#reader onshot

[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

[riddlesbunny]

buckle bunny

summary: The new girl in town gives Topper a run for his money and Rafe meets his match.

pairing: Cowboy!Rafe x Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: alcohol consumption, semi-public sex, p in v, squirting, creampie 18+ MDNI

note: tagging some moots I feel comfy with bc I feel like my Rafe posts get no traction 😅 @angelspitxx @rafescorpsebride @rafeysbangs @rafesheaven no pressure to read just trying to put myself out there *runs away*

It is a warm Friday night and the annual rodeo was the biggest event of the summer, according to your cousin, Kie. She made it clear you couldn’t miss it.

Being well-versed in rodeo yourself, you take her word for it and check it out. You’re not exactly sure how North Carolina will hold a candle to Texas rodeo, but you decide to go anyway. You pull on your boots, pair them with your tightest fitting denim shorts, and make your way to the fairgrounds. You show up late, but try to enjoy yourself anyway, you just wanted to get a taste, anyway.

The smell of hay and barbecue fill the air, blending with the sounds of laughter and the sharp crack of bullwhips — it reminds you of home.

You take it all in as you stroll past booths selling cowboy hats and fried food. You aren’t quite sure what to expect, but when you spot the bronc riders preparing for their turn, your curiosity gets the best of you.

The large crowd erupts into cheers as the announcer introduces the final rider of the night: Rafe Cameron, apparently a local legend. Your eyes were drawn to him immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered, confident. He climbs onto the massive bucking bronco as if it were nothing. His hat sits low over his piercing blue eyes, and his smirk is unforgettable.

When the gate swings open, the horse explodes into the arena, and Rafe moves with it like he was born for this. You catch herself gripping the railing, holding your breath as he stays on for the full eight seconds– you couldn’t deny you were impressed.

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd goes wild. He tips his hat to the audience before hopping off the bronc, completely unfazed.

After the show, you end up wandering over to the food trucks, hoping to grab something to eat before heading over to the local dive. To your surprise, the cowboy from earlier, Rafe, is there, leaning casually against a truck while talking to a few friends. You freeze for a moment, debating whether to approach him, but before you can make up your mind, one of Rafe’s friends—a loud, blond guy named Topper—spots you.

“Well, look at this,” Topper drawls, a sly smirk etched onto his face, “a little Buckle Bunny comin’ to meet the star of the show.”

Your cheeks burn with anger, "buckle bunny” isn’t exactly a compliment.

“Excuse me?” you shoot back, your arms crossed over your chest.

Rafe turns, his blue eyes locking onto yours. His smirk vanishing as his gaze moves to Topper, “knock it off, Top.”

Topper just laughs in response.

“What? I’m just saying—”

“You’re done,” Rafe cuts him off sharpy, stepping closer to you. “Sorry ‘bout that, he’s an idiot.”

You lift your chin, attempting to play it cool.

“S’alright, I can handle myself,” you purr, “just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Rafe’s eyes beam at you, “Well? What’d ya think?”

“Not bad,” you reply, letting a small smile slip through, “but this ain’t my first rodeo, I’ve seen better.”

The guys around him erupt into laughter, and even Rafe can’t help but chuckle at you.

“Alright, new girl,” he says, tipping his hat to you, “you’ve got my attention. What’s your name?”

“y/n,” you reply.

“Well, miss y/n,” he said, his voice softening, “I’ll make sure you get a proper tour—minus the idiots.”

He says this, shooting a look at Topper, who just rolls his eyes.

“We’re all headin’ over to the dive bar right down the road if you care to join.”

“Yeah, I was headin’ over that way anyway, I’ll hop in my truck and head out.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow at you.

“You got your own truck?”

“Mhm, I got my own horse too, and I’m a hell of a ride.”

✮⋆˙ ℧ ⋆₊˚⊹♡ ✮⋆˙ ℧ ⋆₊˚⊹♡ ✮⋆˙ ℧

The divebar is small, but extremely lively. From across the way you can see Rafe being congratulated, you watch him intently as you sip on your drink.

You can’t help but notice that the mechanical bull is starting up, and you figure this is your chance to show your skills off to Rafe and his friends.

You saunter up to the bull with a grin, making sure the boys, especially Rafe, see you throw your jacket off and pull your hair up into a ponytail.

The operator gives you a nod, cranking up the controls as you swing your leg over the make-shift saddle.

“Hold on tight, buckle bunny,” Topper calls, his voice laced with venom.

As the buzzer sounds, the bull lurches forward. Clenching your thighs and moving with it, you allow muscle memory and pure determination to take over. It spins, bucks, and attempts with all it’s might to to throw you off but you hold on for you dear life.

As your gaze meets Rafe’s you can’t shy away from thinking how it would feel to have him bucking underneath you. Rolling your hips in sync with the machine, wetness pools at your core.

Down girl, focus.

Your thoughts were interrupted as the crowd began to cheer, the bull beginning to slow down: you did it!

The cowboys all went quiet, their smirks fading as you swung off the bull with ease, landing successfully on your feet.

✮⋆˙ ℧ ⋆₊˚⊹♡ ✮⋆˙ ℧ ⋆₊˚⊹♡ ✮⋆˙ ℧

After that, you find yourself in the grimy, dimly-lit bathroom catching your breath when you hear the door creak open.

“That was quite the show,” Rafe says as he comes in, locking the door behind him.

Your cheeks feel hot as you meet his gaze in the mirror.

“Told ya I knew how to ride,” you say with a smirk.

“You’re dangerous, y’know that?” He whispers, coming up behind you, pressing himself into you.

“Definitely not a ‘buckle bunny,’ you’re the real deal… but a little tease like you makes me wanna lose control.”

You can feel his ever-growing bulge beneath his jeans, taunting you with what’s to come.

His calloused fingers glide underneath your shirt and across the smooth skin of your stomach. Your body trembles, eagerly awaiting his next move. Rafe leans in close, his stubble grazing your cheek, “you want me to take for a real ride?”

“Mhm,” is all you’re able to get out as you bite harshly on your bottom lip.

Rafe’s hands grab your hair, tilting your head back, exposing your neck. His tongue tracing a path up from your jaw to your ear, sending a chill down your spine.

