Best Kept

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

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The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

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It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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Wing Man Master List

Wing Man: (AO3) Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington is your best friend, and is constantly striking out. Sick of this, you two make a deal; you’ll wing man for each other. Hooking Steve up with dates is easy, but he finds himself struggling to find you a date. At least, until Dustin starts talking about his new cool friend Eddie. COMPLETE

Rating: T+

Current Word Count: 88k words

Tags: Strangers to friends to lovers, no use of y/n, reader is not described, weirdo!reader, rocky horror picture show, Flight of Icarus compliant, Steve and Reader are best friends, implied Upside Down but it's fine

Chapter 1 You are sick of seeing Steve striking out, so you come up with a solution that could work for both of you.

Chapter 2 You and Steve go hang out at the Palace Arcade with a bunch of high school students and pit two against each other in air hockey.

Chapter 3 You really should be trying to flirt, but somehow you and Eddie can only ever talk about Chris Morrison.

Chapter 4 Well, the arcade was a bust, but maybe going to a local dive bar and listening to music will yield better results.

Chapter 5 Ranting about Ozzy Osbourne counts as flirting, right?

Chapter 6 What DID he mean by five? The second meeting.

Chapter 7 Dustin spills the beans, and Wayne gives some advice.

Chapter 8 Eddie explains himself, and you two make plans to hang out on purpose.

Chapter 9 You and Eddie go on your first date, but the past always lingers

Chapter 10 It’s no longer Halloween, but the ghosts from yours and Eddie’s pasts are coming back to haunt you.

Chapter 11 Steve talks shit. Paige and Eddie talk business.

Chapter 12 You go to your audition, but things never go as planned.

Chapter 13 You remember.

Chapter 14 Corroded Coffin audition with Paige, and you take more than one risk.

Chapter 15 Everyone prepares for take off. The final chapter.

Epilogue Corroded Coffin takes flight, and you’re on air.

Post Credits Post Credit Scene

Bonus Stories

Next October: It's your birthday, and you're drowning in work. Thankfully, you have an amazing boyfriend to help you relax.

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It’s impossible to ignore you. (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Next.

Summary: Chrissy and Eddie seem to become close after a drug deal. The feelings you kept locked up suddenly start overflowing and you become afraid of losing your best friend. You fail to realize Chrissy was helping him gain the courage to admit his feelings to you.

Warnings: Slow burn friends to lovers. Angst. Unrequited feelings (but not really). So much miscommunication/misunderstanding. Reader being an anxious mess and an over thinker. Both Eddie and reader being oblivious dumbasses.

A/N: I said I was bringing angst to the Eddie fandom and here I am. Im deciding to make this 3 parts instead of two because I wrote so much already. And I love dragging the way they are idiots. Comments and messages are so welcomed! Yell at me! Thank you for all the support (:

Word count: 7k or something

You were confident in your friendship with Eddie. The friendship was build on so much trust and years of learning each other’s quirks and habits. Confiding in each other with secrets that you wouldn’t tell another soul and insecurities that ate away at your thoughts during the night.

You both were practically each other halves. Yin and Yang. Others may have found it kinda annoying, the way you both were practically attached at hip. But no one could deny how much you complimented each other.

Many would go as far to say you were platonic soulmates, which you happily accepted at first. Until the platonic aspect begin to leave a bitter taste in your mouth. A taste you desperately ignored and whatever thoughts followed was pushed to the back of your mind because you were not going down that worm hole.

Because you were his best friend. You were the first one to force him into a friendship when he first moved to Hawkin’s, running away from his parent’s home to his uncle’s, with a toothy smile on your baby face.

You were the one to compliment his drawings he hid at first of his dnd characters and learned the game to hear him excitedly talk about it at any chance. The one to force him to tell you who had formed the bruise on his eye. The one who then proceeded to hold their packaged popsicle against it until it melted.

And he was yours. He was the one to tell you that it was okay to be sensitive despite your parents harsh words. Eddie was the one to hold you after scary nightmares when he had convinced you to watch a scary movie you definitely had no reason to watch, only to tease you once there was no more fear in your system.

He was the one that held your textbooks even if he complained the whole time between classes. Eddie was the one to make a whole show of embarrassing himself in order to make you feel comfortable. He was the only one who understood your anxious rambling at random subjects that were in your mind on that particular day.

So yeah. You were content and happy with your place in Eddie’s life as best friends. Even if your developed crush was always something you beat down every day. Because as long he was in your life, you didn’t care if platonic was forever stamped on your relationship.

You were each other’s first choices. Always. So when he had mentioned one lunch period that Chrissy was meeting up with him for a deal, you only felt surprised that the school’s cheerleading Queen was going to buy drugs. A bit amused that she was meeting with her boyfriend’s worst enemy, the “Freak” of Hawkins.

You didn’t put much thought into it until you watched him and Chrissy seem to have a prolonged eye contact moment after said deal, in your last class together that same day. The blush in his cheeks when he looked away being the final realization that oh, maybe you really weren’t okay with it at all.

“How did the deal go?” You asked a little later, over the milkshake that was being shared at the small diner that was both your favorites. With the campaign Eddie had planned for that night, it was decided to hang around town before heading back to school.

“It went fine.” He answers after taking a long sip of the strawberry shake, emptying the glass.

You groaned, “Eddie, you hog!”

He smiles innocently as you tilt the glass to stare at the loss. “Oops.”

The pout on your face was immediately knocked down when he grabs the cherry he saved for himself and places it on your napkin. You accept the trade off as he continues. “She didn’t buy anything anyway. At least not for now.”

You hum as you grab the cherry he gave you, popping it in your mouth. “How come? It took a while so figured she did buy something in the end.”

He seems to fiddle with one of his rings anxiously. “We talked a bit,” that blush was back on cheeks, “Guess it took longer than expected. But I didn’t have what she needed, so she’s coming back to my trailer after hellfire tonight.”

“Talk about what?” You ask a bit too quickly, wiping your fingers on your napkin.

“Just..stuff.” He shrugs and pushes the empty glass to the end of the table. Eddie grabs the forgotten menu, even though you both know it by heart. “Hey, you want another milkshake? Or should we ask for a cheesecake?”

Oh. The cherry tasted dull in your mouth but you chewed it regardless, ignoring the small tug on your chest at the change of demeanor. It was so small yet you noticed it. He seemed uncomfortable at the topic, as though he didn’t want to breach it.

You were quiet for a moment before realizing he was looking at you questionably, so you smiled. “Trying to get me sick so I’ll miss hellfire, and not embarrass you huh?”

“Ohhh, those are fighting words sweetheart,” he narrows his eyes and his tone darkens. “I’m not one to back down. You’ll going to wish I wasn’t dungeon master.”

The implication on his “small talk” had you reeling as he drove you both back to the highschool. What exactly did they talk about then? And why did Eddie seem embarrass? As though whatever was shared between them in the woods wasn’t something he wanted to share with you.

Eddie didn’t have to share everything with you. But he always did. So seeing him dismiss the topic so quickly, it was different.

He always would tell you about the potheads that would regard him like some god, or the way the preppy kids acted like he would curse them if they were in his space for too long.

It wasn’t a big deal. Really. But Chrissy knocking on the door to the room Hellfire had taken place in that night, calling Eddie’s name had you feeling small suddenly. You, Gareth, and Eddie had been putting all the chairs back after the exciting game Erica had concluded with her lucky roll, when she walked in hesitantly.

Eddie jumped up from jamming his stuff in his backpack to greet her.

“Sorry, it ran a little longer than usual.” He states. “But we could head out now. You got your stuff, bug ?” Eddie looks towards you where you were zipping up your backpack. The idea of being in the same van as them together had you feeling uneasy suddenly.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to see any interaction that would make your anxious thoughts worse. Your eyes shift towards Gareth and your mouth spoke before you could think, “oh I can’t. Gareth had invited me for pizza tonight.”

“I did?” Gareth head jerks up from where he was, hand on the door knob ready to leave the room.

“He did?” Eddie sharply accuses at the same time, turning towards Garth who was staring between you both with wide eyes. His mouth hanging open, looking at you confused. You stared wide eyed back at him and nod quickly, pushing yourself towards the brunette.

“Ha! yeah he did, I totally forgot to tell you Eddie!” You shove Gareth a little too hard out into the hallway, out of sight before he could protest and expose your lie. Pretending like you didn’t hear the sound of him slamming against a locker.

“He only invited you?” Eddie voice was a bit tight, he pauses and coughs, “I mean, why not invite the rest of us?”

You felt bad realizing that your get away was going to make Eddie excluded. “Well, I mean, you have to take Chrissy right?”

Eddie blinks like he forgot she was there. “Well yeah but-“

“So it’s fine! He’ll take me home, don’t worry Eddie.”

“Right..” he mumbles, noticing Chrissy smiling at him before perking up, “You better bring me a slice yeah? Or else you’ll walking to school in the morning.”

You roll your eyes, nodding before he could try to mess with your hair and push yourself to leave them alone in the room.

You tried not to watch them leave the school together as you sat in Gareth’s car, recognizing the ugly emotion that washed over you in waves.

—

A part of you secretly hoped that would be the end of it. That Chrissy would buy whatever drug she needed, realize it isn’t her thing and they didn’t need to interact anymore. It wasn’t because you were jealous, something you repeated in the mirror a hundred times the night before, but for a normal reason.

Chrissy had a boyfriend. Jason who despised your best friend, so it wouldn’t be good for Eddie too continue to deal with her. She was just acting out, and that would be it. That’s all, right? No more ugly emotions.

“—and then he got mad because someone mentioned Chrissy.” Lucas explains during lunch as you kept glancing towards the double doors for Eddie’s late presence. “He cancelled practice for this week. It was stupid.”

“Didn’t you hear? .” Dustin chimes in with a mouth full of pudding. You would have scolded him for it if it weren’t for his next words, “He got dumped.”

“What?” You tore your gaze away from the doors, “Chrissy and Jason broke up?”

“Yeah. Apparently she asked for a break.”

“And how do you know this Dustin?” Luke leans forward from the end of the table to stare at his best friend.

“I know everything.” He smiles sweetly raising his eyebrows which forces Mike to snort with a small yeah sure which he takes offense to. “At least it was face to face, unlike El’s break up letter.”

“Why would mention that dude ?” Mike hurt voice drowns out while you stare at Eddie’s empty seat.

That sinking feeling in your stomach was back.

Eddie had arrived eventually, a hand grasped onto Gareth’s shoulder who seemed a bit tense to whatever Eddie was chatting away about. He looked really happy , a bump on his step as he made way towards the table and plopped down on his seat next to you. His smile so big that deep down you had a feeling that Chrissy had to do with it.

Of course. Who are you to completely stop that? She was single and just a few minutes during a deal had made Eddie head over heels for her.

One of your mozzarella sticks disappeared off your tray before he places his elbows on the table and tears it in half. “Hey, do you think Steve is working today ?”

You pushed away your thoughts once more. Eying the cheesy string between the two pieces before shrugging. “Uh no? I think Robin mentioned closing alone tonight. Something about Steve calling out for a date.”

“Ah, King Steve in action once again,” he rolls his eyes before popping one piece in his mouth, “Still good for me, I was going to stop by and didn’t want him to be on my ass for late fees.”

