#light angst (barely)

[kittytehe]

Crush

Pairing: College!Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Summary:

Being roommates with Emma means inheriting her best friend, Leon Kennedy—the effortlessly hot, annoyingly charming guy who somehow keeps ending up on your couch, in your kitchen, and in your head. You try to play it cool (you fail). He tries to ignore how cute you are when you’re flustered (he fails harder). chaotic college romance where awkward crushes, subtle flirting, and oat milk theft lead to something much sweeter.

wordcount: - 1,350 words

You knew moving in with Emma meant her chaotic social life would become yours by association. You just hadn’t expected him—Leon Kennedy, golden boy, criminally attractive, and your roommate’s best friend since high school—to start hanging out at your apartment like it was his name on the lease.

He wasn’t even subtle. One day he was shirtless on your couch with a controller in hand, yelling at some alien invasion game. Another day he was in your kitchen, eating cereal straight from the box, asking if “almond milk expires or just gets weirder.”

You did your best to keep it together. But your brain did this thing where it stopped working any time he spoke directly to you.

"Hey, you always smell like vanilla or cookies. Is that...on purpose?"

You had stared at him for a beat too long before mumbling, “I'm a dessert in human form,” and then immediately walked into the doorframe.

Subtlety, thy name was not you.

The worst part? He noticed.

One evening, Leon plopped down on the couch beside you, stretching his arm casually along the back. “So, uh... Emma says you’re taking Psych 203. How’s learning about the human mind going?”

You looked up from your laptop, trying not to swoon over his stupidly perfect jawline.

“Fascinating. Did you know people with crushes tend to act like total idiots around the object of their affection?”

He smirked. “Yeah, I’d heard that. From... science.”

There was a pause.

A knowing pause.

“You’ve been acting kinda weird around me lately,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Any theories on that?”

Your brain sprinted through a thousand escape routes, but your mouth betrayed you: “Maybe you’re just so pretty it short-circuits my ability to function.”

Silence. You wanted to melt into the couch and become one with the upholstery.

Then, Leon laughed—warm and genuine. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” He nudged your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think your ‘idiot mode’ is kinda cute.”

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “So you knew?”

He shrugged. “I had a hunch. Emma may have also texted me a play-by-play the night you called me ‘a tall glass of emergency services.’”

You groaned. “I meant to say ‘emergency snack.’”

“That’s... not better.”

Leon’s fingers brushed yours. Just lightly. Like he wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not. You stared at your hands, frozen, your brain screaming this is not a drill.

“So,” he said, voice a little quieter, “what happens next in this whole 'crush’ science experiment?”

You blinked. “Well. Typically… the subject either flees or confesses.”

Leon nodded solemnly. “And which one are you feeling?”

“…somewhere between flight and total emotional combustion.”

He grinned, biting back a laugh. “You really do say the weirdest things when you’re flustered.”

“You’re not helping,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He was still close. Still looking at you like he was memorizing your face.

“I’m actually trying to help,” he said, softer this time. “Because, truth is—I’ve kind of had a thing for you, too.”

You blinked. “Is this a prank? Because if Emma jumps out with a camera, I swear to—”

“No prank,” he said, laughing. “Though I’m sure Emma’s waiting in her room with popcorn.”

As if summoned by name, her door creaked open and she peeked out, phone in hand. “Is it happening? Did someone confess? Are you guys gonna kiss or what?”

Leon rolled his eyes but smiled. “Emma, go away.”

“I live here!”

“So does your best friend,” he said, nudging you. “And I’m trying to have a moment with them.”

Emma made a strangled squeal and shut the door with a dramatic thud.

The room went quiet again. Leon’s thumb lightly brushed your hand this time—definitely not an accident.

You smiled, cheeks warm. “So, you really like me?”

He shrugged, but his eyes were all sincerity. “I’m pretty sure I’ve liked you since the first time you yelled at me for drinking your oat milk. You called me ‘a menace with abs.’ It was… charming.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Nope,” he said, leaning in just a little more. “But I’d like to be around to keep quoting it back to you. If that’s okay.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding in the best way. “It’s more than okay.”

And when he kissed you—finally—Emma’s muffled cheer from behind the door didn’t even ruin it.

----------------

Leon’s POV – Three Days Earlier..

He wasn’t trying to fall for his best friend’s roommate. Really.

But the first time you mumbled something like “Leon Kennedy, walking thirst trap” under your breath—loud enough for him to hear as you tripped over your own shoelaces—something in his brain short-circuited.

He had smiled all the way home that night, even when he walked into a lamp post.

At first, he’d chalked it up to harmless flirting. A few jokes, some teasing, the occasional weirdly specific compliment (“Your hair looks like it belongs in a very clean action movie.” What did that mean?). But then he started noticing the little things.

Like how you always looked away when he caught you staring.

How you fidgeted when he sat too close.

How you always remembered how he liked his coffee, even though he’d only mentioned it once.

And how—when you laughed—it kind of echoed in his chest for longer than it should’ve.

That’s when he knew he was in trouble.

He tried playing it cool. Tried to act like he wasn’t low-key counting the days until Emma invited him over again. But then she caught him scrolling through your Instagram at work, and that was the end of that charade.

“You’re an idiot,” she told him. “They like you back, you know.”

Leon blinked. “What?”

“Leon. They call you things like ‘certified menace with a jawline’ when they think I’m not listening. Ask them out already.”

He spent two days psyching himself up. Day one: complete failure—he just asked if you had any ketchup. Day two: also a failure—he made it to the living room but chickened out and started a conversation about mushroom-based protein.

Day three, though? That was game day.

He flopped on the couch, started with casual banter, and fully expected to keep things surface-level until you dropped that whole “people act like idiots around their crushes” line.

His heart did something weird.

And when you called yourself a dessert?

Yeah. That was it. He knew he had to say something before he combusted—or kissed you mid-sentence, which, while tempting, might’ve been poor form.

But when you looked back at him with that hopeful, deer-in-headlights kind of smile?

He was gone.

Totally and completely.

[thatgayunoriginalbastard]

Fuck it. Random ass scene for my vampire AU.

As Antinous woke up, the first thing that he noticed was that he was hungry. Very hungry. A kind of hunger that he had never felt before and as such was impossible to describe.

The second thing he noticed was that it was the middle of the night. It felt calm. It felt strangely safe, even. But everything also seemed...louder. Not just the sounds, but every texture against his skin and every scent in the air and every color in the sky was louder. And brighter, too. He couldn't see any sources of light other than the moon and stars, but every star was like a torch.

The third thing he noticed with Telemachus laying on top of him, covered in dried blood and healing burns. Clearly he had gotten up to something fun. Antinous' memories still felt fuzzy. He could remember there being an attack on the palace and Telemachus being exposed as a vampire. He remembered doing his best to help fight but being overwhelmed and captured, brought into the sunny area in front of the palace. He remembered Telemachus being told to either walk into the sun or watch him die and then be forced into the sun anyways. He remembered begging for Telemachus to choose the second option. He remembered Telemachus hesitating.

He remembered his throat being sliced open.

He...wasn't dead. He should have been dead. He should have bled out and had his soul cast down to the house of the stalwart god of the underworld. And yet there he was, laying on the floor of the palace with the love of his life sleeping peacefully on top of him. Antinous slowly brought a hand to his throat, feeling a thick scar where the slice had been. And after reaching one end of the scar, his hand kept moving to feel something weird on the side of his neck. Two scabbed puncture marks.

Oh.

That's what happened.

That's how he was still alive.

Telemachus turned him into a vampire.

"'Tinous?" Telemachus weakly said as he woke up, having been disturbed by Antinous' movements.

Antinous looked into his lover's eyes that swirled with red and blue, hand still on his neck, and watched as guilt instantly washed over him.

"Antinous I- I'm so sorry. I know what we had talked about and what we agree to but...we agreed to you being able to grow old with me. We didn't agree to you being murdered when we've only had a few years together. I couldn't lose you. Not yet. Not like this. Hate me for as long as you want, or even leave me if that's what you desire, but-"

"Little wolf." Antinous interrupted, smirking up at his fellow king, "Why would I ever want to leave you?"

"Because I turned you." Telemachus said, tears forming in his eyes, "I infected you. I spread this horrible curse to you, going against all the times I said that I would never turn anyone, especially you. You should have gotten to live a normal life, not this god-hated one that I live. And I didn't even get your permission to do so! I'm just as awful as the vampire who turned me."

"My love, you were turned when you were a child by a vampire trying to kill you. You only lived because of your great-great-grandfather happening to swoop in. Meanwhile I was supposed to die by that hateful mob, but lived because you made the choice of being with me forever instead of losing me too soon. And I can't think of why I'd ever hate you for that."

"I...you can't be...you have to..." Telemachus stammered, his eyes gaining a slight golden glow, "Tell me that you hate me. Please."

Antinous just chuckled and gave Telemachus a soft kiss.