He eagerly spins you around and bends you over the sink countertop. You assist in unbuttoning your jeans as he slides them down your legs with experienced quickness, your panties following suit.

His hands caress your ass cheeks before delving into your soft pussy, coating his fingers with your arousal. You moan loudly, bracing yourself against the counter.

“Spread those legs wide for me, babydoll,” he orders, his breath hot on your neck. You comply eagerly, feeling the cool air hit your most sensitive spot.

Rafe takes no time undoing his belt, eagerly ripping his jeans down and pulling his already-hard cock out from the restraint of his boxer briefs.

He guides himself up to your entrance and slowly pushes the throbbing head of his cock inside of you. You gasp as he fills you inch by inch, until there’s nothing left to take.

A loud groan erupts from your chest as his thickness stretches your walls, making you bite your lip to keep from screaming. Rafe grips tightly at your hips as he begins to move, picking up speed with each thrust. He sets a punishing pace, slamming into you with such force that the counter digs into your flesh. He grunts with every thrust, breathing heavily through gritted teeth.

Your moans echo off the walls as he fucks you mercilessly, driving you closer to the edge with every stroke. Your cunt tightens around his pounding cock, squeezing him deeper as you feel pressure begin to build in your belly.

Within seconds you’re pushing Rafe out, squirting all over him and the floor.

He all but roars in response, in this moment in time his attraction to you is primal, animalistic.

“Fuck!!” he cries as he slams himself back inside of you, his pace quicker than before as he reaches his own release. With one final surge deep inside of you, he groans loudly as cum fills your pulsing pussy.

You feel so empty as pulls out, leaving you dripping, wet, and shaking. You look at each other for a moment, both catching your breath as a sly smile appears on Rafe’s face.

“Well, little bunny… I think I’ve finally met my match.”

[fawnnlvr]

miscommunication | spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

masterlist

summary: in which reader mistakes penelope for fawning over spencer reid and accidently reveals her secret crush on the talkative doctor.

word count: 1.9k

author's note: hiiiii!!!! i have been thinking of this idea for weeks and thanks to summer, it was finally brought to life so enjoy my loves ♥︎

It was a fairly slow morning at the BAU.

Agents were steadily strolling in and settling into their spots to start the long day ahead of them. Placing your jacket on the back of your chair, and your bag on the open space of your desk, you walked towards the coffee bar where your fellow coworkers were talking.

Holding a coffee cup from the local café that was stained with the lipstick you wore, you walked into a conversation the tech analysis, Penelope Garcia, was having with fellow agent, Spencer Reid.

"Hi guys!" you softly greeted as you found your spot beside Penelope.

"Morning." Spencer spoke with a smile. Your hands fiddled with the cardboard around your hot coffee cup as her looked into your eyes with this gentleness that made your heart warm.

"Good morning my sweetness." Penelope greeted with a big smile, "We were just talking about how Hotch was being a meanie and making us finish yesterday's paperwork by this afternoon."

"Oh yeah, I already finished mine. Haven't you guys?" you looked at Penelope who had a guilty smile before your eyes flickered back to Spencer.

"Unfortunately not. I fell asleep as soon as I got home, but if I start now, I can probably finish it in an hour if I really pace myself." he answered your question and you felt yourself unable to meet his gaze once again, instead keeping your focus on either the ground or Penelope.

It really wasn't your fault, it was his. After he got his new haircut, you found it even harder to focus while he was in the room.

Being in a room full of profilers, it was hard fo keep this little secret of yours but you truly had no choice. It could be considered unprofessional and totally embarassing due to the things he made you feel from simply existing.

You have the hugest crush on Doctor Spencer Reid and he was consuming all your thoughts. You always had a thing for nerds— well, smart men who knew what they were talking about and made learning their life mission. You found his love for knowledge and statistics and facts so cute. Whenever he opened his mouth to speak about facts he had mesmorized, you could barely focus.

It was already hard to stop yourself from biting your lip or keeping your gaze off of him, but after his new haircut that perfectly enhanced all his perfect features, you were doomed for failure.

"Well you should get working on that. Hotch seems even more cranky ever since Strauss gave him a little visit yesterday." Penelope advised.

"Good idea. I'll see you guys later." Spencer stated before grabbing his coffee mug and walking back to his desk. He used his hand to brush down the bangs in front of his face, a habit he picked up ever since he got his new haircut.

You allowed your eyes to linger more than it should have on his retreating figure. Looking back towards Penelope, you were almost taken aback from the look on her face— well the look in her eyes.

It was the look of a lion that hadn't eaten anything in days and just spotted a pretty little gazelle. It was a look you were all too famaliar with ever since you caught yourself staring at Spencer and when he left, you caught yourself in the mirror he was previously standing in front of. You scared yourself at that unfortunate moment. You followed her line of vision and she was looking in the same direction you had, towards Spencer.

He was working at his desk, studiously doing what he said he was going to do. Penelope stayed quiet for a few moments and you hadn't mind since you were all too busy thinking about how Spencer's jaw was hand-crafted by angels.

"Man, ever since he got that new thingy, he has been looking even more yummy."

You felt yourself tense a bit. Penelope was always a girl to make flattering comments about everybody so you innocently agreed since she was right— Spencer's haircut did make him look good. "Yeah, he really does look nice with it."

"Ugh, and that way he just fills that shirt in." She took another sip of her coffee and your eyes flickered to her before going back to Spencer, trailing your eyes on the fitted dark plum purple button up.

"He looks good in it. That really is his color." Innocent comments so far.

Penelope hummed, "Sometimes it makes me mad. Like how can somebody look so good— don't even get me started on his voice. Everytime he talks, I can hardly focus."

You had a small laugh as you brought the coffee up to your lips. You really couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth but then again, it was Penelope— she had no filter. She was the type of woman to make anyone feel safe and seen, which is maybe part of the reason you kept agreeing with her and revealed more. "I thought I was the only one who thought that."

"Oh sweetie, I am positive everybody shares the same opinion. I mean look at him— even Hotch or Rossi can't deny his looks. The way he has the ability to command the room with his words alone." Penelope continued.

You did suppose there was a reason Morgan calls Spencer 'pretty boy' and no one bats an eye. "He does have a way with his words."

Penelope looked at you and saw this sort of softness in your eyes as you looked towards the desk area.