“Eddie you really need to stop losing the dvds,” you scold, grabbing your juice and handing it to him once you notice him eying it. “At this point we’ll be banned.”

“Hey, we both can’t get banned-“

“I also have late fees because of you begging Robin to use it under my name the last time.”

“It’s not my fault she’s so easy to convince ” He grins, “anyway, that’s good to hear, I was hoping to see her to rent a couple movies after school.”

“For what?” You ask, looking down at your tray. “Planning for a movie night?”

“Mhmm,” he hums happily, looking at you expectedly. “For a special girl.”

God, you felt pathetic for the way your smile was wiped off your lips. Your eyes stayed glued to your tray, your right hand coming up to scratch your neck in an attempt to hide your expression. “Oh cool…”

He was planning a movie date. Was it for Chrissy? It had to be, why else would he say it like that. The lunch food was beginning to disagree with your stomach. You pushed the tray away softly before looking up at him once you fought off a frown.

There was a frown tugging on his lips though, watching you carefully. He seemed, hesitant to say anything at first which made you feel worse. Is it really noticeable how uncomfortable you were ? You were ruining the good mood he was in.

“You okay?” He finally asks softly. One of hands reaching out under to table and brushing against yours. You force a smile once more, nodding before making show of holding your stomach.

“Sorry, I have a really bad stomach ache.” you laugh pathetically, “I think I need to go straight home after school” Instead of accompanying you to picking out whatever movie you have planned for Chrissy.

Eddie seems dejected but he nods. “Do you want me to take you to the nurse? I can carry you bridal style.” He attempts to joke but you only shake your head.

“No it’s fine.” The bell rings and you stand up a bit too fast for someone who was complaining about a stomach ache, “I’ll just get though it.”

You barely give him time to respond as you grab your tray ,”I’ll see you after class.”

—

He drove you straight home after school, the van mostly quiet for most of the ride as you allow yourself to go over your thoughts once again. Eddie tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing over you every so often before finally deciding to reach into his compartment and take out a cassette tape.

A few seconds later, your favorite band was playing through his speakers and you smiled. Eddie’s singing voice bringing you out of your funk for a few minutes as he sung along to the chorus, head banging despite it not matching the beat. Your laugh filling the van along with the music when he accidentally swerves the van after he looked away a little too long to sing to you.

For now, you’ll let yourself forget about whatever Eddie and Chrissy had going on.

-

It didn’t last long. Because as a week went by and Eddie began missing some lunches, and even a class period, you find out through Dustin that he caught Eddie meeting up with Chrissy.

Now it was clear they at least had a friendship going on. It really wasn’t your place to say anything.

Special girl. It rang in your head when you noticed Eddie keep glancing towards where she sat across the cafeteria. At first you ignored it, convincing yourself for a short time it was okay. But Eddie began to act different. Whenever you both would talk and joke, you would catch him glancing towards Chrissy. It hurt to see him so distracted while even with you, so you began to speak less and less.

Chrissy was special. Chrissy, the girl who everyone loved at Hawkins for her looks and skills in cheerleading. The blonde not only was really pretty and was the ideal image of what a perfect girl is, she also was really sweet. So you couldn’t even be mad at Eddie for his choice.

Anyone would want to date her and they would be considered lucky. So really, you should be happy for your best friend. Even if you felt annoyed from waiting after school, 20 minutes and most of the parking lot empty save the kids attending detention, and you see them both exit the building together.

They seem to be in deep discussion about something, before Chrissy placed her hand on his shoulder, saying something that had Eddie attention completely on her. You looked away from the sight, gripping onto your textbook on your lap.

A minute later he was standing next to you with an apologetic expression. “Shit, I’m really sorry bug. Ms. O’Donnell had me staying after to make up for being late to class.”

You smile tightly, because that’s all you been doing since this started, faking your smiles. “Right.” You get up from your seat on the bench and brush past him towards his van. He follows close behind, tugging on your backpack to signal to let him carry it but you ignore him, brushing his hand off and pulling it against your shoulder.

Eddie frowns at that and doesn’t unlock the door when you pull on the handle. “I said I was sorry y/n.” He whines, pouting and trying to wrap his arms around you but you pull away once again.

“Yeah I heard Eddie,” you sigh as you look at him, your annoyance growing at the confused look in his face. It pushed you to speak again before thinking clearly.

Word vomit. You had learned that phrase from Robin. “I guess you and Chrissy were both late huh?”

Eddie blinks taken back, looking towards where Chrissy had walked off to meet up with other cheerleaders. “Oh- that.” He clears his throat and rubs at his neck. “No, I bumped into her right after O’Donnell let me off.”

“Talked for a bit too?” Shut up. Why do you keep talking?! You screamed in your head.

“I just had something quick to ask her.” You looked at him raising an eyebrow, waiting and hoping that he would finally tell you what they had going on. But again, Eddie blushes, not looking at you and you realized he rather keep it from you then tell you. “It was stupid, like uh, about homework. ”

You felt done with the conversation, nodding and pulled on the handle again. “Cool, can you open the door now?”

“Come onnn y/n, don’t be like that-“

“Eddie you had me waiting in this heat“ you huff, crossing your arms and glaring at him. “I just want to go home and take off these sweaty clothes. Please.”

Eddie pauses and seems to think before suddenly dropping on his knees. You gasp and step back as he puts his hands together and shakes his head.

“I’m ashamed of myself. I am y/n. I failed you, something I can never forgive myself for.” He begins, shaking his head dramatically. You drop your bag and pull on his arm trying to make him stop.

“Eddie seriously!”

A few lingering students were staring. “Please. I’ll do anything for your forgiveness your highness. I’ll buy you some donuts, or even that horrible Tears for Fears album you dare call music.”

“You ass-“

“I’ll shave my head!” He whines dramatically, “just for you to look at me again.”

“Oh god” you laugh, unable to stop a real smile to appear and succeed in pulling him to his feet again. “Please don’t. I don’t think I’ll survive another buzz cut.”

Eddie smiles dusting off his knees and bending down to grab your bag, throwing over his shoulder. “So?”

“I forgive you,” you roll your eyes, watching him sigh relieved and hold his chest. He unlocks the door this time and lets you climb in.

“Cant even let me be mad for more than 5 minutes.” you mumbled when he throws both your belongings to the back and gets in. He starts the car, pointing at your seatbelt in warning, waiting to hear it click in place before driving out of the school’s parking lot. “Maybe I wanted to ignore you the whole car ride”

“I don’t think I could survive that” he teases, but there was truth in it. He looks towards you, his gaze softening. “You sure you’re not mad anymore?”

“Yeah, it’s fine Eddie.” Your smile was small as you look out the window. You really weren’t mad. His antics was enough for you to brush off your jealousy. Eddie was your best friend. You shouldn’t be acting this way anyway. You just needed time to get your feelings in check.

It doesn’t seem like Eddie is convinced because he sighs. You turn to look at him.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That” He waves his hand over you before looking at the road. “I don’t know. Off. You smile but it doesn’t even seem..” he struggles before snapping his fingers. “It’s not you.”

Shit. He’s noticing. You rub the side of your face and shake your head. “Really Eddie, it’s nothing.”

“Is it? You seemed off all week.” You flinch at that, wanting to sink into the seat. He really was noticing, will he eventually connect two and two together? What if he figures out your feelings that you hid for so long.

No you couldn’t let that happen.

“I haven’t been feeling my best Eds” You make sure to keep your voice steady, trying to be believable. “I guess, I just been stressed. With the way things are changing..”

That part was true.

“What do you mean?”

“With finals coming up, and graduation just two months away.” You play with the end of your hair ignoring his gaze. “I guess it finally just got to me. You know me and my anxiety.”

You smile pathetically and Eddie slumps back in his seat. “Why didn’t you talk to me about it before ?”

“You seemed..distracted..” That also was true. Really you were giving half truths so you didn’t feel too horrible for lying to him. “But really, I’ll get over it.”

Eddie reaches out and grabs your hand, shaking his head. “Distracted? What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing.” Eddie sighs but lets it pass.

“Don’t be hiding that shit from me anymore. Alright? You know I hate when you get into your head. Talk to me, okay?”

You nod, squeezing his hand back and play with his rings, pushing back your feelings. “Okay. Promise.”

—

The next few days were better. Sure, you saw him talking to Chrissy once between classes. But after Eddie had forced you to sleepover his trailer that day you half confessed in his van, and watched movies with you all night and made you hot chocolate, you felt safe to say it didn’t hurt that much.

You can accept it. You were still an important part in his life and he in yours. You shouldn’t be so selfish to wish for more. It was okay.

You were studying for your math quiz when your bedroom phone rang. You quickly scribbled down an answer before you forgot it, and reached over to the nightstand next to your bed.

“Hello?”

“Hey bug.”

You smile and lay back on your pillow, grabbing the base of the phone to place on the bed while you twirled the cord between your finger. “Don’t tell me you want me to give you the answers? Did you even try to solve one of the problems.”

“No I just..” he pauses. You mirror that by freezing with the cord around your finger. “Wanted to talk. Wanted to talk to you, you know?”

There wasn’t a blush on your cheeks at the gentleness in the way he said you. You change your position the bed to lay on your stomach, frowning. “Eddie? Is something wrong?”

He stays quiet. You can hear one of the records you gave him softly playing in the background.

“You know you can talk to me.” Please talk to me. Don’t push me aside. “Remember what you told me, last week, that we don’t hide anything.”

“Yeah, yeah you’re right.” He sighs and there’s some shuffling on his side. “This is just..really hard to say. It’s..different than what we usually talk about.”

Uneasiness swirls in your stomach. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t reply right away so you backtrack. “I mean that shouldn’t matter. We told each other so much already, I’m sure this isn’t much different Eds.”

“You won’t..freak, right? No matter what.”

Your throat tightens. That tightening feeling appears in your chest. You clear your throat in fear that your voice will break. “Y-yeah, I won’t. Try me.”

“Okay..” He coughs then sighs. “Okay. Okay, so..” he struggles before finally speaking. “There’s someone that I really like.”

You thought you were prepared. Part of you was relieved that after keeping it from you for so long, he finally confided in you. That should be good, right? Your worries that he didn’t have that trust in you evaporated, all that anxiety was proven wrong. Yet, the other part of you that you thought was going to fine and under control, broke.

“Oh wow,” you let out breathlessly, “You were scared to tell me that?” You push the back of your hand against one of your eyes once you feel the tears building. “Why are you worried about that.”

“Y/N- it’s, it’s just...” He whispers, “I been too stupid to realize my feelings and I’ve been wanting to ask her out for a few weeks now. But I can never figure out how she feels about me..”

His voice was shaky. “I’m terrified she won’t feel the same way if I tell her. Because y-“ he coughs, “she’s so amazing and perfect, and I guess I’m really scared you know? What if I’m not enough? I wouldn’t blame her for thinking so.”

Your heart hurts not only knowing he’s referencing to Chrissy but knowing that he didn’t feel good enough. How could he even think like that? Eddie was someone you looked up too. His ways of drawing attention towards him with his dramatic speeches and overall personality was admirable. So hearing him sound so small, dejected at the idea had you pushing your own hurt aside.

