hadn’t.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, something began to shift. Not hurt. Not yet.

Just distance—quiet and unfamiliar—stretching out between you, inch by careful inch.

EDDIE— After Call

“FUCK!.”

The word left Eddie’s mouth the second the line went dead, sharp and sudden, like he could still stop himself if he said it fast enough. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it might light back up, as if your name would reappear and undo the damage he’d just done by pulling away.

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing the length of his apartment, boots thudding against the floor of his apartment. The couch sat where it always did—innocent and damning all at once—and Eddie pointedly didn’t look at it.

Three minutes.

That’s all he’d managed.

Three minutes before his chest had tightened, before the familiar panic had set in, before he’d felt that awful, sinking certainty that if he stayed on the line any longer, he’d say something he wasn’t allowed to say. Something that would make it real.

He tossed the phone onto the bed like it burned and laughed under his breath, humorless. “Get it together, Munson,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. His skin still felt too warm, like the memory of you hadn’t quite left him yet.

That was the problem.

You’d sounded fine. Normal. Like the night hadn’t rearranged something inside him. Like waking up alone hadn’t split him open in ways he didn’t have language for. You hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t pushed, hadn’t asked why he’d left the shop early or why his voice kept catching every time you spoke.

And that made it worse.

Because it meant you didn’t know what he’d done.

Eddie sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it might offer absolution. His hands—these stupid, ink-stained hands—curled into fists. He flexed his fingers, remembering the way they’d rested on your waist, careful, reverent, like you were something fragile he’d somehow been trusted with.

I shouldn’t have touched you.

The thought hit hard, immediate, unforgiving.

It wasn’t about the sex. It never was. It was the way you’d fit against him like it made sense. The way you’d fallen asleep without hesitation, like his arms were a place you belonged. Eddie had spent years convincing himself he didn’t get to be that for someone like you.

Good people didn’t end up with guys like him. They didn’t deserve to carry the weight of someone who was still figuring out how not to ruin everything he touched.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing out slow and shaky. You don’t get to want this, he told himself. You don’t get to keep her.

The phone stayed silent.

Eddie swallowed hard and stood, forcing himself to move, to do anything but think about the sound of your voice, easy and warm, like he hadn’t already broken something between you. He’d told you to come by the shop tomorrow—because he couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking he was gone for good.

But even that felt selfish.

Watching you leave was easier than letting you stay. Easier than admitting that if he let himself touch you again, he wouldn’t stop—and that scared him more than being alone ever had.

He turned the lights off without looking back at the couch.

Somewhere across town, you were eating dinner, watching TV, living your life like he hadn’t just redrawn the lines of it in his head.

Eddie Munson sat in the dark and wondered how someone so sweet could ever end up tangled with someone like him—and how he was supposed to let you go when every part of him already knew he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t.

THE NEXT DAY

You see him before you step inside.

Through the glass windows at the front of the shop, Eddie is bent over his station, shoulders relaxed, hair falling into his face as he works. He’s tattooing a girl’s calf—steady, focused—and he’s smiling. Laughing, actually, head tipped back slightly as the girl says something you can’t hear. It’s easy. Familiar. So him it almost makes you pause mid-step.

See? you tell yourself. He’s fine.

The bell above the door chimes as you push it open, the shop swallowing you whole—buzzing machines, the smell of ink and antiseptic, the low hum of conversation layered with music. Eddie looks up at the sound instinctively, like he always does.

His smile falters.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“Hey,” he says, calling you by your first name, then corrects himself, using the name he gave you years ago—the one that stuck, the one only he ever used.

Marlyn’s head snaps up from her station at the sound of it.

Your eyes meet hers for half a second, something unspoken passing between you. A question. A pause. Then it’s gone.

“Hey,” you reply, easy, stepping closer like nothing has changed.

You lean in to give him a quick sit-hug, perching on the edge of his chair like you always do, arm sliding around his shoulders. Eddie stiffens just slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you feel it. He doesn’t lean into you this time. His shoulder brushes yours, nothing more, a careful inch of space held between you like a rule he’s made for himself.

You pull back, blinking, and laugh it off.

“Busy?” you ask, settling into the chair beside his booth, knees bouncing lightly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, eyes already back on his work. “Always.”

The girl in the chair keeps talking, and Eddie laughs again—real this time, unguarded. He jokes with her, reassures her when she flinches, leans in close without thinking. His hand rests steady against her skin, fingers sure, practiced, comfortable.

The girl in the chair chuckles nervously. “You say that to everyone.”

Eddie grins at her, easy and bright. “That’s ‘cause it’s true”

She laughs, shoulders relaxing. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Eddie replies proudly. “But my lines are clean and my music taste is elite. Can’t have everything.”

From the booth beside him, one of the other artists—Jeff—snorts. “Elite? Man, you’ve been playing the same Metallica tape for two years.”

Eddie doesn’t even look up. “It’s called consistency. Look it up.”

Jeff tosses a paper towel at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Eddie says, smirking, “you love me.”

The shop laughs, the sound bouncing off the walls, easy and familiar. Eddie’s laugh joins in—full and unguarded, head tipping back just slightly. He leans closer to his client, steadying her calf with one hand as the machine hums back to life.

She winces, then exhales. “Alright,” he says gently, all focus now. “Deep breath. You’re doing great.”

“Don’t lie!” She chuckles.

Eddie murmurs. “I don’t lie to people who trust me with their skin.”

Your stomach twists at that, though you’re not sure why.

He keeps talking to her as he works—about the weather, about how Florida heat should be illegal, about the dumb banner someone hung crooked near the front window.

You watch him without meaning to.

He’s animated with everyone else—the clients, the artists, even the delivery guy who pops his head in to drop off supplies. He grins, gestures, throws his head back in laughter like the weight of the world hasn’t shifted at all.

But when you speak, he gives you half-answers.

“Yeah.”

“Probably.”

“Guess so.”

His attention never lingers. His eyes slid away too quickly, his body angled just slightly out of reach.

You fold your hands in your lap and try not to let it sink in. Okay, you think. That’s… noticeable.

Four days. That’s how long it’s been. Four days of dry phone calls, canceled plans, and now this—him right there, close enough to touch, and somehow miles away. You glance around the shop, half-expecting someone to look at you like they see it too.

Marlyn doesn’t.

She’s focused on her work, relaxed, unbothered. No raised brows. No pointed looks. No are you okay? whispered across the room. If Eddie was acting weird, surely she’d notice. Surely she’d say something.

So it must be you.

You shift in your seat, forcing yourself to relax, forcing a smile. You’re overthinking it. Projecting meaning onto something ordinary. People get weird sometimes. Eddie gets in moods. It doesn’t have to be about you.

Then you speak.

“So,” you say casually, “still coming by the beach this weekend? Marlyn was talking about it.”

Eddie doesn’t look up. “Probably.”

“Okayy.” You hesitate, then try again. “I was thinking of bringing that old radio we found? The one that still half-works.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Could.”

Silence stretches.

You shift in your seat, forcing a laugh. “real talkative today.”

That earns you a glance—brief, careful. “Just focused,” he says. “Big piece.”

And that’s it.

No follow-up. No teasing. No sideways smile meant just for you. His attention slides away again, locked back onto his work like you hadn’t been there at all.

Around you, the shop keeps moving—voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling, the hum of machines never stopping. Eddie is still Eddie to everyone else.

Just not to you. Still, you sit there longer than you meant to, listening to Eddie laugh with someone else, and wonder when the space between you got so loud.

You last maybe five more minutes.

Five minutes of watching Eddie laugh with someone else, of feeling like you’re sitting too close to something you’re not supposed to touch anymore. The chair beside his booth suddenly feels wrong—too exposed, too familiar, like a habit you don’t know how to break quietly.

“Alriiight,” you say, dragging the word out with forced ease as you push yourself up from the seat.

Eddie hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t look over.

You walk away before you can think about it.

Marlyn glances up from her sketchpad the second she hears your footsteps, eyes tracking you as you cross the shop and slide into the empty chair beside her station. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you out of the corner of her eye, pen paused mid-air.

You feel it. Her attention. The unasked question.

After a beat, she makes a face—brows knitting together.

You shrug, small and noncommittal. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just relocate your entire body away from Eddie Munson.

“…What?” you murmur.

Marlyn tilts her head slightly, lowering her voice. “Nothing,” she says, then hesitates. “Just—did you two get into a fight or something?”

Your stomach dips. “Umm, no?”

She gestures vaguely with her pen toward Eddie’s booth, where his laughter rises again, easy and unrestrained. “He’s just being weird.”

You snort softly. “He’s always weird.”

“Yeah,” Marlyn says slowly, unconvinced. “But not like that.”

You glance over despite yourself. Eddie’s focused on his work, shoulders relaxed, expression open. He looks fine. Normal. Happy, even. You turn back to Marlyn, lowering your voice further.

“I think you’re reading into it.”

Marlyn studies you for a second, then sighs. “Okay, but hear me out—maybe he’s trying to avoid you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You shake your head immediately. “No.”

“Are you sure?” she presses gently.

“I’m sure,” you say, a little too quickly. “He’s the one who told me to come by today.”

Marlyn raises a brow. “Did he?”

“Yeah,” you insist. “We talked last night. He said to come in.”

She doesn’t argue right away, which somehow makes it worse. Instead, she taps her pen against the pad thoughtfully. “Okay. But did he make plans? Or did he just… say it?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

“Well,” you start, regrouping, “we were supposed to grab lunch yesterday, but he had to cancel—”

Marlyn hums. “Uh-huh.”

“But we talked,” you add quickly. “Like, actually talked. He picked up when I called. He wouldn’t do that if he was avoiding me.”

You say it like it’s logic. Like it settles the question.

Marlyn’s gaze softens. “Avoiding someone doesn’t always mean ignoring them.”

That gives you pause.

You glance back at Eddie again, watching the way he leans in close to his client, the way his hands are steady and sure, the way he laughs without hesitation when someone says something stupid. He doesn’t look like someone avoiding anything.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, quieter now. “I think he’s just… in his head. Or tired. Or I’m overthinking it.”

Marlyn watches you carefully. “If you say so.”

You force a smile. “I do.”

She lets it go, turning back to her sketchpad, but the thought doesn’t leave with her attention. It settles in your chest instead, small and insistent.

Avoiding you.

You shake your head again, more for yourself than for her. Eddie told you to come today. He answered your call. He’s right there.

Whatever this is, it can’t be that.

Still, as the shop buzzes on around you, you find yourself sitting a little farther away than you ever have before—trying not to look at Eddie, and failing anyway.

Eddie notices immediately.

He doesn’t mean to—doesn’t look up right away, doesn’t turn his head—but the space beside his booth feels wrong all of a sudden. Lighter. Empty in a way that pulls at his attention like a loose thread. He keeps his eyes trained on the line he’s pulling, steady and clean, but his awareness drifts anyway.

You’re not there.

His jaw tightens, barely perceptible. He risks a glance through the corner of his eye and sees you across the shop now, perched beside Marlyn’s station, shoulders angled away from him like a choice you’ve just made.

Fuck me.

His chest sinks with it, that same familiar ache blooming low and slow. He swallows and forces himself to focus, hand steady even as his thoughts scatter.

“Everything okay?” the girl in the chair asks softly, sensing the shift.

“Yeah,” Eddie says automatically. “All good.”

He wipes excess ink away, careful, controlled. The hum of the machine fills the space where he wants to say something—anything—but doesn’t let himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you laugh at something Marlyn says. It’s quieter than usual. Smaller. Eddie tells himself he deserves that.

“Your friend?” the girl murmurs, voice lowered, curious but kind.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He exhales through his nose, then nods once. “Yeah.”

“She seems… nice,” the girl says, glancing over in your direction. “You two looked close.”

Eddie’s grip tightens just slightly before he corrects it.

“We are,” he says, then stops himself. Were. Are. The distinction feels dangerous. He clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah.”

The girl hesitates, then leans in just a fraction, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “Am I in the way?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Eddie forces a small smile he doesn’t feel. “No,” he says quickly. “She just gets bored easy.”

He doesn’t look at you again after that.

Because if he does—if he lets himself see the way you’re sitting farther away, the way you’re pretending not to notice him noticing—you might see it too. And if you see it, he might have to explain.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust himself to explain why the best thing he’s ever almost had feels like the one thing he’s not allowed to keep.

He finishes the line with precision, hands steady despite the war in his chest, and pretends that the distance between you is something he chose easily.

When really, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

THREE DAYS AGO

Eddie wakes up with a headache and the wrong kind of quiet.

Sunlight bleeds through the blinds in thin, unforgiving lines, cutting across the ceiling, the floor, the bed—and the empty space beside him. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just lies there, staring, chest tight, mind scrambling to catch up with his body.

The room smells like last night. Beer. Sweat. Something softer—you—still clinging to the sheets.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He sits up too fast and immediately regrets it, the room tilting as his stomach churns. The couch across the apartment is untouched. The door is closed. No sign of you anywhere, except for the dent you left in the mattress and the warmth that’s already fading.

He laughs once, sharp and breathless. “Yeah. Of course.”

Memory comes rushing back in pieces—your laugh, low and tired. The way you’d fit against him like you’d done it before, like it was easy. The way he’d touched you like he was afraid you’d break, like if he held you too tight the whole thing would fall apart.

He presses his palms into his eyes, breathing hard.

What the hell did you do?

It wasn’t supposed to go there. He’d known that. Had felt it the second your knees touched on the couch, the second he realized how badly he wanted you and how wrong that felt all at once. Wanting you wasn’t the problem—it was what came after. The part where you wake up and realize who you were with.

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs at his temples, heart pounding. His skin still feels too sensitive, like your hands haven’t let go of him yet. The thought makes his chest ache in a way that borders on panic.

You’re good. Sweet. Untouched by the things that rot people like him from the inside out.

He stands and paces the room, muttering under his breath. “You don’t do this. You don’t get to do this.”

The idea of hurting you—of being the thing that stains something pure—turns his stomach. He’d wanted to feel wanted, wanted to feel good, wanted something that made him forget all the ways he falls short.

And for a moment, last night, he had.

That’s what scares him the most.

Eddie sinks down onto the edge of the bed again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He doesn’t know how to be someone who gets to wake up next to you and feel proud of it. Doesn’t know how to want you without believing it’ll ruin you.

He stays there long after the sun climbs higher, staring at the floor, convincing himself that distance is the only way he knows how to keep you safe—even if it means rotting alone with the truth of how badly he wants you.

The hum of the tattoo machine pulls Eddie back.

He blinks, refocuses on the line he’s tracing, forces his hand steady even as his thoughts drift somewhere they have no business being.

Across the shop, you laugh again. Quieter this time, but still unmistakably yours.

His chest tightens.

The memory hits without warning—your mouth on his, soft at first, hesitant. The way the kiss had lingered, like neither of you knew how to stop once it started. He remembers the couch beneath you, the worn fabric against his fingers, the way you’d tilted your head like you trusted him to know what to do next.

He hadn’t.

That was the problem.

Eddie swallows and adjusts his grip, deliberately loosening his hand from the client’s skin for half a second before settling again.

He can still hear the way you’d breathed his name like it meant something.He doesn’t let himself look at you.

Because if he does, he’ll remember the way you’d leaned into him without fear, the way you hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t doubted. The way you’d kissed him like he was worth wanting.

And Eddie Munson doesn’t trust that version of himself.

“Almost done,” he tells the girl in the chair, voice steady despite the war in his chest. She nods, relaxed. Trusting.

That makes his stomach twist.

He doesn’t touch you because he knows how easily he would. Because he remembers the way his hands had learned you too quickly, like they’d been waiting for permission he didn’t deserve.

He wipes the ink clean, peels his gloves off, and stands, putting physical distance between himself and his booth. You’re still sitting by Marlyn’s station, posture closed off in a way that feels new. Eddie notices it like a bruise forming under the skin. He wonders if you remember the couch too. If the memory feels as heavy for you as it does for him.

Or if you’ve already moved on.

The thought shouldn’t hurt. It does anyway.

Eddie turns back to his work, jaw tight, reminding himself—again—that this is what keeping you safe looks like. Even if it means swallowing the urge to cross the room, to apologize, to pull you close and kiss you like he did that night.

Because wanting you isn’t the sin but believing he deserves you is.

You notice before he says anything.

The machine goes quiet, the familiar hum cutting out mid-thought, and your attention drifts toward Eddie without permission. From the corner of your eye, you watch him peel his gloves off, roll his shoulders like he’s shaking something loose. The client laughs at something he says, thanks him, stands.

Marlyn is still talking beside you—something about a stencil she can’t get right—but the words blur together.

“Give me a minute,” you murmur, already standing.

She pauses, watching you go.

The client passes you on her way out, calf wrapped carefully, the fresh tattoo dark and precise against her skin. You glance down as she walks by—clean lines, careful shading. Eddie’s work. Steady hands. Intentional.

You keep walking.

Eddie’s back is to you when you reach his booth. He’s wiping down the station, methodical, focused, movements a little too precise. You sit on the edge of the tattoo bed like you’ve done a hundred times before, the vinyl cool beneath your palms.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just watch him.

The way his shoulders move when he breathes. The way his jaw tightens as he concentrates. The space he’s put between you now feels deliberate, like he’s holding it in place with effort alone.

“Hey,” you murmur, then hesitate.

He doesn’t turn.

“What’s up with you?”

The words come out softer than you meant them to. Not an accusation. Just confusion. Curiosity edged with something deeper you’re still pretending not to feel.

Eddie keeps wiping the counter. The paper towel squeaks against the metal surface. One second stretches into two. Into three.

Your chest tightens.

Then he exhales and shakes his head once, like he’s brushing something away. When he finally turns, he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Nothing,” he says. Short. Final.

Your stomach sinks—not sharply, not yet—but enough that you notice.

“Nothing?” you repeat lightly, brows lifting. You swing one leg idly, pretending ease. “Because it kinda feels like something.”

Eddie shrugs, eyes already sliding away. “You’re reading into it.”

There it is.

You’d said the same thing to Marlyn not five minutes ago.

You watch his hands instead of his face now, the way they move when he’s not sure what to do with them. He keeps busy—throws away gloves, wipes down the bed, avoids standing still long enough for the moment to settle.

So this is the test.

You’d told yourself he wasn’t avoiding you. That he wouldn’t tell you to come in if he didn’t want to see you. That he wouldn’t answer your calls, wouldn’t joke, wouldn’t look at you at all.

But now he’s right here—and somehow farther away than ever.

“Okay,” you say slowly, nodding once like you’ve come to a decision you don’t fully understand yet. “I’m gonna head out.”

You slide off the edge of the tattoo bed and turn away before he can see the shift in your face, the way something inside you has gone quiet. Your steps feel heavier than they should as you move toward the front of the shop, past the hum of machines and the low murmur of conversation that suddenly feels too loud.

Behind you, Eddie stills.

For half a second—just half—his mouth opens. His hand lifts, fingers flexing like he’s about to call your name, like he’s about to stop you. The instinct is there, sharp and desperate, lodged in his chest where it hurts the most.

Don’t let her walk away like this.

But he does.

“Alright,” Eddie says instead.

It’s soft. Neutral. Empty.

Not I’ll see you later.

Not Call me when you get home.

Not even your name.

You pause for a fraction of a second, the word settling in your spine like a weight. Then you nod once, even though he can’t see it, and keep walking.

Marlyn looks up as you pass her station, concern flickering across her face. You offer her a small shrug—it’s fine, really—and push the door open.

The bell chimes behind you, bright and oblivious.

Outside, the heat wraps around you again, thick and suffocating. You don’t look back.

Inside the shop, Eddie stands frozen, staring at the space you left behind, heart pounding like he’s just made the worst kind of mistake—the kind you don’t realize until it’s already done.

And for the first time, you don’t convince yourself you’re overthinking it.

Because this time, the distance answers back.

You make it a week.

Seven days of not calling.

Seven days of not driving past the shop “on accident.”

Seven days of not finding excuses to hear Eddie’s voice.

You tell yourself it’s a test. A fair one. If he wants to talk to you, he will. If he notices your absence, it’ll show. You repeat it like a rule, like something solid you can lean on.

By day three, it starts to itch.

By day five, it’s all you think about.

Your phone stays face-up on the table more than it should. You check it without realizing you’re doing it, thumb hovering, breath held, waiting for his name to appear like it used to—Eds or whatever stupid variation he’d saved himself as when he’d last stolen your phone.

Nothing.

You imagine him in the spaces you’ve left empty. Your chair by his booth. The late-night calls. The lunches that never happened. You picture him noticing, then dismissing it just as quickly. She’s busy. She’s fine. The idea settles wrong in your chest, sour and heavy.

You try to stay distracted. You don’t do a great job.

Every little thing brings him back—music you don’t skip because he liked it, the smell of ink when you pass a shop on the street, the way the heat sticks to your skin and makes you think of Florida summers spent sprawled on his couch. You replay moments you didn’t think mattered at the time, turning them over until they blur together.

Did you leave too early that morning?

Did you miss something in his voice?

Did you push too hard at the shop—or not enough?

Your thoughts don’t move in straight lines anymore. They loop. Spiral. Build and collapse and build again. One minute you’re convinced he’s fine without you—better, even. The next, you’re aching with the certainty that you’ve been quietly discarded and you don’t know why.

Some nights you draft messages you never send.

Did I do something?

Are you okay?

I miss you.

You delete them all.

You don’t want to be the one who wants more. You don’t want to chase someone who won’t even meet you halfway. But the silence stretches on, loud and unanswered, and you feel it pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

You miss him in ways that don’t make sense. The sound of his laugh. The way he’d lean too close when he was tired. The comfort of knowing he’d be there at the end of the day, no matter what.

You curl up on your couch one night, phone warm in your hand, staring at the ceiling and wondering how something that was never supposed to mean anything ended up carving such a deep, hollow space inside you.

You tell yourself—again—that if he wanted to, he would.

TWO NIGHTS LATER

You decide—very deliberately—that you’re done thinking about it.

That night, you take longer getting ready than usual. You shower, dry your hair, put on something that feels like armor—something that looks good without needing his opinion. You line your eyes just a little darker, spray perfume you haven’t worn around him before. Confidence in a bottle.

Marlyn whistles when you step out of your room. “Okay,” she says. “You look fucking amazing.”

“So do you!” you reply, grabbing your keys. “Can’t wait to drink.”

The bar is loud in that familiar way—sticky floors, neon signs humming, bass-heavy music vibrating through your chest as soon as you step inside. The air smells like alcohol and sweat and something fried. Normal. Distracting. Exactly what you want.