"Sorry, that's not going to work this time. Seems like I'm immune to your compulsion powers now. Which will make sex slightly less fun but eh, at least you can bite me wherever you want. Can't exactly turn me twice, after all."

Just as Antinous hoped, that was able to bring a smile to his beloved's face, softly laughing at Antinous' refusal to ever take his self-hatred seriously. Telemachus kissed him, Antinous holding his face so that he could feel their lips against each other's for as long as he could, letting their mouths be pressed together until they had to break it so they could breathe. They both started at each other for a few moments, knowing that even if things would change, they would be able to figure it out together.

"Serious question though, what are we going to do now that I can't be your human blood bag anymore?"

Telemachus thought about it, before sighing with a smile and laying back down.

"I'll figure something out, puppy."

"You always do, little wolf. You always do."

(If you want more context: read this post)

[radiation-bird]

"Father?" A weak, raspy voice calls out from the dark cell of the hanging leather bag. It knows it wouldn't be anyone else, and it knows it's time in this bleary, barely awake state will soon end. Father never shows for any reason, other than to put it back to sleep. To maintain the seal around it.

Almost like a father tucking his child into bed.

The monster in the bag was never a child, though. The monster in the bag was made fully mature, a shard of torn out fears. Irresponsibly. Aren't many children made irresponsibly? Yet the monster was never anyone's child. Never anyone's baby. Never anyone's heart.

Would things have been different if it were? Would fear and madness have eaten and scratched and tore away at it so? Maybe all it needed was to be tucked in, kissed on the forehead, and told the monsters have all been chased away. Maybe all it needed was to be held and coddled. Loved and cradled. Sang a lullaby and allowed to curl up knowing someone warm would still be there come morning.

Fear consumes, but a father's warmth can chase that away. Too bad it was never a son. Too bad he was never a father. Too bad it will never be held like only a child can be held.

"Go back to sleep, Asura."

A voice from outside replies. So different from what it once knew.

Higher pitched.

Nonthreatening.

Silly.

Why did he change? Where's the voice it knew? Who did he change for? He never changed for it. It never asked for change. Is this just a reminder it was never a child?

Never his child.

Never will be his child.

Only a monster, born of fear, born mature, born irresponsibly. But is anyone actually born mature?

The thought of how unfair it is vaguely drifts through its mind as the dark of slumber clouds its thoughts.

[szilverer]

unfortunately, it was inevitable for my ghostie to marry their brainwashed stalker, but they're still making it a punishment for him.

(ya might be wondering damn what makes someone inflict poor edward on themself? well, to put it simply. you take what you get)

for starters, this ⬇ was the first dream i came across after my 8 year hiatus.

so i was like, oh, ok. love? what love?

guess chasing love is a main theme for them now. good luck rei. you woke up alone, and you have no family whatsoever. you certainly don't care about that right now, but you will, your ambition will make sure of that.

cue a string of unsuccessful crushes/love interests that were either using them, only interested on something they owned, or just. straight up made their heart skip several beats and then left. (i was also focusing on LF so hard i skipped on acquaintances, and didnt start/continue MYN and other storylines that could've given them possible npc friends/platonic interests. i also thought the bewildering procession needed 125 base persuasive, which i didnt have at the time)

i feel like if they had one (1) meaningful connection that wasn't scheduled to move on without them by the end of the ambition, if there was one (1!!) person they felt would consider sticking around by their side. edward would be deadward. 100%.

but they didn't

they didn't have anyone.

this blond weirdo was the only person that would stay by their side no matter what, at least for a while, and that was only because he had no actual choice in the matter.

this marriage represents reisz giving up on chasing love. pure and simple. after months of having people to come back to they'd be left with nothing. truth or not, this was the mindspace they were in. they were just. so tired

so yeah how could they possibly not take this opportunity to assure there would be at least someone out there waiting for them. that might as well have been the only chance they'd ever get to walk down an aisle anyway.

[canisonicscrewyou]

Unpacking - Forgetting Rory Williams Chapter 12

All is settled. All is well. There are no long-term consequences to anybody’s actions, don’t worry. Everybody's doing fine!

Birthday chapter (for me) !! This chapter is about 7k words!

Forgetting Rory Williams is a Dr. Who s7A(+s12) AU following the series of events after a wristwatch resets, and reveals that Rory Williams was the Master the whole time.

Chapter Warnings/Features: When you come back from the dead and you're the only one who notices that something is wrong. Surgically removing the part of yourself you deem broken and being surprised that there's a gaping wound in the shape of it left behind. TenTrauma. Amy and Rory getting to briefly catch up! The haunting, confusing visage of an old-future friend!

Chapter Suggested Listening: Personal Jesus- Depeche Mode, Help I'm Alive - Metric

FRW Spotify Playlist | FRW YouTube Playlist

[giggly-squiggily]

Hiya squiggly! I always love when you open your requests, so I’m really excited for this! This time Clemont is the (unlucky) winner of my attention, so may I request something with him? I know that’s pretty vague, but the only thing I could think of was a comfort thingy with him and the reader, but I know you already have one of those written (very lovely by the way!) so maybe something with him and Bonnie? They have such a cute dynamic! Whatever you decide, I’m sure it’ll be great! Once again, my apologies that this is kinda vague, but thanks for taking the request and have a great day (or night!) -⚡️

BABIES! Ahh god I love these two so much, your honor! Originally this fic was gonna be angst with some comfort elements, but after thinking on it I revamped the entire thing and just made it sibling fluff and happiness cause yes. I've gotcha covered, friend!

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@gladdygirl18 @rachi-roo

Bonnie bit down a sigh as she watched her brother disappear once more in his room, the door shutting with a soft click. It’s been nearly two months since Ash left for Alola, and ever since there seemed to be a permanent cloud hung over Clemont’s shoulders.

Sure, Ash wrote to them anytime he could, and those letters always seemed to brighten him up, but it didn’t seem like the joy lasted that long. As quickly as it came, her brother was back to quietly moping; putting on a brave face when needed but ever stuck in his head.

“Brrr?” Dedenne bumped Bonnie’s hand, snuggling close as the girl carefully picked them up.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. I’m worried for Clem.” She hummed softly, rocking on her heels. “It’s not good for him to stay in all the time. He’ll just keep working on his inventions until he drops.”

More thoughts passed, when suddenly she had an idea.

“I know what to do.”

~~~

“B-Bonnie?” Clemont blinked when he found her in front of his door a week later- spread out like a starfish against the cool wood. “What are you doing?”

“I’m blocking you out! You’re not going in there today!” She declared, puffing her cheeks stubbornly like her Dedenne- who interestingly enough was also posed exactly like her. “You’ve been hiding away in your room long enough! It’s time we had a day out!���

“Huh? Yeah- sure, that sounds fine. But I-” He gestured, but Bonnie was already grabbing his arm, pulling him along.

“No buts! You’re coming- right now!” She declared, marching him to the door with such determination he was forced to follow along. “We’ve got the whole day planned out, isn’t that right, Dedenne?”

“Chew!” The mouse squeaked in glee, bouncing beside them as they left their humble home.

“Oh dear..” Clemont sighed, accepting his fate as the warm sunshine touched his cheeks. When his sister wanted something, it was best to go with it.

~~~

Luminous City had many attractions. While it was especially dazzling at night, it didn’t fall short during the day. Bonnie skipped ahead, her hand in her his as they passed by crowds and Pokemon alike. Billboards flashed various advertisements: one about an electric gym leader from overseas caught his attention the most. She looked strong.

“Oo, it’s Iono! Word is she might appear in Kalos soon! They say she’s gonna make her debut here in Luminous City! Be ready, Clem- you might have some stiff competition when she arrives!” Bonnie grinned over her shoulder as they watched her add play for the hundreds of faces watching alongside them. “She’s pretty. Hey- you should totally ask her out when she gets here! I could have a famous streamer as my sister!”

“B-Bonnie! That’s not- whoa!” Clemont went to argue, but Bonnie had pulled him further until they stopped before a familiar place.

“Here we are!” She cried, arms high and smiling big as she did a twirl before the steps. “The Luminous museum! Home of all kinds of funny machines!”

Clemont gaped, eyes wide as he stared at the building. “Wha…Bonnie, are you sure about this?”

“Why would I not be?” She tilted her head curiously, confused. “Do you not want to be here? I already got tickets.”