“Eddie. Anyone would be lucky to have you. This girl, god she would be so fucking lucky to have you as her boyfriend.” You stare at your ceiling, hand gripping the phone tightly. “You’re so much more than good enough. You’re sweet and funny, and, and I know she will be the happiest girl with you. Anyone would.”

I would. The voice whispers in the back of your head.

“You really think that?” Eddie asks, in awe. You nod forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course, Eddie. You’re the most amazing person I know.” Eddie stays silent. You notice how fast your heart was beating.

“Thank you bug,” you swore you thought you heard a sniffle. “I..that made me feel better. You don’t understand how much.”

You both stay silent. You were waiting for him to drop that it was Chrissy. Go into more details about her but he continues to not talk. So you decide to rip the bandaid yourself.

“So, when are you asking the special girl?” You force your voice to sound excited, shutting your eyes tight. “I better not have gave that speech for nothing.”

“Actually, I was thinking about doing it tonight.” he trails off. You felt like you were going to vomit.

“Good! I-I hope it goes great, Ed. I’m rooting for you, and..I know she’ll say yes.” Your hands began to shake. It felt harder to breath. You thought you were able to handle it but no, you feel yourself falling apart.

You needed to end the call before he hears you break down.

“Y/N..I wanted- I was going to ask you-“ You cut him off once you feel a single tear slip down the corner of your face. A few more tears follow as you shake your head.

“Eddie I-I’m sorry I need to go.” You slam the phone shut and pull your pillow over your face. Hoping it’s enough to pause your tears but it didn’t. A sob is muffled by it instead.

You weren’t going to be okay after all.

—

You spend the rest of the night staring blankly at your homework before deciding you were not accomplishing anything but staining the sheet with a few escaped tears. You turned off all the lights and tried to sleep, trying to come up with an excuse as to why you hung up. You didn’t think clearly.

You could say you felt sick again and had to throw up, or that your heart was ripped out of your chest and you felt like you were dying.

The former was better. At least it was believable and didn’t need anymore questions.

You left the following morning earlier than usual. Deciding to take the bus that you seen Max always hop on. Eddie had tried giving her a ride before but she only quietly rejected it and often left earlier than you both did.

You sat next to her on the bus, headphones blaring Kate Bush voice. She glanced at you, raising an eyebrow.

“You look like shit.” Her headphones were pushed down to wrap around her neck.

“Thanks.” You reply, crossing your arms over your stomach and turning your head towards her smiling softly. “And you look amazing like always Max.”

She shrugs, turning her nose away as she glanced out the window towards the trailer park that was disappearing from sight. “Did you and Eddie fight?”

“No.” You feel sick again at the mention of his name. “I wanted to go early and didn’t want to wake him up. He’s grumpy when I do.”

“Righht..” she turns towards you again. “Eddie definitely is anything but grumpy with you.” She makes a disgusted expression before pulling her headphones back on top of her head. The volume increasing this time.

Well damn. You were hoping the younger girl would make more of a conversations with you. Maybe you should try a little harder with her the way you had with the other freshman, but push that for another day. You allow to swallow in self pity the rest of the bus ride.

The rest of the morning was a blur. Eddie had looked for you when he arrived a few minutes before school started, nearly disrupting your first class when he pushed the door open a second before the bell rung. Eyes set on where you sat in the back but was quickly yelled at by your math teacher.

“Eddie Munson! This is not where you’re suppose to be-“

“I need to see y/n,-“

“You can see her later. Out! Now!”

You hid your face behind your notebook, guilt eating at you as you could feel him staring at you before he was escorted out.

Your plan was to avoid him that morning, needing just a little bit more time. Then prepare to see him at lunch and hear all about what occurred with his confession the night before. You were going to sit there, at the lunch table, apologize for hanging up and ditching that morning, then make it up by listening to him talk about how Chrissy accepted his confession. And you will smile through it all, and support him.

You could do that.

But when you walked out your history class for lunch, and Eddie was waiting right across the hallway, your mind blanked.

“Seriously. What the fuck y/n.” He began, pushing himself away from where he was leaning against the locker. You began to walk down the hallway. “Jesus Christ! Really? Where are you going?”

“Eddie I have to meet up..” you think quickly, “with Nancy! Yeah, Nancy wants my opinion on some shots she took of the basketball game.”

“Nancy Wheeler? Mikes sister?” He questions, walking beside you and matching your fast pace. “Since when were you two friends?”

“She’s friends with Robin. So that makes us acquaintances” you reply, staring ahead.

He throws his hands up in the air and scoffs. “Okay. Okay fine. Are you just not going to tell me why you hung up on me yesterday? And ignored my calls after?” He grabs your arm and stops your walking. “Or even why I went to your trailer for your mom to tell me you had left early to school? What’s up with that?”

“Had to talk to my teacher about my final grades, and I knew coming early was the best option.” It was such a shitty and not well thought out lie. “Didn’t want to wake you up, especially after last night.”

Eddie’s grip loosens and his expression falters. The anger flowing into something you couldn’t recognize. He pulls away and stuffs his hands into his leather jacket. “Last night..” he sounds sad, “are..are you even going to ask about that?”

“About what?” You don’t look at him. You weren’t ready yet.

“About what we talked about.” Eddie says desperately. “Come on y/n. I told you it was something I was afraid to talk about, and you go hang up on before I could even..” he stops and rubs his face.

“I wasn’t feeling well. Ha , it’s weird. It just hit me, I thought I was going to throw up-“

“Bullshit.” He hisses, pointing his finger at you. “That’s such bullshit.” You step back surprised by his outburst. He looked outright angry.

“Eddie-“

“You keep saying all these lies. I’m not an idiot. And then you go and ignore me all morning. What the fuck did I do? Did I..did I do something?” He asks.

“No Eddie, you didn’t.”

“Then why are you acting like this right now? Christ, I don’t understand !” He yells, throwing his hand out.

“Let’s talk about it later, yeah?” You stammer, feeling overwhelmed.It wasn’t suppose to go this way. You had it all planned out and now it’s getting out of control.

“Why later? Why not now?”

“I just don’t want to right now, okay?” You pull away, seeing your escape and make way to the bathroom. Eddie following close behind. “I’m still not feeling well. So, just..we can talk about it after school.”

“I don’t fucking get this. Why are you acting like this.?”

You push yourself into the bathroom. Slamming the door shut before he could even think to follow you in. “Eddie please ! I’ll meet you in the cafeteria, okay?”

“I thought you were meeting with Nancy.” He states from the other side of the door. “See I knew you were fucking lying.”

You don’t say anything else. Back pressed against the door as you wait.

“Y/N please..” you hear him beg quietly, “I really can’t handle this from you. Not right now. Especially after last night..”

You frown at this. What does he mean by that?

“I need you.” His voice was small. You wanted to open the door and slam against his chest, hugging him the way you always do when you both were suffering from bad thoughts.

But this was so much different. All your ugly insecurities and jealousy powers through any rationality right now.

So you say nothing. Despite the confusion at his statement. You hear Eddie sharp intake of a breathe once he realizes this before you hear his knuckles tap on the wall, a quiet “fuck this”, then his footsteps receding.

—

You stayed in the bathroom all lunch. Pathetically allowing your thoughts to overflow and beating yourself up for not being able to act normal. Your mind was reeling, not allowing you to focus on your other classes.

School ended and you walked out to see that Eddie’s van was gone. You didn’t even know if he had stayed in school after he walked away from the bathroom.

You sat next to Max again. She didn’t say anything at first, until the bus was halfway to your destination. It seemed like your own silent treatment had annoyed her enough to rip the headphones from her ears.

“I can literally feel your sadness rub off on me and it’s annoying.” She narrows her eyes at you. You sigh and tilt your head at her.

“That’s not even possible.” You mumble, not hiding the sadness in your voice. She takes note of this and finally resigns.

“Okay. Just tell me what’s going on with you and Eddie.”

“Nothings going on.”

“Dustin was complaining to me about how he hadn’t made it to lunch despite needing to go over the last campaign. And you’re here, unfortunately . So..” she shakes her head, “it’s pretty clear.”

You groan and slam your head back onto the bus seat. “Okay fine. I’ve just..” you pause and play with your fingers. “He and Chrissy has a thing..”

“Chrissy Cunningham??”

“Yeah I know.” You laugh, “these past few weeks, they been hanging and he has been acting weird. And..I guess he likes her.”

“Oh okay. This makes so much more sense.” She states, sitting up. “You’re jealous.”

“Yeah.” You finally admit. “Really jealous. But I can’t do anything. Because who am I to do so? We’re best friends and I’m acting like a fucking jerk.”

“He asked Chrissy out yesterday,” you continue, “he called me before hand and was telling me about his feelings for her and how he planned to tell her. And I..freaked out and hung up. Then avoided him today. And I know he’s mad but I just can’t face it Max. I don’t want to hear about their relationship because it hurts. So much.”

Max usual nonchalant front faded into a concerned expression. She listened to you.

“He said he needed me and god, he wouldn’t do this to me if I were crushing on some other person. He would be happy and would be excited to hear me talk about it because he doesn’t like me the way I like him..I really am a horrible friend. Aren’t I?”

You felt pathetically for ranting to a 15 year old but when Max simply shook her head and said, “No. it’s okay to feel hurt by this.” You felt a bit relieved before she continued. “But maybe you should talk to him about it. I don’t know, you’ll get used to it. Don’t break a friendship over it, he’ll understand.”

“I don’t think I can tell him though..”

“Then don’t, idiot. But you can’t ignore him forever. I’m sure he’s really confused by all of it and doesn’t know what to do. He’s stupid that way.”

You snort.

“And it probably is hurting him. I can see the way he cares about you.” She says honestly, furrowing her eyebrows like a thought crossed her mind but she doesn’t mention it.

You nod, feeling a bit embarrassed but better. She was right. It’ll take time to get over this hurt but you can’t allow for it to ruin what you and Eddie had. Eddie’s reaction was clear enough for you to see you were being selfish.

It didn’t matter if it hurt. You couldn’t allow it to overshadow what you and Eddie already build.

“Thanks Max.”

“Whatever.”

You walked her to her trailer once the bus driver drops you both off, hugging her and enjoying the way she smiled shyly before she pushed you away and ran in her trailer.

Eddie’s van was parked in front of his trailer. So you had no other option but to take your time walking across the dirt trail and step up to the door.

I need you.

You knock on the door, the small pattern that only you and Eddie knew coming as second nature, and waited.

The door opened and Wayne appeared.

“Oh hey kid.” He says, glancing inside the trailer for a moment before looking back at you. “I’m guessing you and Eddie fought?”

“Was it that obvious?” You grimace, tugging on the sleeve of your sweater.

“Just a little. No other person can get Eddie to be slamming that door shut and blasting his music like you.” He says with humor, stepping back and opening the door wider for you to enter. You ignore the small comment and follow him inside. “But I’m glad you’re here. I really need to get some sleep so if you could..”

You nod quickly, giving a small apology before walking towards his room. The vibration of the heavy guitar solo could be felt in the hallway. The beat thrashing against your eardrums when you push the door open.