“Finally,” Marlyn says, weaving through the crowd beside you. “I was starting to think you’d never leave your apartment again.”

“I had things to… process,” you say, shrugging. “A lot of things.”

“Processing over cocktails, huh?” she teases, elbowing you gently. “Bold choice.”

And then you see him.

Eddie’s at the bar, half-turned toward a girl perched on a stool beside him. She’s leaning in close, laughing too loud, one hand resting on the counter. Eddie’s standing between her knees, relaxed, easy—his hand settled at the middle of her back like it belongs there.

He’s smiling.

Your heart drops so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

You don’t stop walking.

You don’t react. You don’t flinch. You don’t give yourself the satisfaction of staring. You keep your eyes forward, posture loose, expression blank—like you haven’t just been punched somewhere soft and unprotected.

Marlyn’s behind you, trying to squeeze through the crowd, and you don’t hear Eddie when he spots her.

“Hey, Mar—” he says, cutting himself off when she keeps moving, eyes on you instead.

You’re already slipping between two people at the bar, angling your body sideways to flag the bartender. You lean your elbows against the sticky counter, pretending the noise isn’t overwhelming, pretending your pulse isn’t loud enough to drown out the music.

“And this is why we are best friends,” Marlyn continues, her voice low so the music doesn’t carry it. “You just… barrel through. No hesitation.”

You give a small shrug. “Sometimes hesitation is not worth it.”

Marlyn hums, approving. “Good motto. I’ll borrow that.”

You glance at her, laugh softly. “Borrow it all you want. I’m not using it properly anyway.”

You feel it before you see it.

His stare.

It’s heavy—unsubtle in a way Eddie rarely is. You can almost feel the weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, jaw set, fingers drumming lightly against the bar like you’re bored.

When you finally glance over, it’s quick. Controlled. A single second. Poker face. No reaction. Nothing.

You let your gaze slide away from Eddie, pretending nothing is wrong. Pretending you’re over it. Pretending like you don’t feel the pull of him across the room, the ache that tightens your chest every time he shifts his weight, every time the girl laughs too close to him.

Eddie’s smile is gone.

He noticed you the second you stepped inside. The music hums in the background, bass vibrating through the floor, but it doesn’t reach him. He only sees you.

The first thought hits like a punch: You’re here. Without me.

What the hell is she doing here?

He glances across the bar and catches Marlyn watching him. Her eyebrows are raised, lips pressed together, eyes narrowing slightly. She’s not saying anything—she doesn’t need to. The message travels through the space between them, across the din of music and chatter.

You did this, she seems to say, a tilt of her head, a shake of her hand.

Guilt coils in his chest. His jaw tightens. His chest burns. Every laugh you make pulls him closer to the edge of losing control, but he stands still. Silent. Helpless.

The girl beside him keeps talking, unaware, her voice animated as she leans closer, but Eddie doesn’t hear a word she’s saying. His attention is locked on you now—on the way you’re standing like you belong there, like you didn’t spend a week unraveling over his silence.

Like you’re over it.

His hand slips from the girl’s back without him realizing it.

You order your drink. Thank the bartender. Take a sip like your hands aren’t shaking just slightly. You laugh at something Marlyn says when she finally reaches your side, your voice steady, convincing.

From across the bar, Eddie watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You don’t look back again.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter, condensation slick against your fingers. You take a sip—strong, sweet, grounding—and let the burn settle low in your chest.

“Okay,” Marlyn says, clinking her glass against yours. “Now that’s more like it.”

You laugh, genuine this time. “Come on.”

You grab her wrist and pull her through the crowd before she can say anything else. Bodies press in from every side as you weave your way toward the dance floor, bass thudding so loud it rattles your ribs. Someone bumps your shoulder; someone else apologizes too late. The air is thick and hot and alive.

You push through the last line of people and spill into the center of it all.

Lights flash overhead—red, blue, violet—cutting the room into pieces. Sweat, laughter, movement everywhere. You and Marlyn turn to face each other instinctively, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. The music drops into something familiar, something with a beat you can sink into.

“Thank God,” Marlyn shouts over the noise. “I needed this.”

You lift your glass in agreement and take another sip, then let the music take over.

Your body loosens before your mind does. Hips swaying, shoulders rolling, hair sticking to your neck. Marlyn laughs when you exaggerate a move just to make her laugh, and she responds in kind, dramatic and unbothered. You dance close, then pull back, mirroring each other’s energy, feeding off the rhythm and the noise.

For a moment, it works.

You forget the bar.

Forget the week.

Forget the way absence has been sitting heavy in your chest.

You sing along to lyrics you don’t fully know, pointing at Marlyn dramatically. She throws her head back laughing, nearly spilling her drink. You catch her elbow before she does.

“Careful!” you shout.

“I’m fine,” she says, grinning.

The music shifts—heavier bass, slower rhythm—and the crowd presses in closer, bodies moving in sync. You’re mid-laugh, shoulders loose, drink lifted in one hand, when you feel it.

Someone stepping into your space.

At first you think it’s just the crowd tightening, but then a hand lifts—hesitant, hovering near your waist without quite touching. You glance up.

He’s cute. In that familiar way.

Dark hair, leather jacket despite the heat. A band tee you recognize. Boots scuffed like they’ve seen some things. The resemblance hits you softly, unfairly.

Oh.

He leans in just enough for you to hear him. “Hey,” he says, voice easy, respectful. “You dancing with anyone?”

Marlyn notices immediately. Her eyebrows shoot up, then she looks at you, waiting. Giving you the choice.

You hesitate for half a second—just long enough to feel the ghost of something tug at your chest.

Then you nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s fine.”

The guy smiles, relieved, and steps closer—not crowd-close, but intentional. He keeps his hands visible at first, moving to the beat, matching your rhythm instead of overtaking it. You appreciate that more than you expect to.

You dance together easily. Nothing rushed. Nothing heavy. Just movement and music and shared space.

His hand settles at your hip, light, tentative. You don’t pull away.

Marlyn grins and takes a step back, lifting her drink like she’s toasting you from a distance. You laugh, rolling your eyes, and let yourself relax into the moment.

The stranger leans in again. He says his name, but it doesn’t stick.

The stranger keeps pace with you, respectful, smooth. His hand stays light at your hip, never demanding more than you give.You nod when he leans in to say something you only half-hear.

He leans closer, voice warm against your ear. “You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes,” you answer automatically.

You take a sip of your drink, even though it’s nearly empty, just to give your hands something to do.

You should feel flattered. Comfortable. Present.

The stranger’s fingers curl a little more securely at your hip, testing. You don’t stop him.

Still, your body doesn’t lean in the way it should. Your gaze flicks to Marlyn across the floor. She’s watching you carefully now—not interrupting, not hovering. Just checking in. You give her a small smile that says I’m okay even though you’re not entirely sure that’s true.

Across the bar, Eddie watches.

At first he tells himself not to. Tells himself to look away, to finish his drink, to pretend he doesn’t feel every movement like it’s happening under his own skin. But then the guy’s hand settles on your waist and something sharp snaps loose in his chest.

Eddie’s jaw clenches. His fingers curl tight around his glass. He watches the way you hesitate—not enough to stop it, just enough to feel wrong—and it guts him. You don’t look happy. You look… detached. Like you’re trying to convince yourself.

The stranger leans in again. Eddie sees his mouth move, sees you answer.

The song changes again—something slower, dirtier—and the stranger shifts closer without asking, guided by the music. His hand slides more firmly to your waist, thumb brushing your side.

You tense, just barely.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling back a fraction. “Tell me if I’m crowding you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “No—it’s fine.”

That’s when Eddie moves.

He doesn’t think it through. His body acts before his brain can catch up, pushing off the bar, cutting through the crowd with purpose written all over his face. Every step feels reckless, desperate.

Marlyn notices immediately.

She’s been watching you just as closely—your forced smile, the way you’re not really there. Then she follows your line of sight, just for a second, and sees Eddie moving.

Fast.

Determined.

Oh no.

She steps out of the crowd and intercepts him cleanly, planting herself directly in his path.

“Oh, no you don’t munson,” Marlyn says, pointing a finger straight into his chest.

Eddie stops short, nearly colliding with her.

He looks down at her—towering, tense, eyes wild. “Move.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t get to do this,” he snaps, trying to step around her.

Marlyn shifts with him, blocking him again. “Do what? Suddenly care?”

That lands.

Eddie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “She looks uncomfortable.”

“She looks confused,” Marlyn corrects. “Big difference.”

The guy studies your face for a moment, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

“You okay?” he asks. “You kinda look like you’re… somewhere else.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m good.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Yeah. I get that look too.”

You glance up at him. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “When you want something but don’t think you’re supposed to have it.”

Your stomach tightens.

He looks away, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry—that sounded heavier than I meant.”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Sometimes I think I’m bad news. Like—if someone’s too good, I should stay the hell away.”

There it is.

Your breath catches—not because of him, but because you’ve heard those words before. Not exactly like that, but close enough to sting. Too close.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “You’re not bad news.”

He snorts. “You don’t know me.”

You think of Eddie. The way he jokes instead of confessing. The way he pulls away when he wants to stay.

“Maybe,” you say. “But people aren’t usually as broken as they think.”

The stranger watches you for a second, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He steps back, giving you space again, like he senses something’s shifted.

And you realize, with a strange clarity, that it was never about finding someone like Eddie.

It was about wanting him.

Eddie glares past Marlyn, eyes flicking toward you again. The stranger’s hand is still at your waist, but you’re stiff now, smile fading.

“I can’t just stand there,” Eddie says, voice low, cracking. “I can’t watch that.”

Marlyn tilts her head up at him, unimpressed. “You watched her walk away for a week.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is exactly the same.”

Eddie swallows. His throat feels tight, burning. “I miss her.”

Marlyn’s expression softens—but only for a second. “Then stop punishing her for your own self-loathing.”

He flinches.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Marlyn continues. “And you didnt either.”

Marlyn steps closer, lowering her voice. “If she wants you, she’ll look for you. But you don’t get to swoop in now like you didn’t push her away first.”

Eddie exhales, heavy and shaky.

Across the dance floor, you pull back slightly from the stranger, discomfort finally winning out. Eddie sees it—and it nearly breaks him.

Marlyn follows his gaze. “See? She’s already choosing herself.”

Eddie closes his eyes for a beat, jaw tight, chest aching. When he opens them again, he doesn’t move.

Your body has gone still, the rhythm slipping out of sync, your smile softening into something polite instead of real. He eases back first, hands lifting in a quiet, respectful surrender.

“Hey,” he says gently, eyes dropping to yours for a brief moment. There’s no bitterness there—just understanding. “It was nice dancing with you.”

You smile, small but genuine. “Yeah. It was.”

He nods once, steps back into the crowd, and disappears just as easily as he arrived.

You turn away before you can overthink it.

As you start toward the edge of the dance floor, you spot Marlyn—standing directly in front of Eddie.

Your steps falter for half a second.

Eddie looks… wrecked. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Marlyn like she’s the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. And then his gaze lifts.

He sees you.

Your heart stutters—but you don’t stop.

“I’m gonna go get another drink,” you say casually as you reach them, voice light, almost breezy.

You don’t look at Eddie when you say it. You don’t slow down. You don’t give him a chance to respond.

Marlyn glances between the two of you, then nods immediately. “Yeah. Me too.”

She falls into step beside you without hesitation.

Eddie stays where he is.

You feel his eyes on your back as you walk away, but he doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t touch you.

The bar feels quieter than the dance floor, the music muffled just enough to let your thoughts creep back in. You lean against the counter, exhaling slowly.

Marlyn orders first, then turns to you. “So?”

You shrug, resting your elbows on the bar. “It was good,” you say honestly. “I just… wasn’t feeling it.”

She hums, unsurprised.

“I mean,” you continue, rolling the glass between your fingers, “I came here with you. We should be dancing together. Having fun together. That’s kinda the point.”

Marlyn smiles softly at that. “I like that answer.”

You smile back, a little tired, a little relieved.

Behind you, somewhere in the noise and lights and missed chances, Eddie stays exactly where you left him—watching, wanting, and finally understanding that this time, you’re not waiting for him to catch up.

You lean forward slightly, lifting your hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hey—can I get a—”

Movement in the corner of your eye pulls your focus away. You glance over your shoulder without really thinking.

And you see him.

Eddie is pushing through the crowd toward the exit, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing against something heavier than the noise. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t hesitate.

He just leaves.

The door swings open, letting in a wash of humid night air and streetlight before it closes behind him.

Gone.

Your words trail off, unfinished.

The bartender waits, eyebrows raised. “You still want that?” You blink, throat tightening. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Marlyn follows your line of sight just in time to see the door settle shut. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything—not yet.

You face forward again, fixing your eyes on the bar like it’s the most important thing in the room. Like your chest isn’t suddenly hollow. Like you didn’t just watch someone you care about walk away without a word.

You hadn’t expected that. You’d braced yourself for awkwardness. For tension. Maybe even a conversation you weren’t ready to have.

But not this.

The bartender slides your drink across the counter. You take it automatically, fingers curling around the glass.

Behind you, the music swells again. Laughter rises. Life continues. You take a sip, the alcohol burning sharper than before, and stare straight ahead—trying not to wonder if this was Eddie choosing distance all over again.

Trying not to wonder why it hurts more now that you saw it happen. And trying, unsuccessfully, not to hope that he’ll come back through that door.

LATER THAT NIGHT

The music dies the second you step outside.

The night air hits you heavy and damp, wrapping around your skin like it’s trying to slow you down. The bass still thuds faintly through the walls behind you, but out here it’s quieter—too quiet.

You’re halfway across the sidewalk when you see him.

Eddie’s by his bike, not sitting on it—just leaning there like he’s forgotten what it’s for. Both feet planted on the ground, ankles crossed loosely, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His shoulders are slumped, head tilted down like he’s staring at nothing.

Then he looks up and your eyes lock.

The world narrows to that single moment—streetlight glare, the ember of his cigarette, the way his face tightens like he wasn’t prepared to see you again. Neither of you move.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Marlyn slows beside you, senses it immediately, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches.

“Get home safe,” he says.

That’s it.

No name.

No apology.

No explanation.

He flicks the cigarette to the pavement and crushes it out with his boot, jaw clenched like that alone took effort. Then he swings onto the bike, helmet already in his hand, movements sharp and decisive—like if he hesitates even one more second, he’ll break.

The engine roars to life and then something in you snaps.

You huff out a breath so sharp it burns your throat and start marching toward your car, keys rattling wildly in your hand. “What the fuck is wrong with him?” you snap, voice already climbing.

Marlyn hurries after you. “Hey—hey, slow down—”

“No,” you cut in, yanking the car door open. “Absolutely not. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to look at me like that and say get home safe like that’s enough.”

You slam the door harder than necessary and start the engine, hands shaking as you peel out of the lot.

Marlyn turns in her seat to face you. “I know you’re upset, but—”

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” you snap, “There’s a difference.”

Streetlights blur past as your words come faster, messier. “I hate him,” you say flatly. “I fucking hate him.”

Marlyn winces. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do!” you shout, slamming the wheel. “I hate that he thinks he can just disappear and come back whenever it suits him. I hate that he acts like he’s doing me some kind of favor by staying away.”

“You’re just angry,” Marlyn insists gently. “You’re hurt.”

“I don’t care,” you fire back, breath shallow. “He’s such a self-sabotaging asshole. Everything’s always about how broken he is. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Marlyn reaches out like she might touch your arm, then thinks better of it. “Okay, but—”

You grip the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white, jaw aching from how hard you’re clenching it. The words keep coming—unchecked, unfiltered, spiraling faster the longer you’re alone with them.

“I hate that stupid bike. I hate his dumb fucking hair—why is it even long? He thinks he’s so cool, doesn’t he? Like—oh, look at me, tortured artist bullshit.”

You laugh bitterly, breath hitching. “And he’s not even that good at tattooing. Everyone acts like he’s a god, but I’ve seen his line work. Crooked as hell.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, then smack the steering wheel again. “Okay, that’s definitely not true,” Marlyn says, trying to keep her voice calm.

Your breathing turns ragged, words tumbling over each other. “He makes me feel insane. Like I’m too much for wanting answers. Like I’m crazy for expecting him to just—just try.”

“Why did I ever meet him? Why did I let him into my life? He ruins everything and then just—just leaves like it’s nothing.”

Your chest feels tight. Too tight. Your thoughts crash into each other, overlapping, contradicting. “I don’t care,” you insist out loud, voice cracking with effort. “I don’t care. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.”

The words come faster now, louder. “He thinks he’s so fucking broken, like that gives him a free pass to hurt people. Newsflash—everyone’s broken. He’s not special.”

Marlyn lets out a startled laugh despite herself. “That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair,” you snap.

Your breathing turns shallow. Too fast. Like you can’t quite get enough air no matter how hard you try. You slam your palm into the steering wheel—once, twice—each hit echoing too loudly in the quiet car, frustration burning through your arms, through your chest, through your bones.

Something snaps.

“FUUUUUUUUUCK—!”

It rips out of you, loud and raw and unfiltered, bouncing off the windshield, the dashboard, the closed windows. The sound shakes your chest on the way out, leaves your throat burning in its wake.

You don’t stop when your voice cracks.

You scream again, dragging it out until your lungs ache, until the sound dissolves into something hoarse and broken and ugly—and honest.

Marlyn flinches but doesn’t interrupt. She just sits there, hands folded in her lap, letting you get it out. The car slows as you pull into your driveway and the scream finally dies, the engine cuts off and you’re left panting,

Silence floods in.

You slump back against the seat, chest heaving, Your ears ring. Your chest rises and falls hard, uneven.anger still buzzing under your skin—but now there’s something else too. Something quieter. Heavier.

The kind of hurt anger can’t drown out forever.

You squeeze your eyes shut, jaw trembling, and mutter one last time, softer now—

“Fuck him.”

For a moment, you feel empty. Hollowed out. Like you’ve wrung yourself dry.

Then the ache creeps back in—quieter now, but heavier. Marlyn reaches over slowly and rests her hand on your arm.“That had to come out,” she says softly.

You swallow hard, eyes burning, and nod once.

Marlyn turns fully toward you now. “You don’t mean half of what you just said, do you?.”

You stare straight ahead, chest heaving, anger still buzzing under your skin like exposed wires.

“Maybe,” you mutter. Then, bitterly, “But it feels good to say it.”

Silence stretches.

Morning doesn’t fix anything.

It just dulls the sharpest edges.

Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, pale lines, striping the kitchen floor and the counter like it’s unsure whether it belongs there. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and last night’s aftermath—stale, quiet, unresolved.

You stand at the counter, stirring your coffee long after the sugar’s dissolved. Marlyn’s beside you, hair pulled into a messy knot, already half in work mode even though her eyes are tired. Neither of you says much.

You carry your mugs to the couch and sit, curling slightly inward. The warmth of the ceramic seeps into your palms, grounding in a way nothing else has been since last night.

Marlyn studies you for a moment. “Are you okay?”

You nod.

It’s reflexive. Easier than finding the words for the hollow feeling pressing behind your ribs.

She exhales and leans back. “You know… you wouldn’t care this much if you didn’t care.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You care about Eddie,” she says gently. “And you wouldn’t be this upset about how he’s been acting if you didn’t.”

You stare down at your coffee, watching the surface ripple when your hands shift.

“When did he start acting weird?” Marlyn asks. “Like—really weird.”

“After his birthday,” you say. “I think.”

Marlyn blinks. “His birthday?” She frowns, genuinely confused. “But that night went so well. Everyone had fun. He seemed happy.”

You nod again. “Yeah That’s what makes it confusing, “It wasn’t obvious at first,” you continue. “Just… little things. He still answered my calls, but he was dry. Like he was only half there. Small talk instead of… us.”

Marlyn nods slowly.

“He stopped joking the same way,” you say. “Stopped asking about my day. Conversations would just… end. Like he was waiting for an excuse to hang up.”

“And then I went to the shop,” you add. “The third day after his birthday. He told me to come by.”

Marlyn’s eyes flick up. “Yeah, I remember.”

“He wasn’t there,” you say. “He’d left early. You said you didn’t know why.”

Marlyn frowns. “Yeah… I didn’t.”

“I stayed,” you continue. “Thought maybe he’d come back. He didn’t. And even after that, I still didn’t think anything of it.”

You laugh softly, bitter. “I kept telling myself I was overthinking.”

Marlyn doesn’t interrupt.

“And when I did see him the next day,” you say, voice quieter now, “he was different. With everyone else he was normal—laughing, joking, leaning in. But with me? Short answers.” You glance up briefly. “He wouldn’t even hug me”

Marlyn’s expression tightens.

“then when I left the shop,” you add, “I told him I was heading out all he said was ‘alright.’”

Silence settles between you.

Marlyn exhales slowly. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Yeah. That’s… not nothing.”

She pauses, then laughs softly, like she’s trying to puzzle it out. “What could have possibly happened that night? I mean—we all left around the same time. Nothing weird happened.”

The room goes very still.

Something stirs in your chest—not sharp, not loud. Just… present. A memory rising slowly to the surface, uninvited.

The apartment is quieter than it’s been all night.

The music is still playing—low now, muffled, like it’s embarrassed to still be there after everyone’s gone. Empty cups sit abandoned on the coffee table. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer lingers in the air, mixed with something warmer—something familiar.

You sink back into Eddie’s couch with a tired laugh, the cushions dipping beneath your weight.

Eddie drops down beside you a second later. Too close.

You notice it immediately—the way your thigh presses against his, the heat of him bleeding through denim and cotton. You should scoot over. Say something. Joke about it.

Neither of you do.

Eddie says something stupid then—something sarcastic, half-slurred, just funny enough to pull a laugh out of you. You throw your head back, laughing freely, the sound ringing a little louder in the quiet apartment.

When you look back at him— You’re already facing each other.

The laughter dies between you, fading into something heavier. Your smile lingers a moment too long before slipping away entirely as you register the space—or lack of it—between you.

His knee is pressed to yours. His arm is stretched along the back of the couch, close enough that if you leaned back even an inch, you’d touch him.

You don’t, Your eyes drop without permission to his mouth.

Eddie notices.

You feel it the second his expression changes—something shifts behind his eyes, something careful and restrained finally cracking. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke it off.

He just watches you.

Your gaze flickers back up, caught, breath stuttering just slightly. The room feels warmer suddenly. Smaller. Like the walls have leaned in to witness whatever this is becoming.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You don’t answer.

He lifts his hand, his fingers brush your cheek—warm, tentative. His thumb rests just below your ear while his palm curves along your jaw, his fingers slipping lightly against the side of your neck.