“What- no, no not at all! I’m just- oh, nevermind. Come on!” Like a little kid in a candy store, Clemont practically sprinted to the doors, just barely grabbing the ticket Bonnie gave him. Behind him, he could hear her giggling.

~~~

“Bonnie look! This is amazing!” Clemont called out to her, eyes sparkling like gems as he pointed at some rather unique contraption. Bonnie couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Even her brother’s explanation- well, ramblings- didn’t help her understand its purpose.

Smiling and nodding, she let herself look around, taking in the sights around her when-

“Whoa!” She gasped, eyes big as she pointed. “Look at THAT!”

“That” turned out to be a massive Dedenne plush- the ones that cost a pretty penny in the toy stores around Luminous. It was perched with a number of other plushes and prizes as two men gathered a crowd.

“Come one, come all! Guess how many Magnemites are behind the screen and win a prize!” The man in white called out, charming the audience with a dazzling smile.

“Play as many times as you wish; but don’t get too cocky. The number changes after every win! Let’s see who’ll win the first game!” The man in black added, winking and making the crowd giggle. Bonnie felt her heart race with excitement- a guessing game!

“Wow, that must be hard to do.” She mused, finding herself joining the crowd. Next to her, Clemont was quiet with calculation, eyes flickering and mouth moving in silent numbers. “I bet it’s gonna take all morning to guess-”

“You there- the boy in the jumper! What is your guess?” The man in white called out, surprising Bonnie. She looked up at her brother as he raised his hand.

“27 Magnemites.” He said confidently. People blinked, looking towards the pair.

The screen fell back, revealing…

“That’s correct!” The man in white announced, the buzzing pokemon floating about the room and dazzling the crowd. “Come forward, sir and claim your prize!”

“Can my sister pick? I want her to have it.” He asked, gently bringing Bonnie forward. She looked back at him with wide eyes, finding him gently smiling at her.

“Are you sure?” She asked softly, brows furrowing when he nodded. After a moment looking over the prizes, she nodded.

“Okay- I know what I want.”

~~~

“Bonnie..you really didn’t have to.” Clemont looked down at the Heliolisk plush in his arms. He didn’t see it when he got there, but all but gaped when she returned with it. “You could have got your Dedenne. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“I liked Heliolisk more.” She shrugged causally, skipping along. “You always use it when you battle- he’s your favorite, right?”

“Well- one of them, yeah..” He couldn’t deny the joy he felt when she gave him the plush. It was so soft and cuddly, the perfect shape and stitching too.

Only… “Hey Bonnie-”

“OH!” She squealed suddenly, pointing at a stand nearby. “Crepes!”

His stomach growled involuntarily, making him blush. Bonnie giggled as she ran over before he could stop her.

Clemont hummed in thought as he watched her order them, his thoughts running wild.

~~~

“Mmm! I love crepes! This has been such a great day!” She smiled around her snack, cheeks pink and smile big as the flavors melted on her tongue. “What do you want to do next, Clem?”

“Bonnie..” Clemont’s voice made her pause, halfway through with her bite. “What’s really going on?”

Chewing slowly, she looked out at the people passing by, thinking of her answer. “Nothing really- I just really wanted to spend the day with you, that’s all.”

“I don’t think it’s just that. You took me to the Luminous museum- where we spent the majority of the morning in the inventions section- then when we won that game, you picked out my favorite Pokemon instead of yours. Then you went ahead and bought us crepes even though I know you love ice cream and I could have paid.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “So what’s actually going on?”

Caught. Red handed- no passing go. Bonnie ducked her head in defeat. “Okay, you caught me. I wanted to cheer you up.”

“...What?” He blinked, surprised. Bonnie nodded.

“You’ve been so sad since Ash left; don’t tell me you haven’t- I know you.” He shut his mouth before any denial could escape. “I didn’t like seeing you like that, so I had this idea that if I took you to all your favorite places today, you’d be less sad.” She dared a peek, hiding some behind her crepe. “Did…did it work?”

Clemon gaped at her, then he laughed. “Boohonnie! Oh my- come here.” He reached out, pulling his sister close and hugging her gently. “Bonnie, you’re too sweet. I love you so much.”

“Heh, I love you too, big bro.” She grinned, hugging him back and relaxing in his arms. “Seems like you’re finally returning to normal, huh?”

“I do feel better. Thank you- really. I hadn’t realized I looked so sad; sorry for worrying you.” He patted her head gently as he let her go, watching her finish off her crepe. “I’ll be okay- we both will. I know Ash isn’t here right now, but he’s always willing to visit. Maybe we’ll see him again some time, yeah?”

“Hehe, for sure!” She tapped her last bite of crepe with his, finishing it with a smile. With their snack finished, Clemont got up, dusting off his hands and offering one to her.

“Come on- let’s go back to the museum.”

“You're gonna look at all those inventions again, huh?”

“Nope- there’s a Dedenne plush there I want to win. The guy said we can play as many times as we want, right?” He smiled at her booming grin, laughing when she practically dragged him there.

~~~

Bonnie was asleep, her new plush cuddled against her chest and her actual pokemon resting on top. Clemont smiled at her as he quietly shut her door, returning to his own room. Their day was a great one- more sight seeing around town followed by food stands and games; his feet hurt at some point but his heart was happy.

As he closed his door, his phone pinged, a familiar name across the notification.

Wanna V.Chat?

Laughing, he texted back his response before setting up at his computer, smiling as the ocean greeted his eyes.

“Aloha from Alola!” Ash cheered as he came into view, dressed in shorts and one of the local flower shirts. He was already radiating tourist energy. “Clem! I was wondering when I was gonna hear from you today!”

“Heh, sorry- I got busy.” He leaned in his hands as he took in Ash’s face. He had only been there for a short time, but his skin was bronzed and his smile was all the more radiant. It was a comforting sight to hold. “I meant to call you earlier, but Bonnie decided we were having a day together.

“Aww! That sounds so fun!’ Ash grinned as he sat down on the sand, adjusting his camera accordingly. “No worries- I was getting over the jetlag anyway. I don’t think I would have been as talkative then vs now.” That and the time zone difference meant it was easier to call at this hour. While Clemont’s sun was setting, Ash’s was just coming up. “You look happy.”

“Oh-” The blonde suddenly felt guilty. “Sorry-”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re happy.” The brunette smiled at him- genuine and warm like the sun. It never failed to make him blush. “Seeing you doing so good makes me happy; you tend to overwork yourself a lot. Try not to push it.”

“Are you and Bonnie secretly coordinating?” He asked with a raised brow, making Ash laugh. Oh what a bright sound. “I really should tell her I’ve been calling you. She was worried about me today- she’s gonna be angry when she finds out we’re in touch.”

“Hehe, maybe.” Ash laughed again, somewhat sheepish. “Hey- why don’t we make it a monthly thing? The three of us, Serena- we can all get on call together and catch up? I think it would be nice.”

“Yeah- that sounds good. Do you want me to share this number?”

“Nah. We can make a new one.” Ash decided, much to Clemont’s surprise. “I like this one being just us, you know? Call me what you want but…I kinda only wanna see your face right now.”

Clemont blushed more, and even Ash’s cheeks were red. If they were in person, the blonde could picture him gently brushing back his bangs, leaning in to-

“Hey uh- I’ve actually been meaning to ask you something.” Ash jumped in when the silence stretched, coughing some. He was clearly thinking the same thing. “This summer the place I’m staying at opens up to visitors. You can rent it out and have people stay for a month or so.” Ash fiddled with his hands, cheeks on fire as he shyly smiled at the camera. “Do you..want to come by? I mean to visit I mean.”

Clemont stared, taking in the new information with wide eyes. Ash quickly scrambled.

“I mean- if you want to! We can bring Bonnie and Serena- or just us, wait stop that Ketchum- but yeah! I can get the arrangements made; I’ve done some favors here and can get you a good deal on the rooms- why are you laughing?” Ash blinked as Clemont giggled helplessly, hands over his mouth and cheeks pink.

“I’m just- I’m just so happy right now.” He smiled, looking up at Ash’s eyes in the camera. “Yes. I’d love to see you this summer. If you’d have me.”

Ash brightened, nodding. “Of course I will! It’s a date.”

So it was. Clemont couldn’t wait for Summer.

Thanks for reading!

[wendigoruble]

Don't Tell: Very short One-shot

Trixi tells Robbie something important.

"Ugh that Sportaflop is just- just!! Ugh! I cant do anything without him flipping about! Him with his muscles and his crystical,"Robbie makes mock beeping sounds and taps his chest with his fingers,"Oh someone's in trouble! What do they see in him!? His great attitude!? His smile!? It's not hard to smile! Why I-" 

"Hey Robbie!" A voice calls out from behind him.

Robbie whips around and he's met with the girl in red.. Tricky? That sounds right. She's looking up at him with this almost knowing glint in her eyes. He frowns and stands himself up right with a huff.

"What do you want Tricky?" 

"Its Trixi! I just noticed you watching the basketball game they're having. Did you wanna play with them too? I bet they-"

"No! Why would I way to play with them? I hate sports!" Robbie cuts in.

"You've been watching them for twenty minutes,"Trixi reasons as she looks back at the court. Sportacus is now sitting on the ground to rest with a happy little smile on his face,"I just thought you might like to play... Sportacus would like it if you played." 

Robbie opens then closes his mouth. Something here feels off.. It feels like the red kid knows something that he doesn't and he doesn't like that one bit. He narrows his eyes and leans down to her level. With his chin tilted up slightly he asks with an annoyed sing-song tone.