Eddie was sitting up with his back pressed against the metal bars that made up the headboard of his bed. Guitar in hand as his fingers moved effortlessly against the strings. Eyes shut as he had his head tilted towards the ceiling. You wait to see if he’ll notice that the door opened but he continued playing.

You build up the courage to speak. “Eddie.”

You didn’t think he would be able to hear you but the song came to a stop, eyes snapping open as he turns his head over to you.

“Y/N?” He puts the guitar down. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you. And your uncle let me in.” You explain, moving towards his bed and sitting on the edge. “He probably would have left me out there if it wasn’t for him wanting to get some sleep.”

“You know he would let you in no matter what.”

“I know.”

He watches you, fingers twirling one of the rings in circles in his other hand. Sadness evident in his eyes, uncertainty mixed with it as he switched his gaze from between your eyes. Waiting.

“Look Eddie, I’m really sorry”

“You been saying that.” He replies.

“No but..” you stand up and rub your hands against your thighs. “I’ve been such an ass.” You hold your finger up before he could say anything, “and I’ve been acting like a shitty friend. And I know you’re confused and have asked me to be honest, but..”

You look at some of his posters. “I am honest about my anxiety being part of the problem. I’ve been struggling right now, dealing with feelings I don’t want to.” You swallow, pushing on. “And I guess I’m just afraid. Of stupid stuff that doesn’t matter and shouldn’t have. And I took it out on you and that’s not right.”

“So, it wasn’t because of me? I thought I was doing something wrong this whole time.” Eddie watches you pace back and forth.

Yes.

“No.” You bite your lip and hug yourself.

“Then what was it?” He frowns, “I mean. Why didn’t you just come to me? You promised. I told you to talk to me about it all.”

“I know Eddie. I know. Really. It was just all me and my overthinking. And I’m really really sorry and-“

“Bug, I understand.”

“No , I’ve been horrible!” You frown and plop down on the bed beside him, covering your face. “I’m really truly sorry. I promise you I’ll stop being ..how I am.”

“I like the way you are. Christ y/n.” He pushes your hands away from your face and forces you to sit up, grabbing your shoulders. “I wasn’t mad at you because of that, I was just mad that you been pushing me away. I was mad not knowing whether I..I was the reason.”

“It wasn’t you Eddie. I promise.”

He nods, shoulder sagging from relief before he grins. “You know, it’s weird not having you ranting into my ear 24/7 about what’s bothering you. I hate when you get all quiet.”

You watch him, pouting and he pushes at your cheek. His hand cupping your cheek and you ignore the warmth is spreads across your chest. “I’m sorry for screaming at you earlier and not being there after school. That was not cool.”

“No, I deserved it.” You glance down and play with the chain attached to his pants. “I wasn’t listening to you about last night.”

Eddie tenses. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“No we can!” You’re able to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest. The pit in your stomach wasn’t that big either. It felt somewhat okay. “What else were you going tell me? How did it go?”

“Nothing happened. I never got to ask.” He wasn’t looking at you.

You falter, confused. “What? I thought..”

Eddie clears his throat and stands up, grabbing his guitar and hanging it up in its place in front of his mirror. “Yeah, I totally chickened out. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It..it doesn’t?” You asked, feeling even more stupid now. No wonder he was so angry at you for ignoring him. He needed more support, encouragement and you weren’t there to give it. “Shit, Eddie. I really am sorry for hanging up.”

“It’s fine, really.“ He taps his fingers on his chin, still not looking at you. “Besides..I have a better idea.”

“Uh..” you begs to ask before Eddie suddenly bends down and grabs your waist and throws you over your shoulder as you scream in surprise. “-the fuck!”

“We are going to celebrate us surviving our first real fight!” He grins, conversation forgotten as he attempts to grab his denim vest and wallet with out dropping you. Your wiggling makes it hard but he manages to do it.

“And how are we going to that?” You giggle, relieved at the familiarly of your dynamic with Eddie. It was feeling okay again.

“We are going to get a milkshake.” He smiles and proceeds to carry you out of his room on his shoulder. A small bang echoing from your head hitting the door frame and your groan following it. “..And painkillers.”

---

a job well done (eddie munson x fem!reader one-shot)

summary: long-term admirer, recent tutor — you find out eddie's failing gym. in an ode to help him, your expertise expands beyond just textbooks — to your fortune, he teaches you something you've been dying to learn too

contents: 18+, smut!!!, porn with plot, lots of ball action <3, oral (m receiving, mentions of f receiving), pet names and praise (baby, good girl), somewhat-inexperienced!eddie, tutor!reader an: i made an $8k mistake irl so heres 8k words that i wrote to forget about it (just kidding (not abt the mistake, that's very real) i started writing this in july 2023 but recently rewrote most of it to make it into a big ol' one shot-ish thing) wc: 8.5k

“You’re failing gym?” you gasp, jaw dropping as your eyes scan over his report.

“No!” he replies, trying to steal the envelope and its contents from your hands. You turn your body just in time for him to grasp at nothing but air. 

You started tutoring Eddie about a month into the semester. He’s been a willing participant for the most part and that’s why when he kept coming up with excuse after excuse for why he didn’t have his midterm report you knew something was up. 

You took it upon yourself to do some investigating. Nothing invasive, just when you got to his place for a regular tutoring session, you decided to look through his bag while he was in the bathroom. On his bedroom floor, filing through the bags endless messy contents, you eventually came across the familiarly coloured yellow envelope and helped yourself to a peek at what he was keeping a secret from you. 

Mere moments later, he was back. He immediately noticed what you had in your hands and crashed to the floor trying to get it away from you. Evidently, a failed attempt. 

“You have a — oh god, not just a D, a D minus, Eddie.” 

“That’s not failing,” he mumbles under his breath. You wave him off before dropping his report to the floor in front of you. He grabs it, crumples it into a ball, and petulantly tosses it to the other side of his room. 

“You never even told me you were taking gym.”

“Cause how’re you supposed to help with gym?”

“The tests! There’s a whole health portion, I could’ve been helping you with that,” you say, getting worked up over it. Eddie’s been doing so well, this was truly blindsiding.

“Yeah… cause I really want help from you with the health portion,” he grumbles sarcastically. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like it means,” he shrugs. 

If you weren’t paying attention, you might think he was angry — maybe even being mean. Luckily, you’re always paying attention to Eddie Munson, and you see the way his face flushes to a bright, crimson red. His annoyance is actually just embarrassment — which is good — at least he has some level of remorse for his failing grade. You can work with that. You take a breath, exhaling it slowly, forcing yourself to calm down. 

“Show me what you’re working on.”

“No,” he shakes his head, reaching into his bag, shuffling around some papers before tossing a heavy textbook your way. “Let’s just do math.”

“No, you have a B minus in math now, that doesn’t need help. You need help in gym.” you reply, tossing the textbook back at him. 

“I don’t.”

“Eddie, you do.”

Sitting up to your knees, you reach into his bag once more, taking out his binder and dropping it to the floor in a pointed thump. He mumbles some kind of disagreement, spine going stiff with his hesitancy to let you go through his stuff some more, but he doesn’t make any attempts to physically stop you. 

You flip through the disorganization that you’ve told him countless times to organize until you come across a diagram of a penis and a vagina. Bingo.

“Told you,” he mumbles, scoffing to himself. 

“Told me what?”

“Why would you want to help me study that?” 

“Uh— cause it’s part of your class and I don’t want you to fail,” you say matter of factly. “Believe it or not, Eddie, I like you, and your success translates to my happiness.” 

Bright red continues to flourish across his skin, affecting the apples of his cheeks all the way down to his throat. He turns bashful, eyes locking down on the carpet. 

Eddie’s shy — not often, but he is. You wouldn’t think so from the way he acts at school and in most public atmospheres, but get him in a room, one-on-one, and he’s all blushed cheeks and shy touches. It’s sweet and it’s one of your favourite things about him — but you don’t have time for sweet shyness right now. He’s failing gym for christ sake — gym.

“So, how do you want to do this?” you ask, slapping your hands to your thighs. Eddie startles, jolting before his wide eyes find yours. 

“Do what?”

“Study this,” you motion to the diagram on the floor separating the two of you.

“I— I’m not… we’re not—“

His eye contact goes rogue again, diverting anywhere else — everywhere else that isn’t you. Shy, shy, shy. Too shy. More shy than normal. And you have an inkling that it has to do with the subject of the conversation at hand. 

“Oh my god, Eddie. This is basic human anatomy. I think we’re grown up enough to handle a little penis and vagina,” you state, tacking on a laugh. 

You get a hint of Eddie's true personality beyond his shyness — it emerges through a quirk of his lip, the corner of it tweaking upwards into the hint of a smirk. 

“A little penis?” He parrots, his smirk fully emerging now. This boy.

“Cue cards? Should we do cue cards?”

He groans, body deflating. “You know I hate cue cards.”

“Okay, so let’s just go over the parts for now, then we can move on and do something else.”

You clear out a bigger area on the floor, making space for your study session. Eddie helps by kicking back stray articles of clothing and then picking out what looks like spilled weed from the carpet and collecting it in the palm of his hand. You’re a touch more productive, taping little pieces of paper over the diagram labels. When you’re done, you sit up admiring your work. Eddie stands, dropping his little handful of greenery onto his desk before sitting down on his bed. 

“Do you want to do it up there or down here?” You ask. 

The slight double entendre isn’t lost on you, you heard it before you even said it. Now knowing how shy Eddie is about this stuff, you couldn’t help but push your luck, and the blush that spreads across his cheeks makes it entirely worth it, especially while you deadpan and pretend you have no clue. 

“I’ll come down there—“ He says and you watch him physically recoil as his words set in. You resist your laughter. 

“Come, Eddie. Faster,” you tease, laughter starting to bubble up. A smile breaks through his embarrassment.

“Jesus Christ, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You like seeing me suffer?”

“Me? Teasing you on purpose? Never.”

With a shake of his head, he joins you on the floor, leaving a large gap between the two of you. “Can we not do this, I already know this stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Eddie Munson is well versed in human anatomy?”

“I’m — I’m not going to answer that,” he crosses his arms. 

With a clap of your hands, you ignore his pouty demeanor. “Okay! Let’s just do this, the quicker you memorize everything the quicker we can not do this.”

With both of the diagrams set up, you give him the option of starting with the penis or vagina first. He chooses the easy answer, opting to go with the penis. 

One by one you point out each part of the penis, asking him for the anatomically correct name. You quickly understand why he’s failing. 

“Okay, and this one is…?”

“The head,” he states. 

“I mean… sure,” you nod hesitantly — “but the little arrow is pointing there — the glans. This one?”

You continue going through the chart, teaching Eddie the proper names for everything. When you finally graduate to the diagram of the vagina, Eddie is physically squirming in his spot. 

“Eddie, relax. Seriously. We’ve all seen a vagina before.”

“It’s so fucking hot in here, are you hot?” He groans, standing up and tripping his way to the window, slamming it open with a grunt. 

He’s barely made his way back before you have a thought.

“You’ve seen a vagina before, right?” 

He freezes — just for a moment, but you catch it. On his way to return to his spot on the floor he pauses, then continues moving as if you haven’t asked him a question. When he sits, you quirk a brow. 