It’s grounding, intimate and dangerous. Your breath catches. Eddie swallows, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. You lean in just enough for him to feel it and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance, his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft at first, unsure, tasting faintly of alcohol and smoke and something achingly familiar.

The world tilts.

His hand tightens slightly against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as if to make sure you’re real. You kiss him back without thinking, without planning, like this has been waiting quietly between you for far longer than either of you want to admit.

The kiss deepens—rushed, desperate—and full. Loaded. Heavy with everything neither of you have ever said out loud enough that you feel it settle low in your stomach, a slow burn spreading through your chest, your skin suddenly too warm for the room you’re in. Eddie feels it too; you know he does by the way his breath stutters, by the subtle shift of his hand at your cheek, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

He exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that almost breaks him.

You barely register the couch cushions beneath you as he shifts, guiding you back instinctively, like his body is already reacting before his mind can catch up. His hand slides from your cheek to your waist, tentative

You stop him.

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away but to steady yourself as you move—slowly, deliberately—swinging a leg over his lap.

Then you’re there.

Straddling him. Close enough to feel the way his breath hitches beneath you, the way his hands hover at your hips like he’s afraid to touch without permission. The space between you disappears completely, replaced by heat and closeness and the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice rougher now.

You don’t answer.

You lean back in, and this time the kiss is different—hungrier, deeper. Eddie responds instantly, hands settling at your waist, fingers gripping just enough to make your pulse spike. His thumbs brush along your sides like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Your hands wander—through his hair, along his shoulders, anywhere you can reach—drawing a quiet sound from the back of his throat that makes your head spin. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this.

The couch creaks softly beneath you as you shift closer, the world narrowing down to heat and breath and the way Eddie’s hands slide over your back, grounding and reverent all at once.

You lift your mug and take another sip, even though the coffee has gone lukewarm.

“I don’t know,” you say quietly.

Marlyn watches you closely now. Something in your tone must give you away, but she doesn’t push.

Instead, she nods slowly. “Yeah,” she says. “Me neither.” You sit there together in the quiet, the past hovering unspoken between you.

And for the first time, you understand— Whatever happened that night didn’t ruin things.

It changed them.

After finishing coffee with Marlyn she gets ready for work. Marlyn leaves early, keys jingling softly as she heads out the door for her shift at the shop.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

It’s Sunday and Sundays have been too quiet for the past weeks. They stretch.They give you time to think.

The apartment feels emptier after that.

You spend the afternoon drifting. You spent the afternoon doing things around the house. You cleaned up the kitchen, even cleaned out the fridge. You put a load of clothes to wash after finishing up your chores. After that it was from the couch to the kitchen. From the kitchen back to the couch. The TV stays on for noise, but you don’t register what’s playing. Your phone sits beside you like it weighs a hundred pounds.

You know Eddie doesn’t go into the shop on Sundays.

He never has.

Sundays are his—laundry days, ride-around-with-no-destination days, days he disappears into himself a little more than usual. Normally, you’d be part of that. You’d know where he was, what he was doing. Sometimes you’d be doing nothing together, which always felt like everything.

Now, you’re left guessing.

Your mind keeps circling back to the same place. The night of his birthday after everyone had left.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. You’d woken up, left quietly, carried on like nothing had changed. You hadn’t questioned it because… why would you? It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like a mistake.

But maybe it did to him. The thought settles heavy in your chest.

Maybe he didn’t like it.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe you crossed a line he can’t uncross.

You pace the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Or maybe it’s worse than that.

Maybe he thinks you’ll want more.

Maybe he thinks he ruined you somehow.

Maybe he thinks he’s the problem.

The whys stack on top of each other until you can’t tell which ones hurt the most. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.

It’s already late afternoon.

You pick up your phone, then put it down. Pick it up again. Your thumb hovers over his name like it might burn you.

What if he doesn’t answer?

What if he does?

What do you even say?

Why are you avoiding me?

Did I do something wrong?

Do you regret it?

Your chest tightens. You sink back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. You don’t need everything to make sense. Not yet. You just need to know why.

Finally, you sit up. You inhale And before you can talk yourself out of it, you hit call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Each second stretches, your heart pounding louder than the dial tone. You hold the phone to your ear, breath caught halfway between hope and dread.

Waiting.

The ringing stops.

No click. No voice. No hey.

Just silence.

You lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen like it might explain itself. Your name still sits there, untouched, as if nothing happened at all.

Heat crawls up your chest, up your neck, settling behind your eyes. Not embarrassment—not yet. Something closer to panic. Like your body realizes before your brain does.

You swallow and inhale through your nose.

“He’s a smart man,” you mutter, forcing out a small, humorless laugh. “Probably just busy.”

You shake your head once, like you’re clearing fog.

Then you hit call again.

You press the phone to your ear, leg bouncing, free hand digging into the couch cushion. The ring sounds louder this time, each one punching into your chest.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

It stops.

Call declined.

Your breath stutters.

For a moment, you don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. The words feel unreal, like they belong to someone else’s life.

Then it hits.

You drop the phone onto the couch like it burned you.

“What the fuck?” you gasp.

You slam your hands down into the cushions—hard. The couch jolts beneath you.

“Oh my God,” you snap, pacing half a step forward before whipping back around. “Are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious right now?”

You grab your phone again, fingers shaking, clutching it tight as if Eddie might hear you through sheer force of will.

“Just answer the phone!” you yell at the screen. “I’m not asking for your soul, Eddie—I’m asking for one FUCKING conversation!”

Your voice cracks on the last word, anger tearing straight through your chest. You hit the couch again with the side of your fist. “You don’t get to do this,” you shout. “You don’t get to decide everything for me and then shut me out like I don’t exist!”

Your breathing turns wild, uneven. You drag a hand through your hair, pacing in a tight circle before dropping back onto the couch hard enough to bounce.

“Declining my call?” you laugh sharply, the sound breaking halfway through. “Wow. Okay. That’s—yeah. That’s real fucking mature.”

You stare at the phone like it betrayed you. “Just say you regret it,” you mutter, voice cracking now. “Just say you didn’t want me. That would be easier than this.”

Silence answers you.

The apartment feels too small. Too quiet. Like it’s pressing in, watching you unravel. You sink into the cushions, chest heaving, phone resting uselessly in your palm.And the thought that hurts the most isn’t that he didn’t answer.

It’s that he saw your name—

—and chose not to.

The anger doesn’t disappear all at once.

It just… gives up.

It drains out of you slowly, leaving your body heavy and hollow, like something vital leaked out while you weren’t paying attention. Your hands unclench. Your shoulders slump. The heat in your chest fades into a dull, aching pressure.

You stare at the phone in your lap. Your throat tightens.“I don’t want to lose him,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your lips.

Your voice sounds small. Too small.

You shake your head quickly, like you can undo the thought before it settles. “I can’t,” you murmur. “I can’t lose him.”

The room feels different now—too quiet, too empty. You suddenly notice all the spaces Eddie used to fill. The couch where he’d sprawl out like he belonged there. The kitchen counter he leaned against while talking too much. The way your life bent around his presence without you ever realizing it.

“He’s the only thing I have,” you say out loud, panic creeping into your voice.

The words scare you the second you say them. “No—no, that’s not true,” you rush to correct yourself, breath hitching. “That’s not true. I don’t need him. I don’t.”

But your chest tightens anyway. What would your life look like without Eddie?

No random calls at night.

No showing up at the shop just to sit with him.

No Sundays that feel like something instead of nothing.

Your breathing starts to speed up.

“I hate him,” you say suddenly, voice wavering. “I hate him so much. I’ll hate him forever.”

The sentence collapses in on itself before it’s finished. Your eyes burn. Your chest aches like it’s caving inward. “I don’t want to fucking hate him,” you choke. “I just—I don’t fucking want him gone.”

Your foot bounces uncontrollably against the floor. Your fingers dig into the fabric of the couch like it might steady you.

What if this is it?

What if this is how it ends—no explanation, no conversation, just distance until there’s nothing left to reach for?

Your heart starts racing. “No,” you whisper. “No, no, no.”

You grab your phone again, hands trembling now, thumb hovering over his name. “He’ll answer,” you tell yourself quickly, desperately. “He will. He wouldn’t do me like this. He wouldn’t.”

You hit call before you can think.

The phone rings.

Once.

Your knee bounces faster.

“He’s just busy,” you mutter. “He probably didn’t hear it. That’s all.”

Twice.

“He’s gonna answer,” you insist. “He always answers.”

Three times.

Then—

Silence.

The call drops.

No voicemail. No decline this time. Just unanswered.Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale that turns into something broken halfway through.

You stare at the screen, waiting for it to light back up. Waiting for anything.

Nothing happens.

Your shoulders start to shake before you even realize you’re crying. Not loud sobs—just quiet, panicked breaths that come out wrong. “I can’t do this,” you murmur. You curl in on yourself on the couch, phone clutched tight to your chest like it might still connect you to him if you hold it hard enough.

The apartment stays silent.

And for the first time since this all started, the fear sinks in fully—

What if he’s already gone?

THAT Night settles in quietly.

The apartment is dark except for the glow of a lamp in the corner and the blue light from your phone. You’re curled on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing when your phone finally rings.

Marlyn’s name.

You answer on the first ring. “Hey,” you say, voice rough.

“Hey,” Marlyn replies softly. “I just got home.”

There’s a pause. You can hear her shifting, probably kicking off her shoes, probably already tired. You don’t ask. She doesn’t either. Then she exhales. “I saw Eddie today.”

Your stomach drops. “At the shop?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yeah,” she says. “He wasn’t tattooing. He just… sat there. Cleaned. Smoked. Left. Came back. Stayed all day.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.

“All day?” you repeat. “All day,” Marlyn confirms. “Didn’t really talk. Didn’t joke. Just stared at nothing most of the time.”

Something inside you shifts.

He was there.

Present. Awake. Existing.

Just not answering you.

Your chest tightens, heat blooming behind your ribs. “So he can sit there all day,” you say slowly, “but he can’t pick up the phone.”

Marlyn hesitates. “I don’t think it’s like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m going to his apartment,” you say suddenly.

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Is that what you want to do?” Marlyn asks carefully.

“Yes,” you answer immediately. No hesitation. No second-guessing. “I need to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to do this tonight,” she says gently. “You can wait.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “If I wait, I won’t go. And I need answers.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” Marlyn says finally. “Then go. But… be honest. With him. And with yourself.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “I will.”

You grab your keys, standing up so fast the room sways slightly. Your heart pounds harder with every step toward the door. “Call me after,” Marlyn adds. “No matter what happens.”

“I will,” you promise.

You hang up and step out into the night. The air is warm and heavy, wrapping around you as you walk to your car. Your hands shake as you unlock it, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

You slide into the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead for a moment. You start the engine and as you pull onto the road toward Eddie’s apartment, one thought repeats over and over in your head— He doesn’t get to disappear without telling me why.

The parking lot feels too open, too exposed.

You kill the engine and practically jump out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you. Your keys jingle loudly in your hand as you rush toward the building, pulse thudding in your ears.

The elevator takes forever.

You mash the button again, foot tapping, chest rising too fast. When the doors finally slide open, you step inside and immediately stab at his floor, arms folded tight around yourself like you’re trying to keep everything in.

The ride up feels endless.

Your thoughts race ahead of you—everything you want to say, everything you’re afraid to hear. By the time the doors open, your palms are slick with sweat.

You don’t slow down.

You speed-walk down the hallway, sneakers scuffing against the carpet, breath uneven. His door is at the end, familiar in a way that twists something deep in your chest.

You don’t knock. You bang.

Your fist hits the wood once. Twice. Three times—hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Eddie,” you call. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

Your heart pounds louder. Anger flares, sharp and sudden. You knock again, harder this time, palm stinging.

There’s movement inside. Footsteps. A pause that feels deliberate.

Then the door opens—just a crack.

The chain is still latched.

Eddie stands there on the other side, His gaze flicks over your face, your clenched fists, your wild breathing. Guilt flashes across his expression before he schools it into something flatter.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly.

The words hit harder than if he’d shouted. You stare at him through the gap in the door, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once—relief, fury, fear, longing.

You let out a short, breathy laugh.

“You’re not gonna let me in?” you ask, voice light in a way that doesn’t match your eyes.

The chuckle that follows is brittle. Dangerous.

Eddie stiffens. He knows that sound.

He’s heard it before—heard it right before everything spills over. He can practically feel the moment ticking closer, the point where you stop trying to hold yourself together and start breaking loudly instead.

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t—”

“Eddie,” you cut in, still smiling faintly, still shaking. “Is this a joke?” You gesture vaguely at the door, the chain. The space between you.

“Because if it is, I’m not laughing.” The hallway feels too small. Too exposed. Your voice carries, even when you don’t raise it.

He exhales, long and heavy, eyes closing for just a second like he’s surrendering to something he’s been fighting all week. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

The chain slides free with a soft metallic sound. He opens the door.

You step inside immediately, brushing past him before he can second-guess himself. The air in his apartment hits you all at once—cigarettes, ink, something familiar that twists your chest.

As the door shuts behind you, you turn on him, arms folding tight across your chest. “So what?” you say, tone sharp, edged with sarcasm. “Now it’s a pain for you to let me in?”

Eddie rubs a hand down his face, already exhausted. “That’s not—”

“Because it kind of feels like it,” you continue, words tumbling out faster now. “Like everything involving me is just… inconvenient.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something in his expression breaks. “This isn’t about that,” he says quietly.

“Then what is it about?” you fire back.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He turns instead, walking deeper into the apartment like he needs the space to breathe. You follow him automatically, footsteps softer now, the adrenaline ebbing just enough to let the ache creep back in.

The living room is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner. Everything looks the same—and completely different.

Eddie stops near the middle of the room, hands flexing at his sides. He doesn’t sit. He can’t. He paces a few short steps, back and forth, like he’s measuring the floor or counting down something invisible.

You sink onto the couch.

The cushions dip beneath you, familiar. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers lacing together tightly as you tilt your head up, eyes fixed on him. Waiting.

He drags a hand through his hair, lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for days.

He stops pacing and stands right in front of you.

For the first time since this all started, you really look at each other. You take him in—the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders are tense like he’s bracing for impact, the familiar shape of his mouth pulled into something closer to pain than anger.

And he takes you in too.

Really sees you.

Not just a passing glance at the shop. Not the ghost of you across a bar. You, sitting right there, eyes searching his face, heart still open despite everything.

Something in his expression flickers. Softens. Hurts. Eddie exhales slowly and closes his eyes. “We shouldn’t have done it,” he says.

Your chest tightens.

“I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

His voice is low, steady in a way that feels practiced—like he’s been rehearsing this in his head for a week straight. “I crossed a line,” he continues quietly. “And I don’t get to pretend I didn’t.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unfinished.

And suddenly, you realize— This isn’t him saying he didn’t want you.

It’s him saying he doesn’t think he deserves you.

You stare up at him for a long moment after he speaks.

We shouldn’t have done it.

Something in you stills.

Then you stand.

The movement is sudden enough that Eddie’s eyes flicker open, but his face stays neutral—too neutral. Like he’s bracing himself behind something solid.

“You don’t get to say that like it’s a fact,” you tell him evenly. Your voice is steady. That surprises even you.

Eddie exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

There it is.

“It was just sex,” he continues, voice calm, almost dismissive. “A mistake. A drunk night that went too far.”

You let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “Wow,” you say. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Why are you this worked up about it?”

The words sting—but something about them doesn’t land right.

You step closer.

“If it was just sex,” you say slowly, carefully, “then why did you disappear?”

Eddie’s eyes flick away for half a second. He recovers quickly. “I didn’t disappear.”

“You stopped talking to me for fuck sake,” you snap. “You couldn’t even hug me. You left the shop early. You cut conversations short. You declined my calls.”

He opens his mouth—closes it.

You don’t let him off the hook. “If it was nothing,” you continue, voice rising now, “then why are you treating it like it was the worst thing that ever happened to you?”

Silence.

Eddie folds his arms across his chest, defensive. “You’re reading into it.”

“No,” you say firmly. “You’re lying.”

“You don’t pull away like that over something meaningless,” you go on. “You don’t punish yourself—or me—over ‘just sex.’”

Eddie scoffs quietly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you,” you fire back. “And I know when you’re trying to talk yourself out of wanting something.”

His expression hardens. Controlled. Masked. “I didn’t want this,” he says.

The words hit—but you don’t flinch. “Then why do you look like it’s killing you?” you ask softly.

That lands.

Eddie’s jaw flexes. He looks past you, toward the wall, like meeting your eyes might crack something open he can’t afford to fix.

“I’m bad for you,” he says instead. “That’s the truth. Whatever that night was—it doesn’t change that.”

You shake your head slowly, incredulous.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do when I’m the one who fucks things up,” he replies, voice still level. Too level.

“You’re not protecting me,” you say. “You’re protecting yourself.”

That one slips through.

Eddie goes quiet.

“You’re pushing me away because it meant something,” you continue. “And that scares the hell out of you.”

He finally looks back at you. For a split second, something raw flashes across his face.

Then it’s gone.

“You should go,” he says.

The words are calm.

You stare at him.

Really stare—like if you look hard enough, long enough, you’ll find the truth hiding behind his eyes. Something familiar. Something that still belongs to you.

But Eddie just looks tired.

Worn down. Closed off. Like he’s already halfway gone and pretending that makes this easier. Something inside you gives. You let out a small, disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head.

“Out of all people,” you say quietly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “I never thought it’d be you who’d hurt me the fucking worst.”

His jaw tightens.

“I hate you Eddie.”

The words land heavy, final.

You turn and start toward the door. That’s when he reaches for you. His fingers catch your wrist—gentle, instinctive. You yank your hand away like it burns. “Don’t,” you snap, spinning back around to face him. Your chest is heaving now, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t touch me.”

He freezes.

“And it’s not just because we had sex,” you continue, voice breaking open now. “It’s everything you did after.”

Your words spill faster, sharper, like if you don’t say them now they’ll destroy you from the inside. “It’s how you ignored me. How you shut me out. How you looked right through me like I didn’t matter.”

Eddie swallows hard, but you don’t stop.

“You treated me exactly how you’ve treated every other girl that’s walked through this apartment,” you say, gesturing wildly around you. “Like I was just another one-night thing you needed to forget.”

Your voice cracks. “When I’m not that,” you choke. “I’m way more than that.” Your eyes finally spill over. Tears blur your vision, but you keep looking at him—memorizing him—because you can feel it happening. The exact moment something snaps.

It feels like a string pulling tight between your chest and his.

And then—It cuts.

The connection you didn’t even realize you were holding onto goes slack, gone in an instant. The air between you turns cold, empty.

This isn’t just a fight. It’s the end of something that used to feel unbreakable.

Eddie opens his mouth like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out. His face finally betrays him then, guilt and regret bleeding through the cracks.

Too late.

You wipe at your face angrily, shaking your head.

“I hope it was worth it,” you whisper. “I hope not being able to talk to me about it was so fucking worth it”

You step back, hand reaching for the door. The words hang there, absolute. You open the door and for a moment, you think he might stop you again.

He doesn’t.

And as you step out into the hallway and let the door close behind you, you know—without a doubt—that whatever you and Eddie were…

It’s over.

And somehow, that hurts worse than losing him ever could.

[flowersforbucky]

your self lingers

eddie munson x reader

trapped in a coma after nearly dying in the upside down, eddie’s brain replays his best memories. as his body fights to stay alive, he watches past versions of himself fall in love with you, not knowing if he’ll ever have the chance to tell you how he feels now.

word count: 5.4k+

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, angst with a happy ending i swear, best friends to lovers, near death experience, season 4 fix it fic, brief marijuana use, hospital setting, kissing, hurt/comfort, hardcore mutual pining, eddie is a level 848389292 yearner, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, all flashbacks/memories are in italics!

author’s note: this was inspired by this request from @highlandhour! i’m so sorry this got away from me. huge thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs for reading over this and assuring me it isn’t hot garbage ily <3

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°⋆࿓ ˖⁺｡˚⋆˙✧⋆｡°⋆࿓

At first, Eddie thinks that he’s dead. He’s still not entirely convinced otherwise.

But that wouldn’t make sense. Because what he’s looking at right now looks too much like heaven, and Eddie never saw himself getting into a place like heaven. He thought the closest he’d ever get was you accidentally falling asleep with your head on his shoulder while watching Return of the Jedi in his living room.

There’s got to be some other explanation for the way he’s hovering outside of his own body, watching a past version of himself blush beet fucking red because you complimented his guitar playing.

God, had he really looked that giddy? Had he truly been that obviously down bad for you since the very first interaction? Had you really not ever noticed?

Standing before himself right now, even in this dreamlike haze that makes the whole room a little bit blurry, he can see his feelings for you plain as day on his face.

More importantly, he can see you. Every bit as beautiful as you’ve always been. In hindsight, he should have told you right then and there.

What if he never has the chance now?

He can’t stop himself. He says your name - loudly enough that you should’ve been able to hear him over The Hideout’s rowdy late night crowd.

But his voice sounds muffled. Like he’s trying to speak underwater. You don’t hear him - not him him, anyway. Your attention stays focused on the younger version of him with slightly shorter hair and a few less tattoos.

That’s when he remembers something you’d told him what feels like ages ago. He didn’t put too much stock in it at the time, but now he wonders if it’s true - that after death, a person’s brain can cycle through their best memories.

So maybe this isn’t heaven. But if he is in fact dead, he may as well enjoy this for however long it lasts before you fade away.

Before he fades away.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Eddie blinks and he’s no longer in The Hideout watching his past self blush and stutter his way through his first conversation with you.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in your kitchen. He recognizes the memory instantly.

The first time he ever came to your house - and also his first haircut in years.

“I’ve got a shit load of split ends right now,” Eddie observes, a lock of his dark curls pinched between two fingers. He sighs. “My own fault, I guess. It’s been over a year since I’ve had it trimmed.”

You’re focused on combining various cheeses in a mixing bowl. Yesterday, he’d let it slip that his mom used to make the best lasagna, and that he hasn’t eaten even a single bite of the dish since she passed away over a decade ago. He misses it, but he’s not much of a cook himself and his uncle is rarely home for dinner since he works night shifts.

Your response had been to go buy all of the ingredients for homemade lasagna from the grocery store and invite him over for dinner the very next day. Now he sits on a barstool at your kitchen island, watching you assemble the dish. He’d offered to help, of course, but you had insisted that he “sit there and look pretty”.

“I’ve heard good things about the barber in town,” you muse, cracking an egg into the bowl. “I can’t remember his name. Sam or something.”