"Whenever he spurs out all this knowledge, it makes me feel safe. You know?" you looked towards Penelope, "He always knows what he's doing and what he's talking about. It's just nice to know you can always fall back on him."

"I hear you so much. I don't want to spoil the mood or whatever— I am all for women empowerment, but something about him being so dominating makes me so hot and bothered."

"Dominating?" you whispered under your breath, a little confused.

"You know, I didn't think you would be that into him. This is the first time you agreed with me about him." Penelope commented and you tilted your head.

You thought back to all the times she's mentioned Spencer and you believed you always held a somewhat indifferent view on him. Either that or you let it slip that you quite admired him. "Really? Well it isn't so suprising, I guess I am kind of secretive when it comes to the dating scene since not a lot of people get my type."

"Type? Honey, that man over there is everybody's type. I don't think there is a girl in the world who would pass up an opportunity with him."

You glanced back towards Spencer. She really did have a point. He truly looked like a model, but you supposed his personality sort of deterred people away, but you personally found that the most attractive thing about him.

"He really is a great guy isn't he?" You confessed to Penelope while looking in Spencer's direction and you heard a small gasp. She sets down her coffee cup before covering her mouth.

"My sweetie is that love in your eyes that I see."

You hummed in suprise, "W-What? No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh it so is and don't even try to deny it. The eyes do not lie. I thought there was something going on. You always seemed quiet during the briefings and your eyes were always kept on the ground. I may not be a profiler, but I too, noticd things."

You quietly tried to shush Penelope and she got the message and she pulled you further away from the target of affections.

"Please tell me how it all happened! I need to know! How did this crush start?"

"I-I don't know. It just did. I always found him quite cute—"

"Cute? Aw!" That wasn't how Penelope would personally describe the fox that is Derek Morgan, but to each their own.

"– and he was always just so nice to me and we shared the same interests — and I just really feel comfortable around him."

Penelope had the warmest smile on her face as you recounted the times where you felt the most safest and loved around Spencer. You tucked a hair behind your ear to try to give yourself some time to stop the cheek hurting smile on your face.

"Who would've known that you would have a crush on the muscular—" Hm? "Mister playboy bunny himself–" Excuse me? "—Derek Morgan."

Silence.

"What?" you almost dropped your coffee cup and your eyes quickly flickered back to Spencer and his general direction. There it was.

Whenever you looked at Spencer, there would often be moments where he was the sole focus of your eye and everything around him became blurry and unimportant. Not to say that your fellow coworker was unimportant, but he wasn't exactly a priority in your mind.

There sat Spencer at his desk and behind his figure, was Agent Derek Morgan, laughing on his phone as he caught your eye and waved. You were too shocked — too horrified to even wave back. Derek sort of flinched back in his seat by the look you were giving him. He had never seen you stared at him like that before. You looked at him as if he was a ghost or had a huge bug on his head which caused him to look around. Was he the only you were giving these crazy eyes too?

Penelope was taken aback by your shocked expression and redirected her eyes to the same direction. The wires had connected and a lightbulb of pure chaos had sparked inside her head.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God." Penelope repeated these words as she whisper shouted, slowly increasing her voice.

"Shhh! No!"

"Earlier— the new thingy and him looking attractive. I was talking about Derek's giant new watch— you thought I was talking about Reid's new haircut. Oh and his voice– oh my dear you are getting turned on by Spencer's constant yapping on statistics and facts. You naughty naughty—"

"Okay! Penelope stop!" you practically shrieked, "You didn't hear a word. This didn't happen."

Horrified, you placed your coffee cup down and began to walk backwards, placing a finger against your glossed lips while staring into Penelope's soul.

You inched back further as Penelope had to refrain herself from bursting out laughing. She knew you must be feeling so embarassed at that moment so she did her best to compose herself... until you were out of sight.

You yelped as you had accidently bumped into somebody.

"Are you alright?" Emily Prentiss asked as she steadied you by the shoulders and got you balanced, "And why does Penelope look like she just hacked into the winning lottery numbers."

"Nothing!" you whispered shouted, very loudly, "You both heard and saw nothing!" your fingers threatlessly threatened your fellow older coworkers; one who knew exactly what had transpired and the other being an innocent bystander who walked in at the wrong moment at the wrong time.

Emily and Penelope watched your retreating figure as you ran down the hall, towards the bathrooms.

"What's up with her?" Emily inquired, eyes furrowed with concern.

"Oh, just the sweet illness and craziness of love." Penelope spoke, she then looked at Emily's confused face before bursting out laughing. The loudest laughter she thinks she has ever laughed. Everybody looked at Penelope who was gripping onto the coffee bar table, doubling down on laughter.

The laughter echoed all the way to the bathroom in which you were trying not to drown yourself in the toilet from embrassment.

Hotch came outside his office and took one glance after Penelope before turning to Rossi, "Remind me to get her drug tested later."

Emily quickly fled the scene, not bothering to look back until she was in the safety of her own desk surrounded by her fellow agents who were armed. Spencer paused in his work to find Penelope slowly calming down but still shaking with laughter as she trudged back to her little computer den.

The slow and quiet morning of the BAU turned into a loud mystery of a case the agents weren't sure they wanted to solve.

[rosecoloredsunshine]

wired interview — evan peters

masterlist

PAIRINGS: evan peters x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and evan had been invited to wired to answer some of the web's most googled questions.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, background info for reader had been provided, established relationship, fluff, google translated french, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i just have the need to post this one lol hope you'll enjoy this one! :)

The studio lights were bright, but you were used to it by now. The WIRED setup was familiar—crisp white background, black chairs, and the infamous search board waiting to reveal the internet’s most pressing, bizzare, and occasionally ridiculous curiosities. You glanced at Evan beside you, who was shifting excitedly in his chair. He shot you a smile, eyes crinkling the way they always did when he was genuinely happy.

“Ready to expose our deepest, darkest secrets?” he teased.

“Oh, absolutely. I came prepared to be utterly humiliated,” you quipped, adjusting in your seat.

The crew had given you and evan a thumbs-up, cameras now already rolling, and the crew’s voice drifted from off-screen.

“Alright, we’ll start with Evan reading questions about you, then we’ll switch.” The crew had instructed.

“Got it,” Evan said, rubbing his hands together dramatically. “This is gonna be good.”