“Yeah!” He answers. His voice tunes so high, it begs to crack.

You nod skeptically. You wouldn’t say he’s lying per se, but something seems off. Something that you’re interested in getting to the bottom of. 

“Let’s take a break, okay?” You offer.

“Yeah, a break’s, uh — good.” He exhales, letting out a breath of relief. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, fanning it in and out, getting some air flow on his skin. It’s very suspicious and you have to assume —

“So, you’ve never seen a vagina,” you say.

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “I have! I’m not a virgin.”

“You’re squirming like one.”

“I’m not!”

“There’s nothing wrong —”

“I’m not!” He says much louder, cutting you off. 

You believe him, seeing the full depth of sincerity in his amusedly large, and overly serious eyes. 

“Okay,” you nod.

“I’m not,” he insists once more, tone leaning towards stern. 

“I believe you, Eddie.”

The two of you sit quietly in your respective spots. You could busy yourself with getting some more studying stuff ready, but somehow — even though there was some verbal finality — this conversation doesn’t seem over. 

And with an inhale from Eddie, it’s not.

“I’ve just never been like…” he pauses, thinking, “I’ve just never been all up in there.” He makes a crude motion with his hands, both palms splayed out flat in your direction, moving outwards like he’s spreading something out. 

“You’ve never eaten a girl out before?”

“What are we doing?” He says, dropping his head into his hands, scrubbing at his cheeks with both palms. 

“You don’t have to answer. Seriously, if I’m really making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop. Swear.”

His chest inflates with a deep breath, then his head pops up. “I have but only for like a minute, in the dark, parked outside of the hideout after a gig,” he confesses. You raise your brows, surprised.

“You work quickly. A minute, that’s impressive.”

“No… Jesus, no,” he winces. “I fucking wish. We got interrupted and… yeah she never wanted to hang out after.”

“Oh,” you hum. “That sucks.” You tilt your head at him, frowning apologetically. 

“Yeah. She, uh, I’m pretty sure she had a boyfriend but I didn’t know when we… yeah.” He concludes his confession with a shrug before sitting back to lean against the side of his bed. 

“That really sucks. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, tacking on a laugh. It’s not a nervous laugh. It’s genuine and you take his lack of nervousness as permission to continue the conversation. 

“So… Do you have a tactic?”

“Tactic?”

“Yeah. Like, most guys use the alphabet on the clit thing, which is awful by the way, don’t do that.”

“I think…” he raises his brows. “I think, maybe, just being overzealous is my thing. I don’t really know — I haven't done it enough to have a tactic.”

“Overzealous is good…” you nod, “as long as it’s strategic.”

Eddie meets your gaze. He’s intrigued — “Elaborate?” he asks. 

“Like, sure if you want to go to town and eat the pussy, go for it, but the only place it really counts is the clit — of course everything else is nice too, but the clit is definitely where it matters,” you nod to yourself, punctuating your statement. “And—” you add on, raising your hand, bringing together two of your fingers to mime the curling motions of getting fingered. “I like when they use their fingers too. It's a lot better like that.”

Eddie goes silent. He looks like he’s thinking, maybe even committing your words to memory— but it’s an odd look he has on his face. One you’ve never seen before from him.

“Sorry, did I say too much?” You laugh, trying to diffuse. Eddie looks at you, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

“Why the fuck are you tutoring me in going down on a girl right now?” He laughs. 

You smile, appreciating his amusement. Tilting your head boastfully, you accept his comment like a compliment. “Just a natural born teacher, I guess,” you tease. 

He nods, humming agreeingly. He doesn’t say anything more but you’ve got a handful of curiosities burning through your back pocket, and when in rome…

“Are we done with this conversation,” you ask, “or can we keep going ‘cause I might have a few questions for you?”

“Hasn't this whole conversation already been an interrogation of my experiences?”

“But this might be your only opportunity to teach me something, Edward.” You jet out your lower lip, pouting it, rounding your eyes at him — trying your best to keep this going. 

He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. 

“Are you about to ask me if I can move my dick without my hands, because the answer is yes but it’s not full control.”

“That’s not what I was gonna ask, but very cool.”

“Sorry. That’s usually what girls ask.”

That has been a curiosity but your questions… your questions are much more… sophisticated? 

“So can I?” you ask. 

“Can you?”

“Ask you questions?”

He bites his lip, pointedly making you sweat it out. With a dramatic sigh, he gives in. “Go for it.”

You sit up straighter, very pleased with his answer. 

“Balls,” you state. Eddie’s eyes widen immediately — you ignore the regret that flashes across his face. “Do you like them being touched? Every time I’ve done anything with them, the guy kind of, like, recoils and it feels like I did something wrong.” 

“Jesus…” he clears his throat with an awkward laugh. “You’re really going for the big questions, huh?” 

“The big questions?” You raise your eyebrows suggestively. 

“No, Jesus I’m not implying my balls are — holy shit. My balls are normal sized, that’s not what I meant.” He continues to laugh through his embarrassment, cheeks heating right back up to that very cute, bright, red colour. 

“I’m just teasing you, Eddie. I’m sure your balls are lovely and perfectly normal sized.”

He hums appreciatively but it gets stuck in his throat, coming out as a high pitched croak. He clears his voice, nodding as he raises a hand to the back of his neck, wringing it nervously.

“You don’t have to answer, but I would appreciate knowing,” you say, softly, sympathetic — leaning into apologetic. He nods again, and you can tell the gears are spinning in his head as he thinks over his answer. 

“They’re just… sensitive,” he swallows. “But… I do like them being played with, or sucked, or licked… or whatever.” 

His eyes focus on the far wall, not out of nervousness or shyness this time, but more like he’s giving his words some real thought. You appreciate it and wait patiently for him to continue. 

“I guess I would have to say that it’s personal preference, so ask?” he continues unsurely, eyes still focusing elsewhere. “I mean, no guy is ever gonna be mad if you ask to put their balls in your mouth — or… whatever you want to do with them.” He looks at you with wide eyes as he suddenly gets nervous again. You wave him off, letting him silently know that ‘balls in your mouth’ is not an offense to you.

“Could you cum from someone playing with your balls?”

“Holy shit,” he gasps, laughing. His hand that was wringing his neck drops to his lap in a heavy thud. At the same time, he brings up both knees, hugging them halfways to his chest as he mulls over his answer. “Um? Maybe? But, I think a big part of it is a visual thing — like, it adds to the hotness when they’re into the balls?” He finishes, adding an unsure inflection to the end of his remark. You nod, narrowing your eyes into a squint as you absorb what he’s saying. 

“So it doesn’t feel good?”

“It does,” he quickly corrects, “just anything on the head feels way better.” 

“Okay… good to know.” You nod, moving on. “And dirty talk. You really like that? Like, when the girl’s going on and on about your ‘big cock in her tight little pussy’, is it not weird?”

“Jesus, you really aren’t holding back with these questions.” He smiles through the blotchy redness growing down his neck all the way to the collar of his shirt.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” you promise, dipping your face lower to catch Eddie’s gaze. He holds it for a second, before letting his eyes roam the room. 

“Dirty talk is hot, obviously, but… it’s not when it’s rehearsed shit like that. It makes it feel like they’re performing — and maybe I’m just doing a piss poor job and they are performing — I don’t know, but I’d rather hear about what you actually like that I’m doing. Even if you’re telling me to go faster or harder or whatever. That’s fucking hot.”

“Alright, so be genuine. Cool,” you nod. 

“You done with questions?” He meets your gaze with raised brows for a fraction of a brave second before quickly looking away. 

The thing is, you’re not done. 

“So, hypothetically, if someone you didn’t like played with only your balls, and it wasn’t hot— like nothing about it was hot, would you still cum?”

He doesn’t give you the same surprised initial shock as he did with all the other questions. This time he just lets out a long, evenly staggered breath through puffed out cheeks. 

“I think…” He hugs his knees closer to his chest, rubbing both his palms along his shins quickly, filling the silence with the sounds of skin on denim. 

You can see the edge of his words in his expression, like he wants to say something but is holding it back. Whatever it is, you wait patiently — you do sit up a little straighter though, eagerly leaning inwards, listening with baited breath to his quiet, pensive hum.

His lips twitch, mouth opening then closing. With a loud exhale, he lets go of his shins, letting his knees drop from their upright position, and with that, his resolve breaks.  

“Fuck it” he curses — “Probably. Sometimes I think that the wind blowing the wrong way could make me cum. Like, I’m fighting for my fucking life to not get hard right now.”

He ends his speed-run confession with a pant, chest shallowly heaving with each breath. Excited wings beat inside your chest, dipping down to your belly as you absorb what he's just said to you. 

“Really?” you ask, blinking wide eyes at him. His breathing evens out, and he meets your gaze.

“Yeah,” he shrugs shyly — cutely.

“You know I like you, right?” 

His face falls. “What?” His brows press together, furrowing with confusion and you really don’t know how you could have been clearer about this whole ordeal.

“Eddie,” you smile. “I’ve told you like a million times that I like you — like earlier, I told you barely an hour ago before we got started.”

You said it quite plainly too; ‘Believe it or not, Eddie, I like you, and your success translates to my happiness.’ 

“Yeah, but I thought you meant as a… a person? Or a friend?”

You can’t help but laugh — not at him… well, a little bit at him, but this is just so ridiculous, how could he be so clueless. 

“I love my friends but I don’t think I would fill all my free time teaching them math and all the anatomical correct names of the different parts of the penis.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, they’re good people but that’s not exactly my idea of fun,” you tease. “Of course I’m serious, Eddie. So if you wanted to make a move… I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

At this point, after a confession as straightforward as that, you’d hope for movement — anything — even him getting closer to you, moving in for a kiss at the very least… but he stays sat in his opposite spot, his binder with the vagina diagram laid out flat, separating the both of you. 

Maybe you read this wrong — backpedal. 

“Did I just make this weird? Should I have not said that? I like tutoring you too, I don’t want you to think I’m expecting something from you just because I’ve been helping you.” You ramble apologetically, shrinking into yourself as you feel your whole body start to flush with icky embarrassment.

Eddie’s spine goes rigid as he sits up pin-straight, shaking his head emphatically.

“No! I like you too,” he interjects, leaning towards you, putting a hand on your knee. “Even before you started tutoring me.” 

“You do?” You sigh a breath of relief. Meeting his eyes, you smile sweetly, ignoring the whiplash that still has your stomach pinched in a half knot.

His voice gets soft with his confession — “Why do you think I didn’t want to sit around looking at penises and vaginas with you?” he laughs quietly,  “I was terrified of getting hard and scaring you away.”

The mention of him getting hard has your eyes flickering downwards for a split second. You can’t tell, but you tease him anyway — “And how’s that working out for you?”

“If you’re asking if I’m hard…” He trails off, smiling nervously, leaving you with a confirmed suspicion. 

“Should I make a move?” 

“Well, I’m not opposed.” He says it like it’s a joke — you know he’s being funny, breaking tension or whatever, but you don’t laugh. You perk up, tummy filling with fluttery feelings because that’s permission.

Permission to crawl the short distance between the two of you.