“Sal?” He scoffs. “Not a chance. Wayne took me to Sal once - right before school started back. He told him to trim my hair and he gave me a buzz cut. I looked like a damn egg for the first half of third grade. Safe to say that Sal will never get my business again.”

You snort a laugh, your nose crinkling in the way that Eddie has come to adore in such a short amount of time. Adores it so much that he takes every opportunity he gets to make you laugh.

“I’m sure you were a cute little egghead,” you coo. “I’ll have to ask Wayne if he has any pictures.” You’re too focused on layering all of the ingredients in a casserole dish to notice the way it makes him blush.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he feigns indignation. You glance up with a look that very clearly says try me.

“Your uncle loves me. I’m sure if I asked sweetly, he wouldn’t hesitate to dig out any and all childhood photos he has of you.”

Eddie hums. He doesn’t even try to deny it, because you’re right. Wayne does love you. He thinks you’re good for Eddie, and reminds him of it often. If you go even a few days without coming by, Wayne asks where you’ve been.

Eddie tries to assure him that the two of you are just friends, but it doesn’t seem to do much good. Wayne never seems fully convinced.

After sliding the lasagna in the oven and setting a timer, you turn to face him. Your bravado from just moments ago seems to falter, a more hesitant expression taking its place.

“Well, we’ve got a whole hour to kill before the lasagna is ready…” You trail off with a shrug. “If you want, I could trim your hair for you.”

He says yes. Of course he says yes. Even though you’ve never cut another person’s hair before, even though there’s a chance you could completely botch it, he says yes.

If there’s an opportunity for you to touch him in any capacity, he’s going to take it.

It’s not like it could possibly turn out any worse than when Sal practically shaved him bald.

So that’s how he ends up sitting on a stool in front of your bathroom mirror, you behind him with a pair of scissors that definitely aren’t intended for cutting hair and look of concentration that Eddie wishes he could snap a picture of.

You take your time, working in small sections. It takes a while - he has a lot of hair, after all - but he doesn’t mind. He stares at you in the reflection of the vanity mirror the entire time, not really caring if his hair ends up a dozen different lengths, because he gets to sit here and look at you while you dote on him.

“There,” you say with a final snip. You back up a few inches, taking a look at your work. “I think I got all of the dead ends. What do you think? Does it look okay?”

But he’s still too busy looking at you. You look so concerned, like every individual strand of hair has to be perfect or he’ll be disappointed in you.

Fuck, how did he get lucky enough to end up here? How did he play his cards so right? With your fingers gently fluffing his hair and the smell of the lasagna that you’re making specially for him wafting from down the hallway—

The timer goes off in the next room, startling all three of you. You, his past self, and the ghost of him that observes the interaction from the bathroom doorway.

He watches as you brush your hands off against your pants before turning around and walking right through him, back to the kitchen where the timer buzzes incessantly. You, of course, remain completely unaware of his presence - calling back to past Eddie to tidy up and come eat.

He tries to follow you. He can’t stop himself - he catches a whiff of your perfume and his feet act of their own accord, following you down the short hallway towards your kitchen. He hasn’t even taken three steps when the room starts to waver.

He freezes. He knows he’s powerless to stop it. So he chooses to stand still and look at you for as long as he can, until the scene around him glitches like someone’s unplugging the memory one cord at a time.

Then there’s nothing but darkness and the faint hum of machinery from somewhere far out of his reach.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Do you think you’ll stay here after graduation?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t really given it much thought. The last few years of his life have been spent trying to get to graduation, only to disappoint himself yet again each time. He had yet to let himself dwell on what comes after.

“Here?” He repeats, accepting the half-smoked joint that you pass back to him from where you sit in the passenger seat of his van. “Like in Hawkins?” He brings the tail to his lips and inhales.

“Yeah,” you laugh lightly. “Like in Hawkins.”

He holds the smoke in for longer than necessary as he thinks of his answer. When his lungs start to burn, he exhales. “For a while, probably. Not really sure where else I’d go.”

Not really sure I’d want to go anywhere without you, he thinks to himself. He passes the joint back to you. “What makes you ask?”

You shrug. “When I was watching you play tonight, I couldn’t help but picture you…somewhere else. Some big city, where more people have the chance to hear you. People with connections and opportunities. Connections and opportunities that The Hideout probably won’t ever give you.”

He can’t help but freeze and glance over at you. It’s a typical Tuesday night - Corroded Coffin had just wrapped up their weekly gig at The Hideout and, as always, you’d been watching from the corner booth that you always do. The same corner booth that you’d sat in the night he first met you months ago.

“Don’t underestimate The Hideout,” he teases. “I did meet you there, after all.”

“I’m serious,” you hum.

He knows you are. You wouldn’t say something that you don’t mean. Not something like this. Not to him.

You take another slow drag before speaking. “I just…think you deserve to be heard. By more than just the same small crowd of regular drunks every Tuesday night.”

He swallows. Hawkins is all he knows. He tries to picture anything else - some apartment of his own in a city that never sleeps, crowded sidewalks, bright lights. But he can’t. Can’t see himself anywhere that isn’t his trailer, his van, The Hideout, Hawkins. Can’t see himself anywhere you aren’t right next to him.

He’s always been a creature of habit. Since he was fourteen years old, he’s started every morning with a cup of black coffee and a cigarette. He falls asleep each night to one of the same five movies - he’s replayed them so many times that he can’t believe they still work. Every Tuesday night, he plays at The Hideout, and every Friday night is Hellfire Club.

And for the last few months, you’ve been at the very center of it all. Now when he wakes up and drinks his coffee on the front porch step of his trailer every morning, he thinks of you and wonders if you’re awake yet. When he drifts to sleep with Raiders of the Lost Ark playing for the fourth night in a row, he sees you when he closes his eyes. And when he looks out into the crowd of regulars that frequent The Hideout every week, your face is always the one he searches for.

You nudge him lightly with your elbow when he doesn’t respond. He glances up and you’re giving him a soft grin that would bring him to his knees if he weren’t already sitting down. “I’m not saying you have to leave,” you murmur. “I’m just saying don’t sell yourself short, okay? You’re allowed to want more than this place has to offer.”

The words hit him square in the chest. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever believed him that much, let alone so vocally. Definitely not his teachers or his dad. The most supportive person in his life - until you came along - had always been his uncle. But Wayne is a man of few words, and his support comes in the form of not complaining too much about loud music coming from Eddie’s room.

But you think he deserves more. You think he could actually make it as a musician. You believe in him.

He clears his throat, forcing a laugh to break the tension that had settled throughout the confined space of his van. “Well, if I did leave, you’d have to come with me. Who else is going to remind me to eat more than one meal a day?”

You laugh. He can’t help but think he hears a hint of relief. “That goes without saying. You’d slowly wither away without me.”

He doesn’t dare argue with that.

“Fuck!” Eddie curses from the back of his van. He’d watched the entire interaction in silence, drinking in the way that you sounded nervous to broach the subject of leaving Hawkins to him. He hadn’t picked up on the honesty, the emotion, the sheer adoration in your voice at the time, but he hears it now.

“Fuck, you idiot,” Eddie curses to no one but himself. His past self is blissfully unaware of how he watches from the backseat, focused only on you beside him. “Leave Hawkins now! Take her and get the fuck out of this town right now!”

It’s useless. He knows it’s a waste of what very little, very precious time he has left to bask in your presence, but he yells anyway. At the past version of himself sitting in front of him, at the version of himself that didn’t run away from those godforsaken bats, at you, at this entire surreal situation he’s in.

“I’m going to find my way out of here,” he swears to you. “I’m gonna find my way out of this place. I’m gonna find my way back to you, and we’ll get out of Hawkins. We’ll go wherever the hell you want to go. You hear me?”

But he knows that you can’t. You’re already gone again.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Eddie’s about to do the most cliche thing he’s ever done.

He’s giving you a mixtape for your birthday.

Not just any mixtape. A mixtape that he spent hours making last night, just for you. A mixtape with songs that reminds him of you, songs that he doesn’t necessarily like but knows that you do, songs that he loves and wants you to love, too. You name it, it’s on there.

Tucked inside the cassette tape is a piece of paper that lists all of the song titles along with the reasons why he selected each one, written in his borderline illegible chicken scratch that you like to tease him about.

It’s not much. He knows you deserve far more than a homemade mixtape for your birthday, and he wishes he could give you the world. You deserve it for just being his friend and making his days as happy as you do. But he also doubts that anyone else giving you a gift this year put as much thought into your presents as he did, so that gives him a small amount of comfort.

His hands are so sweaty that he nearly drops the tape from his clutches as he walks up your front porch steps. You open the door for him before he has a chance to knock.

How are you somehow even prettier on your birthday than you are the other 364 days of the year?

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he greets you. The smile that appears on your face is enough to make him nearly melt on the spot.

“You remembered,” you laugh, a lilt of surprise in your voice. You motion for him to come inside.

“Well, duh,” he snorts. “Of course I remembered your birthday. It’s kind of a huge deal.”

You close the door behind him, rolling your eyes. “It’s really not.”

“Disagree,” he says instantly, heart pounding at the prospect of handing you the mixtape still in his hand. “Strongly disagree, actually. The day you were born is very important. And that’s why I come bearing gifts…well, gift. Singular.”

You turn towards him with raised brows, your eyes trailing down and then back up in search of the gift he could be referring to.

He swallows and holds it out to you in offering. “I, uh - here.”

Smooth. Really fucking smooth.

You blink, then gingerly take it from his hand like it’s something fragile. The handwritten label catches your attention first. Your face softens. “You made this?”

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes suddenly glued to a random speck on your floor. “I mean, yeah. Nothing fancy or anything - just some songs that I know you like. And some that I like that I hope you’ll like, too.” He exhales. “I dunno. It’s not much—”

“Eddie.”

You run your thumb along the edge of the cassette tape. “This is the sweetest gift that anyone’s given me in a very long time. Possibly ever.”

You pull the folded paper out, skimming the first few lines of his messy handwriting. You say his name again, softer this time. “You wrote why you picked each song?”

He clears his throat nervously. “I just…didn’t want you to be confused or anything. It’s a lot of songs.”

You smile at him and he swears it’s like looking at the sun. Before he can register what’s happening, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, just a few inches from the corner of his mouth. His entire body goes still.

It’s quick. Warm. And so, so soft. The imprint of your lips linger even after you pull away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your gaze settling on the tape again like you can’t believe your eyes. “Really. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

He knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. His hand twitches awkwardly at his side, forming a fist to resist the urge to bring the tips of his fingers to where your lips had touched his cheek.

Before the tension has a chance to suffocate him entirely, he forces an exhale and claps his hands together. “Alright, birthday girl. What’s the plan for today?” He aims to sound casual, but it comes out breathless. “We can do anything you want. The sky’s the limit.”

“Hm,” you hum, tapping your chin in contemplation but it’s just for show - he can tell by the smirk on your face and the twinkle in your eyes that you already know exactly what you want to do today.

“I want to go to the bookstore. And then the arcade. Then tonight, I want to go to the drive-in.”

He grins, not the least bit surprised by your answer. “Like I said - anything you want. I’m all yours today.”

And god, he means it. In more ways than you probably realize. Today and every day.

When the scene around him fades to black, Eddie’s cheek burns with the memory of your kiss.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

When he opens his eyes again, it feels like déjà vu.

This memory is more recent than any of the others.

All of the other memories have had one major thing in common - they’ve all been some of the happiest memories of his life. Because of you.

But if someone asked Eddie to list off all of his happiest memories, this memory wouldn’t make the cut. It probably wouldn’t even make the top thousand happiest memories.

No, it isn’t exactly happy. But it is one of his most recent memories with you. One of the most uncertain and hopeless days of his life, brightened only by you being by his side.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he tells you for the third time in the last hour. “This place sucks. The expired Spaghettios suck. The godawful draft sucks. This scratchy couch sucks. I’m pretty sure there’s a dead animal somewhere in the walls because it smells rancid in here. You should be home. Where you’d be warm, and safe—”

“And where I wouldn’t be able to rest,” you interrupt his rambling. You’re lounging on Reefer Rick’s aforementioned sucky, scratchy couch with your feet resting in Eddie’s lap. You peer at him from over the edge of a random book that you’d found in Rick’s bedroom. Eddie doesn’t think it looks like something you’d normally read, but he supposes you can’t be too picky right now. It’s not like either of you are here for entertainment.

You sigh, closing the book. You sit up, removing your feet from his lap. At first, he hates the sudden loss of physical contact, but then you scoot closer to him, resting your arm on the back of the couch behind his head. “We’ve been over this, Eddie. I’m not going anywhere. If you’re here, I’m here. I’ll go home when you can go home, too.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” He feels your fingers thread through the thick curls at the base of his skull and he shuts his mouth. “If I went home right now, I wouldn’t be able to function. I’d stew in my own anxiety until I’m sick. I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep without knowing you’re okay. I’d spend every second worrying about you.”

Your fingers move gently through his curls again and his eyes flutter shut.

He hates how much he needs it - your touch. Your comfort. Your presence.

He knows you simply being here puts you in danger. Yet when you run your fingers through his hair like that, he can’t bring himself to continue attempting to convince you to leave.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

For you, he tries. Even though his thoughts are racing with all of the unknowns, all of the ways this could end with you getting hurt because of him. With his eyes still closed, he breathes in, then out, focusing on the way your nails gently graze the skin of his neck.

“Thank you,” he breathes in a shaky voice. “For just…being there for me. Through all of this bullshit.”

You shake your head, shushing him softly. “You would do the same for me.”

And he would. Without a doubt, in a heartbeat, he would. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He’d face every nightmare that the Upside Down could possibly conjure. He’d run, hide, bleed. He’d sacrifice himself to hundreds of bloodthirsty demo-bats so that you have a chance of getting away.

But most importantly, he’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on. He’ll drift through his memories for what feels like an eternity if it means he’ll eventually wake up for you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Brought you another coffee.”

You glance up from resting your head in your hands at the gruff, familiar voice.

“Oh. Thank you, Wayne.”

He grunts in response, taking a seat in one of the old, worn seats in the corner of the room. You take a sip of the gas station coffee he’d brought you from across the street. Over the last five days, Wayne has learned that you take your coffee with two cream, two sugars. It tastes burnt and a little too bitter, but at least it’s hot.

He looks as tired as you feel. The man has been surviving off of nothing but caffeine, nicotine, and unwavering hope for nearly a week.

At least one of you has been by Eddie’s bedside at any given moment. Oftentimes both, but only Wayne is allowed to stay overnight. Family only - hospital policy.

And there has not been a night that he hasn’t stayed. Every morning, when you arrive as soon as visiting hours allow, you find Wayne in the exact same chair that he’d been in when you’d left twelve hours prior.

For the most part, the two of you sit in silence during the day. It isn’t uncomfortable. Your shared love for Eddie makes it all a little more bearable. When you have to leave, you take comfort in knowing that Wayne is still with him. And Wayne only ever agrees to leave for short periods of time during the day if you’re there to be with Eddie in his temporary absence.

He normally only leaves for long enough to grab another coffee, a vending machine snack, and smoke a cigarette or two. His trailer had been destroyed in what news reports are referring to as an earthquake - so he’s in a motel for the time being, but he only goes to the room for long enough to take a quick shower every other day.

You’ve yet to hear him complain a single time. But as soon as you arrived this morning, you could tell that it’s all starting to get to him - the lack of sleep. The worry and uncertainty. The stress. The depressing and sterile environment of the same four hospital walls, day after day. Today, the dark circles under his eyes and the way he winces when he sits down in his chair are hard for you to ignore.

“You need to sleep, Wayne,” you say delicately. “Not here. In an actual bed. For more than a couple hours. And you need to eat an actual meal that consists of more than just Doritos and beef jerky.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he’s too tired. Instead, he turns his gaze to his nephew in the bed a few feet away from him. “I have a good feeling about today. I gotta be here when he wakes up.”

He’d said the exact same thing yesterday, but you don’t remind him of that.

“I hope you’re right,” you sigh. “But you still need to sleep. I know that chair is killing your back.” You pause. To your surprise, he doesn’t deny it.

“I’ll be here,” you murmur. “I’ll be right here with him. If he wakes up, I’ll make sure he knows that I forced you to go take a nap.”

He continues to stare at Eddie’s sleeping form for a few more moments before he reluctantly nods, and pushes himself out of the creaky chair. He hesitates next to Eddie’s bed, giving his nephew’s hand a tight squeeze before forcing one foot in front of the other.

He pauses beside you before he reaches the door. “Boy’s lucky,” he grunts, not looking you in the eye. “He’s got someone that loves him as much as he loves them.”

The words knock the air from your lungs. A golf ball sized lump forms in your throat. You force yourself to swallow it down. At least until you’re alone.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

He leaves without saying another word. When the door behind him clicks shut, you let tears fall freely for the first time in five days.

“You hear that?” You half laugh, half sob. You drag your chair across the linoleum floor, closer to the side of his bed. Then, you take the same hand that Wayne had just held moments prior in your own and bring it to your lips. “I love you, Eddie. I never imagined that this would be the time or place that I’d be telling you that for the first time, but it’s true. I’m in love with you.”

You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, simultaneously relieved that Eddie can’t see you in this state and also wishing more than anything that he’d open his eyes and tease you about being such a snotty, blubbering mess.

“There were so many times that I almost told you. I always bit my tongue out of fear that it would ruin our friendship. And ever since me met, our friendship has always been the most precious thing to me. But I should’ve said it, Eddie. I should’ve told you that I love you. And if you wake up, I promise that I will.”

To no surprise, the only response is the steady, continuous beeping of a monitor that lets you know his heart is beating.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He’s got someone that loves him as much as he loves them.

Yeah. I do.

You hear that? I love you, Eddie. It’s true.

I’m in love with you.

He chases the words. He sprints after the sound of your voice without knowing where the fuck he’s going.

He just knows you’re close. He can hear you, feel you. His left hand feels like pins and needles and something deep in his gut tells him it’s you. It has to be you. He’d recognize the feeling of your hand holding his anywhere.

I always bit my tongue.

Our friendship has always been the most precious thing to me.

I should’ve said it.

If you wake up, I promise I will.

When his eyes shoot open, the fluorescence nearly blinds him.

“Eddie?”

Your voice. His vision hasn’t come into focus, but he knows you’re here before he sees you. His fingers twitch, the tingling sensation gone because you’re here. Not a memory, not a dream, not a hallucination. You’re really here, holding his hand.

The room around him slowly settles, his eyes briefly darting around until they find the only thing he cares to see right now.

You. Eyes wide and wet with tear-stained cheeks, he would think that he’s seeing an angel if he didn’t know any better.

“Hey,” he rasps, throat so dry that he doesn’t recognize his own voice.

You gasp, a sharp inhale of disbelief. “Eddie,” you whisper again, but this time it’s a sob. You shoot up out of your chair, all but throwing yourself onto the edge of his bed. “You’re awake. Oh my god, you’re awake. I didn’t - I didn’t know if you’d wake up. You scared me so bad, Eddie.”

He wants to wipe your tears but his arms feel heavy and foreign. Tubes trail from the back of his hands and his whole body feels like it’s been taken apart and put back together. The only thing that he knows is working is his heart, because he can feel it swell inside his chest at the way you’re looking at him.

“Sorry for scaring you, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice still scratchy. “I’m here now.”

You sob in relief, leaning over to rest your head against his chest, careful not to brush against the stitches across his abdomen that he’s becoming more aware of by the second.

He nuzzles his face against your hair, inhaling your scent. Neither of you speak for a moment. He somehow gathers up the strength to lift a weak hand to the small of your back.

You’re real. Tangible. And he never wants to let you go again.

“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you,” he whispers.

You pull back enough to look him in the eye. “Me too. There’s something I need to tell you, too—”

“I know,” he stops you. “I know. I heard. I’m in love with you, too.”

You jerk back as if he electrocuted you. “You… heard me?”

He exhales a shaky laugh. “I don’t know how. But I did. I think it… I think it saved me. You saved me.” Tears well in your eyes again and your lips visibly tremble. “And I love you, too. More than anything, baby. I should have told you a long time ago.”

A dozen different emotions flicker across your face. Disbelief, bewilderment, joy. Beneath the tears, a smile forms. The smile that Eddie has fallen in love with.

“C’mere,” he whispers, voice still strained but certain. “Please, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Doesn’t need to tell you what he wants. You lean down, bringing your lips to his without a hint of hesitation.

Your hand cups his jaw, your thumb grazing along the scruff of his cheek. He’s sure that his breath is stagnant, but you don’t seem to care. You kiss him - the kind of kiss that he swears could have woken him up days ago, if you’d only pressed your lips to his.

And he lets himself melt into it. A quiet sound escapes him - half sigh, half moan. His fingers tighten at your hip and he has to resist pulling you on top of him entirely, the only thing stopping him being the sharp pains that radiate from his abdomen.

He tastes salt from your tears and the slight tang of coffee, but beneath that, there’s a flavor that’s uniquely you that he knows he’ll never have enough of.

You pull away with a shaky laugh when the beeping of his heart monitor spikes. You rest his forehead against his, both of you breathless. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that again. Promise me.”

“I promise.” He lifts a shaky hand to your face, brushing a stray tear away from your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere ever again. Not without you.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

thank you so much for reading. ily forever if you comment/reblog.

[shortnspidey]

OPEN ARMS

Eddie Munson X Female!reader || WC: 2.8K

SUMMARY: After a brutal day wrangling shitty customers at the garage, Eddie wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and disappear. He anticipates the same old routine: another solitary night in his trailer, restless thoughts keeping him up, a cigarette burning between his fingers as the heavy silence sets in. Only for a sudden shift in the atmosphere, quietly changing the way his night is about to unfold.

WARNINGS: Mechanic!Eddie, established relationship, angst, self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, SO much fluff, cursing, mentions of smoking, Upside Down does not exist, pure domestic bliss

A/N: Another self-indulgent Stranger Things fic because I am just a sucker for hurt/comfort and I deeply miss Eddie Munson!! 🥹 Hope y'all enjoy!! Divider by @strangergraphics <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ eddie munson masterlist

Eddie could feel the weight of the day hit him the second he killed the engine and the van settled into the quiet of the driveway. Every muscle screamed in protest, arms sore from wrenching stubborn bolts loose, fingers stained with grease that refused to wash out, oil worked into the lines of his skin and under his nails like it belonged there now. His clothes clung to him, heavy and grimy, and all he wanted, desperately, was a hot shower and to pass out on his mattress.