Another crew handed Evan the board, the classic white rectangle with strips of paper concealing the questions.

He lifted it with a flourish. “Okay, question one! How old are you?” he peeled away the first strip, and looked at you, eyebrow raised before smirking. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“Timeless,” you replied smoothly, leaning back with a smug smile.

Evan snorted. “Yeah, yeah, immortal, ageless, basically a vampire. Noted.”

“Pretty much.”

He moved to the next strip. “Where—” he paused, “where are you from?”

“I was born and raised in Monaco, but I moved to Boston when I was six.”

Evan glanced at you, mock-impressed. “Ooh, fancy.”

“Oh, incredibly fancy,” you joked. “I had the whole Grace Kelly aesthetic going on. Swans, palace gardens, and maybe even a tiara.”

He let out a soft laugh before ripping off the next strip. “How tall are you? Oh, I know this one. You’re like, five-foot-two, right?”

“Haha,” you said sarcastically, rolling your eyes, feigning annoyance. “I am five-seven, thank you very much.”

“Really?” he deadpanned, leaning closer with wide eyes. “Because I could've sworn—”

“Keep making fun of my height and I’ll hide all your sneakers before our next press event.”

“Threats already? We’re only three questions in!” he grinned and moved on. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Three,” you said as you put up three fingers. “English, French, and Italian.”

“Show off,” he teased.

“Tu as de très beaux yeux,” your voice was soft, the French rolling off your tongue smoothly as you leaned closer to him.

Evan flushed, laughing nervously. “I have no idea what you just said, but I feel both flattered and mildly threatened.”

“Good,” you laughed softly. “I just said that you have very beautiful eyes.”

“Oh,” he said, cheeks turning beet red. “Yeah, I mean—thanks.”

You watched him flounder, smiling widely and thoroughly amused at the same time.

Evan then ripped off the next strip. “Okay, next up. What is your favorite song?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “If we’re talking about my current favorite, it’s probably ‘You’re So Vain’ by the one and only, Carly Simon.” you couldn't resist breaking into a song. “You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you…”

Evan decided to join in, voice terrible but enthusiastic. “Don’t you? Don’t you?”

You both dissolved into laughter, with the crew chuckling behind the cameras.

“Alright, next one,” Evan said, wiping a tear from his eye. He tore off another strip, then burst out laughing. “Oh, wow. The internet’s bold, huh. Are we dating?”

You grinned, leaning back with folded arms. “I’ll let you handle that one.”

Evan’s cheeks turned pink, but he rolled his eyes playfully. “Well, considering we’ve been promoting our rom-com movie together for months, I think it’s safe to say that the internet’s just invested.”

He looked at you, expression softening. “But, I mean, if they’re asking if we’re, like, officially together? I dunno. Should we make it a mystery? Keep the suspense alive?”

You laughed. “And keep the tabloids working overtime? Oh absolutely.”

Evan shook his head with amusement, moving on. “What is your zodiac sign?”

“(your sign),” you answered quickly. “Which basically means I’m emotional, imaginative, and probably crying over dog videos when I should be doing something important.”

“That tracks,” Evan said with a grin. “I’ve definitely caught you sniffly-eyed over a random cat rescue video more than once.”

“They’re heroic little guys!” you defended, crossing your arms.

“Alright, next question…” Evan trailed off as he peeled another strip. “Do you actually like Evan Peters or are you just pretending for the movie?”

You scoffed, overplaying your offense. “Oh, I can’t stand him guys. The absolute worst. Have you heard his laugh?”

He cracked up immediately, laughing loudly and uninhabited. “Oh, well played.”

You giggled softly. “But in all seriousness, he’s alright. Decent co-star. I guess I’d recommend him if anyone’s hiring.”

“Wow, heartwarming, truly.” Evan shook his head, still grinning. “Alright, switching boards now. Ready to be roasted?”

“Oh, born ready,” you challenged.

The crew handed you the board of Evan-related questions, and you eyed him, smiling mischievously.

“Okay, first question,” you peeled the paper away. “How old is Evan Peters?”

He gave you a side-eye. “Considering you’re timeless, I should be, like, ancient, right?”

“You’re practically a fossil,” you teased. “But if I recall, you’re…thirty-eight?”

“Ding ding ding!” he cheered, pretending to throw confetti in the air. “Next!”

You tore off another strip. “Where is Evan Peters from?”

“St. Louis, Missouri. You know, the land of gooey butter cake and toasted ravioli?”

Evan’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you remembered the ravioli thing!”

“Yeah, mostly because you wouldn't shut up about it when we first met.”

He chuckled. “It’s that good.”

The questions kept coming, ranging from silly ones like ‘what is Evan Peters’ shoe size?’ which you guessed wrong, of course, much to his delight—to downright absurd ones like ‘does Evan Peters own a raccoon?’

“I don’t!” Evan said, looking genuinely confused. “Why would anyone—”

“I mean, I can see the vision,” you countered, barely holding back your laughter. “Naming it bandit, dressing it in a tiny leather jacket.”

Evan pretended to consider it. “Actually, that sounds incredible.”

“Great! Now, someone’s going to gift you a cute raccoon during our promotion, or comic con.”

“Oh god,” he groaned, but still smiling.

The entire shoot was chaos and laughter, with both of you going off-track multiple times. By the end of the filming, your cheeks are hurting from grinning so much.

“Alright, that’s a wrap!” one of the crew members called, but the camera’s were still rolling.

Evan turned to you, eyes shining. “We should do this kind of stuff more often.”

“Yeah! It’s a really fun experience,” you smiled at him softly, and put up your hand for a high-five. “Put it there, partner!”

When his palm met yours, he caught your fingers, intertwining them with his own, and tugged your chair closer to his.

“C’mere,” he whispered, voice soft as he pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to your temple.

You turned to look at the camera, smiling, and Evan sent a playfully wink.

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[faithschaoschronicles]

Fire and Ice||Ridoc Gamyln x GN!Reader

Summary — Ridoc and Y/n love to tease Xaden and Violet while ignoring their own feelings until Xaden calls them both out.

Reader is a fire wielder and their dragons name is Cináed and he’s a green dagger tail.

Word count — 954

No Spoilers in this!!