Permission to help yourself to his lap — pulling your skirt up high enough to straddle his upper thighs.

Permission to let your hands feel from his shoulders, down to his pecks. 

Permission to be this close to him — close enough that you can see every shy detail, every cute freckle, every nervous flutter of his lashes. 

Best of all — it’s permission for an intimacy you’ve been waiting for — longing for.

You sink yourself against him and — “Oh,” you gasp, “you weren’t kidding.” 

Through the thin cotton of your underwear, you feel the hard curve behind the zip of his jeans. It has you biting your lip, holding back your grin. 

His eyes coast your features, narrowing in on the tweaked up corners of your lips. He ghosts a quiet ‘yeah’, dipping his face downwards, hiding his own coy smile. 

You just won’t have that — you bring your hands to his cheeks, tilting his chin upwards, encouraging him to look at you. He lets you guide him, lets you wash your gaze over his features — lets you rake your eyes over every detail, even when his skin grows pink and you know he wants you to be looking anywhere else.

But you can’t help it. The rosy tint to his cheeks looks too warm, too inviting. His lips are just too pink, too bitten. And most of all, his eyes have become too deep, too capturing, especially when the usual gold in his brown has resolved to being just the thinnest ring, glinting and shimmering around absorbing black orbs.

“Your eyes are really dark right now,” you observe aloud. 

“Yeah?” He asks and you nod your head. You watch him as he lets his own gaze search your face. He swallows, coming to his own conclusion. “You just looked amused.”

You smile. You are amused but — “I’m not just amused.”

“No?” 

“I’m also really turned on.” You feel it in your belly, multitudes of warm winged flutters, sitting low, radiating heat throughout your whole body. You lean in closer, watching intently as his brows rise, moving to hide beneath his bangs as he processes your second confession of the evening.

“You are?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Want to know what I’m thinking about?”

He swallows thickly, and that golden ring in his eyes gets the faintest bit thinner.

“I do.”

You sit more comfortably, bringing your hands back to his chest and letting your bum press fully to his thighs. He lets out a near silent groan as your front sinks to his and when you adjust your hips, his hands dart to your sides, holding you tightly. 

“First,” you smile, batting your lashes at him. “I’m thinking about kissing you.” A soft swoon washes over Eddie's face, eyes turning soft for you. His eyes blink down to your lips, but you have more to say. “I’m also thinking about your balls in my mouth.”

The softness steps back, shock taking over. “Jesus christ,” he curses yet again, drawing out each syllable in a low groan. 

“And since I’ve been sitting here, I can’t help but think about how your cock would feel inside of me.”

“Fuck.” He meets your gaze, eyes rounding, jaw going slack. His chest begins to rise more rapidly, his breathing growing heavier. 

The feeling of him between your legs is undeniable now — he’s hard, very hard, uncomfortably hard. You let your hands slide up his chest, to his shoulders, letting your fingertips graze along the warm skin of his neck. He blinks heavily, eyelids growing weighted, swarming with evident lust. It makes you excited, makes you want more. 

You lower your voice to a breathy whisper, leaning in closer, letting your lips graze the shell of his ear.  “How’s the dirty talk, Eddie? Am I doing good?” You purr. His fingers pinch into the flesh at your sides as you shift once again, rolling your hips just enough to feel that hint of pleasure between your thighs. 

Eddie stifles his moan. “S– so good. You’re doing so g-good,” he stutters. His breath hitches as you press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, and then another, moving downwards to his neck. 

“What are you thinking about?” You pull away, looking at him through your lashes. You barely have a second to react before his hands are on your jaw, tugging you into him. 

It catches you off guard at first as his lips mash to yours. It’s entirely overzealous, bidding his earlier statement true by multiple definitions. It’s not terrible, but it is desperate. 

Flattening a heeding palm to his chest, you pull away just the slightest bit, letting your lips faintly graze his. 

“Slowly, Eddie.” you whisper. 

His interrupted desperation manifests as a quiet huff against your lips. Regardless of how hard he is beneath you, and how badly he wants to mash his mouth to yours, he nods, noses bumping together as he does.

This time you lean in. You guide the kiss, moving slowly, tenderly, and he follows your lead, moving gently, catching on quickly. Your upper lip presses between both of his and it's so delicate, so earnest, that it makes your heart thrum. It's exactly what you needed, and you reward Eddie with a quiet hum, letting your hands wrap behind his neck, pressing your chests together. 

His breath fans over your skin as he hums back, letting his hands glide to your lower back, hugging you closer. His lips massage yours, slowly, and he takes his time, letting you melt into him entirely. 

When you feel the pressure of his tongue licking across your lower lip your anticipation really sets in. You open your mouth, rolling your hips upwards as you move in closer to him. With a huffed, eager grunt, and with fingers kneading bruises into your skin, he licks into your mouth completely contradictory to it all, still giving you softness in the kiss. You’re elated by it all, swept up, enraptured by him being so sweet to you.

You sigh breathily as you have to pull away. 

“That was really good,” you fawn, dropping your head to rest against his shoulder. You let out another sigh, smiling contently to yourself. You’ve been wanting to do that for a long time — really too long, if you’re being honest. 

Eddie hums an agreement. You intend to go further than just a kiss, but you give yourself a moment to bask in it all. Just a moment, that’s all you need. 

And in the next moment, with your wits gathered, you wiggle your hips. Eddie’s palms press tightly against your back and he lets out a sharp gasp that melds into a whimper. You giggle a quiet apology. 

“Too much for you?” you tease.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head, his warm cheek pressing to yours. “M’just really hard right now.”

He is — you can feel it, and you can feel the mess growing between your own thighs. 

A simple solution; you hint at rolling your hips another time. It’s hardly any friction, just testing the waters. You’re surprised when Eddie pulls you inwards, guiding your hips, encouraging you to move. He lets out a low groan as the squish of your thighs pass over his length, one that you hardly register over your own gasp as you get your first real hint of pleasure.

With his help, you build a slow rhythm, grinding to the curve in his denim, one that has your eyes fluttering shut and Eddie tensing, letting out meak whimpers and low moans. It's nice, it really is, but as nice as it feels for you, you weave a hand between the two of you, suggestively placing it on the buckle of his belt.  

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Yes,” his voice comes out as a heaved breath. Very eager to continue.

“After you cum, how long does it take for you to get hard again?”

“Sh-shit — it depends. Sometimes —” he swallows thickly and you hear the gulp in his throat — “sometimes it’s barely a few minutes.”

“I want to try out what you taught me, but I want you to fuck me too.”

“We can — yeah we can do that.” His voice wavers as he bites back his excitement, trying to play it cool. Despite that, you feel the overzealousness in his pants, twitching with enthusiasm. 

You press a chaste kiss to his lips before scooting back on his legs, weaving your hands between the two of you to pop open his belt. Just as you unweave the leather and toss the heavy buckle to the side, holding the button under your thumb, Eddie’s hand meets your waist — not stopping you, just getting your attention. 

“Can I…” he starts. You look up at him, pausing your movement. He continues, “can I try what you told me too?” His eyes barely meet yours, growing bashful all over again. 

“Of course you can,” you say sincerely. You finish unbuttoning his pants, tugging the zipper down while leaning in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t gotta be shy, Eddie. I like you already, a lot.” 

He nods, but you can still see a hint of cautiousness in his expression. 

“I’m serious, Eddie. I want you to be comfortable with me. Anything you need, anything you want, you can tell me.” 

He nods. His mouth mulls for a moment, but he nods a second time, assumedly coming to a conclusion. “Can we move up to the bed?” he asks. 

“I’d like that,” you smile and he smiles back.

Just as you lift your leg to get off him, you let out a surprised yelp as he does the bravest thing he’s done yet, both hands grabbing firmly at your bottom, tugging you into him and up as he pushes himself off the floor. He moves the both of you up to the edge of the bed with one strong flex of his legs and your stomach swirls with the rush of it all. 

From there, it's a giggling tussle of limbs, him pulling you up the bed, you pulling his pants off. Eventually, you both settle, him pantless, sitting with his back to the wall where his headboard should be, and you, by his side, knees pressing to his thigh. Your fingers wiggle with excitement as you take the thin cotton of his boxers, lacing them just under the waistband. 

You shimmy in your spot, shaking your hips, letting out a happy hum as you begin to pull them down. Your belly fills with good nerves, butterflies, and your mouth salivates. When you get them down as far as you can without his help, he silently chimes in, lifting his hips, hooking his own thumbs into the material. With a quiet humph, the fabric passes his length, freeing it to bob against his shirt-covered belly. 

Tempestuously red. Furiously flushed. Severely erect. Poor Eddie. Happy you. His tip is blushed to a deep crimson, glistening with the pearlescent sheen of precum. It has your body flushing hot everywhere — from your cheeks all the way south to where you grind yourself down onto the backs of your heels just to feel a pinch of salvation. 

Somewhere between where your ogling started and where you had to physically swallow the gathering saliva in your mouth, his boxers got discarded entirely, your own shirt disappearing along with them — because it is just so hot all of a sudden.  

If you weren’t completely blinded by your impeding tunnel vision, you would have seen the way Eddie gawked at your newly revealed skin, absorbing every inch, taking in every feature to your body. You would have seen the way his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and the fresh cherry red blush spread to his cheeks. You would have seen the way he had to forcefully peel his eyes away from your chest when he felt your fingers press into his bare thighs as you situated yourself between his legs. But you didn’t have a chance to notice all of those details, not when you felt the thrilling thrum of anticipation bubbling up in your bloodstream. 

“You ready, Eddie?” You ask, grinning at him. He blinks slowly at you, no answer, making your smile falter.

“You look pretty,” he blurts out, much to your delight. “Really pretty. All the time — not just now because you're about to — you’re just beautiful, s’what I want to say.”

“Thank you,” you say, pleasantly surprised. Eddie on the other hand, cringes at his own rambling, face scrunching in defeat. You like him even more for it — “I think you’re beautiful too, Eddie,” you smile. “And not just because I have your pretty cock in front of me.” 

Eddie huffs a soft laugh and you gleam, pleased with yourself. 

With actual consent, you take him in your hand. Gentle at first, easing him into your touch. Just barely grazing your thumb over the tip, you smear the slick precum around, before sinking your fist to his base. He lets out a tensed moan, exhaling — exhilarating. That quiet, throaty noise has you lighting up, already feening for more.

Leaning down further, arching your back, you gather your saliva in your mouth before letting it spill out in a single string over the tip of his needy head, falling down just to be caught by the upwards rise of your fist. This time he sucks in a sharp breath and you live for it. 

Closing the distance between your mouth and his cock, you lick the tip gently, pressing your tongue to the river of precum that sits in the curves of his slit, relishing in the saltiness that makes your mouth water effortlessly. You hum, feeling the pulse between your legs grow deeper, more intense. You push your hips back, angling them, searching for any sort of relief. 

While it doesn’t satiate the need between your thighs, Eddie notices your squirm, and brings a splayed palm to your side, letting it curve to your skin. It settles in, warming you, encouraging you to distract yourself in such a beautiful way by taking him into your mouth. 

You let your tongue swirl. Flick. Caress. Your lips graze before closing, and you suck. Cheeks hardly hollowing, the noise he lets out makes you want to keep being gentle — draw this out, make this last. 