Rude customers weren’t new. Hell, Eddie practically expected them. But today had just been something else entirely. It had started with the older woman who took one look at him. tattoos, rings, wild hair pulled back haphazardly, and decided she already knew everything she needed to know. Her mouth had pursed, her words sharp and clipped as she questioned his prices, his professionalism, his very presence behind the counter.

Then came the younger customer, all lingering looks and saccharine sweet laughter, leaning a little too close as he worked. She’d laughed at his jokes a little too hard, brushed her fingers against his arm like it was an accident, made it painfully clear she thought it might buy her a discount. When he shut it down, her smile curdled into something sharp, her voice turning clipped and nasty. She paid without another word and walked out without tipping, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the windows.

By the time he was cleaning up, counting the minutes until he could lock up and disappear, the universe apparently decided it wasn’t done with him. An older man pulled in just before closing, engine sputtering. Eddie had taken one look under the hood, already running through possibilities, when the man started questioning his competence. Each skeptical comment scraped against Eddie’s patience, wearing it thinner and thinner until he was gripping the edge of the hood just to keep himself from snapping.

Now, sitting in the van with the day finally behind him, all of it pressed down at once. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet, simmering hurt of never quite being taken seriously. Eddie dragged a hand over his face, smearing grease across his cheek, and exhaled slowly. He was home. Barely holding it together, but home nonetheless. Climbing the steps of the trailer felt like wading through wet cement, each creak of the metal stairs echoing louder than it should.

Normally, it was a motion he barely registered, muscle memory carrying him up without thought. Tonight, though, his legs felt heavy, like they might give out at any second, every step a reminder of just how wrung out he was. By the time he reached the door, his hand lingered on the handle, knuckles sore, breath slow and uneven. The door swung open with a familiar groan, and the dim, amber glow inside wrapped around him like an old blanket.

Wayne was right where he always was, slouched into the corner of the couch, eyes heavy from an earlier shift at the power plant. The TV murmured low in the background, some rerun Eddie wasn’t paying attention to. His eyes were already drooping, exhaustion from the power plant etched into the lines of his face, but they softened just a little when he saw Eddie step through the door. “Hey, kid.” Wayne called out, voice rough but warm.

Eddie didn’t trust himself to answer right away. He toed off his boots by the door, letting them thunk against the wall, shoulders still wound tight like he’d forgotten how to let them drop. Whatever irritation he’d been holding onto all day clung stubbornly to him, written plainly across his face. “There’s leftovers on the counter,” Wayne continued, nodding toward the kitchen. “Your girl came by. Dropped off your favorite.”

That did it.

Eddie’s stomach growled loudly enough to embarrass him, the sound cutting through the fog in his head. His gaze snapped to the counter, and sure enough, there it was. A plate of your famous homemade lasagna, wrapped in foil, waiting patiently like it had all the time in the world. The rich smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese hit him instantly, and his mouth watered despite himself.

He crossed the trailer in a few long strides, snagged a fork from the drawer, and dug in without hesitation, not even bothering to heat it up. He didn’t care. Warm or cold, it tasted like salvation. He ate standing there, leaning against the counter, fork moving almost mechanically as his body reminded him just how long it had been since he’d last eaten any real food that wasn't from a vending machine.

The shop had been slammed all day, customers stacked back to back, and somewhere along the line he’d completely blown past his lunch break. Each bite settled something in his chest, even if only a little. Still, the relief was bittersweet. Oh how he wished he’d gotten off early. Even just an hour sooner would’ve meant seeing you, your smile, your voice, the way you always made the trailer feel brighter just by being in it. Lately, your schedules felt like they were working against you on purpose.

His days were swallowed whole by the shop, late-night D&D campaigns, and even later nights playing at the Hideout. Yours were just as bad, with overtime shifts at Family Video stretching long past closing time, and on top of that, those ever-present college assignment deadlines. It gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. Hell, at this point, even Steve Harrington had spent more time with you than he had.

The mere thought left a sour taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with the lasagna. He stabbed at another bite, jaw tightening as a flicker of jealousy curled low in his gut. He trusted you, completely, but it still stung, knowing someone else got to see you laugh, got to hear about your day, while Eddie was elbow-deep in engines and taking crap from strangers who didn’t know the first thing about him.

He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. Leaning back against the counter, fork resting on the edge of the plate, his eyes drifted toward the empty doorway of his room. Somewhere between the grease, the exhaustion, and the ache of missing you, the weight of the day finally began to settle. And for the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie let himself feel just how damn tired he really was.

“Night, Wayne,” Eddie muttered, the words leaving him in a long exhale, like even speaking required more energy than he had left. He didn’t wait for a response, already turning down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment he just stood there, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the sink as he stared at his own reflection, tired eyes, shadows beneath them, jaw still tight with everything he hadn’t let go of yet.

The shower was quick and scalding. Water beat down against his shoulders, carrying grease, sweat, and frustration with it as it spiraled down the drain. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, like maybe if he washed hard enough he could erase the day entirely. When he stepped out, steam clung to the small bathroom, mirror fogged beyond recognition. He pulled on his pajama pants and didn’t bother with a shirt, bare skin prickling as the cooler air hit him.

He moved on autopilot toward his room, exhaustion tugging him forward. More than sleep, his body craved comfort, something to quiet the static in his head, something to make his chest feel less tight. Normally, that comfort had your name written all over it. Tonight, he’d already resigned himself to the alternative. Weed would have to do. Slipped into his room he didn't bother flipping on the light, knowing every inch of this place by heart.

His feet navigated around clutter effortlessly as his hand reached for the spot where he kept his personal stash, fingers closing around the pre-rolled joint. Habit carried him forward as his other hand searched for his lighter on the nightstand. And then, he froze. His breath caught sharply in his throat as his shin brushed the edge of the bed, and his heart slammed hard enough that he nearly dropped everything in his hands.

There, sprawled across his lumpy, unmade mattress like she belonged there, because she did, was you. Nestled deep into his pillow, cheek squished adorably against the fabric, lips parted just enough as soft, steady breaths escaped you. Your chest rose and fell in a slow, peaceful rhythm that felt completely at odds with the chaos that had been rattling around inside his head all day.

Eddie rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his palm, a shaky laugh threatening to escape as disbelief flooded him. He blinked once. Twice. You were still there. Still breathing. Still very, very real. You were dressed in his Hellfire shirt, the fabric worn thin and soft from years of use, hanging off you just right. Your legs were bare, clad in those barely-there shorts he loved, skin warm and familiar even from a distance.

The sight hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs in the best way possible. Everything inside him shifted all at once. The anger drained first, then the irritation, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief that left his knees feeling weak. The day, the customers, the looks, the comments, all fell away like background noise. All that mattered was that you were here. You’d crawled into his bed when he wasn’t even home, made yourself comfortable in his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Immediately, he set the joint and lighter down, not even sparing a glance to where they landed on the cluttered desk. They made a soft, hollow sound as they hit wood, forgotten the second his attention snapped back to you. The craving in his chest shifted instantly, no longer a restless, jagged need to numb himself, but something gentler and far more powerful pulling him forward. He moved slowly, like the slightest wrong step might shatter the moment.

The mattress dipped as he carefully climbed onto it, muscles tense as he navigated around your sleeping form. You’d somehow managed to claim nearly the entire bed, limbs loose and unguarded, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. Eddie smiled despite himself, something soft and fond tugging at his mouth. As much as he told himself to let you sleep, to just lie there and soak in the fact that you were here in his space, the need to touch you was overwhelming. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Survival, almost.

His fingers hovered for half a second before they made contact, brushing lightly over your bare thigh. His breath hitched as his hand slid upward, slow and reverent, slipping beneath the hem of his own shirt you wore. His fingertips traced the curve of your waist, then settled against your ribs, feeling the gentle rise and fall beneath his palm. Further proof that you were really there. A breathy exhale slipped past his lips before he could stop it, tension bleeding out of him in one quiet rush.

He froze when your foot nudged against his calf, heart jumping into his throat. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid he’d woken you too abruptly. “Eds?” Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, but the sound of it sent something warm and electric straight through his chest. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found him. Recognition bloomed across your face, followed by the faintest smile.

God, he could’ve cried right then.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmured, voice low and rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything gentle all day. His thumb brushed unconsciously against your side, grounding himself in the feel of you. You didn’t give him time to say anything else. You shifted forward, closing the small space between you, one hand curling into the fabric of his pajama pants as you leaned in. Your lips met his in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, unhurried yet full of intent, like you’d been waiting all night to do exactly this.

The world seemed to tilt slightly as his brain caught up with his body. For half a second, Eddie just stayed there, stunned, before instinct took over. He kissed you back with a quiet hum, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, the other tightening at your waist like he needed the reassurance that you weren’t about to disappear. The kiss wasn’t desperate, but it was deep with everything he hadn’t been able to say, how tired he was, how much he missed you, how the day had chewed him up and spit him out until he’d walked into this room ready to fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, noses brushing as your breaths mingled in the dark. Eddie let out a shaky laugh under his breath, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he didn’t have to hold himself together anymore. You shifted closer, legs tangling with his, fitting against him like you’d always belonged there. Eddie huffed softly, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “You’re a little bed hog, y’know that?”

You smiled into him, the sound more felt than heard, and burrowed closer like you were determined to prove his point. Your cheek pressed against his chest, warm and familiar, and he felt the tension he’d been carrying finally give a little. You kissed his bare collarbone, slow, unhurried, then drifted lower to the faded black widow spider tattoo. “Your car wasn’t in the driveway,” He murmured, fingers lifting to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

His movements were gentle, careful, like he was still half-afraid you might vanish if he startled you. “Thought I wouldn’t get to see you until the weekend.” You cuddled closer at that, fitting yourself against him like it was second nature. One hand slid behind his back, nails grazing his skin in that slow, absent-minded pattern you knew drove him a little crazy, grounding and soothing all at once. The other threaded into his hair without hesitation, fingers finding their place like muscle memory.

“Steve dropped me off,” You whispered, as Eddie practically melted beneath your touch. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers grazed his scalp, the sound he made low and involuntary. “Guess he and Robin were tired of me moping around.” That earned a quiet snort from Eddie, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the top of your hair, lingering there, breathing in the faint trace of your perfume mixed with the familiar scent of his sheets.

It grounded him in a way nothing else could.

“Shitty day?” You asked softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingers brushed beneath his eyes, light and careful, tracing the shadows there. He sighed, long and slow, like he’d been waiting all day for someone to ask. “Yeah.” He admitted, voice low. You didn't push, only hummed quietly, sympathetic, your thumb brushing his jaw. Eddie let his eyes fall shut for a moment, leaning into the touch.

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until now, until the adrenaline drained out of him and left only the ache behind. “But this?” He added after a beat, eyes opening to meet yours. “This helps. A lot.” You smiled at that, soft and sleepy, and settled back against him, head finding its place beneath his chin. Eddie wrapped an arm around you, holding you closer, like if he let go the day might come rushing back in.

Your breathing slowed first, evening out into a gentle rhythm that Eddie unconsciously matched. Every gentle inhale you took, every soft exhale that brushed against his skin, felt like permission, like the universe was finally giving him leave to drop the weight he’d been carrying all day. For the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie realized he could finally breathe without restraint, without that lingering edge of irritation and exhaustion gnawing at him.

Turns out, he didn’t need the joint tonight after all. The familiar haze of smoke, the escape he’d planned, suddenly seemed unnecessary. Right here, right now, with you pressed against him, soft and steady, filling every hollowed-out corner of his chest, he already had everything he’d been craving. All the comfort, all the peace, all the relief he’d needed was wrapped up in the warmth of your presence. And for Eddie, that was more than enough.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[catherinnn]

No I’m not in Love

summary: Robin starts getting suspicious of your so-called friendship with Eddie, and she doesn’t believe you when you keep saying you’re ‘just friends.’  Based on the song by Tate Mcrae ‘No i’m not in love’

words:1.4k

The music was low, some Duran Duran cassette playing on Steve’s stereo. It’s just the usual group sprawled around his living room. 

Robin’s eyes were on you, especially on your Black Sabbath hoodie. Definitely not yours, definitely the boy’s next to you on the couch: Eddie.

Meanwhile, she sees you stealing a sip from his drink like it’s the most natural thing ever. In fact, he doesn’t even blink at that. 

“That’s his hoodie” Robin leans towards Steve and whispers.

“So?” he asks.

“Are you serious?” she looks at him incredulously.

“Maybe she was cold” he shrugs and she just rolls her eyes.

You keep laughing at something Eddie says now. He smirks, eyes lingering on your face, even after you look away.

“Hey, you need a ride home later?” Robin asks you.

“Nah, she’s crashing at mine tonight” Eddie answers for you.

“Didn’t you– stay over at his last night too?” Robin frowns. She knew because you had called her from Eddie’s home phone, claiming the movie night went late. 

“It’s just more convenient, he lives closer from here than me” you explain.

“Right, convenient” she echoes.

But as the night went on, Robin kept studying you two. You were now against a counter and it seemed like Eddie didn’t let you move from there, standing right in front of you, less than half a meter of space between you two. While he seemed to be mocking or teasing you with something while you kept trying to escape, but laughing too hard to actually care. 

“You think they’re secretly a thing?” Robin asks the poor, oblivious Steve. 

“I dunno, don’t think so though, he says they’re just friends”

Robin turns to see them again as Eddie’s yanking the hood over your head and even your face, you laugh and shove him away, he stumbles a little but is quick to go back to his place right in front of you. 

“I swear to God, they’re gonna end up getting married and say they started out just friends and I’m gonna scream that that’s a lie” 

“They’re not even dating, Robin!”

“That doesn’t matter!” 

Steve shrugs, giving up already. 

Next thing you knew, Robin’s cornering you in the kitchen with the excuse of getting more chips. 

“So, you and Eddie, huh?” She tries to act casual.

“What about us?” you ask back, confused.

“Just wondering how long you’ve been playing house with him”

“What?” you chuckle. “We’re just friends”

“You slept over last night and tonight” she tilts her head.

“It was late! It’s just easier!”

“And you’re wearing his clothes” she adds.

“I was cold and I didn’t bring a jacket”

“You were playing with his hair like he’s your boyfriend and you laugh together like you’re on a rom-com”

“Oh my God, Robin” you laugh. “We’re friendly! And no, I’m not in love!”

Before Robin can argue again, Eddie comes into the kitchen. “There you are! You disappeared on me, princess”

“So clingy” you mock him, ignoring Robin’s eyes on you. 

“She’s princess now?” Robin questions Eddie.

“I’m messing with her, she hates these nicknames” 

“I found out he used to call Carol 'dollface', how cringy is that?” you explain. 

“Who’s Carol?” Robin asks confused.

“My ex-girlfriend. Some might think she’s feeling a little jealous” he teases.

“Ugh, don’t read through the lines” you roll your eyes. 

“So I’m calling her princess so she doesn’t feel left out”

“Of course you are” Robin says. 

When Steve calls Eddie over to introduce him to some people, Robin looks at you like she totally caught you.

“Would you drop it? I really mean it, don’t read through the lines” 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s in the living room with Steve, and he’s introducing him to this new girl he’s been seeing and her best friend. He already suspects Steve’s planning a double date.

“Alright… whatever you say” 

Then, when Eddie goes back to you and Robin, you notice his eyes keep drifting to the two girls talking with Steve. 

“Who are they?” you ask.

“The brunette one is Steve’s date, and the blonde one is her best friend. They’re nice, I talked to them for a while”

“Yeah, she’s nice? She seems nice… especially with that short short skirt that leaves little to the imagination” you judge her. “And is she single?”

“I didn’t ask, but I’m guessing she is. I know Harrington, and I'm sure he’s already planning a double date” he explains.

“Oh, so you’re going to date her! I didn’t think she’d be your type” you want to cringe a little at how bitchy you’re being right now, but he’s looking at this girl like she’s a freaking super model. 

“Oh, you don’t like her, huh? What’s not to like? Her long golden hair? Or her pretty smile?” Robin comments, picking on you to see if you’d finally accept it.

“Sure, I mean… you should go for it!” you say with your best poker face.

“I don’t know, we’ll see” he shrugs.

For the rest of the night, you leave Eddie alone. You stay in a comfort zone talking with Nancy and Jonathan where you can’t see Eddie checking this girl out, or you don’t have Robin evaluating your friendship. 

After a while, you drift to the garden to catch some air and some alone time, thinking it may be better to leave right now to finally get to your room.

“Hey” Eddie finds you outside.

“Oh… hi” you give him a smile.

“What are you doing here alone?” he asks, taking out a cigarette.

“Nothing, just fresh air”

“What do you mean?”

Eddie stays quiet for some minutes, studying how you keep looking anywhere but him. “So, I talked with this girl a little longer… I decided it’s not gonna work out” he says.

“Well, she knows nothing about my nerdy interests, and she said she hates concerts… I don’t know what Harrington was thinking! I think he just wanted me to hook up with someone” 

“Really? Well, we all think it’s about time you lose your V-card” you joke.

“So funny!” he says with a straight face. “So, can you look at me already?”

“What?” you frown, pretending you know what he’s talking about. 

“I know we keep saying that there’s nothing weird here between us. But… I can’t keep pretending when you’re upset”

“I’m not upset... I’m fine” 

“I’m not Robin, you don’t have to lie to me… She’s been questioning me too about us” 

“I told you to not read-”

“Through the lines, yeah. But I’m telling you, you shouldn’t feel guilty, or anything. You want to know a little secret?” he asks and you nod. “You remember how that last guy you were seeing, Francis, just ghosted you?”

“You mean Frank?” you correct him. 

“Yeah, whatever. I uh… I might have scared him off a little” he confesses. 

“What did you do?” you ask, surprised.

“Eddie! Did you really?!” you’re shocked now.

“After you told me you guys got to second base I got really jealous, and I might have had a little chat with him… told him that if he touched you again he was gonna have my rings printed on his face” he says, a little embarrassed.

“Only because I saw him check out Nancy that night you introduced us to him… I’m pretty sure” 

“You are unbelievable!” you chuckle. “You’re right, I don’t feel so guilty for being jealous anymore”

“How about we stop lying to our friends and… to us. I, for instance, have the best and the worst time all at once when you’re wearing my clothes” 

“I wear your clothes all the time” you laugh.

“Tell me about it, you look so incredibly good in them, but it’s so hard because I have to pretend I’m not totally lost staring at you”

“Well, since we’re admitting stuff, I like wearing your clothes so much because they always smell like you. And I like staying over at yours because you always end up cuddling me when you’re asleep” 

“I might… do that on purpose sometimes actually, acting like I’m asleep” he almost blushes.

“Really? You could’ve just asked, silly” you giggle.

“Can we stop saying we’re just friends? And maybe start saying that you’re, maybe, I don’t know, my girlfriend” he asks.

“I’d like that, boyfriend” you smile.

He smiles against your lips after grabbing your face and he finally kisses you deeply.

[suprclark]

playing hard to get — ( eddie munson )

eddie munson x fem!reader

eddie munson starts acting distant out of nowhere. turns out the idiot has been taking romantic advice from dustin and steve, and apparently step one was play hard to get. good thing you catch on fast, because eddie is terrible at pretending he doesn’t want you, and even worse at hiding that he always has.

🏷️ 2.3k — mutual pining so bad it’s concerning, jealous!eddie, reader is oblivious on purpose, dustin (and steve) give good advice for once, confessions full of word vomit + soft fluffy ending

request — [ by @sunnliqht ] love your superhero soirée ivy! ‹𝟹 can i have parker’s prompt patrol + eddie munson w/ “ugh, why would i be jealous? you can flirt with whoever you want. i don’t care.”

author's note — okay first time writing for eddie munson and i am feral. this man has ruined my life in the best way possible. huge thank you to brooke for the request, because now i’m fully in my eddie era and none of us are leaving. i think everyone can agree when i say that eddie is alive and well. requests are open. enjoy <3

꒰ masterlist ꒱ : navigation : suprclark's superhero soirée

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Eddie Munson had really hit rock bottom in his life.

And not in the metal-song-playing, lightning-cracking kind of way he always imagined. No. His rock bottom was worse. It was taking romantic advice from a fourteen-year-old who got his romantic advice from Steve Harrington. That was how far he’d fallen.

But maybe rock bottom was what he needed to crack himself open, let some of the feelings piled up inside him spill out before they drowned him completely. So, as advised, he did what Dustin (and apparently Steve) told him to do and tried to play hard to get. With you. Which was basically impossible because you were the only person he had ever been easy for.

Which brought him to his current predicament — watching you work with Steve and Robin (mostly Steve) at Family Video. Dustin and Lucas were digging through the shelves while Eddie stood uselessly at the front of the store, pretending to browse a rack of staff-picked recommendations he couldn’t see because his gaze was glued to you.

You were leaning on the counter, chin on your hand, grinning up at Steve as he told you some long-winded retelling of his latest heroic teen-movie disaster moment.

He gestured wildly, knocking over a stack of return cards, and Robin groaned without looking up. You laughed. Loud and pretty. Eddie almost flinched at how the sound hit him.

It wasn’t like you were totally enamored with Steve. You weren’t leaning over the counter, you weren’t twirling your hair, and the second the bell rang when Eddie walked in you had immediately waved at him and the gremlins beside him.

You’d even raised your brows asking, "Want me to help you find something?"

The offer was right there on your lips before Dustin elbowed Eddie hard in the ribs and dragged him toward the horror aisle with Lucas tagging along.

Eddie hadn’t protested. He was trying to be hard to get. That meant not going to you, not claiming his usual spot against the counter beside you, not stealing a pen out of your pocket just to annoy you, not calling you sweetheart in front of everyone because he could. His body refused to move toward you, even though every instinct screamed that you were where he belonged.

From where he stood, half-hidden by the shelves, he watched Steve keep talking, watched you laugh again, head tipping back, your smile so easy it made his chest ache. Steve laughed too, bumping your shoulder with his.

He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched. Playing hard to get wasn’t supposed to feel like swallowing glass.

Dustin and Lucas were choosing between two nearly identical horror movies, whispering loudly to each other. They absolutely were not actually picking tapes. They were watching Eddie watching you. Waiting for this whole stupid plan to magically work.

He had survived bats from literal hell. He had survived the entire town hating him. But watching you laugh at someone else’s jokes while he pretended he didn’t care?

That might actually kill him. No, he couldn't wait anymore.

He hooked two fingers into Dustin’s jacket sleeve and yanked him out of the aisle hard enough that the kid stumbled into his side. Lucas looked up from the tapes, startled, but Eddie didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on the counter where you were, now leaning closer to Steve to see something he was pointing at in the register.

Jealousy crawled up Eddie’s spine.

“Hey, Henderson,” he muttered under his breath. “You sure Harrington isn’t in love with her or something? Would make sense why he gave me that torturous advice.”