"Why do you care about that?" 

Trixi takes a step back and the seems to be thinking for a moment. Maybe weighing her options before she responds with a,"Sportacus told us he likes you." Its said with an air of certainty and almost smugness.

"WHAT!?" Robbie shoots back up and nearly slams himself into the wall in doing so. He doesn't know how to respond to that. He doesn't know if he actually can. Sportacus likes him? But Sportacus likes everybody! What weight does that hold to him, especially coming from a kid? 

Before either of them can continue their conversation, as if on cue, Sportacus runs over with the white and blue basketball still in his hands. He looks concerned as he glances between the both of them. 

"Are you okay? I heard yelling." 

"We're fine,"Trixi smiles,"I was just telling Robbie about how much you like him."

"I like everybody!" Sportacus laughs softly and puts a hand on his hip,"Even Robbie, deapite our many differences." 

That doesn't seem to be the response Trixi wanted to hear but Robbie certainly is blushing up a storm and grumbling as he walks away from the situation. Once the villain is out of sight that's when Sportacus looks at Trixi with slight concern. If his ears were exposed right now they'd be laying flat back. He kneels down to her level and sets the ball aside.

"Trixi, that was very rude what you just did." He says calmly. 

"But you said you liked him! I heard it, you said it yesterday! "

"I know that, but you can't go confessing peoples feelings for each other like this. I wasn't ready to tell him yet. This can make people very uncomfortable. Robbie seemed very uncomfortable with this, I would have liked to tell him myself."

[copper-meadows]

When Bruce took him in, Jason was hesitant to go back to school.

He knows he's smart, being placed into advanced reading in fifth grade does that to a person. But after spending the better part of his childhood caring for a mother so sick he starts to skip school... things like Lord of the Flies become obsolete.

Then his mother dies, and he drops school completely to fully focus on his survival. He tried to go back once, but the office tried to sick social services on him.

So, when he's not scrounging around for something to help aid his survival, he's at the Gotham Public Library to fill out his education as he sees fit. Most of it is classical reading and occasional fiction. He does learn a lot about cars, though.

Batman takes him home, and despite no longer being completely unsure of where his next meal comes from, he spends most of his day trying to reinvent a schedule that doesn't make him go crazy. Robin can only take up so much time before even that makes him go mad. So, Bruce suggests he go back to school.

He's supposed to be a sophomore. At least, that's what his age says, and he's technically tested into 11th Grade Writing. The school barely lets him join halfway through the year as a freshman due to his lack of formal education and math scores.

Despite a huge ego blow and definite self-confidence issues, he actually really enjoys school. His favorite teacher is actually an art teacher, because she's nice and grades on effort, not skill. He's even made a few tentative friends. Even if he gets sent to the office for beating the crap out of a kid picking on some middle-schooler for being considered to skip another grade, that's his business, not the teachers'. Besides, he knows he's smart, and that's what matters.

Then he dies.

He spends the next couple months after he wakes up a husk of who he is, barely able to string thoughts coherent enough to get himself fed and find a place to sleep. After that, he spends his days in some old compound surrounded by personal tutors and taught by what might be the oldest family alive.

Then, Talia tells him about Batman's new Robin, and he feels like a used car part that failed to make the car run again to eventually be replaced by a new car entirely. He starts researching as soon as he gets out of the compound.

It's weird, cause this kid used to be in his math class and barely spoke two words to him despite sitting right next to him. Now he's jumping around wearing Jason's old colors.

A kid, who was healthier when Batman picked him up. A kid, whose parents were still alive, who never had to want growing up because he already had everything ready at his beck and call. A kid, who despite skipping school to galivant around with Bruce, is still three years ahead the academic norm.

Tim got everything he wanted and more, and Jason was held back.

Isn't that just the kicker?

[p2iimon]

drawing more furry fnaf art. yknow just to keep you posted. i love posting in the tags sorry these ones got away from me

[cassorpa]

Part 1 of an Andy & Felix short!!

Foreword

I know I should be doing Quinn's background but I had this idea and I had to turn it into something. This was written quickly for fun so I don't expect that it's top quality and I hope you don't expect that either. These shorts aren't a part of the main plotline which will be what everything builds up towards but they do help to pad out the world and the timeline and includes extra background and detail that may not otherwise come up.

STORYTIME MOFOS TW// Violence, Knife Crime, Implied Self Harm, Not sure if there are any others but js watch out!!

"Shit!" Mumbled the younger person as he rifled through his crossbody bag as they walked away from his house, "I left my fake ID at home."

The older, scruffier person responded nonchalantly, "Maybe you won't need it?"

"No I definitely will." A hint of panic edged its way into Andrew Palmer's voice, "Wait here I'll be literally five minutes." And with that he took off running back towards the small semi-detached council house, hurriedly tugging at the zipper on his bag attempting to unjam it and seal the bag. In his frenzied attempt to move the immovable zipper he yanked on the bag just a little too hard and sent his keys flying.

"Shit!" he repeated, a little louder this time. Andy couldn't see where the bundle of keys, and an excessive number of keyrings, had landed in the dark of the 10PM light. The boy reached into his bag, through the small opening left by the jammed zipper, and pulled out his phone, struggling to wedge it through the too small hole, and turned on the flashlight. Frantically swinging around his phone in the darkness of the dying street lamps, he searched for the glint of light reflecting off of his new silver house-keys. He swept his phone over a pile of loose bricks and on the concrete pavement beside it he saw the familiar pink heart keyring Samantha had bought him when they went to Brighton together for that concert. Andy let out a yelp of accomplishment, swept up his keys and kept running, keeping a tight grip on his bag to ensure nothing else fell out through the opening in the top.

A few minutes later he arrived at his home, and placed his hand upon the door handle. Just as he went to push down upon the handle and enter the house he paused; how would he explain to his mother where he'd been? As far as she knew he was still in his room. He walked around to the side of his house and wedged his wide-set feet between the wooden slats of his fence and climbed over the top just as Felix had taught him almost 18 months prior. The slightly rusted ladder lay where it always did, around two feet to the left of his bedroom window against the wall leading up to a small segment of roof above the houses kitchen. He began to climb, ensuring to walk as lightly as possible so as to not alert Sandra Palmer to his presence. When he reached the window, which was covered by a thin layer of grime as a result of years of being unable to afford window-cleaning, he wedged his finger into the small gap between the window and the frame and pulled it open just wide enough to slip his slender body through the opening.

Okay. He's in. Now, however, there was another problem. Where the fuck did he put his ID. Maybe it was in his battle jacket? He scooped the light blue denim jacket off of the floor and took a moment to admire the poorly sewn patches and the army of badges across each breast and then he plunged his hands into the pockets rifling around in search of his ID. Nothing. Where else could it be? It wasn't on his bedside table. Not on his desk. Where was it? He spotted his warm pink backpack from across the room. It was adorned with just as many badges as his battle jacket but they were slightly more evenly arranged. Maybe it was in there? It wasn't in the main pocket. The front pocket was his last hope of having anything to drink for the night. He pulled the zip open, or attempted to anyway. It was jammed. He pressed around the pocket attempting to feel the contents that lay within. Long. Rectangular. Thin. It was his ID. It was in the pocket. Which was fucking jammed. Fantastic. In a moment of desperation he reached under his bed in search of the shoe box which lay in the abyss beneath. He pulled open the lid and dug through the abundance of bandages, masking tape and plasters to find the box cutter which was buried at the bottom.

"I'll fix it later." He muttered to himself as he sliced through the fabric of the bag to retrieve his fake ID. Finally. Andy stowed his blade back inside the box which he promptly slid under the bed before dropping the backpack back where it belonged. Shit. The bag made a loud thud as it hit the ground and he heard his mother call out "Andy?" Her voice had a slight hint of concern. She hadn't seen much of her son as of late due to her brutal work schedule. But it was more than that, he seemed… withdrawn. "Are you okay?"

Andy shoved his ID into his handbag and made a dash for the window. In his haste he forgot to shut it behind him. He didn't even go for the ladder to descend from his roof, instead opting just to drop from the edge. The drop wasn't far, maybe 7 feet? 8 at most? He bent his legs as he hit the ground, just as Felix instructed, which absorbed most of the shock from the landing. His legs still hurt. Sandra watched from the open window as her son jumped the fence with relative ease. "For fucks sake." She whispered to herself, more upset than angry. She was much the same at his age but she'd hoped to give him a better life than she'd had. It was clear to her now that she had failed.

There was a strange sense of exhilaration that came from executing such a narrow escape. He laughed as he ran back down the road, determined not to make his friend wait much longer but as he laughed a hint of guilt edged its way into his head. He did truly love his mother and indefinitely appreciated how much she worked for him but sometimes he just needed a little… more. As he continued to run, he pushed the thought away from his head, instead opting to focus on the night ahead of him.