The flight field buzzed with the usual post-training chaos. Dragons stretched out on the scorched ground, riders sparred, and the low hum of casual banter filled the air. Ridoc sat perched on the edge of a rock , juggling a chunk of ice between his hands like he had all the time in the world.

“You know,” he drawled, tilting his head toward Xaden and Violet, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear the two of you are this close to announcing your engagement.” He held up his fingers a hair’s width apart.

Violet’s head snapped up from where she was adjusting her riding straps, her eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about, Ridoc?”

“Oh, come on,” Ridoc replied, his grin widening. “The constant bickering, the broody stares, the way you always stand just close enough that if someone accidentally pushed you, you’d fall into his arms—it’s like watching the opening act of a bad romance novel.”

Y/N, standing beside him, stifled a laugh. Ridoc was relentless, but he wasn’t wrong. “He’s got a point. The dramatic tension alone is exhausting to witness.”

Violet’s mouth opened, but Xaden cut her off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, right, because you and Ridoc are the picture of self-awareness. Good to know you’ve got such a handle on relationships.”

Ridoc’s smirk didn’t falter, though his stomach twisted at the dig. “Touche, Riorson, but I don’t recall this being about me. Maybe I should keep track of your bickering for research purposes —Riorson and Sorrengail: A Study in sexual tension and bickering Violet turned fully to face him, her arms crossed. “We do not bicker!”

Ridoc raised his eyebrows, leaning slightly toward Y/N. “You hear this, too? Are we both hallucinating the daily arguments? Is it something in the water?”

Y/N snorted, shaking their head. “No hallucinations. I distinctly remember Violet calling Xaden a ‘condescending tyrant’ this morning. Very poetic, by the way.”

Xaden scowled, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t being condescending. I was being logical, which is a foreign concept to some people.”

“Oh, please,” Violet shot back, her face flushing. “You just hate when anyone disagrees with you. Admit it.”

“Me? Disagree? You’re the one who—”

Ridoc groaned loudly, cutting Xaden off. “Gods above, stop flirting in front of us! It’s unbearable.”

Xaden’s dark gaze swung to him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Gamlyn. Considering…” He trailed off, his tone going from sharp to smug in an instant.

Ridoc froze, the sarcastic comeback dying on his lips. “…Considering what?”

Xaden leaned casually against the railing, his smirk more lethal than usual. “Considering that you and Y/N are just as bad, if not worse. At least Violet and I aren’t in denial about our feelings.”

Y/N blinked, heat creeping up their neck. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Violet, clearly enjoying this turn of events, chimed in with a laugh. “Oh, I love this. Please continue, Xaden.”

Xaden didn’t need further prompting. “It means that every time you’re around each other, it’s like watching a storm trying to figure out if it’s going to snow or catch fire. And it’s loud—mentally speaking.” He tapped his temple. “The constant internal monologues are deafening.”

Ridoc coughed, the air around him cooling significantly. “I don’t know what you think you’re hearing, but I’m pretty sure you’ve hit your head one too many times, Riorson.”

“Really?” Xaden’s smirk grew sharper. “Because I distinctly remember hearing you mentally workshop a terrible pun ‘no wonder y/n is a fire wielder they are so hot’’ this morning.”

Y/N whipped around, their faces burning hotter than their flames. “You what?”

Ridoc opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Great. Just fantastic. Thank you, Riorson. Appreciate you airing my internal cringe for everyone to hear.

Xaden wasn’t done. “And Y/N? You’re not much better. ‘Why does his stupid smirk have to be so distracting?’ ‘Why does he have to look so good when he’s being annoying?’ Shall I go on?”

Ridoc tried to laugh it off, though his heart was pounding. “Wow, Xaden, ever think about a comedy career? Killing it with this routine.”

Y/N crossed their arms, glaring at Ridoc. “Is he right? Did you think that?”

Ridoc faltered, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. “Okay, look. Maybe Xaden’s not entirely wrong, but—”

“But what?” Y/N pressed, stepping closer.

Ridoc sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt the air grow warmer as Y/N’s body heat flared faintly. “But you don’t get it, Y/N. You’re… you. Smart, sharp, stubborn as hell. And me? I’m just the class clown. I didn’t think I even had a chance.”

Y/N’s heart skipped at the admission. For all of Ridoc’s jokes and teasing, there was something achingly sincere in his voice. “Ridoc, you idiot,” they said softly. “I’ve been trying to hide it, too.”

Ridoc blinked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Wait. Are you saying…?”

Y/N rolled their eyes, stepping even closer until their warmth clashed with his chill. “Yes, Ice Boy. I like you. Are you going to do something about it, or should I?”

Ridoc’s grin turned playful, though his eyes were softer than usual. “I’d hate to step on your dramatic moment, Firefly, but…” He reached out, frost curling lightly over his fingertips.

Y/N grabbed his hand, the warmth melting the ice instantly. The spark that passed between them was undeniable.

Ridoc’s dragon Aetrom sighed heavily. “Finally. I was starting to think they’d combust from sheer tension.”

Y/N’s dragon Cináed rumbled in agreement. “Humans are so slow when it comes to their feelings”

Aetrom lets out a huff “painfully slow.”

[littlemissaddict]

So I've just come across a post with the head cannon that Eddie fake fucks his friends anytime they bend over (If this was your post I agree I can totally see this happening) but hear me out here...

What if fem!reader is the only one he doesn't do it to, out of respect for her and because he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. Then one day they're at his trailer maybe smoking a little, the older ones that is none of the kids as Eddie/Steve would never allow it, they're not completely high but just so that they're brains are slightly hazy and they're looser than usual in the way they act.

She leans across the arm of the couch to pass something to Robin just as Eddie is passing and he sees and just as he does to the guys when they do this he grabs her hips and just thrusts his hips against her ass and she unexpectedly moans in response, the weed lowering her guard so that she's unable to control the moan. Everyone, including the two of them freeze, all eyes on them in their awkward position. She can feel her cheeks heat in embarrassment and she tries to pull away from Eddie, ready to explain herself as when she turns to him she fully expects him to be disgusted with her but as she brushes against him she can feel that he's half hard and his face shows a mixture of shock and arousal.

"Well that is an awkward conversation none of us want to be here for" Steve announces standing us, Robin following and Steve ushes Jeff and Gareth out of the door telling them he'll drop them off.