Dustin scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? Steve? In love with her? Nope. Steve loves Nance. It’s sad actually. I’ve given up on him.”

Eddie blinked down at Dustin. “The. . . the reporter girl? The one with the eyes that could murder a man?”

“Yes,” Dustin answered flatly. “He’s been in a weird life-or-death pining spiral for like a year.”

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned even deeper. “So he told me to act like I don’t care about the girl I like because he’s. . . emotionally stupid?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”

“Nope.”

Eddie stared at him, baffled.

“Listen, Steve doesn’t give sucky advice. Ever.”

Eddie snorted so sharply it sounded painful. “Henderson, the man gets rejected more often than the school janitor takes out the trash.”

“That’s because he keeps choosing girls he can’t have,” Dustin shot back. “Not because his strategies don’t work.”

Lucas chimed in reluctantly, eyes still on the tapes. “He’s not totally wrong. Steve actually knows what he’s doing with the whole. . . dating. . . thing.”

Eddie pointed toward you and Steve at the counter. “He knows what he’s doing? Look at him! He’s already in love with the way she organizes tapes!”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, man. That’s called friendship.”

“It’s called emotional intimacy and I don’t like it,” Eddie hissed.

“Dude,” Dustin said, grabbing him by both shoulders, eyes wide with older than his age confidence, “you play this right and she is going to be obsessed with you.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “She already was obsessed with me. Now she’s laughing at King Hair over there.”

“She laughed at you yesterday,” Dustin snapped. “In fact, she does that every day. Because she likes you.”

Eddie wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the longer he watched you smile at Steve, the more something sharp twisted inside him.

Dustin tugged on his sleeve again, lowering his voice. “Look, man. If you want her to chase you, you have to stop orbiting her. Trust the process.”

Eddie breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trust the process. Trust the plan. Trust the child who didn’t understand taxes but apparently understood romance.

He watched as you tossed your head back laughing once more at something Steve said.

And then you looked over.

Your eyes found Eddie immediately. Your smile softened into something warmer. You lifted a hand and waved.

Eddie froze.

His heart was doing things medically inadvisable. He lifted his hand automatically to wave back before Dustin slapped it down.

“No!” Dustin whisper-yelled. “Hard. To. Get.”

Eddie grimaced, trying to school his expression into the neutral, vaguely mysterious cool-guy face Steve had demonstrated. It probably looked more like he was constipated.

You raised both eyebrows at his weird non-reaction, confusion slipping across your features for just a second before Robin pulled you away to help reshelve a pile of returns.

After a few minutes, Eddie saw you coming. You rounded the end of the aisle with that determined little stride you got when you were trying to figure someone out, and Eddie’s lungs stopped working. His eyes snapped to Dustin and Lucas in full panic.

They both gave him the most useless encouragement in the world—two enthusiastic thumbs up—and then immediately backed away.

You stopped right in front of him. “Hey. Is everything alright?”

Eddie straightened, trying to pull on the casual attitude he had practiced in the mirror. “Yes,” he said.

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you didn’t wave back just now.”

“Oh, yeah. . . I had a, uh. . . a fly on my hand.” He pointed vaguely at his wrist. “Henderson was just swatting it away.”

You blinked at him, totally not buying it. “Right. . . the fly.”

He nodded aggressively.

You let it go. “Well, did you get the movie you came in for?”

“The what?”

“The movie you came in for,” you repeated gently. “You know, the reason you’re here.”

“Oh,” he coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That was just for Henderson and Sinclair. They were planning a horror movie night.”

You nodded slowly. Then silence settled between you.

The kind that made your stomach twist. Things had been weird between you lately. He’d been a little distant and it was not like he was fully pulling away, but just not orbiting you the way he used to. Conversations were shorter. His jokes didn’t land the same, mostly because he wasn’t really telling them.

You kicked the toe of your shoe softly against the carpet, trying to think of what to say next, but Eddie beat you to it.

“So you and Harrington have been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh, Steve?” you asked, taken aback. “Yeah, you know we work together, silly.”

Eddie muttered something under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You took him in and suddenly it clicked.

“Are you jealous?”

His head snapped toward you defensively, cheeks already blooming red. “Ugh, why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”

You stared at him. “Who said anything about flirting? You didn’t think that was flirting, did you?”

Eddie scoffed, scoffed again, then nodded with false confidence. “Of course I know what flirting is.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He blinked, narrowing his eyes in offense. “Yes, I’m sure.”

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Then why don’t you show me?”

Eddie froze.

“Huh?” he managed, voice cracking.

You met his eyes confidently because you were done with him pretending he didn’t want you. “If you know what flirting is,” you said softly, “show me.”

Eddie stood there, mouth opening and closing with absolutely no data processing happening behind his eyes. If an error message could appear on a human face, it would’ve been on his.

You waited, arms loosely crossed.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember every suave line he’d ever used in his life. Normally he could flirt with you without thinking. But now that you were asking for it? His brain emptied like someone had flipped a switch.

“So,” he started, leaning one elbow on a display shelf in what he hoped looked smooth. The shelf wobbled dangerously. “Uh. . . you come here often?”

You stared. “I work here.”

Eddie swallowed. “Right. So. That’s. . . that’s a yes.”

He tried again, standing up straighter, trying to channel his usual cocky grin. “You’re, uh. . . pretty. I mean, not pretty. I mean. . . you are pretty. Obviously. You’re so pretty it’s like. . .”

His hands waved helplessly in the air as if the right word might land on them.

“You know, sweetheart,” His voice cracked halfway through the word. “I’m. . . available. Like very available. Like, aggressively available.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Not because you wanted to make fun of him but because this was the worst flirting Eddie Munson had ever done. It was almost endearing how hard he was trying to act like he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.

“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I. . . look, Dustin said I should play hard to get. And Steve backed him up. And they both looked very sure of themselves, which is stupid now that I say it out loud.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Play hard to get? With me?”

“Yes! Which is insane, because I am very easy to get with you. If you asked me to jump, I’d already be in the air.”

He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Anyways, they said it because apparently girls don’t like guys who are obsessed with them too fast. And I was trying but it’s like trying to pretend I don’t need oxygen around you. I thought if I didn’t talk to you as much, if I acted like I didn’t care, you’d chase me. Instead I just got to watch you laugh with somebody else and it felt like my ribs were being pried open.”

Your heart cracked right open.

He kept going. “I wasn’t flirting just now because I didn’t want to flirt. I couldn’t because I’m so crazy about you it breaks my brain. I don’t know how to flirt with you when you’re staring at me like that. I don’t know how to pretend with you. Not about anything.”

You stepped closer giving him every chance to retreat. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned in.

“So you weren’t jealous because you thought Steve and I were flirting?” you asked softly.

“Yes, obviously I was jealous!” he hissed like he couldn’t believe you even needed the clarification. “I’m jealous of the air you breathe. It’s disgusting.”

You smiled, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You didn’t need to play hard to get.”

He nodded miserably. “I know.”

“You didn’t need to pretend you didn’t want me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was scared.”

You reached forward slowly and took his hand, threading your fingers together like you’d done it your whole life. Eddie sucked in a breath like you were electricity.

“Why would you listen to them?” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. His voice was small when he answered.

“Because I like you too much. And I didn’t want to mess it up by. . . liking you too much.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Eddie’s face split into the kind of smile that could’ve powered the town if someone hooked him up to a generator.

“So. . . ” he said, “does that mean I can stop playing hard to get?”

“You never played it well to begin with.”

“Thank god,” he exhaled. “It was killing me.”

You tugged him closer by his hand.

“Now,” you teased, “you wanna try that flirting thing again?”

Eddie leaned in confident, the way he always was with you.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “now that I don’t have to hide anything? I’ll show you flirting.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hard to get. It was everything he’d been dying to give you all along.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ──────── © suprclark . all rights are reserved. copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or works as your own is prohibited .

[thestarkinternship-deactivated2]

Crossing the Line

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader: One Shot (Smut)

Summary: Your ex boyfriend Bucky gets a little jealous after seeing you with a new guy, what lengths will he go to to get you back?

Word Count: 3k (no mention of Y/N)

Warnings: Drinking, profanity, jealous!Bucky, posessive!Bucky, stalking, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (public space), choking, slight dubcon. 18+, MINORS DNI

A/N: I kinda let my imagination run a little crazy in certain parts of this (and I'm not sorry). One day they’ll actually be in a bed but today is not that day.

-

The dive bar downtown Bucky had followed you to wasn't a pleasant one. It was dark and cramped, the sweaty air as sticky as the alcohol soaked floor. There were too many people in here brushing up against him whilst he stalked through the dimly lit room. Bucky shuddered, recoiling away from the brief touches as he passed by the drunk party goers. Loud music blared out of the cheap speakers, crackling as they struggled to support the rhythmic thumping from the heavy bass. The metal of his arm vibrated slightly, setting off a tingling sensation from the joint at his shoulder all the way down to his fingertip. Making his way to the bar, he wrapped his hand around a cold glass and tried to ignore the feeling. The smooth liquor slipped past his lips, but had little effect on his increasing nerves. Bucky was looking for you, and he wasn't going to relax until you were found.

Of course, he had no right to know where you were. The two of you had been broken up for a couple months now, after all. You were free to do whatever you wanted. But that didn't mean Bucky had to like it. Earlier that evening, he'd overheard you telling Steve all about a club downtown and how excited you were to go. He'd been wary at the time - you'd never been one to want to spend the night getting drunk with random strangers until you couldn't stand. Maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought he did. But the longer he stayed there, his suit collecting god knows how many diseases from leaning against the grimy bar, Bucky couldn't help the way his nose wrinkled a little in disgust. He was now certain his sweet girl didn't belong in a place like this.

As he sipped his way through the glass, and then another, Bucky started to wonder if he'd come to the right bar after all.

Setting his empty glass down, the shiny crystal a stark contrast to the dark wood, Bucky was about to give up when he heard the sound of your high pitched laughter in the distance. His body twitched at the familiar sound. It was like all of his fears were calmed in that instance. Scanning the room, he allowed his enhanced hearing to do the rest of the work, filtering through all of the background chatter until he could pin point your exact location. As he craned his neck, Bucky could just about see you by the edge of the dancefloor. And much to his surprise, you weren't alone.

Perched on a bar stool, you were breaking his heart in a stunning crimson dress. It clung to every inch of your curves. The silky material dipped at the swell of your breasts as your chest moved with your laughter. As you crossed one long leg over the other, the short fabric slipped up your thighs, exposing a lot more of yourself to Bucky than he'd seen in a while. His eyes raked over your body, imagining what he'd do if you'd come here together. Maybe his hand would be on your thigh, daring to trail underneath your dress, whilst his lips pressed soft kisses just below your ear in the way that only he knew you liked. Bucky would beg you to let him take you back to the compound, his gentle touch on your body the entire cab ride home as he teased you about what was to come.

But Bucky was pulled from his thoughts as he noticed you toying with some older guy. Delicate fingers twirled in the stranger's tie, you pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear. His hand grazed the supple skin of your thigh where Bucky's should've been. Even in the fluorescent lighting, Bucky could see the unmistakeable blush that crossed his face at your sinful murmurs. Bucky's jaw tightened. With all of the commotion, not even his super hearing could distinguish your hushed whispers. And he didn't like that one bit.

Jealously spurred on inside of him, curling like fire in the pit of Bucky's stomach. He was struggling to restrain himself from going over there right now and crushing the guy's skull for even breathing near you. At war with himself, Bucky hovered closer as you continued to flirt. A few minutes later, his eyes widened slightly as he saw the two of you step away. Your desperate tugging on the guys shirt for him to follow you towards the exit triggered a raging snap inside of Bucky.

Reaching for his empty glass, he crushed the fragile crystal in anger with just a slight clench of his metal hand. The shattered remains of it fell to the ground as he began to follow your trail. Oh, you'd done it now.

As he stormed after you, Bucky's body was shaking. He needed you. The noise of the city streets became a blur as all Bucky could focus on was echoes of your name inside his mind. His stomach dropped as he watched you turn off the corner into a nearby alley. Pushing his body to catch up to you, he was finally close enough to hear the unmistakeable heavy breathing.

Bucky's boots scuffed against the tarmac as he came to a dead stop at the sight that awaited him. His eyes narrowed at the scene of you pushed up against a brick wall, a thigh hitched up around this stranger's waist, hands tangling in his hair. Your eyes were squeezed shut as you threw your head back carelessly to let out a soft moan. And the worst part of it all? You seemed to be enjoying the way this stranger was practically mauling you.

He closed in on you as you were blissfully unaware of his presence until you saw a large arm grip the shoulder of your date. Bucky tore him away from you, and the man fell to the ground under Bucky's strength. Your shoulder's jumped slightly as you pressed yourself flat against the alley wall in an overwhelming mixture of surprise and fear. Bucky's hand snaked up the back of the man's head before pulling it back.

"You know who I am, right?" Bucky hissed and the man nodded, "good. You touch her again, and I'll kill you."

Bucky let go of him with a hard shove, watching him slump forwards on the gritty floor. There was enough malice in his tone for your date to make the smart decision not to answer back. He scrambled to his feet as he recovered from the ambush. Your date took one last look back at you. He saw the emotion in your eyes, and whilst he pitied you, nothing could make him stay. Turning on the heel of his shoe, he sprinted out of the alley, putting as much distance between himself and The Winter Soldier as possible. All alone now, you had no choice but to face your ex boyfriend.

You stayed quiet, your shoulders moving fast with rapid breaths with the adrenaline of this whole thing.

"Him? Really?" Bucky gestured in the direction of the fleeing man, "I mean, come on, doll. You deserve someone who would at least fight for you, not leave you all alone in an abandoned alleyway."

"What, like you? Is this you fighting for me?" You sneered. It wasn't the smartest choice you'd ever made, but the sarcasm in your voice was even harder to control than Bucky and his jealously. "How did you even know I was here? Did you follow me?"

His silence was all the confirmation that you needed, and you scoffed.

"You've really crossed the line. What are you doing here, James?" You sighed quietly.

"I'm done pretending that I don't still love you. That I don't crave being around you. That I haven't missed being around you every second for the last two months." Bucky whispered, taking a step towards you. He leaned in close, your faces inches apart. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips traced your warm cheek.

You shivered under the familiarity of it, and your voice trembled slightly. "Don't do that, we're not together anymore. You can't…"

He hummed slightly as his eyes glazed over you for the longest time. His touch lingered on your skin, trailing down. You shivered under the cool sensation of the cold vibranium as it prickled goosebumps along your flushed body. Inside your chest, our heart pounded. Bucky's face lit up in the dark at the reaction he managed to elicit from you. He still had an effect on you, whether you wanted to admit it to him or not. Luckily for you, you didn't have to.

"Tell me he made you feel this way, and I'll stop." Bucky whispered.

Your lips parted, your brain begging for the words to come out. But you couldn't help but fall short. What you wanted was to push him away from you, tell him he was being ridiculous and that you had always hated this jealous side of him. But the way he stared at you, ready to devour you at a moment's notice, had you feeling more turned on than you had ever been before. The dark look in his eyes said that he wanted to ravish you, make you forget all about the random guy you had picked up in the bar. And the worst part of it all was, you were willing to let him. You swallowed nervously at the realisation that you still belonged to him, you always had.

"Can't do it, can you?"

Bracing the wall with his good arm, he let his other continue its journey down your body. As he reached the soft spot where your neck met your collarbone, his hand spread out. Gripping lightly, he pulled your head away from the wall to meet him. Bucky's lips were soft, and you found yourself slipping back into the memory of a thousand past kisses. He knew the perfect balance of how much to tease and how much to give back. Tugging your bottom lip between his, he caused soft moans just to silence them again soon after with the addition of his tongue.

Letting go of your throat, he reached for your hip instead. Bucky brushed against the top of your thigh, and you felt a dangerous sensation deep inside your body. You wanted him and this much more than you were letting on. As he daringly ventured underneath your dress, he was so close to finding that out for himself.

Bucky stopped just shy of your dampened panties, and he tore his lips away from yours. A desperate whine slipped from your lips as your brows furrowed. "Bucky…"

"What's the matter?" He smirked, keeping his hand ever so still, just out of reach of where you wanted it to be.

"I…" Your heavy breathing faltered.

Chuckling, he shifted his hand from the wall and brought it to your chin. Tilting your face up to look at him, you caught the dark look in his eye. "Say it, sweetheart. Tell me what you want, and I'll happily give it to you."

"Bucky." Your voice was hoarse. You didn't want to give in to him, much less say outright how much you craved what only he could give you.

His smirk grew and he leaned in to your ear. "Not gonna tell me? Okay, let me take a wild guess. You want me to take you right here, don't you princess? I can feel how wet you are already just from the thought of it. And I don't even have to touch you to know that, I can feel you dripping down your thigh onto my hand. That how turned on you are? Just the thought of how good I can make you feel got you weeping a goddamn river all over my fingers. Think of how much of a mess you're gonna make when you're wrapped around my cock, princess."

It was exactly what you wanted. No matter how long you'd spent apart, Bucky still knew exactly he had to say to reduce you into a shaking, desperate mess in front of him.

Pulling his hand out from under your dress, you frowned until you saw it go to his own waist, unzipping his jeans. He lowered the waistband of his pants just enough to reveal how bulging you had him in his tight boxers. You bit your lip, looking him up and down. The quick flash of his toned stomach as his shirt rode up. The way you could practically see him throbbing as the cotton restrained him. Whilst you were distracted, he hoisted you off your feet.

Gasping, you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist as he braced your back against the brick wall. The jagged edge grazed your skin slightly, and you winced at the pain. The pain subsided as Bucky kissed your exposed shoulder, letting the thin strap of your dress fall down your arm.

"What? You thought I was gonna go easy on you? Tease you with my fingers until you were nice and warmed up to take all of me? Oh no, that's not how this is going to work. Not after the little show you put on for me tonight. You want me to fuck you, so that's exactly what you're going to get. And I know you're plenty wet enough already, so now we're going to put it to good use."

With his palm supporting your lower back, he inched your body down onto his waiting cock. Gravity on his side, your body was forced to accommodate his length as he filled you with little warning. Tight around him, your walls throbbed at the sudden intrusion that pushed you from pain to pleasure. Your jaw fell slack and a cry escaped at the stretching feeling. Bucky's hand clamped hard over your mouth, muffling your sweet sounds. Your head pushed back against the wall as he held you there and kept you quiet.

"Stay quiet for me, doll. Can't let anyone find us here like this. Not when you're being such a good girl for me. Wouldn't wanna have to stop now, would we?" Bucky murmured, his voice heavy with laboured breaths.

You shook your head against his palm, feeling your hot pants flush back against your rosy cheeks as he kept it there. "N- no…"

Even though your reply was muffled, Bucky understood perfectly. Smirking, he gently slid his hand away from your lips and cupped your cheek, leaning in to kiss you. The sweet peck was enough to confirm that Bucky still very much cared about you, even if he was fucking you like he didn't. He pulled out slowly, revelling in the way your needy cunt gripped him. Bucky groaned through gentle thrusts, his eyes shutting as you sucked him back in. He buried his head in the crook of your neck, muttering depraved nonsense as he rutted up into you.

"Shit, doll. Still as fucking tight as I remember. Swear, I'm never letting go of you again. Wanna be inside of you forever."

Your kisses turned messy, as your shared desperation for each other grew. Promises of being quiet were long forgotten as you pushed one another to release. Bucky's fingers dug into your hips as he brought you down harder onto his cock, meeting you halfway with sharp thrusts. Your hands ran up and down his back, grasping at his t shirt and scrunching it up tight in between your fingers as you hurtled towards the edge. Bucky's own body tensed as he felt you twitch.

"Keep that up and I'm gonna come in you right now." Bucky panted, not showing any signs of slowing down.

You whimpered in response, your bottom lip quivering.

"Is that what you want, huh?" he murmured, "want me to fill you right here and leave with my come spilling down your thighs?

You babbled incoherently as you struggled to get a straight answer out.

"Gonna need to hear you say it, doll." Bucky taunted with a smirk, bringing his hand down to rub slow circles on your clit.

You gasped. "Yes, that's what I want. Please."

He chuckled darkly, before adding more pressure to that bundle of nerves between your legs, bumping over his cock as it disappeared inside of you with relentless thrusts. Your thighs squeezed his waist as the knot in your lower stomach tightened. Heart pounding and head dizzying, his fast pace and quick fingers sent you flying over the edge. Your vision blurred and faded in and out of darkness at the blinding pleasure that only he could bring you.

Bucky fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own. Not a minute later, you felt the pulsing of his cock inside of you as he spilled inside of you. The sensation of his come reaching deep caused you to tremble, and your body fell slack between the wall and him. He stepped closer, cradling your shaky body. As the two of you caught your breath, he gently set you back down on your feet whilst still keeping you close for support. You shuddered as his warm come trickled down your inner thigh and came into contact with the cool night's air. His thumb hooked the hem of your dress, pulling it back down before giving you a soft kiss.

When he finally pulled away, the anger in his expression was long gone and all that remained was the sweet side of him you hadn't seen since long before your breakup.

"I meant what I said, you know?" he mumbled, swiping a thumb across your pink lips, "letting you walk away from me was the biggest mistake I've ever made."

Looking up at him, you felt a warmth spread in your chest. In that moment, you couldn't remember why you left him either. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before whispering, "don't let it happen again."

[barnesonly]

Round Two

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: Tension explodes in the training room when Bucky walks in on you sparring a little too close with Walker. He doesn’t say much but when he takes over the session… well. Jealous!Bucky Barnes it is.

word count: 3397

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, degrading kink, dry humping, fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, breeding, overstimulation, possessive behavior, jealous af, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

A/N: Sigh. I had this in my head ever since watching Thunderbolts* and recent work of @iamthatonefangirl pushed me into finally writing it down. Do not expect much plot from it… or any plot at all. Writer has no regrets.

The training room was filled with the rhythmic thud of your boots against the mat and the sharp, quick breaths you shared with Walker. His presence was overwhelming — tall, broad-shouldered, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, mixing with your own rising warmth.

You circled each other warily, muscles taut, eyes locked like predators. Walker’s grin was cocky, but there was an edge of respect in it. “You’re stubborn,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“Yeah, well,” you shot back, dropping into a defensive stance, “you’re slow.”

His laughter was rough as he lunged forward, grabbing your wrist and twisting, forcing you down toward the mat.

You fought against him, every inch a battle — but he was strong, and before you knew it, your back hit the padded floor.