Felix was standing right where Andy left them. A smile spread across Andy's mouth as he spotted his… 'friend'. Wait. Felix wasn't alone. There was someone else. As he got closer he realized that they seemed afraid. He crouched by the pile of loose bricks where he'd dropped his keys, around 10 feet from the confrontation.

"Don't try to be funny, don't be fucking brave, bruv." The voice was strangely high considering the wide frame of the other man. "Just gimme your shit, yeah G?"

A mugging. Andy began to walk towards them both, thinking that if he was outnumbered maybe the robber would leave. As Felix spotted him they glanced at him, a pleading look in their eyes that said "Please go." Why were they so afraid, its not like the robber was arme- Shit. A glint in the light. A long rectangular blade split into multiple segments, each one a razor sharp parallelogram, encased in a red plastic coating. A box cutter. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

Andy turned, his heart pounding, threatening to shatter his ribcage and burst through the dark flesh of his chest in a bloody explosion. No. An explosion was too tame an expression for the strength of his nerves. A nuclear blast. That was closer but it still fell a little short. He moved his muscles in preparation to start running but in a split second he made an instinctual decision that his brain screamed at him not to carry out. No. No I can't. He cried internally as his body moved of its own accord, slowly sneaking towards the brick pile as Felix fished their wallet out of their jacket pocket. Andy grabbed a brick from the pile. The weight felt wrong in his hand, the balance was off. He walked up to the heavyset man, who he now noticed was not heavyset at all instead he was a rather skinny man in an excessively large puffer jacket. This did nothing to quell his fears. Ok, here goes.

The man fell to the ground with a grunt of pain. He screamed at Felix, cursing them out in accent so thick that neither of them could understand. A small amount of blood had splattered onto Andy's hand, the deep red heavily contrasting the dark black in the light of the street lamp which flickered above them. He froze, the brick still in hand. He just stood there. Andrew Palmer, the wholesome member of the Pit Fiends, had hit someone in the back with a brick. He just stood and stared at Felix whose eyes had gone from being wide with fear to narrow and hardened with determination. They retrieved there wallet from the screaming man who lay upon the floor the blade dropped at his side as he writhed around in pain.

"Andy grab his knife." Felix said in a deadpan voice which betrayed betrayed none of their prior panic.

Andy did not move.

"Andy?"

Nothing. Felix bent down to take the box cutter and slid it into their pocket. Andy was still unresponsive so they grabbed his arm and led him away into the night, brick still in hand.

Afterword

This was quite fun to write. It kinda shows how dedicated Andy is to his friends. To be fair, in the next part, it becomes even more clear how big this moment was for him. Andy doesn't really like doing bad things. Teenage rebellion is one thing. Sneaking out. Drinking. Political protests(which are more than teenage rebellion but still on the list of things he's okay with). The idea of violence is one that's always scared him, in theory there are many cases where he believes it's perfectly acceptable, commendable even to an extent. However when it comes to actually executing violence, even in a situation where it should be okay, it's terrifying. Gonna give y'all a preview of the next part. Here are the notes I wrote myself for when I get around to writing it:

Andy is shell-shocked. Caught between two memories, experiencing them both simultaneously over and over again. Felix takes him back to their house where their dads, Carl and Arthur provide hospitality and comfort. Andy confides in Felix about a moment from his past which has guided him away from violence at every point in his life, until it came time to save his friend…

Hope y'all are having a good morning/afternoon/evening/night. See ya!

[greycoffee]

Take My Hand, Give Me Your Soul and Fire

Pairing: Zack Addy/Seeley Booth

Summary: A rewrite based on 1x09 The Man in the Fallout Shelter where Zack finds it odd that he keeps bumping into Booth at every turn even though they're locked down in the lab. He discovers something about himself while observing him.

Part: 1/3

Word count: 4.5k

Song: Open Your Eyes by Snow Patrol

My bones ache, my skin feels cold 

And I’m getting so tired and so old 

Zack winces as the needle pricks his buttock. He isn’t the biggest fan of getting shots but, if it means not dying of Valley fever, then he can set aside his feelings for the pointed instrument momentarily. He slides his pants back up, not that he had lowered them much, and glances awkwardly between his colleagues and the floor as they talk about what to do next now that they’re aware of side effects or symptoms they should look out for. 

For now, they’re told to get some rest. Hal, the head of the hazmat team, bids them a good night and reasures them not to be too worried before packing up the equipment. Once they leave the medico-legal lab, it’s his team’s turn to complain about their ruined holiday plans. Well, everyone except for one person. 

“You know what?” Booth says humorously. “I’ve never realized how pretty all this shiny stuff is.” 

The others watch him with mixed feelings of awe and jealousy solely for the fact that Booth is the only one with the preferable side effects. There’s not much that they can do other than discuss how they should get some sleep and then regroup in the morning to examine the unidentified remains now that they have the time to do so. Once the sleeping bags are brought in, everyone grabs a sleeping bag before dispersing to their little nooks. 

Hodgins claps the back of Zack’s shoulder. “I’m calling our workstation if you want to bunk with me.” 

Zack doesn’t say anything but nods as he considers taking Hodgins’ offer, it’s the most logical seeing as they’re closer and more accustomed to each other’s presence. Plus, they’ve shared the same sleeping area before after having a few too many drinks while watching anticipated basketball games. There was no other reason as to why he shouldn’t. 

He’s ready to follow Hodgins and grab a sleeping bag from the lone pile when his eyes latch on to the only other person who’s been quietly staring at the lab’s light fixtures. Booth turns away from the twinkling lights and locks eyes with him, the doltish smile still plastered across his face. Panic shoots up Zack’s chest and bubbles at the cusp of his throat as he looks for something to say. 

Booth is acknowledging him, and although he might not be saying anything he’s maintaining eye contact, which is something he isn’t used to. He feels like he’s under some kind of spotlight. 

“You see this?” Booth asks him as glances back at the lights, his eyes speckled with their reflection. “Wow, I mean these are… beautiful.” 

Zack’s fingers twitch from where they hang uselessly by his side. His eyes flit from one side of the lab to the other in a last-ditch effort at shifting Booth’s attention from him onto something else. There’s no one else in the lab other than the two of them. 

“Uh, Agent Booth?” 

All he receives is a noncommittal, “Yeah?” 

“Shouldn’t you be with Dr. Brennan?” 

At the mention of the anthropologist’s name, Booth turns, his brown eyes on him once more. 

“Bones?” he asks. Zack nods. “Should I be?” 

“I suppose not, but you always accompany her wherever she goes.” 

Booth lightly scoffs. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do,” he refutes. He’s not sure where his sudden burst of dissent is coming from but it doesn’t burrow itself back down immediately. “You tend to seek her out whenever you’re assigned to a case that requires the Jeffersonian’s resources.” 

“Because the FBI and the Jeffersonian have an agreement.” 

Zack shakes his head. “Although that’s true you never seek the others. You always seek out Dr. Brennan specifically.” 

Booth’s eyes shift and there’s an odd emotion in them Zack can’t quite identify (not that he can recognize most of the looks people give him anyway). All he knows is Booth would never give him this type of look during their regular, albeit limited, interactions. 

“Yeah well,” Booth scratches at the corner of his mouth and sniffs, “Dr. Goodman assigned her as the leader of your squint team, she’s the most qualified to be in and out of the field when it comes to our joint forces… we work well together.” 

“We as in?” 

“The FBI and the Jeffersonian,” Booth says quickly with an awkward smile. 

Zack doesn’t know what to make of that so he agrees. “Right.” 

“Right.” 

Booth goes back to staring at the lights. Zack sighs and makes up his mind to get the man’s attention again. He carefully makes his way over and lays a hand on Booth’s arm. It works and he earns a mildly confused Booth staring at the sudden touch. 

“Let’s go find Dr.Brennan,” he says with much effort. Zack feels like his heart’s going to shoot out of his chest; he’s sure Booth would be able to pinpoint his location with the sound alone if he had a gun trained on him in a dark room. “She’ll know what to do with you and I’ll get to keep all of my fingers.” 

“Why wouldn’t you keep all of your fingers?” he asks, genuinely confused. 

“Because I’m laying them on you?” 

Booth’s eyes soften.“You know I don’t mean it when I threaten you and Hodgins, right? I’d never hurt you.” 

Zack almost wishes the agent would threaten to shoot him and stuff his lanky body somewhere obscure where no one would find him. However, something inside of him grows fond of this side of Booth he’s never let him see and he learns why. It isn’t difficult to develop some kind of soft spot for him. 

The corners of his lips twitch upward. “Of course I do.” 

Booth returns his attention to look ahead of them, his eyes following the lights from time to time as they make their way to Brennan’s office. Zack’s sure he hears the FBI agent mutter some things under his breath but pays no attention to his hallucinogenic ramblings; he’s focused on getting Booth to Brennan in one piece and bruiseless… if only Booth could stop looking up at the lights every five seconds. 