But like a devil on your shoulder, you want to skip forward. You want his balls in your mouth, that’s the guise of this whole encounter, isn’t it? To practice what he’s taught you.

Jumping right to the chase, abandoning his desperately swollen cock, doesn’t strike you as the way to go about this, so you continue to be gentle. Pulling off the tip, kissing him up and down his length. Pressing your lips where needed and drawing circles and lovey hearts across his skin with the pointed angle of your tongue.

It's not fruitless. Every noise, every groan, every heavy breath, pleading whimper, fills you up. It fills you up until it has you leaning your body into his hand on your rib cage, needing to feel him wherever you can, while taking him fully into your mouth. Swallowing him down, deeply hollowing your cheeks, gliding your lips and flattening your tongue until your nose presses to the wispy patch of coarse hair at his base. 

“Fuck— fuck.” Eddie groans through a strangled breath. 

His hand leaves your ribs and you whimper at the loss, only to be reunited with the physical contact as he takes hold of your head with both of his hands, pulling you up. You whine, chest collapsing with defeat. You pout as soon as his cock leaves your mouth. Looking up at him, he looks worked up and frayed — all a shivered mess — but eyes sincerely apologetic as he catches your disappointment. 

“Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.” He pants heavily, catching his breath while you catch your own. Your pout lessens, and instead, your pride sets in. You did that to him. 

Wiping your gathered tears, you place a tentative hand on his length, watching him for any protests. His head knocks back into the hard wall, but he never loses sight of you, now looking down the angular slope of his nose, watching with amorous, lusting eyes. 

You dip down, reapproach, but this time you give into your own desire, indulging yourself.

Lifting his cock, you nose down his length. His eyes turn wide, but still, no protests.

“Can I put your balls in my mouth?” You ask, doing just as he told you to do, embellishing your simple sentence with pleading, fluttery lashes and persuasive, pinched together brows. 

His lips press into a purse as he swallows, and then they part with approval. “Yes,” he says. You watch as his tongue swipes along his plump bottom lip, and you can’t help but smile up at him. 

Appreciation sits on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it, you show it. Bowing your face low, you lick up the centre of his sack, flattening your slow moving tongue with an oath of sincerity — this makes you burn. For a moment, you believe that you’d be content if this was for you and you only, but then you meet his gaze, and you see the way he burns too.

His eyes devour you — your hand wrapped around his cock, thumb barely touching index, your chin settled deep between his thighs. You burn identically and it makes the swirl of butterflies in your stomach rise high, beating heavily in your chest. You get lost for a moment, but a thumb on your cheek, sweetly swiping softly against your skin, brings you right back.

“Pretty girl,” he hums. 

You tilt your head, nuzzling into his grip, humming a tender thank you. His thumb swipes again, just under your eye before settling behind your ear, sitting there with no intention but to be tethered to you.

It’s sweet, and you return the gesture, pressing two kisses, one to each side. You shift your focus, returning back to the moment.

Head still partially in the clouds, you do something daring without thinking, and you suck one of his balls into your mouth. Eddie lunges forward, bending at the waist, nearly folding in half as his stomach tenses harshly. He whimpers, and you pull back immediately.

“Sorry!” You shift, looking at his contorted expression. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

He quickly relaxes himself, patting your cheek as he settles, unclenching his thighs that had tightened at your sides.

“No — no.” He shakes his head, catching his breath “Do it again.” He gently guides you back down. “I was just distracted, caught me off guard,” he explains.

Distracted like you were. You understand, and you let him guide your face back down. 

This time you’re careful. With his eyes on you, you start again, licking, feeling the silky skin with your tongue as you gauge his reaction, peering up at him through your lashes. He nods, and you carefully take him into your mouth, letting your tongue roll cautiously along the velvet skin. 

You’re careful not to do too much, but you grow more confident when you see the way his mouth falls open with his own appreciation. 

“Fuck,” he exhales. “Just like that. Good girl,” he praises, groaning as you suckle delicately. His cock jumps in your loose fist, reminding you just how long it's been since you’ve paid it any attention. Tightening your grip, you run your fist up, then down languidly, multitasking in a way that has Eddie gaping, jaw slack, mouth parted wide, eyes owlish and filled to the brim with heated astonishment. 

With your mouth, you switch to his other side, doing the same, rolling your tongue exploringly, seeing what has his stomach tensing and noises pulling from his lungs. 

As you let your thumb run over his leaking head, he lets out a throaty groan. His thighs tense around you once more, but instead of backing away, you lean into it, embracing the new-found way to make him squirm. 

His breathing quickly becomes rapid as you take more of him into your mouth, sucking more confidently, and pulling away every now and again to press deserved kisses. Your fist moves quicker, focusing on the tip — purposeful, as you remember what he taught you. 

You suck, and glide your hand in smooth strokes, over and over, showing him just how much you like him. If he didn’t believe you before, he has to now. 

With a strong, devoted rhythm built, the skin against your tongue eventually begins to pull taut. He throbs in your hand. You know before he says anything, even before his hand can flex its grip on your cheek. You pull away, letting him fall from your mouth with a quiet pop. He lets out a worn sigh of relief as you sever the threads of spit from your mouth to his balls and shift, moving back to his wired-up cock, twitching at just the sensation of your breath on his over-flushed tip.

Rearranging yourself, you sink your fist, moving it low to his base, and then you adjust, moving your hand to cradle his balls in your palm. His stomach flexes and he lets out a pitiful whimper — he's so close, even while you're barely touching him.

“Please,” he rasps through a strained breath. 

You have nothing but appreciation for the man in front of you, reduced to pleading. You want nothing more than to satisfy him.

Gentle, a thing of the past. You take his cock in your mouth deeply. Swallowing his thickness down, taking him as far as he fits, pressing him to the very back of your throat. Your eyes water, and you breathe heavily through your nose, never once forgetting to massage him in your hand.

His chest heaves, and his fingers weave their way into the hairs at the base of your neck, tugging — communicating. His helpless moans draw out, getting longer and deeper, drawing out each and every flutter in your belly, adding to your fire. 

You can’t believe you’ve been sitting around, tutoring him, teaching him math when you could have been doing this. This is much better — much, much more fulfilling. 

You rise and fall, bobbing quickly, and he encourages you, helping you find the pace that brings him to his edge. He swells in your mouth, and draws upwards in your hand. You hum, encouraging him to let go.

“I’m gonna —” he tries to speak, but a rogue whine cuts him off. He sucks in a sharp breath — “I’m cumming, I’m —” Panic invades his voice as his grip in your hair turns harsh, pulling, stinging your scalp. You hum again, and then you feel the spill. 

The warmth of his cum invades the back of your throat, loading your senses with the distinctly musky taste and a bitter-flavoured swell of sweetness in your chest. Pleased, you swallow it down, and ask for more with the purse of your lips on his overworked tip. His hips buck up into you as you happily swallow everything you can, lapping it up with your appeasing tongue. 

His body relaxes until you don’t stop. Then he’s flexing again, sucking in harsh, gasp-like breaths, using his hands in your hair to guide you away from his over-sensitive cock. 

Both his palms cup your cheeks and you rise, straightening out your spine, walking your knees up the mattress to be closer to him. His hand falls to your knee, encouraging a bend, welcoming you back into his lap. You happily take a careful seat on his thighs. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Eddie gushes unapologetically. 

His body slouches into the mattress, but he continues to beakon you forward. You follow his weak, weary pull and he guides you to his lips, attaching his mouth to yours in a lazy kiss. His beholden tongue greets yours, unaffected by the lingering flavour of his seed that coats your lips and mixes with your spit. He devours it gratefully. 

“That was —” he starts, pulling away just to peck your lips again — “So, so— I don’t even have words.” His hand slides loosely across the expanse of your bare waist as he presses a frenzy of chaste kisses to your lips, making you giggle.

“I did good? I thought I hurt you for a minute.”

“No— shit, you did so good, baby.” Eddie hums, fondly pressing his cheek to yours as he hugs you closer.

You feel his praises blaze at something inside of you, thrumming through your bloodstream, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t highlight your own neediness, the one left abandoned between your thighs. 

Despite the restlessness that grows in your twitching hips, you try to relax, focusing on the sentimental feeling of the rise and fall of his chest, letting your body slink into his, fitting seamlessly against him until his breathing returns to a steady rate. You patiently wait for him to make the next move — especially after him letting you lead most of this evening. 

Just as you’ve let your eyes flutter shut, resting them for a peaceful moment, a kiss to your shoulder has your excitement kicking up in your lower belly, waking up those warm, winged creatures once again. He presses another kiss, and then another, following the slope of your shoulder. Down the curve, to your collarbone, high on your chest, kiss after kiss until his lips meet the plumpness of your breast that spills over the cups of your bra.

The swell of your breast, across, to the centre, his lips find your sternum, and you keen into it, unafraid of coming off as desperate. 

It’s barely anything, just innocent pecks, but it has you impatient, tilting your head back, curving your body to offer up more skin to him. He hums a warm tone, affectionately following the path of your sternum, nosing his way down your cleavage, sighing a deep, warm breath against your skin, adding a few extra heated degrees to your body temperature — you thank him with a breathy moan.

His hands move to your sides, tickling along your flesh, leaving goosebumped skin in their path as he traces along the band of your bra, fingertips gliding until they meet the clasp.

“Please,” you whisper, biting your lip as he finger paints small swirls along your spine. You push yourself closer, needing more.

And he gives you more. The band tightens around your ribs as he finds the edge, and you hold your breath.

One clip comes undone easily, granting you a hint of relief. Two follows, leaving just the third hook stuck standing between you and the promise of pleasure.

Then he stops — worse actually — he doesn’t just stop, he completely abandons the clasp on your bra as his head pops up, nearly clipping the edge of your jaw. He pulls you flush to his chest, tucking your head to his shoulder.

It surprises you, making your heart pound for an entirely different reason.

“What—” you begin, but his heedful palm spreads across the plain of your upper back, halting your question, making you pause. Unsure and curious, you turn your face, pushing against his grip on you, trying to see what’s wrong.

His face is contorted into a flat, focused look as his eyes fixate on the closed door of his room. You’re totally confused by what has pulled his attention, but then you hear a clatter from the living room of his trailer. You turn to look at Eddie. 

His eyes pinch shut with disappointment. “No,” he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder in defeat. 

“Is that —”

“My fucking uncle,” he mumbles into your skin.

“Oh,” you say quietly, trying to fight the unresolved neediness of your body from turning you into a slouching ball of disappointment.

“He's not supposed to be home yet,” he groans, and it comes out huffed, like he's annoyed, but you know it's not directed at you. Part of you is relieved to hear that upset edge in his voice, because you know how easy it would be for most boys to shrug it off when they already got what they needed.

His palm swipes across your back, rubbing it in a soothing way before he pulls away, finding your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. 

You shrug, it's not like this is his fault. “It’s okay,” you promise. 

“It’s not.”

You smile. “It is,” you say, delighted by his sincerity. “This just means we’ll have to pick up where we left off another day.”

“But you didn’t get to cum.”

True but — “I still had fun.”