It's quiet when it's just left to the two of them, a tense silence rather than the usual comfortable one that they occasionally drift off into. Until it leads to both of them awkwardly revealing their crushes on the other as they try to figure out what now?

[make-me-imagine]

Headcanons + One Shot: Crush {R.Z}

Scenarios/Headcanons + One Shot: What Zoro is like when he has a crush on you

Pairing: OPLA Roronoa Zoro x Gn!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Words: 1.5k (Headcanons ~400 ; One Shot 1.1k)

Zoro is well aware of his feelings, BUT he does not portray them in the way he thinks he does.

When he realized he had feelings for you, and that they were not going to go away anytime soon, he decided to embrace them.

You noticed a slight change in his behavior towards you.

He would talk to you more often, listen to you more closely than before.

He could compliment or encourage you more often, even if it was in a 'Zoro' kind of way.

'Hey at least you didn't fall off the ship this time.' 'Good job, next time you might actually succeed.' 'That was an improvement from last time at least.'

Though you noticed the way he changed, you were not aware it was because he had feelings for you. You assumed he had just accepted you as a friend.

Not that you were complaining, you weren't. You had a crush on the green haired swordsman from the beginning.

So any improvement was great.

In Zoro's mind, the meaning behind his actions were obvious.

So when you did not reciprocate, or seem to acknowledge them, he was afraid you did not feel the same.

His nonchalant behavior, slowly became more desperate.

Especially when you seemed to be growing closer to Sanji.

Zoro hated the idea of not receiving your affections, but not receiving them because of him, almost infuriated him.

And just as quickly as Zoro acted more friendly towards you, he was suddenly more withdrawn, though, you noticed the way he would silently hang round you.

Now you were even more confused.

There were no more compliments, no more casual conversations. But he always went with you wherever you went.

If you split up on an island, he would go with you. If you were hanging out in the kitchen with Sanji, Zoro would be sitting at the table, often glaring at Sanji, though this was no different than before. During a fight Zoro would remain close to your side.

His behavior constantly threw you through a loop and you weren't sure what to do about it.

"So what did you do to Zoro this time?" You asked Sanji as you leaned against the railing of the ship.

Sanji huffed as he reeled in his fishing line.

You glanced over to Zoro, who was lying on the railing of the ship across from you, his eyes glaring at Sanji as if he was trying to push him into the water with just his mind.

"I don't think it's me who did something."

You gave him a quizzical stare and he smirked. You pointed at yourself "Me?"

He nodded as he chuckled. "He only glares at me like that when you are around. Otherwise he usually leaves me alone."

You furrowed your brow as you looked back over at Zoro, catching him looking away like he had been caught.

"I don't get it, what does he think is happening?"

"Maybe he thinks I am harassing you. He does seem particularly protective over you."

It was your turn to laugh. "Protective of me? Zoro?"

Sanji nodded with a wide smile, "Don't tell me you didn't notice how he follows you around everywhere."

"Wh- well yeah but...I didn't really think much of it I guess."

"Well you should start."

Sanji's words lingered with you throughout the day, and more and more, you noticed Zoro's attention on you. You had noticed it before, but never to its actual extent.

Even though he had withdrawn from talking to you as much, his eyes followed you everywhere, and he was always within earshot of you. Anywhere you looked, he was nearby, napping, drinking, sharpening his swords, lounging.

And now, as you were fixing a tear in one of the sails, he was lying about ten feet away, appearing as though he was asleep, though you knew better now.

Distracted by your gaze on him, you let out a hiss as you stabbed yourself with your needle. Zoro's eyes shot open at the sound as he looked over at you.

As you looked at the small hole in your finger, a shadow crossed over you. Looking up you saw Zoro staring down at you and your heart skipped a beat.

Crouching down, Zoro took your hand as he looked at your finger. Butterflies swirled through your stomach, "It's just a small poke."

Zoro looked up and met your eyes, "You should still be careful."

You nodded silently, your eyes locked with his. Clearing his throat, he let go of your hand and rose to leave.

"Zoro."

He stopped in his tracks before looking back down at you. Your gaze made his heart flip.

"Did I do something?"

He frowned as he looked down at you, wracking his own brain to understand what you meant.

"What?"

You swallowed nervously, "Well, before, you were so talkative to me, and nice, and then suddenly you stopped. I was just wondering if I did something."

Zoro hadn't realized you noticed he withdrew from you and guilt washed over him. "You didn't do anything."

"Then why? I thought we had finally gotten closer."

He let out a soft sigh before he stepped forward and knelt back down in front of you. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed at you, making your ears and neck grow hot.

"I-" as he hesitated, uncertain of what to say, you gaze patiently at him, only making him feel more nervous.

He let out a sigh as he hung his head, "I don't know what to say."

You smiled softly, "You've never really been good with words. So let me help."

Looking up, his heart flipped at the sight of the soft smile on your lips.

"You started treating me differently, more friendly than before. Then, all of a sudden you stopped. Yet you still seem to always be around me."

The more you spoke, the more unevenly his heart raced.

"And, any time I'm with Sanji, you look as though you could throw him overboard. Though, that is not entirely out of character, it seems to be for a different reason then usual."

Zoro swallowed nervously as he looked around, glad it was still just the two of you on deck.

"Zoro."

His eyes shot back to yours and he could see you repressing a smile.

"Why is it so hard to tell me you like me?"

Zoro seemed to freeze for a moment as he took in your words. Why was it so hard? You obviously figured it out, and you didn't seem to be repulsed by it. So, would it be okay?

"I- I don't know."

His comment was an admittance in itself and your heart raced painfully fast. You bit the inside of your lip, waiting for him to say more, hoping he would.

"I've never felt this before."

You saw the way he was wringing his hands nervously.

"This?"

He let out a soft sigh, you really weren't gonna give up till he said it clearly huh? His lips curled as he met your eyes again.

"When I see you my heart races, quicker, more painful than even when I'm in the middle of a fight. My hands get sweaty, I forget my words. When you enter the room I feel my breath vanish, and when you leave the room I feel the overwhelming urge to follow you. I want to be around you all the time, I want to watch over you, protect you, keep you safe and sound. I want to see you smile and hear you laugh, and I want to be the cause of it. I want-"

Realizing the bright look in your eyes and the way you were repressing a grin, his chest tightened and a smile spread across his own face.