*

“Where are you going?” 

“To the restroom,” Zack answers, showing Hodgins the packaged toothbrush and toothpaste they were provided with. “I just remembered that I haven’t brushed my teeth.” 

Hodgins made a sound of acknowledgment before settling comfortably into his sleeping bag and tucking the fabric beneath his arms. 

“If you find any eggnog that managed to survive the bone dust, bring it over.” 

Zack gives a short laugh. “No promises.” 

He can practically hear Hodgins roll his eyes and takes that as his cue to leave before he gets something thrown at the back of his head. 

The bathroom’s empty like it typically is even in hours of service. Still, Zack waits a few seconds to see if anyone’s inside before walking over to a sink and running his toothbrush under the faucet. The bristles are harsh on his gums but he powers through it finding that he’ll find it considerably worse if he doesn’t brush at all. 

He rests a palm on the cold counter and leans into it, humming to himself as he gets into every crevice that he can. Zack rolls his head onto his shoulder and eases into the peaceful quiet especially after the commotion where everyone had been so quick to point the finger at one another. The quiet felt duly needed and he’s grateful for it. 

However, as if a testament to his dwindling luck, the door to the restroom opens and Zack looks up at the mirror to see a quiet and mild-tempered Booth waltzing in. Well, the mild-tempered part doesn’t last for long as the man’s entire demeanor changes the second he realizes he isn’t alone inside the men’s restroom. Zack almost finds it endearing actually. The sudden change in conduct reminds him of his sister’s golden retriever when he returns home for the holidays: bright, captivating eyes, perked ears, and a wagging tail that smacks him when she begs for pets. 

No, he reminds himself. Booth isn’t a dog and he doesn’t have a tail — but if he did, it would definitely be wagging, he concludes. 

“Zack,” the man breathes out a sigh of… relief? 

Zack quickly looks away from the mirror to spit in the sink. “Booth, what are you doing here?” 

“I was looking for —” he stops to look for the right words to say “— the restroom.” 

Zack cups a hand of water and rinses out the toothpaste before using the sleeve of his graphic tee to wipe away the remaining water that clung to the corners of his mouth. 

“Well, I just finished up here.” He finds that he can’t keep the eye contact Booth’s been so insistent on holding with him anymore and he looks down at the wet sink. “Restroom’s all yours.” 

“No, it’s okay. I’m not rushing you.” 

He rinses his brush and taps it against the edge of the basin all the while stealing a glance at Booth; he finds it odd that the man hasn’t moved. Zack decides to crack a little joke with Booth and see where he is in terms of reality while putting his toiletries away. No one really knows how long it’ll take for the effects to wear off. 

“So, did you finally wear Dr. Brennan’s patience down or did Angela kick you out?” 

No response. 

Okay, maybe Booth’s back to ignoring him. That’s fine with him, he knows what to do when Booth isn’t acknowledging him anyway. It’s clockwork. 

“I’m sorry by the way,” he muses. “I didn’t mean to blame you for keeping us here at the lab, I was just annoyed that you brought something for Brennan to —” 

The sound of footsteps causes him to look up at the mirror and see Booth approaching him. There’s something off about him, an indecipherable look in his eyes. It’s quick, like the snap of a rubber band tenfold, but noticeable all the same. Zack barely has any time to turn around and face him by the time Booth’s standing directly in front of him, the proximity of his broad chest making him take a step back until he’s met with the cold countertop digging into his lower back. His eyes snap up to meet Booth’s own, who are watching him curiously. 

“Why do you keep bringing up Bones?” 

Zack feels like prey being stared down by a predator, save for the fear that would usually be instilled in the prey, he feels small. There was something else deep within him. The sensation roiling in his abdomen wasn’t dread he knew that much, but it was disquieting nonetheless. He swallows anxiously and the motion triggers something in the man in front of him. 

Booth leans in closer and Zack feels his chest press against his own. It’s warm unlike the room they’re in, the dichotomy between his warmth and the cold marble drove him crazy, like a circuit on the fritz. He quickly shot his hands up and put them between them to stop the sensation. His palms pressed against Booth’s shirt while the pads of his fingers connected with exposed skin just above the seams. The feeling crackles and burns his fingers like exposed wire. 

It did nothing to calm the feeling. 

“Dr. Brennan this. Dr. Brennan that.” Booth’s breath fans over his cheek as he leans down, his arms caging Zack in. “You’re driving me crazy.” 

Zack finds it odd that Booth’s breath is fresh and minty. He assumed Booth had also forgotten to brush his teeth, like he had, and had therefore entered the restroom to do so but now he isn’t sure. 

“I’m sorry,” he pushes through a single breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “I just thought that, since the two of you work together, you’d appreciate spending more time with her. I’m surprised you’ve even acknowledged me for this long.” 

“I already spend enough time with her during work, Zack.” His body trembles at the way his name sounds coming from Booth’s lips. “Ever thought that maybe I felt intimidated by you? All that knowledge stored inside that pretty little head of yours and I don’t know what to say without making a fool out of myself in front of you?” 

Zack blinks. Huh? 

Before he can ask what he meant, ask for some type of clarification, Booth withdraws his arms and takes a step back. Zack feels his skin prickle at the cold that rushes over him and finds that he misses the warmth, the way his body felt pressed against Booth’s, he craves its comfort and pulls closer — he snaps himself out of his thoughts and looks up to see that Booth is still standing close, brown eyes dark and piercing. His body betrays him and he shivers. 

They stand there, looking at each other for a few moments, when Zack finally gains the ability to speak.

“It’s late,” he whispers. Booth nods. “I told Hodgins I was only going to go brush my teeth. He’s probably taken my sleeping bag hostage by now.” 

Booth blinks and his gaze softens. “You were getting ready for bed?” 

Zack nods, not fully trusting his voice. 

“Sorry for keeping you up.” 

Heat rushes up Zack’s face, he’s unsure why. He wants to jump off of the Jeffersonian’s roof. 

“It’s okay.” 

* 

“What’s he doing here?” 

Hodgins is no longer inside his sleeping bag by the time the two of them get back to the shared sleeping space. It looks as though his friend had been ready to go looking for him if he hadn’t come back the moment he had… he isn’t even sure how he’d attempt to explain why Booth had pinned him against the bathroom counter if he had found them. In all honesty, he still isn’t sure how to explain it to himself. 

Some sort of display of dominance? Zack’s already seen Booth do that on a few occasions but he’s proven his dominance over him on multiple occasions through a multitude of ways. This time it felt different. 

Ugh, he really — really — wants to jump off of the Jeffersonian’s roof. Lucky, or rather unlucky for him, they’re in quarantine and he didn’t have access to it. 

“He followed me here,” he whispers to Hodgins as he makes his way over to his sleeping bag. 

“You know I’m just high, not deaf, right?” 

“Shut it, Shrooms.” Hodgins points at him and then shoots a mildly annoyed look at Zack. “I can’t believe out of all of us he’s the one who gets to be blissfully stoned out of his mind.” 

So far, from how he’s seen Booth act, Zack’s not sure he wants to be blissed out of his mind. He’d rather be in control of himself, thank you very much. 

Booth walks over to a shelf stocked full of all sorts of equipment and pulls something out of its proper place. He turns it over in his hands, reading the label if it has one before putting it back to grab something else. If it doesn’t have a label he proceeds to ask Hodgins, who only has so much patience before he’s itching at the band on his wrist, what it is. Zack steps in and answers a few of Booth’s questions to diffuse the situation. 

Booth grows quiet for a few moments… before moving onto the next shelf and pulling something else to examine. Zack goes to take it out of his hand and shush him before he can ask but he’s too late. 

“So what does this –” 

“Alright, out.” Hodgins shoots up into a seated position. “Both of you need to go find somewhere else to sleep.” 

Zack scrunches his brow in confusion. “Both of us? C’mon —” 

“Yes, both of you. You brought your little friend here and he’s worn my patience down enough.” 

Zack groans and, not wanting to put up a fight, pulls both his sleeping bag and pillow off of the observation table. He doesn’t even attempt to roll it back up and lets it drag across the floor as he makes his way to the door. When he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, Zack turns to look at Booth and glares at him. 

“You heard him.” 

Booth falls into step with him. “Where are we going?” 

“We’re going to my office.” 

“You have an office?” 

“Kinf of… not really,” he says as he tries to find the right words to use. “I call it my office but it’s more of a workstation than an actual office. There’s a couch thrown in there by the Jeffersonian but it’s nothing like Dr. Brennan’s.” 

“Huh. For some reason, I never entertained the idea that you'd have an office.” 

Zack spares him a glance. “Not sure why you’d waste a second of your day wondering if I had an office or not.” 

Booth hums as if reminding himself of something. “Right.” 