Walker was on top, chest pressing against yours. You could feel the solid heat of him, the strength beneath his armor. Your arms were pinned, but your eyes stayed locked with his, breaths mingling in the tight space between you.

“You holding back?” he whispered, his breath warm on your face.

You smirked, muscles flexing as you pushed against him, trying to twist free. “Not a chance.”

His hands slid down your arms, skin to skin, the contact electric, and for a moment, the fight faded into something else — a tension thick enough to choke on.

Walker shifted, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding loud in your chest, and the taste of his breath — spicy and close — sent a thrill racing through you.

With a quick movement, you twisted, trying to flip him off you, but Walker caught your wrist and held you fast.

His face hovered inches from yours, the faint scrape of stubble against your cheek making you shiver.

“Almost had me,” he murmured, voice rough.

Your fingers brushed his jaw, accidental but electric, and his eyes darkened, holding you captive in that intense gaze.

Neither of you moved. The room was silent except for your ragged breathing and the thudding of your heartbeats, syncing in the small space where your bodies met.

You felt the heat pooling low in your belly, the line between fighting and wanting blurring with every second.

Walker’s hand slid up your arm, fingertips trailing lightly, sending sparks where they touched.

Your lips parted, breath hitching.

The door slid open, and Bucky Barnes stepped inside. He paused, taking in the scene: you pinned beneath Walker, bodies close, breaths heavy and mingling.

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

You pushed Walker off with a quick grunt, breathing hard but flashing a grin. “Round two?”

Walker gave a lazy shrug, stretching one arm. “Wish I could, but I gotta run.”

You frowned in disappointment. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “But maybe Bucky here can take over.”

Walker clapped Bucky on the shoulder before heading out, leaving the two of you alone.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto you, sharp and cold like ice cutting through steel. His jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear the grind.

“I guess I’m stuck with you now,” he growled, voice low and rough - no hint of warmth.

You blinked, caught off guard by how harsh he sounded. “Stuck? It’s just training, Bucky.”

He took a step closer, his gaze burning holes through you. “Yeah, well, sparring with him? That looked less like training and more like… whatever that was.”

You frowned, heat creeping to your cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a bitter smirk, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, come on. You don’t get that close with Walker — arms locked, skin on skin and expect me to not notice?”

Your heart thudded loud and fast. “We were sparring, Barnes. You’re reading way too much into it.”

Bucky scoffed. “Whatever.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky lunged forward, his movements sharp and aggressive — like a storm about to break loose.

His fist came at you harder than necessary, forcing you to scramble back and dodge. This wasn’t training. This was punishment.

“You getting cozy with Walker?” His voice was low, clipped, cutting like a knife. “Don’t think I’m just gonna stand here and watch.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a grip that was rough and unyielding. You winced but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Not on my watch.”

Bucky closed the space between you, chest pressing against yours, fingers digging into your arm like a silent command. No words explaining it. No apologies.

Just the cold, hard truth of his possessiveness, raw and undeniable.

He dropped back into stance, voice sharp. “You want to spar? Fine. But don’t expect me to be gentle.”

Every strike was laced with frustration and something harsher — a need to remind you who was in control, without ever saying it.

And the tension between you? Thick enough to choke on.

The second Bucky’s hands locked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your breath hitched, heart pounding. His metal hand closed over your wrists behind your back, holding you captive with a grip that was equal parts demanding and possessive.

You could feel the hard, unmistakable press of him — his arousal, firm and urgent against your lower back, the weight of it making your breath falter.

“Thought you could get close to Walker and not have to deal with me?” His voice was a low growl, rough with something dark and dangerous.

His breath ghosted over your ear, warm and intoxicating, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. Your body burned where his pressed against you, every nerve screaming with need.

Without warning, Bucky’s metal fingers tightened on your wrists, tilting your hands upward so he could lean in, lips brushing over your neck, trailing a rough kiss down to your shoulder.

You gasped as his body pressed harder, hips grinding just enough to make it impossible to ignore what was between you — the undeniable proof of how much he wanted you.

“Not so fast,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “You don’t get to tease me like that.”

His touch was rough, needy, his control slipping as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, fingers digging in possessively. You could feel his arousal straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing into you with a hunger that matched your own.

Your skin tingled where his metal hand traced slow, demanding lines along your ribs, igniting a fire that burned hotter by the second.

You let out a soft gasp as his hips pressed into you again, the hard length of him undeniable. Heat flooded your core, your thighs pressing together instinctively. His breath was right against your neck, lips just barely grazing your skin.

You could’ve leaned into it, let him take what he clearly wanted — but instead, you smirked.

Then you twisted.

With a sharp pivot of your hips, you slipped out of his grip, ducking beneath his arm and spinning away. Bucky stumbled half a step, blinking like he hadn’t expected you to escape.

“Thought you were gonna teach me a lesson,” you said, breathless but smug as hell.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw flexing hard. “You think this is a joke?”

You shrugged, backing into a loose stance. “I think you’re wound a little tight. What’s the matter, Barnes?” You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick deliberately down his body — right to the straining bulge in his pants. “Need a break?”

The fire in his eyes ignited.

He was on you in a flash.

This time when he moved, it wasn’t just precise — it was brutal, desperate, controlled only by the thinnest thread of restraint. His fists came hard and fast, forcing you to block, deflect, move. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

You ducked, landed a light kick to his thigh, then laughed when he caught your ankle mid-move and yanked, dragging you closer.

“Still think this is a game?” he hissed.

You were breathless, heart pounding, adrenaline and arousal tangling into one intoxicating buzz.

“Depends,” you teased, lips curling. “What do I win if I pin you?”

He growled and shoved you back, body surging forward to slam you to the mat. This time, it was no accident when his hips landed flush against yours.

No pretense. No holding back.

Just his hard cock pressing into your core, and his hand pinning both your wrists above your head.

His breath hit your cheek, ragged and heavy.

“You want to play?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Then fucking play.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Bucky hovered above you, pinning your wrists down hard against the mat. His chest heaved, muscles tense and trembling with restraint, but it was the weight of him between your legs that really made your head spin.

You shifted — just barely and that was all it took. Bucky’s hips snapped forward, grinding his cock against your clothed core with a force that stole your breath.

“You like teasing?” he growled, the sound rough, ragged. “Keep fucking squirming. See what happens.”

You did. Of course you did.

You tilted your hips up with slow defiance, grinding back against the thick heat of him beneath his tactical pants. The friction was maddening, perfectly filthy — your underwear soaked instantly as you dragged yourself along the length of him.

A dark, broken sound ripped from Bucky’s throat, and then he was moving — grinding into you with a rhythm that had your head rolling back and your thighs trembling.

His metal hand kept your wrists pinned above your head while his flesh hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, dragging you into each thrust like he needed you to feel every inch of him through the layers.

“You don’t get to look at him like that,” Bucky hissed, rutting harder. “Don’t get to give that to anyone else.”

You gasped, back arching as his cock rubbed right where you needed it, again and again, pressure building fast and tight in your gut.

“Bucky—” you started, but he cut you off with another deep, grinding thrust.

“No.” His voice cracked, low and dangerous. “You wanna act like a brat, I’ll fuck it out of you right here.”

Your moan was shameless, head spinning as his cock rubbed against your clit just right, over and over, your core clenching around nothing, desperate and soaked and grinding back without shame.

His lips were at your jaw now, rough stubble scraping, breath hot as he fucked into you with relentless rhythm.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me.”

And god — you could. Every thick, heavy inch of him dragging over your leggings and your throbbing clit, every possessive grind claiming you without a single word of affection.

Your back arched beneath him, body on fire, every nerve burning where his cock ground against your soaked leggins. The sounds you made — ragged, breathless, needy — only pushed him further.

“Fuck,” he growled, his lips grazing your neck. “You’re dripping. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You nodded and before you could answer vocally, his grip shifted — your wrists still trapped in his metal hand as his other slid down, slow and rough, until his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your leggings.

And then — rip.

You gasped as the fabric tore in his fist, panties along with it, shredded like paper. Cool air rushed over your soaked pussy, your thighs twitching at the sudden exposure.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but the way he was looking at you — eyes dark, jaw clenched, starving— shut you right up.

“Look at you,” he muttered, fingers gliding through your wet folds, spreading the slick mess you’d made. “Grinding all over me like a desperate little thing.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Two thick fingers slid inside you — deep. The stretch sudden and perfect, dragging a cry from your throat as your walls clamped down.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he hissed, burying them knuckle-deep, his thumb brushing against your clit with brutal precision.

Your body jolted, legs shaking, and he just smirked.

“This what Walker gets?” he growled, curling his fingers just right. “Or is this all mine?”

You couldn’t answer — you couldn’t think. Every pump of his fingers sent sparks through your spine, your hips lifting, chasing more, chasing everything.

“Say it,” Bucky demanded, voice low and threatening. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

He pushed in harder, rougher, hitting that spot that made your thighs quake.

Your moan broke into a whimper.

“It’s—” you choked. “Fuck—yours, Bucky—it’s yours—”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and punishing. “Damn right it is.”

His lips found your neck again, biting down just hard enough to mark you, all while his fingers fucked you open—relentless, possessive, and dripping with control he was seconds away from losing.

Bucky’s fingers pumped into you hard and deep, curling just right as your hips rolled helplessly beneath him. Your body was slick, trembling, pleasure coiling fast and tight in your belly. You were so close it hurt.

And just when you were about to fall apart—he pulled away.

“No—fuck, Bucky—” you gasped, reaching for him, hips twitching.

He didn’t say a word—just grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, dragging you down the mat until your soaked pussy was right in front of him. You barely had time to breathe before—

His mouth was on you.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, collecting every drop of wetness before diving in, deep and hungry, like a man starved.

Your back arched, a cry breaking from your throat as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling with maddening pressure.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He groaned against you, the vibration sending a shock through your spine.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, dark, mean.

“Tell me,” he said, breath hot against your dripping pussy. “Could Walker ever make you feel like this?”

Your thighs trembled around his head, body burning with shame and arousal all at once.

“I—no—fuck, Bucky, no—”

He smirked, just barely, before burying his mouth between your legs again, licking and sucking like a man obsessed, like he was trying to drink every sound you made.

His hands held your thighs open, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then faster, messier.

You were soaking his face, writhing under him, hips lifting off the mat in desperation.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled, voice rough against your soaked heat. “No one else gets this.”

Then he sucked your clit hard and you shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a scream tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head, whole body twitching uncontrollably.

But Bucky didn’t stop.

He kept licking, kept sucking, dragging every last wave from you until you were shaking, a broken mess beneath him.

Finally, he lifted his head — his mouth wet with your slick, eyes dark and burning.

“Next time you think about sparring with Walker,” he said, voice wrecked, “remember what I do to you.”

You were still shaking from the orgasm he pulled out of you with his mouth — slick, breathless, your body twitching as he rose up over you, his face glistening with you.

Bucky’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting them roughly as he shoved his tactical pants down just enough to free his cock—and fuck, he was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip, already hard and twitching.

He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick before lining up at your entrance.

“Walker wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he growled, dark eyes fixed on your ruined body beneath him. “He couldn’t handle this.”

And then he slammed into you — deep.

You choked on your breath, nails digging into the mat as his cock split you open, stretching you so full you thought you’d lose your mind.

“Bucky—” you gasped, but he just grabbed your waist, pulling you into another brutal thrust.

“Say my name again,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “Let the whole fucking tower hear who’s making you feel like this.”

“Bucky—oh my god—”

He fucked you like he meant it. Like every thrust was a punishment and a reward all at once. Deep, fast, grinding into you so hard your whole body shifted up the mat.

One hand pinned your hip while the other—the metal one—gripped your throat, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

“Mine,” he hissed, thrusting deep and slow now, cock dragging over your g-spot. “You understand me?”

You were crying out with every stroke, legs wrapped around him, back arching as the head of his cock hit you just right again and again.

“I said—do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, yours—”

“That’s right,” he grunted, voice wrecked. “This pussy, this body — all fucking mine.”

He pulled out almost completely — just the tip barely inside — then slammed back in with a growl that sounded like it came from deep in his chest.

You shattered again, coming hard around him, clenching so tight he cursed loud, barely holding on.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, fucking you through it, grinding his cock into your spasming walls like he needed to burn your name into his skin.

And then he snapped — hips stuttering, breath ragged, and with a broken, desperate grunt.

He came inside you. Deep and hot. Filling you up.

He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, cock still twitching as he spilled every last drop into you.

The mat beneath you was soaked. Your legs were trembling. And Bucky?

Still didn’t move.

Still inside you.

Still possessive as hell.

Your body was limp, fucked-out and buzzing, still quivering around the load Bucky had just spilled deep inside you. You were warm, stretched full, his cock still hard as he stayed buried in you for a few long, heady moments.

Then, finally, he pulled out with a thick, wet sound — your walls clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you gasp.

You felt it almost immediately. The slow, sticky drip of his cum sliding out of you.

But Bucky didn’t move away.

His gaze dropped between your legs, jaw clenched, and you could feel the way he was watching it—the way he watched himself leak out of you.

And then he looked up at you. Eyes darker than sin.

“Not done,” he muttered.

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant — but then his metal hand slid down your stomach and between your legs.

Two fingers — cold, slick, thick — pushed into your still-sensitive cunt.

You cried out, hips jerking, but Bucky held you down, his flesh hand gripping your thigh as he pumped those fingers deep inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Keep it in,” he growled, curling his fingers. “You think I’m gonna let it go to waste?”

Your head dropped back against the mat, spine arching as he fucked you with his fingers, thrusting everything he’d spilled back into you.

“Made you take every drop,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “And now you’re gonna hold it. You hear me?”

Your cunt fluttered around his fingers, overstimulated and soaked again already.

He pushed deeper, scissoring you open, fucking his cum back inside like it belonged there.

“You were made for this,” he murmured, tongue dragging slow and hot against your neck. “To take me. To be filled by me.”

You whimpered, trembling as his thumb found your clit and circled it — lazy, almost cruel.

“God, look at you,” he rasped. “Still so fucking tight. You think Walker could do this to you? Make you this full? This messy?”

You moaned his name, your legs shaking, your body giving in all over again.

“Say it,” he said, voice sharp against your throat. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You, Bucky—fuck—yours—”

“That’s right,” he growled, fingers curling just right.

You came again — a raw, desperate sound tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers, body rocking helplessly as he fucked you through it, never letting a single drop escape.

He didn’t stop until you were crying — sobbing his name, broken and full and so far gone you didn’t even know where you ended and he began.

And even then, his fingers stayed buried in you, possessive and proud.

“Next time you even think about sparring with Walker, remember how I filled you first.”

[daystarpoet]

★ ⎯a soldier's solace. part ii

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader. Bucky x wife!reader. Bucky x fem!reader.

Tags: husband bucky. Fluff & comfort. Secret marriage. New Avengers!bucky. Thunderbolts spoilers. You guys LOVED part one, so here is part two. Thank you so much for the support.

Synopsis: The secret's out; Bucky Barnes is married. After allowing the Thunderbolts in his own home, they all learn to fall in love with the same woman as him. Featuring our favourite white kitten.

Warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Not proofread. No use of y/n. Worse than my usual work, something quick & written w my phone.

I do not consent for my work to be uploaded onto other platforms or translated. Reblog to support.

The Thunderbolts sat now completely patched up and clean. The only thing missing was a warm plate of food—which certainly was on its way. The house was filled with the delicious aroma of a sizzling pot of vegetables. You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, humming to yourself as you cut down some carrots and stirred the soup.

Bucky watched with a tired smile, the corner of his lips pulling upwards. He’d seen you do this a hundred times before, and it never got old. Something about the domesticity of the situation made his heart flutter.

“That actually does smell good,” for the first time in the last couple of hours, Ava smiled—along with the rest of the team. Never in their lives had they seen Bucky’s eyebrows hang so loosely, with no worry whatsoever. And to even push their amazement further, Alpine decided to make yet another appearance.

She meowed softly as she rubbed her head against Bucky’s hand, which lazily hung from the couch. “Hey, Alp,” his hand moved to acknowledge the small animal, brushing his fingers against her tiny nose bridge. She watched with curious, distrusting eyes, curling against the soldier’s arm as if her tiny body would have been able to shield him from the strangers.

Alpine Barnes was very clearly her father’s daughter—that was what you had said. Everyone else outside your home—minus a few other people like Sam—were met with a loud hiss and a distasteful look. He scooped the cat into his arms, gently placing her on his chest and allowing her to curl up against his neck.

The little white cat missed him when he wasn’t home—whenever he was sent on a mission that lasted longer than a day, she’d start to grow particularly adamant about scratching the couch and chewing on Bucky’s shoes.

Bucky had found Alpine some years ago, right when he was coming home after the whole Flagsmashers ordeal. He had found her scrounging for food in some dark street in Brooklyn, completely drenched, probably cold, and definitely scared.

Something in the wary blue eyes of the tiny animal spoke directly to him. Without thinking twice, he picked her up, and embraced her with the warmth of his leather jacket, her head sticking out from inside.

“So you have a wife, and you have a cat?” John inquired, breaking the silence, to what Bucky just shrugged. “Just don’t try to pet her—unless you want your burrito shield scratched, that is.” A collective snicker was heard across the room, making you raise your gaze away from your vegetables. “Hey, I got a new one, a better one this time!” He retorted, in an almost offended tone.

“James, be nice. What kind of team dynamics are these?” You half-scolded your husband, earning an amused huff in return. “Very interesting ones, definitely,” Yelena replied, eyes watching over Alpine’s tail movement as Bucky ran his vibranium fingers through her hair.

“Well, I tried to help us all become friends. Gain team unity and everything. But Mr. Soldier doesn’t want to attend our boding sessions,” Alexei sounded almost outraged at Bucky’s refusal to attend his very dear meetings. You shot Bucky a glare, silently questioning his distaste towards Alexei’s wholehearted intentions of forming an actual emotional team.

“Don’t worry, him and I—we’ll have a chat about his team appreciation.” You reassured, your voice just sharp enough, the sound of the kitchen knife against the plastic board punctuating your words. “Sweetheart—” Bucky tried to intervene, raising one arm in your direction. “No, James, they all seem so nice. So far, very good guests, none of them dripped blood over my new carpet.”

That was, yet again, a strange thing to witness for the Thunderbolts. Bucky was completely at his wife’s mercy. How could he not be, though? After Steve left, Bucky thought he was meant to ‘make amends’ and walk alone forever.

Until you walked in and swept him entirely off his feet. He was not expecting it, and he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for it. But you had, and he was immensely grateful for it.

You held his metal hand as if it was nothing to be afraid of, and every time he made a self-deprecating joke, you laughed alongside him instead of scolding and lecturing him about ‘how much he was truly worth’. Love hadn’t been on the table for him, at least not since the 1940s. There was something about his old-fashioned charm that lured you in.

This could be seen all over your house, since most of your furniture consisted of old, second hand items from the past century. One of the first things you had done, upon beginning to date Bucky, was introducing him to thrift stores. Naturally, when you got married, you went out of your way to find 40s items to decorate the house—to make him feel at home, too.

“Okay, dinner’s almost done!” You exclaimed with a smile, approaching the group once more. They all cheered, now that the adrenaline had worn off, and that they were completely healed, hunger was truly starting to make itself present.

ou sat on the armrest of the couch Bucky was manspreading on, his hand moving to the small of your back, keeping you in place and brushing comforting circles with his thumb. “You’re surprisingly normal,” Ava smiled appreciatively. “Uhm, what?” You questioned, brow raised in confusion.

“No, no, it’s good, we just figured that if Bucky was ever to date someone it would be—I don’t know—someone brooding and dark like him,” John shrugged trying to defend his point of view. That last part was true; you were the complete opposite of your husband. You owned a flower shop, and you baked, you greeted everyone with the most radiating of smiles, and never once treated a customer rudely.

“I think we might have to steal you away one day, have some girl talk.” Yelena suggested, Bucky shooting daggers in her direction. “You’re not—” he couldn’t even finish his sentence before you eagerly agreed, “that sounds fun.”

You placed a hand on his bicep, a gentle touch of reassurance; you were not going to disappear on him just because you became friends with his team. You were there, for him, always, and that alone allowed him to breathe.

From the kitchen area, your phone rang, signalling the soup was ready to be served. You hurriedly stood up, taking long, quick strides to your usual spot. “Alright, you five, hope this is good enough for your New Avenger taste buds or whatever.”

The first once to receive a bowl was Bucky, who blissfully took spoonfuls of the liquid, loving nothing more than his wife's cooking. The rest followed along, instantly amazed and grateful for the warm, homemade meal. “Told you she was good,” said your husband proudly, a smirk on his face as he stood up to place a peck to your temple.

“The food is wonderful, and she is incredibly nice,” Yelena added, a smile slipping through the clear exhaustion. In just a matter of forty-five minutes, an entire team of ex-criminals and mercenaries had warmed up to you, the same way as Bucky once had. Nobody resisted the appeal.

“Maybe we should even bring Bob to meet Mrs. secret wife here one of these days.”

[danysdaughter]

Still Yours

pairing | thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.4k words

summary | bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soft!bucky, miscommunication, established relationship, mentions of mental health/trauma

a/n | I enjoyed writing this so much omg. an apology for my last angst fest fic, based on this request. just two emotionally constipated dumbasses in love.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

The first thing you felt was the drag of his mouth along your collarbone—hot, wet, unhurried.

Then his body—solid, heavy, familiar—settled deeper between your thighs, pinning you to the sheets like he belonged there.

Like he knew he belonged there.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.

“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”

A breath.

“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”

Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.

Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.

But Bucky didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t talking to them.

He was talking to you.

“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”

He swallowed, but didn’t falter.

And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.

He took a breath.

Then finished, simply:

“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”

A pause.

Then the room erupted in applause.

But Bucky didn’t hear it.

He was still looking at you.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.

────────────────────────

The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.

Something had shifted.

He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”

But he didn’t care.

He barely registered any of it.

His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.

But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—

Then he felt it.

A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.

He turned, heart already beating faster.

You didn’t say anything.

Just gave him a look.

And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.

Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.

And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—

But he didn’t get a word out.

Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t cautious.

It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.

He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.

Didn’t step away.

You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your fingers lingered against his jaw.

The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.

Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.

You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”

Your lips parted, but he kept going.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“I would.”

Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”

He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”

You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.

“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.

And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”

You snorted. “James.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”

“What about when we get home?”

You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”

His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

Longer. Slower. Sweeter.

[stargrillzz]

THAT WAY

SUMMARY: You can’t keep up with Bucky's ways.

NOTE: I changed absolutely everything about this profile, but I love this new aesthetic and vibe. xoxo

There was something haunting about 3 a.m. at Stark Tower.