He let out a soft sigh. "I want to keep feeling these things. They scared me at first, but I want to keep feeling them. I want this. I want-... I want you."

Allowing the grin you had been repressing to stretch across your face your eyes were shining with excitement and emotion. "If you were feeling all of those things why did you distance yourself?"

He sighed, "You seemed to be getting close to the waiter."

You giggled softly, "We're friends, crew-mates, but I don't have feelings for him if that's what you were worried about."

"You don't?" You shook your head, "Any?"

You shook your head again with a soft chuckle, "None at all. Any feelings like that are reserved for someone else."

Zoro swallowed as he cleared his throat. "Anyone I know?"

"You might! Tall, swordsman, green hair, quiet, not great with words or emotions."

Zoro chuckled, "Sounds like a catch."

"I think so."

Zoro moved closer to you, his eyes scanning your face, "And if this guy finally get's his head out of his ass and asks you out?"

You grinned at him, "Then I would gladly say yes."

"Well it's a good thing he has then."

"Yes, it is."

xx End xx

Kind of an odd ending, but whatever lol its my first time writing anything on this blog for a while.

General Taglist:  @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry, 

One Piece Taglist: @fangirlextraordinaire, @smileykiddie08 Zoro: @murnsondock,

-Taglist Form-

[simping-writting-mess]

Furina is the type of friend who helps you run through all your closet in order to find the best outfit for a date. After all, she knows what would make Neuvillette speechless.

[itsabea]

March x Reader - Oneshot: Secret Whispers

Description: You and March haven't been dating for long, and lately he seems a bit withdrawn. You don't know what's going on or what to think at first, and no one else seems to know either. While you aren't suspicious of him cheating or anything, you are sure that he's hiding something..

Warnings: slight angst, swearing, March is a softie, a bit long,

i was out of ideas and did a prompt generator when 'secret whispers' came up and i had this idea and i just couldn't not-

Your boyfriend was the only person you knew who could zone in on things so expertly. Whether it be a work request for anything but nails, you, or even when he's curious or interested in something. He would zone in like there was no tomorrow.

And while you found that fact amazing, and so dang cute to witness, right now March was fully zoned in on something - but you had no idea what it was. You had asked Olric and Ryis about what he seemed so busy with lately, but neither were aware of what he was doing.

It wasn't that March was ignoring you either, since he'd always give you a kiss on the cheek when passing each other, and would still spend time with you. But the fact still stood that you felt March was.. Brushing you off. Like he was doing something that he felt was very important. It had you feeling left out is all.

Of course, the thought of March cheating had never stayed long, or had even been humoured in your mind. He just wasn't the type to be able to: one, socialise with other people easily, and two: be able to make a bond with other people easily. March really just wasn't built that way.

One thing you did entertain was that he might simply be doing some work for out of town buyers. It was probable enough, but still left you confused about the state it had put March in. I mean- He was in the zone. So zoned in and focused on.. Whatever he was doing, that he even missed joining the latest Friday night get-together at the Inn.

You hadn't yet confronted March about what he was doing, but figured it was about time you got an answer- Or at least a hint at what he was up to. Which lead to this very moment of you approaching March as he worked away at the Forge.

"Hey, March?" You asked, stretching your head up and out on a slight angle as you spoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he was working away at. "Yeah? I'm a bit busy with this stupid nail order.. But what's up?" March said back, ceasing his clanging for a moment as he turned his head to the side and gave you more of his attention.

"Oh, I've just been wondering if you got a commission lately. You've been really.." You paused for a moment, not wanting to mention that he was 'in the zone'. "You've just seemed really busy lately." You finished, smiling as he looked back at you with questioningly.

"What are you-" His slight squinting and frown disappeared when March cut himself off. It was a mere beat of silence before he spoke up again, prompting you to notice the slight tinge of colour on his ears when he turned his head from you and focused back on the nails he was making.

"Don't worry, it's nothing." March said, although a bit too quickly, before elaborating slightly. "I won't be busy for much longer.. Don't worry- Oh, and make sure you're not busy this Wednesday, okay?" March said before hammering away at the soon to be nails again. Thankfully, you weren't busy Wednesday, but you still didn't know much about what March had been doing lately, let alone the new mystery of why he wanted you free that Wednesday.

While on your way home, you ended up passing Olric and Errol in the Town Square, and caught part of their conversation before leaving earshot. "I swear I saw March doing some kind of.. Jumping dance a few nights ago in the Narrows. It was such a strange sight." Errol said as Olric spoke up after. "Hmm.. I'll have to ask him. But that reminds me that I noticed him using a new temperature at the Forge last week.."

The conversation they had kept with you all throughout the days leading up to Wednesday, where you now sat at your spot by Caldarus. He wasn't the biggest fan of March, but Caldarus was still willing to listen to your ramblings about said boyfriend, and today was no different.

"So, do you know when he'll get here?" Caldarus asked you, prompting you to sigh out with a very visible pout. "No.... I forgot to ask.. And I've been so busy trying to figure out what he's up to that it slipped my mind.." You admitted, slumping into your now propped up hand as you waited next to Caldarus for most of the late morning.

You had quickly fed your animals before you started waiting, but now you had watered your crops, pat your animals, and fished a bit in the river by your farm. And March still hadn't shown up.

The sun was starting to set now, and a pool of sadness began to sit in your stomach. Just as you started your walk back to Caldarus, wanting to confide in him about March not showing up today, you heard the familiar tune of March calling your name.

"Hey, you ready? Sorry I'm a bit late, I-" "Wha- I've been waiting all day!" You said in exasperation as you made your way towards him in a huff. "What do you mean? I mailed you the time of our date." March said with a frown as he looked over at your mailbox. "No you-" Turning, you found a letter half sticking out of said box, prompting your face to go beat red in shame.

How could you have missed that all day? To be fair, you had gotten a bit excited about what March might have wanted you free on Wednesday for.. Only to get mad when he didn't show up.... The slight chuckle that escaped your boyfriend didn't go unnoticed by you, having you look up at him with tired, watery eyes.

"Hey- Wh-" March started after receiving the look you sent him, full of exhaustion that combined with sadness. "I-" You took a moment to gather your words. "I'm tired.. I'm upset with you.. And I need a shower." You said, still slightly muddy and sweaty from your work, despite having not done too much due to the nice clothes you had put on for today.