Zack looks up to see him staring straight ahead, a pensive notch carved on his brow. He decides not to question what that look meant, it’s far too late and Booth’s been enough of a pain in the ass as of tonight. He just wants to sleep and hopes that somehow they will all be given the green light to go home when they wake in the morning. 

Zack smiles at the sight of his ‘office’ door and pushes it. Thankfully, it’s a part of the quarantine zone and it opens without much resistance. Booth follows close behind and gives a quick look around, not that there’s much to look at. 

He doesn’t have much in there, not many personal things at least. He keeps most of his belongings in his apartment, of course, but a few things are scattered throughout his workspace like his favorite books mixed in with research texts and trinkets from shows or comics he enjoys. Besides that, he has a throw pillow his little brother made him a few years back when he first moved out to DC. It was one of the first sewing projects he made in his art class that had sturdy enough stitches in it to have not fallen apart during the move. He makes his way over to the couch and fluffs the pillow before returning it to its rightful spot. 

Right, they still need to figure sleeping arrangements out. There’s enough room for Booth to set up his sleeping bag parallel to the couch if he moves the cart of tools closer to the shelf. Zack turns to instruct him to do as such when he realizes a crucial detail. 

“Where’s your sleeping bag?” 

“My what?” Booth’s confusion only serves to raise Zack’s eyebrows… until he remembers and snaps his fingers. “Oh right, I left it with your boss.” 

“You left it with Dr. Brennan?” 

He shakes his head. “Your boss’ boss.” 

Was that who Booth was with prior to finding him in the restroom? He hadn’t spoken much with the others after they had all gone their separate ways but it wasn’t too far of an assumption that Booth would’ve bunked with Dr. Goodman; Booth never did fit the type of person that likes being alone. 

“If you left it with Dr. Goodman, then why aren’t you with him?” 

“I – good question – I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“Eh.” 

Zack smacks a hand over his face. “Okay well you can either return to Goodman so you can sleep in your own sleeping bag, or –” he raises the sleeping bag “– you can stay here and take mine.” 

The gesture surprises both him and Booth. He’s not sure why he’s giving Booth an option; knowing Booth, he would take the option to spend as little time with the socially awkward assistant anthropologist. But this new side of Booth? Zack isn’t sure what he’d do now… and he’s a little curious as to what he’ll do. Besides he would feel bad for kicking him out after Hodgins had done the same. 

“You’re letting me bunk with you?” 

Zack shrugs and furthers the man into making a decision by motioning Booth to take the lump of fabric in his hand. “I’m being nice and letting you take this rather than the cramped couch.” 

Booth smiles in that dopey way he’s been doing since receiving the shot. Even his eyes have this odd attentiveness to Zack in a way he’s still not used to… he’s not quite sure what to make of it or how it’s related to the side effects of the shot. 

“You are nice.”

Zack’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “That’s what I just said?” 

“I –” Booth sighs and fails to continue his thought before taking the sleeping bag. “Never mind.” 

Silence falls over them as they tend to their sleeping arrangements. Zack plops the pillow on one end before dropping himself onto the couch and hugging his brother’s throw pillow to his chest. He stares up at the ceiling and listens as Booth zips himself into the sleeping bag, the rustling fading as he settles into it. 

“These are far more comfortable than the army–mandated ones we got in Kosovo.” 

Zack stays quiet for a good second before something in him prompts him to blurt out: “Army–mandated?” 

“Yeah —” he hears Booth take a deep breath “— we never got much sleep but when we did, and if we were lucky, we’d get a few hours of sleep in these really thin sleeping bags. We were extremely lucky to even get them sometimes.” 

“That sounds terrible.” 

“It was terrible,” he chuckles quietly. “You wouldn’t believe the places we used to get some shut-eye.” 

“Try me. I’ll listen,” Zack says quietly when he doesn’t say anything else. Booth looks up and they lock eyes, curious eyes chipping at his to find some answer. “Where else did you sleep?” 

A faint smile graces Booth’s lips. 

“Anywhere we could. We’d sleep inside our operation vehicles, sometimes on or under them. Depending on where we were, sometimes we’d dig a trench and bunk there. And sometimes, if you wanted some space away from the others, you would go look for an isolated spot in some shrubbery or other foliage.” 

“What if you overslept? Wouldn’t you be left behind?” 

“Yeah, well… it happened to me once.” 

Zack turns on his side and peers over the edge with an alarmed look on his face. “What?” 

Booth snorts, entertained by his outrage. “I mean yeah, but they found me not long after. I woke up to see the OV gone and none of my teammates there.” 

“Weren’t you terrified?” 

Booth’s eyes flit to the ceiling above them. “Of course I was. We were close to enemy territory and we had been very close to being spotted a few times but we toughed up, we pulled through. We were trained for those kinds of situations.” 

“I’m assuming you found each other again.” 

“Maybe half an hour later they realized I wasn’t in the vehicle and they hauled ass to turn around and find me.” 

Zack feels the need to lighten up the mood a bit. He’s sure that what Booth just told him is something extremely personal that’s probably left him feeling vulnerable, so telling him a story from his own past might be helpful. From what Angela’s told him about interacting with other people, replicating conversation or body language is beneficial to forming a connection with someone. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot. 

“One time when I was twelve, my brother thought it would be funny to prank me by taking me out of our shared tent and leaving me out on an open field in the middle of January.” 

Booth does this sound like he doesn’t know if he should laugh but does anyway. “Older brother?” 

“Third oldest, just by three years.” 

“Sounds about right. Older brothers can be a pain in the ass like that.” The smile on Booth’s face turns mischievous. “So what happened?” 

“Luckily we were only camping in the woods behind our house, but he pulled out the air mattress I was on and packed everything up just before breakfast was called,” he explains and stops for a second to brace himself. He’s not sure why he feels embarrassed telling him now and curls into the pillow. “I woke up buried in a pile of blankets and snow with a deer licking my face.” 

Booth breaks out into a fit of laughter and Zack feels his face burn hot. He presses his face against the pillow in a poor attempt to hide it. Rarely does he see Booth this talkative and unabashedly open so hearing his boisterous laughter tugs at something in his chest. 

“I just thought of the perfect nickname for you and it’s better than Mini Bones,” he says between gasps of air. “It’s perfect.” 

Zack’s aware of that nickname, Booth’s called him as such before and he found no offense to it. If anything, it was an honor, he is her assistant after all. (Even if the name was at the expense of Dr. Brennan.) Still, he’s intrigued as to what Booth could’ve come up with so quickly. 

“You did?” 

Booth tilts his head away, stifling (poorly, may he add) more laughter. It’s an odd gesture to do, seeing as he’s already laughed a couple of times inside the enclosed space, but Zack says nothing and studies his features. The stretch of his neck, the slight crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, the lightly scarred tissue stretched over his knuckles and forearm as he hides his laughs behind his hand, the scrunching of his nose. He takes it all in. 

He knows this won’t last. The effects of the shot will wear off by morning and everything will go back to normal. Booth will go back to ignoring him and Zack will go back to stealing little glances when they share the den during cases. 

“You ready for it?” Booth regains enough breath and turns to look at him with teary eyes. “Bambi!” 

Zack groans and rolls onto his back. He takes it back, he really hopes it goes back to normal after tonight so Booth wouldn’t have to call him that. 

“Oh, c’mon it’s great!” 

“I should’ve taken you back to Dr. Goodman. Let him deal with you.” 

“Don’t be mean, Bambi.” 

“Do not call me Bambi, it’s demeaning. I’m a Ph.D. student and deserve the utmost respect.” 

“But you look just like him: lanky, fluffy hair, big brown eyes, long eyelashes… all the reason to call you Bambi,” he teases with a stupidly charming grin. “Y’know, you’re cute when you’re annoyed.” 

Zack freezes, astounded by the comment, and unsure how to respond to something like that. Booth just said he’s cute — scratch that — he said he’s cute when he’s annoyed. He’s merely saying this to get a rise out of him. Zack opens his mouth to tell him just that but finds that Booth has already closed his eyes and is humming to himself, the notes later replaced with soft breathing within a matter of seconds. 

“Booth?” Zack asks and receives a soft grunt. He can’t help but smile softly. You only have tonight, he reminds himself. And that’s fine. “Goodnight.” 

“Night, Bambi.” 

[asillysleepy]

Sooooo this is much later than when he as wanting to get this finished but I did it

I wrote a fic

Agh tired, it’s 11 at night but did it

It’s a twisted wonderland thing

Would recommend looking at the tags before reading

But anyway, enjoy this angst filled story that is almost 10,000 words long and three gays together(Vil, Idia, and Leona)

[crimsonwolfheadcanonsandsnippets]

Resting by the Fireplace

{Day six! The prompt is fireplace. I literally haven’t finished JJK since I didn’t want to read all of my favs dying (Idk that they do, but I didn’t want to risk it), but this prompt felt very YutaMaki once I thought on it a bit. This was an absolute blast to write and I need to write more of them. Yuta is one of my favorites.}

Yuta wakes up in a cold sweat. He doesn’t remember the dream, but he knows what it was about. The only thing he has nightmares about anymore is Geto. He gets up and changes into warmer clothes. He grabs his sword and heads toward the training field a little ways away from the buildings. He doesn’t want to wake somebody up. When he gets there, he starts stretching. 