He dips his face, chin bowing downward, bitten lips jetting out with his generous empathy. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and you giggle at his niceness. He might be more upset than you are, and you love it.

“Eddie, you know me,” you grin. “You said I did a good job, and there’s nothing better than the satisfaction of a job well done,” you beam, and you’re very pleased when you get a good chuckle from Eddie.

“Next time?” He proposes with a raised brow.

“Next time,” you agree.

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merci buckets hope you liked if you did make sure to hit! that subscribe button and leave a like down below (aka comment and reblog <33333)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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blurb based on this anon everyone say thank you anon <3

(No pronouns used for R)

On the fourth night in a row of you sleeping like shit, Eddie takes matters into his own hands.

He makes it his private quest- Operation Fair Maiden’s Slumber- to get you to sleep and stay asleep. Unbeknownst to you, he’d started earlier that afternoon, casually handing you a mug of chamomile tea along with your paperback. You both stay curled up on the trailer’s couch with your respective books for awhile, your legs in his lap, his warm palm stroking up your thigh, until the sun dipped low enough to warrant turning on all the lamps in the room. 

He makes you a proper, robust dinner- pasta and garlic bread, a carb-o-load for the ages to try and lull your stomach into hibernation. When the dishes are done, he asks if he can play you a song.

You get cozy in Eddie’s bed, blanket around your shoulders, while he sits cross-legged on the floor, plucking through the strings to tune. And when you’re settled, he starts playing- first it’s an old Fleetwood Mac song that he knows is your favorite, followed by a Bob Dylan single that he’s always found kinda hokey but he likes the way you close your eyes with the feeling of it.

All the while he keeps his singing soft, the melodies gentle, glancing up every so often to confirm you’re nestling deeper into the blankets. When he thinks you might’ve drifted off, he stealthily sets his guitar aside and climbs carefully onto the bed- only to startle when your eyes pop open, seemingly wide awake.

“Those were really nice songs,” you tell him, wrapping the blanket around you both so that he can lay across your body. “Thanks for giving me my own concert. I’m so lucky.”

“You deserve it, angel,” he says into your collarbone. As your arms wrap around his frame he slips his hands under your shoulders, cuddling into the warmth of you. “You want a bedtime story, too?”

When you nod, Eddie launches into a memorized monologue of the first chapter of Alice in Wonderland. It was one of your favorite books as a kid, so he’s hoping that the kick of nostalgia will be enough to send you off to dreamland.

And at first, he thinks it’s working- the small movements in your waist and shoulders he takes as a sign of your body settling into the mattress. But when the plush of your hip rolls against his crotch, he stops mid-sentence, affronted- “Baby... You’re supposed to be sleepy, not horny!”

“I can be both,” you pout, pulling Eddie towards you so that he’s forced to hover over you, his hair creating a curtain around your faces. “You’re just so handsome and sweet and I wanna thank you for your hard work…”

Your hand trails down his chest, against his stomach, and Eddie’s quickly losing the plot to his quest as you graze against his already half-hard clothed cock. 

“You’re s’posed to…” his forehead dips to crush against yours, hips rolling into your hand automatically. “Tryn’a get you… to sleep…”

“An orgasm would help.” You stretch up to press your lips against his, and he kisses you back, a little whimper in your throat swallowed up by his mouth.

Eddie doesn’t totally abandon his quest, in the end. It just gets re-titled:

Operation Give the Fair Maiden One Two Three Orgasms. For Bedtime. 

---

another eddie thought.

eddie munson who had to have his head shaved bc his curls were matted so bad when he was younger. as soon as he got taken in to wayne’s care, after spending nearly a year with his dad, his hair was beyond gone. barely brushed, just neglected.

wayne, bless his heart, tried to detangle it. he knew how eddie liked his long hair, he didn’t want to shave it. he even took him to the beauty salon, the beauty school up the road, tried to get them to detangle it. two deep conditions and an hour later, the instructor told him the best they could do was shave it, send him with some product on how to care for it in the future.

eddie was devastated, wayne was guilt ridden, and eddie’s locks were now shaven off right before he had to start at the middle school.

from that point on, eddie was nearly neurotic about brushing his hair every night. getting every single tangle out. ripping through the curls until it’s smooth. frizzy and slightly damaged from the tension, sure, but smooth.

at first, it’s something you try to talk him out of. “you’re ripping your hair out.”

“it’s fine.” eddie grunts, paddle brush tearing through the base of his neck, the most matted and tough curls. “rather lose a little than have to shave it all off again.”

he tells you the story, once, after that. one that leaves your heart aching, despite how he tries to shrug it off. insist it’s not a big deal, that it didn’t bother him- how his father’s neglect hurt him yet again, even after he was taken in with wayne. you know better.

you don’t try to fight him on it anymore. instead, every night, it becomes a ritual that you brush his hair for him. a far gentler touch, more patience to work out each curl and tangled strand. grasping at the base of his head to keep it from tugging and hurting so much.

it’s soft and intimate. leaves eddie’s chest with a warm, gooey thick feeling, and his eyelids fluttering with sleep. trying to keep his head up while you brush his hair, scratching at the scalp, always pressing a kiss to his part when you’re finished.

---

High Water | Bucky Barnes x Reader

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

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

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

Word Count: 12.9k

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

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Bucky didn’t like working with new people.

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

You were different.

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

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

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

You let it sit. Let it breathe.

He respected that. Maybe too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That unsettled him more than anything else.

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

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

You never used the damn step stool.

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

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

“Don’t say it,” you said flatly.

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

“I wasn’t gonna.”

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

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

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

“You’re gonna fall,” he said finally.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

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

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

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

He did.

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

“You're not a medic,” you said.

“You're not either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like practice.

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

You didn’t answer.

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

“Doorframe. I think.”

“You think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kept working. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or hitting it more than once.

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

You stiffened. Subtle, but not nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a hell of a table.”

“I hit hard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He met your stare, steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t most people.

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

“Thanks,” you said, low.

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

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

────────────────────────

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

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

But Bucky noticed. Because Bucky put them there.

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

You were smart. You knew how to pivot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn’t let anyone open yours.

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

But the past few days had felt off.

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

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

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

And you’d volunteered before he could suggest otherwise.

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

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

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

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

Two fingers. Clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

You ran straight at him.

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

Too close.

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

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded once. Too quickly. “Peachy.”

Your voice didn’t match your eyes.

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

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

You didn’t wait for his reply.

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

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

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

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

“I’m focused."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another shot. Closer.

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

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

No time to yell.

So he moved.

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

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

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

And you kept moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you were already halfway down the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pop of gunfire. Not at him. Ahead.

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

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

You stood over him, breathing hard.

And Bucky saw it.

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

His stomach twisted.

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

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

Still not enough.

Still more.

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

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

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

Then nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

And still, you kept going.

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

Kept his eyes on you.

Because he knew these moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And saw the rifle level at your chest.

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

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

Bucky was already moving past him.

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

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

He didn’t hesitate.

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

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

He didn’t feel it right away.

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

The floor came up fast. His back hit harder.

Pain bloomed wide. Viscous. Familiar.

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

────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

You said it all too calmly. Too clean.

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

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

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

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

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

Which wasn’t easy. But you were precise.

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

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

And yet he felt you in every fucking hallway anyway.

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

And maybe that’s what gutted him.

Because you had been counting on that.

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

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

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

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

But the thought wouldn’t hold still.

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

And yet, It made sense. Too much sense.

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

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

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

He needed out.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky stilled.

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

The glass door clicked shut behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away immediately either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, no answer.

He swallowed, jaw twitching. His voice stayed low.

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

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

“You think there’s something to say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His body moved before his brain did.

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

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

“Don’t touch me.”

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

“I can’t let you walk away.”

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

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

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

“You’re not okay.”

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

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

“Jesus, Barnes, let go—”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want you to cry,” he said.

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

“Then what do you want?”

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

Something in you had already dropped. Fallen back.

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

“I want you to stop hurting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I’m not.”

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

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

Hard.

He barely moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were so warm.

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

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

His own throat burned.

“Don’t make a home out of pain.”

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

Your breath hitched hard.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

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

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not pulling away.

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

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

“I didn’t mean for it to be you.”

It came out broken. Shattered at the center.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would’ve.”

You choked on another sob. He held you tighter.

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

You didn’t say anything.

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

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

He stayed still.

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

He nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“And I—I almost did that to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

Bucky didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

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

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

That’s what broke something in him.

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

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

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

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

And he’d let it slide.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

His answer came without hesitation.

“I’d rather carry it than bury you.”

────────────────────────

The reception area smelled like too many kinds of tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, he came in without being asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this felt different.

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

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

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

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

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

Not just on him.

For him.

Like they always did.

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

And you smiled.

Small. Asymmetrical. Real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky stood as you turned toward him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

“And if you can’t name it?” he asked.

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

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

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

“I hate logging shit.”

He glanced sideways.

“I figured.”

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

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

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

He blinked. “My what?”

“That little black notebook from your sessions.”

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

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

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

You smirked slightly, nodding once. “Fair.”

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

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

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

Then he climbed in.

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

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

His brow twitched. “Food?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anywhere in particular?”

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

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

You blinked at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“He’s got good taste,” you said.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve had much worse days.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

You huffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just meant I’m not going anywhere. 

Just meant stay.

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Eddie who owns a magic 8 ball and likes to use it to annoy you.

"Hey Eds, how about date night on Saturday?" You ask.

Eddie picks up his magic 8 ball and shakes it and looks at the reply before telling you,

"My sources say no."

"Eddie." You give him a glare and he shakes it again.

"My reply is no."

"I will kill you if you don't stop it right now." You threaten, he shakes it again.

"Don't count on it?" He replies weary of your response.

You smack the magic 8 ball out of his hand.

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The Menu Masterlist

Breakfast 🥐

Lunch 🥧

Take Out 🥡

Coffee 🍵

Dinner 🍽️

Midnight Snack 🍯

Brunch 🥞

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

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The Bet

summary: The agents at SHIELD have not taken well to Bucky’s pardon. When he’s injured on a mission under suspicious circumstances, you take matters into your own hands.  

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 7.7k

warnings: canon level violence, bucky’s internalized self-punishing issues, shield agents being real pieces of shit, badass reader who would defend bucky to the death

a/n: I know I’ve been really inactive lately (life’s actually been going well so I’ve been busier but that leaves me less time to write unfortunately), but I’m still lurking here! This is a fic I wrote several months ago but finally got around to editing it. Hope you enjoy!

Bucky wasn’t sure how you managed it – the punch to his gut every time you walked in the room. You were dressed in your tactical suit; black fabric draped over every inch of your body, protective layers of Kevlar and technology beyond Bucky’s years, a weapon strapped to your thigh and knives hidden in your belt and at your ankle. Your hair was tugged out of place, sweat beaded on your temple from the sparring match in the gym moments before the two of you were called to service. In your right hand, you carried your combat boots, the laces hanging low enough to touch the ground.  

And still, Bucky held his breath as you approached. Stomach in knots, chest tightening until his heart threatened to stop entirely.

“My offer is fifty this time,” you announced, winking in his direction before you turned to head for the landing bay. “Take it or leave it, Barnes.”

Keep reading

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