The entire place, usually pulsing with the low hum of life and tech and Tony’s endless inventions, was completely still. The kind of silence that rang in your ears like a warning — or a memory. Everyone was asleep. Everyone except him.

Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed like a statue carved from history and hurt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his temples. His dog tags were cold against his collarbone. The shadows stretched across the floor like they were trying to reach him, pull him back. Every time he closed his eyes, Hydra's claws were waiting. The screaming. The pain. The way he could feel the metal biting into his bones. The way his own hands, coated in blood he hadn’t chosen, still felt too real. His throat was dry. His heart was loud.

And then there was you. His fingers hovered near his door, hesitating. He knew it was late — insanely late — but… he also knew you’d open. You always did. Like a warm light behind fogged glass, you never turned him away. Still, he knocked softly, almost ashamed of himself for needing you again.

The hallway was quiet, and for a second he thought maybe tonight, you wouldn’t answer. But the door creaked open not even five seconds later, and there you were — sleepy eyes, hair messy, wrapped in one of those oversized Stark-branded hoodies you always stole from the laundry pile. You blinked at him, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Buck?”

He looked at you — eyes heavy with guilt, with something softer behind it. “I… shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” You stepped back immediately, swinging the door wider. “Don’t apologize. Come in.” He gave a breathy nod and stepped into your room, his broad shoulders brushing against yours. The air was warm, soft. Your room always smelled faintly like vanilla and something calm, like safety. You closed the door gently behind him, voice quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try. I knew what was waiting.” You didn’t push for details. You never did. He loved that about you. You always gave him space when the rest of the world tried to dissect him. You moved toward your bed, crawling under the covers and patting the empty space beside you. “Do you want to stay here?” Bucky looked at you — really looked at you — and then just nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He sat down carefully beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this — climbed into your bed after a rough night, curled into your warmth like it was the only thing that made sense — but this time, it felt heavier. His silence was louder. You both lay down slowly, facing each other under the covers. The space between your bodies was small, but the tension between you? It filled the room like fog. His eyes searched yours — deep, quiet, like they were trying to memorize every inch of your soul. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. His eyes said so much — exhaustion, pain, but also something… softer. Something almost like longing. His voice broke the silence. “I really don’t know why I have you.”You blinked, brows drawing in slightly. “What do you mean?” His voice was low, almost ashamed. “With all the bad things I’ve done… I don’t know how I’m lucky enough to have someone like you in my life.” Your chest clenched. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing lightly over his vibranium wrist before moving to his jaw. “Bucky… you didn’t do all those bad things. And you know that. With everything that’s happened to you — everything you’ve suffered — you have every right to be angry, to shut down, to give up.” Your thumb stroked gently over his cheekbone. “But you don’t. You fight every day. You try. You still care. And that makes you more of a hero than most people I know.” His eyes softened as he stared at you, quiet and unmoving. Your words wrapped around him like a blanket — not one that fixed everything, but one that soothed the ache, made it bearable. He didn’t look away. His metal fingers moved slowly — brushing your hair back from your face, lingering on your jaw. The coolness of the vibranium against your skin made you shiver, but not from the cold. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile — or sacred. He whispered it so softly, like it might break in his throat. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your breath caught. And before you could answer — before you could figure out whether that meant what it sounded like it meant — he tugged you forward, arms wrapping tightly around you, burying your face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he exhaled like the weight of the whole world had just let go. Your arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing gently. You could feel his heart — steady now. Safe. Neither of you said another word. But neither of you needed to. Because even though he wouldn’t say it — not yet — he meant it. And so did you.

The air in the training room was warm — not just from your fire-imbued abilities that occasionally flared mid-fight, but from the way your laughter filled the space like sunshine.

“Come on, Cap, you’re losing your edge,” you teased, breathless, as you ducked under Steve’s punch and slid behind him. Your palm tapped lightly against the center of his back. “Point for me.”

Steve turned, grinning wide. “I’m letting you win. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all — Firecracker.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s fitting,” he smirked, circling you. “Explosive temper, hot hands, and an unfair amount of style.”

Your grin widened, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m working on it.”

You both lunged at the same time, arms clashing in a flurry of practiced blows and counter-movements, years of sparring translating into something that felt more like dance than combat. You’d always had this playful rhythm with Steve — easy, comfortable. He was the one who had pulled you out of the burning wreckage of that HYDRA facility two years ago. The one who had looked into your terrified, half-conscious eyes and said, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Since then, he'd been your constant, your big brother and sparring partner rolled into one.

But sometimes, the flirting slipped in. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe just how close you always got in combat. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was to poke at a certain ex-assassin’s nerves. Not that he ever gave you any clear reason to.

Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Bucky when he entered. Not at first. You were too caught up in your fight, in the way Steve’s hands had suddenly locked around your waist from behind, your back flush to his chest.

“Gotcha,” he whispered near your ear, breath brushing your neck.

You laughed, your head tilting slightly into his shoulder. “Dirty move.”

“You love it.”

You did, a little. The intimacy of it. The warmth. The way it let you forget everything else for a second — the nightmares, the pressure, the endless missions. For a moment, it was just sparring and shared smiles and sweat-soaked comfort.

But then, something shifted.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke.

Bucky stood across the gym, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw sharp and unmoving. He wasn’t punching the bag anymore. Wasn’t training. Wasn’t pretending to be casual. His eyes were locked on you. No, not you — on Steve. On the way Steve held you.

You could feel it — that slow-burn crackle under your skin, like you were about to combust. And this time, it wasn’t your powers.

You quickly twisted out of Steve’s grip, a little too quickly, and he stumbled back. His foot caught on the mat and he fell flat on his back, groaning with exaggerated pain.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God—are you okay?” you giggled, kneeling beside him.

Steve blinked up at you dramatically. “You did that on purpose. Wanted to be on top, huh?”

Your eyes went wide. “Steve.”

“What? I’m just asking how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”

Your jaw dropped, but the shock dissolved into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Captain, I didn’t know you had a mouth like that.”

He grinned, hands behind his head. “You don’t know how I have so many things.”

That was the moment the tension cracked.

A sharp, deliberate cough came from across the room.

You turned. Slowly.

Bucky was standing by the bench press now, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes — God, his eyes — were molten.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked flatly.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, still smirking. “Just training.”

You pushed yourself off Steve’s chest, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been thrown on you. “Yeah, um… I just discovered a side of Steve I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

Steve laughed again. “It’s a shame we don’t spar more often.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His tone didn’t change.

“Can you get off of him?”

Your heart jumped. You blinked. “We were just—”

“Calm down, Buck,” Steve cut in, casually wiping the sweat off his brow. “We’re literally in the training room.”

“Whatever.” Bucky didn’t wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind him.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do. Your stomach fluttered — not with excitement, but something between confusion and hope. Because Bucky Barnes had looked at Steve Rogers like he wanted to end him. And for the first time in a long time, it meant something.

Steve chuckled beside you, brushing off his shoulder as he stood. “Jealousy, thy name is Barnes.”

You stared after the door, still frowning. “But… why would he be jealous?”

Steve gave you a look, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I mean, he’s—he doesn’t act like—”

Steve tilted his head. “He doesn’t act like he’s in love with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“I’m just saying,” Steve added, his voice gentler now. “That man barely speaks to anyone. He barely looks at anyone. Except you. And when he looks at you… it’s like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.”

You swallowed hard. The words sat heavy in your chest.

Outside the gym doors, down the hall, Bucky’s footsteps echoed away. But all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you — and the way he hadn’t stayed to explain himself.

You didn’t know what was happening. But maybe… maybe he felt it too. And maybe that was what scared you both the most.

The hallway was silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on the metallic floor. You were still wearing your training clothes, an old sweatshirt tied around your waist, your heart pounding as if you’d just run ten flights of stairs. You didn’t know exactly why you felt like this. You just knew you weren’t going to sleep until you talked to him.

You crossed the empty common room, passed the couch, and stopped in front of his door. You hesitated. Just for a second. But then you knocked—twice, quickly, like doing it slower would give you time to back out.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Bucky stood there. Shirtless, wearing the gray lounge pants he used to sleep in, hair slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face to calm down. Or to cool whatever he’d been feeling earlier.

His eyes dropped to meet yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice firm—even though that wasn’t how you felt inside.

He stepped aside without a word, letting you walk in. The room smelled like wood, something clean and warm and his. Dense. Familiar. Like the way he made you feel.

You closed the door behind you.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked, turning to face him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. They were dark. Intense.

“What was what?”

“What happened in the training room. The way you looked at Steve and me… the way you spoke to me. Cold. Sharp. Like you wanted to rip me out of there.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, his metal arm flexing like it was burning inside.

“I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?”

“You two.” The words shot out like a bullet. Then, softer: “Being that close. Laughing. Touching. Flirting.”

His eyes locked on yours like he was searching for something—something he couldn’t say yet.

You frowned, feeling a twist in your stomach.

“What do you mean flirting?” you asked, your voice quieter.

Bucky stepped toward you. Then another step. Barely noticeable, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. But by the time you noticed, he was already in front of you. Inches away.

You could see every little scar on his face, the crease between his brows, the slight tremble in his lips when he opened his mouth to speak but bit down because the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t like that you laughed with him like that. That you looked at him like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was the only one who could make you feel that way.”

The air stilled. Your chest rose and fell fast, like you’d been running. The room felt smaller. He felt closer. Everything felt too intense.

“And why does that bother you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your lips. His breathing was quicker. His human hand lifted, slowly, shaking just a bit, rising toward your cheek… then stopped halfway.

“You know why,” he said. Almost too softly to hear.

“No,” you lied. “I don’t.”

He stepped even closer. And now there was no space left between you.

His nose brushed against yours. His breath warm on your skin. His voice, low and broken:

“Because I don’t want anyone else to have you like that. Because when I see you with someone else, something inside me cracks. Because I want to pull you away and tell you that you’re mine, even if I’ve never had the guts to say it.”

Friday nights in Stark Tower had become something sacred. No missions. No training. Just badly cooked takeout, too many drinks, and a dangerously competitive round of Uno or Mario Kart with some of the most powerful people on Earth.

You were curled up on the couch between Sam and Wanda, a blanket draped over your legs, your hand deep in a bowl of popcorn you were definitely not sharing. Steve was across from you, tossing back a beer and trying to pretend he didn’t take this game as seriously as his old war strategy briefings.

Bucky, as always, sat slightly apart from the group—on the edge of the loveseat that no one else dared to sit on, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t trying to have fun, but still... never missed a Friday.

You didn’t mind it. You knew better than anyone: Bucky liked to observe before he jumped in. He always had.

Tonight’s game was Truth or Dare—Tony’s idea, naturally, because if he couldn’t humiliate his teammates once a week, he might explode.

“Alright, Witchy,” Sam grinned, nudging Wanda. “Truth or dare?”

Wanda smirked. “Dare.”

Sam leaned in like he was about to expose a national secret. “I dare you... to tell us your most inappropriate Avenger crush.”

Groans and laughter erupted instantly.

Wanda looked amused. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The people need to know,” Tony chimed in, way too invested.

Wanda took a dramatic pause, then raised her eyebrows in your direction. “You. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your popcorn. “Me?!”

“You literally set things on fire when you get emotional,” she teased. “That's hot. Literally.”

The whole group burst into laughter, including you. Even Bucky huffed a small laugh from his corner.

You smiled and leaned into Wanda’s shoulder. “Flattered, but also terrified.”

“Alright, alright, your turn,” Sam declared, looking at you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing popcorn salt off your hands. “Steve. Truth or dare?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Truth.”

“If you weren’t a superhero,” you asked, “what would you be doing with your life right now?”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the mood.

Steve leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “Something quieter,” he said. “A quiet life. Maybe painting. I used to sketch a lot before the war.”

There was a collective silence.

“Wow,” Clint muttered. “Way to ruin the mood, Cap.”

That broke the tension, and everyone laughed again.

You leaned back against the couch, smiling, and turned your head toward Bucky—

And froze.

He was already staring at you.

Eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even aware of it. There was no mistaking it this time—not a glance, not a passing look. This was different. His gaze was deep, unmoving, and there was something in it—something warm and aching and maybe even a little broken. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see.

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered.

And then, in the span of a blink, he shifted. Looked away. Took a sip from his glass like nothing happened.

You stared at him, stunned, your pulse still racing. Did no one else see that? Did you imagine it?

He looked over at Steve, then at Tony, pretending to be part of the group again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Minutes passed. People changed seats. Someone spilled beer. Wanda was now trying to get Steve to admit he owned flannel pajama pants. But you couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the crowd finally began to scatter—some drifting to the kitchen, others calling it a night—you slipped away down the hallway, almost without thinking. You didn’t even knock. You just pushed open Bucky’s door and stepped inside.

He was standing at his window, back to you, nursing what had to be his second or third glass of whiskey.

“You were staring at me,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned.

“What?”

“Earlier,” you clarified. “During the game. You were staring.”

He shook his head, too quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Bucky.”

He looked away. “You were imagining things.”

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t happen. I saw you. I felt it.”

He met your eyes then. For a second, everything dropped from his face—the careful mask, the distance, the safety net he always kept between you. And there it was again. That look. The one that made your knees weak and your heart twist.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Again.

“You’re my friend, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. “So that’s all it is?”

“That’s all it has to be,” he said quietly.

It happened one night when everything was almost perfect.

The mission was a success. For once, no bruises. No blood. Just tired limbs and adrenaline slowly fading into the quiet hours of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed, but you and Bucky — as always — ended up on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

You sat beside him in silence, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts you’d stolen weeks ago. Your knees were drawn up to your chest. Bucky had one leg stretched out, the other bent, his metal arm resting on it, glinting silver under the moonlight.

The city hummed softly beneath you. But here, above it all, it felt like time had slowed just for the two of you.

He didn’t speak much. He never did. But tonight, he looked relaxed. Safe, even. Something that only happened when it was just the two of you.

You’d been here before. So many times.

But something felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours earlier and didn’t pull away. Or the way he looked at you when you laughed over dinner, like he wasn’t just listening — he was soaking you in. Like he needed to remember it.

Like he wanted to remember you.

You sighed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” you whispered, “what it would’ve been like if we met under normal circumstances?”

He turned slightly, his eyes soft. “Like if we were just... two people?”

You nodded. “No Hydra. No missions. No Avengers. Just... you and me.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile, and for a second, he didn’t answer. Then:

“I think I still would’ve found you.”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with words left unsaid. Your heart pounded in your ears.

You lifted your head, searching his eyes.

And there it was again.

The look.

The one that said everything he never said out loud. The one that set your soul on fire and broke your heart all at once.

His hand came up — slow, hesitant — and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheek like he was memorizing you. Again.

You tilted your head slightly into his palm, eyes locked with his. Inches apart. So close you could feel his breath.

You had been avoiding him for days.

The training room? You didn’t show up. Midnight walks? You made up excuses. And last night, when he knocked softly on your door at 2:47 a.m. — when he needed you, again — you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t okay. Not anymore.

You couldn’t keep pretending that the looks didn’t mean something. That the almost-kisses didn’t hurt. That the words left unsaid weren’t killing you.

So when Bucky finally cornered you in the common room the next afternoon — after you'd brushed him off again — your heart was already halfway to breaking.

He stood across from you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in. His eyes searched your face like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out anymore.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, straight to the point.

You didn’t look at him. You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your tablet, even though your fingers had stopped moving minutes ago.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“You’ve been tired for four days.”

You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

There was a long pause.

Then the softest, lowest version of his voice: “Why didn’t you open the door?”

You swallowed hard.

Because if I saw your face, I would’ve broken down. Because I’m trying so damn hard not to love someone who won’t let himself love me back.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” you whispered.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked slightly. “You always talk to me. That’s… what we do.”

You stood suddenly, anger bubbling up in your chest — not at him, not really. At this thing between you that kept building and building and never going anywhere.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you said sharply. “Because this… this thing between us? It’s exhausting.”

His brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do!” you shouted, finally looking him dead in the eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean when you act like that.”

He blinked, frozen.

“I know your past,” you continued, quieter now, but each word trembling with the weight of unshed tears. “I know everything you’ve been through. And God, I understand why you are the way you are. You have a million reasons to keep yourself locked up. But you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things.”

He stepped forward slightly, lips parted like he was about to say something—anything.

But you didn’t let him.

“No. Don’t. You said it was never gonna happen,” you snapped. “You said it with your words, Bucky. But then you almost kissed me.”

He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tight with regret.

“And we say we’re friends,” you went on, your voice shaking, “but I catch you staring at me all the damn time. You look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And then the second it gets too real, you disappear. Or worse, you pretend like it never happened.”

Bucky’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. His eyes — stormy and heavy — never left yours.

You choked on your next breath, your voice breaking now.

“Friends don’t look at friends that way,” you whispered.

And there it was — silence.

The truth, hanging heavy in the air like fog, like smoke, like a fire no one could put out.

Bucky didn’t move. Not toward you. Not away. Just stood there, stunned, wounded, and too scared to say the words you needed.

So you shook your head, taking a step back, like distance would dull the ache.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said softly. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being close to you… but never close enough.”

His voice, when it finally came, was so broken it hurt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you nodded, eyes burning. “But you did.”

[pullhisteeth]

you find a magazine of a certain genre under your boyfriend's bed. eddie munson x reader, 1.1k, fluff, hurt/comfort, suggestive themes

-

For a moment, it throws you.

The glossy pages are shiny. New. The magazine a recent purchase, thrown hastily under the bed, perhaps out of shame or embarrassment. Or because he thinks you'd be upset. Maybe he thinks you'd hate him.

You're apart more than you're together. This is, surely, entirely normal. After a few minutes and some reassuring hugs, you know that this is the rational conclusion you'd draw. But he's not here, and you haven't really seen him in weeks, and the cherry red spine caught your eye when you let yourself into his room.

Your curious fingers, too curious for your own good, flick through the pages while the black pit in your stomach deepens. They're all so beautiful. Soft skin wrapped in varying shades of lace and elastic, garters and frills. In some shots they're partially clothed in luxurious shirts or dresses. In others, they're adorned in intimidating black lingerie, holding things like whips or putting their fingers in their mouths.

The smell of this room, of him and his laundry detergent and his cologne, is normally the most comforting thing on earth. Right now it's making you a bit queasy.

Nausea caused by a dizzying combination of shame and hurt. Hurt, naturally, because your boyfriend, whom you love endlessly, has a dirty mag - a new dirty mag - under his bed. And shame, because you shouldn't feel so hurt at all.

Eddie joins you in that sick feeling when he sees you, relatively small, knees up, heels of your feet on the edge of the mattress, white-knuckled grip on that fucking magazine. It was so stupid - he bought it a week ago, a bit high and really, really horny, too ashamed to text you for a photo. What a loser he'd look like, sending some variation of a slimy you up? text at one in the morning, asking for nudes. He bought it at the 24/7 gas station on the other side of town. Brought it home, took one look at the centrefold, and tossed it under the bed, too ashamed to feel horny anymore and missing you too much to really care.

Your heart does an ugly flip when you realise he's standing in the doorway. You throw the mag on the ground like it's suddenly scorching hot. You hear him say sorry, I can explain, please, but none of it sticks. You start crying before you can think to be embarrassed.

With your clammy palms over your eyes you do not see him drop to the floor. Instead, you are surprised when you feel his own hands on your ankles.

"Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry," you hiccup.

"Please don't apologise either."

You wipe your face on the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Looking down, you find him with his eyes wide and concerned, looking back up at you.

"I'm sorry," you say again regardless, "for looking- looking through your stuff."

"It was under the bed," he reassures you. "I know you didn't have to go looking for it."

His touch on your ankle turns to a firm grip. You let him pull your feet down, backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. He lays his cheek on your knee and holds your calves, fingers moving up and down as he watches you from the floor.

"I'm sorry," he echoes. "You won't believe me but I promise you, swear on mom's grave, I wish I never bought it. I looked at it once, and I- I used to like them, I guess, but I didn't care, it was nothing, I-"

You hiccup again and hear him gasp softly.

"Please," he begs. His own eyes are getting watery and his hands have become nervous. "I'm sorry. I hate seeing you cry. Look at me."

You do, ever obedient to his word. You love him so much and you know it to be true because with any other boyfriend, you're sure you'd never have cared so much.

"It's okay," you tell him, words watery and thick. "I don't mind- really, I don't mind you having it, I just-"

"You don't have to be nice to me."

"No, really, I don't mind, I just don't look like them and I-"

At this he moves, sits upright between your spread knees, his now firm hands on your hips.

"Look at me," he says again.

Your eyes meet his.

"I don't care that you don't look like them. I'm serious."

"But-"

"No, really. I'm glad you don't look like them."

"But the lingerie, all of it- It's scary but is it something you want?"

The air in the room feels suffocatingly close. You're not catching full breaths and your skin itches, nose burning.

"No," he says firmly. "Unless you do."

You close your eyes and breathe slowly. Relief lifts like a heavy cloud.

You feel him move up, his face level with your own. His breath is warm and familiar. He kisses you softly at the left corner of your mouth.

"I promise you," he says, with another kiss to the space between your brows, "that there is nothing on earth sexier to me than you in your old pants."

A laugh bursts forth, uncontrollable but welcome. He smiles, you feel it in the kiss he gives your temple.

"I'm serious. I love your tennis socks when they're different shades of white. Or that bra that you turned green in the wash. Really."

You can't bear it anymore, too dizzy to keep your eyes closed. When you open them, he's out of view, his mouth at your jaw. You're giggling and squirming and his arms are around you.

"Hug me," you tell him quietly. He tightens his grip and you exhale.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," he says after a moment. He's still on his knees, and your back is aching after too long leaning into him, so you slip off the edge of the bed and onto his lap.

"I'm sorry for snooping."

"I told you to stop that," he says, smiling. "Stop apologising. I should've chucked it- Should never have bought it at all."

Words sit hesitant at the base of your throat. "Why did you?"

"I was horny," he whispers, "and missing you."

"Why didn't you just call me?"

"Felt like a player." He's smiling, only one half of his mouth curling, coy and shy. You smooth your hands over his arms. "Didn't wanna text you for dirty photos in the middle of the night."

"You can have as many as you want," you tell him in a whisper, kissing his jaw softly, like it's your secret to keep. "I can't take them as well as you can, though."

He chuckles. "I'm sure that's not true."

"Really," you say, stretching, back arching, legs pressing into his lap. "If you miss me that much, maybe you need to take some more before I go back home."

-

[marvelstoriesepic]

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Part Two

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

Part Two

[buckyseternaldoll]

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.