“Yuta, it’s too cold,” Rika’s voice says. 

Yuta looks up and Rika’s by him, looking a little anxious. 

I think I did a little too good of a job. I don’t like how much she reminds me of Rika. 

“It’s a little cold but I’m okay, Rika,” Yuta promises. “You can go.” 

The Cursed Creature that Yuta made in Rika’s likeness disappears, so he continues. He barely notices time passing by as he continues to try and master the moves that Gojo taught him before leaving. 

“Yuta!” The voice belongs to Maki. 

He turns and almost slips. He drops the sword as he spreads his arms out in hopes of not faceplanting. She storms over and Yuta gives her a sheepish smile as he leans over to pick up his sword. 

“Hi, Maki,” he says. “What’s up?” 

“How long have you been out here?” she asks. 

“I don’t know, it couldn’t have been that long. I don’t feel bad.” 

“That’s the most reassuring thing I’ve ever heard,” Maki snarks back. 

Yuta shrugs. She grabs his hand and practically drags him back toward the buildings of campus. Yuta’s legs are a little stiff as he tries to keep up, but nothing too bad. It’s when they walk into the dorms that it hits Yuta. His muscles all freeze up and he stumbles into the wall as his knees give out. He’s holding himself up, barely. Once the warmth hits Yuta, he realizes he must have been out there far too long. Maki looks concerned and goes over. 

“I’m okay, Maki,” Yuta says, trying to push himself off of the wall and back fully onto his feet. 

He fails, but tries again. That time, he manages to get to his feet before tilting slightly to the right. Maki grabs his arm and the motion makes his muscles hurt, but he bites his tongue since he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful for the help. She gently leads him to the fireplace, taking a good bit of his body weight. She gets him settled in front of it with a blanket and then stomps into the kitchen. Yuta shrugs the blanket off since it being on his shoulders is making them feel funny. The warmth from the fire is good, he starts feeling a little better. 

How did I not realize that I was out there too long? Was Rika trying to warn me about that? 

“Yuta Okkotsu.” 

Yuta’s head snaps up and Maki’s standing there with her hands on her hips. 

“It was making my shoulders feel fritzy,” Yuta says, trying to justify taking the blanket off. 

She sighs, then drops down next to him. She puts her hands closer to the fire, so Yuta mimics the motion. 

I don’t know if I’ve ever warmed up by a fire before. I just used to have thick winter clothes that I’d wear. Well, maybe it won’t be weird if I just do what she does. 

Once he starts feeling somewhat normal, he picks the blanket back up. His muscles don’t feel like they’re having a stroke and trying to kill him, so he puts it on one shoulder and offers the other side to Maki. She sighs and takes it, then scoots closer to him and puts it around her shoulder. 

“Thank you, for coming to get me,” Yuta says. “I didn’t realize that I was out there that long.” 

“When Panda said that you weren’t there when he got up, I got worried. I know that when you can’t sleep, you tend to train, but it’s too cold to do that for long right now. That’s why we aren’t doing morning training sessions right now.” 

Yuta nods, “Sorry for worrying you, Maki. It’s sweet that you thought of me though.” 

“It’s not that big of a deal, Yuta,” Maki replies.  

After several minutes, Yuta leans his head against Maki’s shoulder. She turns her head to see as much of him as she can. 

“I’m sleepy, and I figured this would bother you the least,” Yuta mumbles before closing his eyes. 

“We should get you to bed if you’re sleepy, Yuta,” Maki says. 

“No, it’s warm here with you. I don’t want to be cold anymore.” 

Maki’s cheeks get a little pink. She wraps an arm around Yuta and he presses up against her. His breathing gets slow and steady, so she puts her head on top of his. She falls asleep and when she wakes up, Yuta’s twitching. She picks her head up and realizes that he’s still asleep. She rubs his back, trying to ease his mind. Surprisingly, it seems to work since the twitching stops. 

She sighs in relief, then realizes that his eyes are open. “Did I wake you?” 

“I don’t think so,” Yuta mumbles, “I think Geto did.” 

She raises an eyebrow, but his eyes are drooping shut again. He decides he’s uncomfortable since he transitions to his head in her lap and curls up next to her. She runs her hand through his hair and he hums in what sounds like content. 

I think I could get used to this.

[alygator77]

just a little drabble for my current wip. arranged marriage with clanhead gojo.

warnings: mdni, smut, breeding kink, lots of breeding, praise, creampie, bit of angst.

arranged clanhead! satoru who still isn’t used to sharing his space, even after months of marriage. the grand Gojo estate, once his sanctuary, feels smaller with you in it—your scent lingering on the furniture, your soft hums echoing in the halls—not unpleasant, but… unfamiliar.

arranged clanhead! satoru who notices how your shampoo smells so sweet, clinging to his pillow. how your hair clogs his drain and it drives him fucking insane, yet he still finds himself instinctively reaching for your favorite brand of conditioner while he’s out, tucking it into his basket without a second thought. he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he cares… right?

arranged clanhead! satoru who steps into the kitchen late one evening to find you leaning against the counter. your hair falls in loose strands around your face, messy but still maddeningly pretty, and you sip tea from a mug—his favorite mug. you’re draped in one of his shirts, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh—your bare legs illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light.

for a fleeting second, he freezes. you look… almost at home. he doesn’t want you to look at home. or does he? he shakes the thought away.

“couldn’t sleep?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on the curve of your legs. “or… were you waiting up for me? ‘cause I could really blow off some steam.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who emerges from the bathroom later that night, his snowy hair damp and tousled, a towel slung lazily over his broad shoulders. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the defined lines of his abdomen on full display as he rubs the towel through his hair, his gaze sliding over to you lying on the bed.

“ready for tonight?” he asks, tilting his head with that signature nonchalance, as though he isn’t about to fuck the hell out of you, as though his sole intention isn’t to fill you so full of his cum that there’s no question the Gojo Clan will get their heir.

arranged clanhead! satoru who pushes you into a mating press the moment he’s on top of you, his large hands gripping your thighs as he folds your legs back against your chest, pinning you beneath him. his cock slides against your slick folds before splitting you apart, and his breath shudders as your cunt swallows him greedily.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, panting through thrusts. “always so good f’me. always takin’ me so fucking well.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who hates himself for the shameful thrill that bubbles up within him, the sick satisfaction of watching you come undone beneath him. the way your pussy clenches around his dick, the way your gasps and moans echo in his ears, drives him to thrust harder, deeper, as though his very existence depends on filling you—which it does.

arranged clanhead! satoru who’s pace is merciless, hips slamming into you with an almost feral hunger. he tells himself it’s just biology, but deep down he knows better.

“good fucking girl…” he smirks, pushing your legs higher as you squirm beneath him—your nails digging into his arms, but the sting only spurs him on. “don’t worry sweetheart—haaa—this time, for sure, m'gonna breed that pretty pussy. gonna make you drip with my cum ‘til you can’t hold it all…”

arranged clanhead! satoru who watches your eyes roll back as his cock slams into you, the bed shaking beneath you as his focus narrows on the way your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust.

“you’re mine,” he groans, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum painting your walls. his body trembles against yours as he buries himself to the hilt.

“fuuuck, take it…” he rasps, his forehead dropping to press against yours. “so fucking good f’me.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest pressed to yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. your breath mingles, warm and uneven, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgets why he’s here. why you’re here. but then reality creeps in, sharp and cold, and he pulls out slowly, watching as the mix of his cum and your slick drips onto the sheets.

arranged clanhead! satoru who remembers his duty as clanhead, as the leader of the Gojo Clan. like a good husband—like a good leader—he doesn’t waste a single drop. he shifts, his fingers dipping between your legs to scoop up the cum leaking from you.

“can’t let this go to waste, sweetheart,” he mutters as he pushes the thick mess back into you. his thumb presses against your clit, and he smirks when it earns a soft gasp from you—his fingers sliding deeper. he watches, transfixed, as his cum disappears inside you again, his cock giving a weak twitch at the sight.

arranged clanhead! satoru who rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves with the effort of catching his breath. he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t hold you, and you don’t reach for him. the silence afterward is louder than any moan you could make. he tries to ignore the ache in his chest, something he refuses to name.

arranged clanhead! satoru who lies awake long after you’ve drifted off, his arm slung over his eyes as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. he won’t admit it—not to you, not to himself—but he’s starting to crave more than your body. he craves the softness in your voice when you call his name, the quiet way you laugh when you think he’s not listening.

but this is just obligation. just duty. just… fucking. right?

full fic in the works 🫶🏻 lmk if you wanna be tagged. update: it's out! read it HERE!

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.