"Ah.... I guess that's partially my fault.." March admitted, turning to look away from you for a moment, only to look back and swiftly pick you up. "March! What-" "Let's get you cleaned up, and then I'm carrying you to our date. Unless you don't feel like it, then.. I guess I'll try to reschedule somehow." March said, taking you straight to your house and helping with what he could of getting you cleaned up.

You started feeling better as March helped take care of you. He was showing you so much care and attention that the past while of him being busy seemed to melt away. Of course, you hadn't forgotten your curiosity of what he's been up to, but you only decided to raise the question once your energy had mostly returned, and once you agreed and were being carried off to the date he had planned.

"So.. Why have you been so busy lately?" You asked while cradled in his arms, on your way to the Eastern area across from you and Celine's. "You'll find out." March replied with, a slight smiled attempting it's way onto his face as you frowned at him. But when you turned back forward as you entered the Eastern Road side of Town, you were at a loss for words.

Jars filled with fireflies were littered about the area around the ponds, lighting up the ground in a magical way that had you astounded. March was slowly putting you down, allowing you to walk before taking your hand and slowly leading you across the bridge and towards spot with the lone bench and pear tree.

You continued looking around breathlessly, watching the jars you'd get closer to with great interest as the fireflies would twinkled about inside. Before you knew it, you were already at the bench by the larger pond, still staring in awe as March finally spoke up beside you. "I take it you like my surprise? Just so you know, those fuckers were real hard to catch." He said, knowing pride already set in his voice as you had to ask for solid confirmation.

"You did this?" You asked, turning from the breath taking scene before you to look at March beside you, who was still holding your hand. His eyes softened as he looked from you to your hand and back, slowly bringing you hand up towards him as he bowed his head and softly kissed the top of it with a smirk. "You answer me first; do you like it?"

You could only breathe out your reply as you tore your gaze away from March and back out at the display he had done for you. "Yes.." You said, barely above a whisper as you felt March straighten up slightly, only to lean in next to your ear.

"Good." He whispered back, the satisfied smile showing through his words. "I love you." March added after a second of silence, leaning down to kiss your hand again as your face erupted with a deep hue.

[writersblockedx]

Something Inappropriate: Chapter Three

Pairing - Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Summary - Spencer takes Y/n in, doing anything in his power to offer her comfort while she seeks safety in his apartment. Warnings - Mentions of toxic relationship, i think that's it x Words - 2.1K

Masterlist

Spencer Reid's apartment was exactly what Y/n expected but also not at the same time. Of course, his living room/kitchen area was lined with bookshelves, literature ranging from philosophy to quantum physics. All of the spines broken in. He had a leather couch, exactly like the one in his office only bigger and filled with a couple of plush cushions. He had spots filled with plants which were dying for some water but no other sign of life.

Y/n didn't know much about her professor's personal life. Only the information he spoke about in lectures - which barely ever exceeded his past workings alongside the BAU. However, she expected something more to him than well, himself. She first imagined him with at least a girlfriend, wife maybe. But, whenever she had been in his office, all that sat at his desk was a frame pictured of his team and another of him and, who she assumed was, his mother.

He wasn't a recluse, but he certainly seemed introverted. At the very least, Y/n had almost expected a dog or some small pet coming up and greeting her. But, within one glance, she came to realise the only other living thing in this apartment was the withering plants.

"I hope you don't mind the mess," Y/n gazed back around the room; on her terms, this was tidy. "I didn't realise I'd have company."

Y/n shrugged, still shaken from the events of the day, "Dont worry about it." Maybe she needed to clean her own flat if this was what the man considered a mess.

Suddenly, Spencer became very aware of himself. His hands fidgeted at the top of his trousers as he spoke, "Do you want anything? Food? Drink? I have erm-" He was already moving towards the wooden cupboard above the stove, "I have this tea," He graspped a small, unopened box of British tea that the girl didn't recognise. "One of my co-worker likes to try all of them, they're not really my thing." He rambled.

Y/n only shrugged once more, "Sure, I'll try it."

Spencer grabbed two cups, brewing himself a pot of coffee and attempting to make the tea which Penelope had given him. Within five minutes, he wandered over to the sofa and passed the girl her drink. "One of my team members worked in London for a little while, so," He offered an awkward smile.

"Is she the one for gave you the tea?" Y/n questioned as her knees found her chest and she blew against the boiling drink.

The boy laughed in a whisper, "No, no. Our technical analyst visited her once and demanded we all try the different types of teas from over there." He explained.

"I'm guessing you didn't like it then?" She asked.

He shook his head, "Not my thing." And Y/n looked back to the tea, letting it's scent fill her nose; surely it wasn't so bad. She sipped at it, the warmth of the tea filling through her lungs. It wasn't as bad as Spencer made it out to be. A similar taste as coffee: acquired. And, in her current state, she didn't care what she was drinking. All Y/n cared for was whether she was safe or not. When she glanced over at Spencer she felt safe, she felt comforted. Two things which had been rare for her in the past year.

"Could I ask you something?" Y/n speaks up after a moment of quiet, the only sound being the news channel which was lulling in the background of both of their thoughts. Spencer had looked over and nodded instantly, feeling a pull towards her, towards whatever it was which was swirling around in that marvellous mind of hers. "Do you think I could make it? In the BAU I mean. I like to think I'd be able to, but sometimes you talk about cases and all I can compare it to is horror stories."

It was a worry of which lots of students possessed. And it was true for some students, the very smell of a corpse had made several students whom believed they were ready, hurled over and vomiting. There was lots to it. And even now, after all the cases Spencer and his team had gone through, some hit hard. That was always going to be the case - it was just whether you could compartmentalise it or not.

"You're an excellent student, Y/n." Spencer commented, "Being in the field is different but you get used to it and you'll soon learn to draw a line between what happens in the field and what happens at home." The boy continued to explain.

She nodded along and glanced back at her tea, "Is that why you went back to teaching instead?" The girl wasn't certain as to whether she was overstepping. There was line. They had to maintain the relationship of student and teacher. Yet, she was here in his apartment, drinking his tea, sat on his couch. Maybe that line had already been crossed.

Spencer had shrugged, "Partly, I suppose." He answered, giving the girl a small smile.

After that, the girl became quiet. She sipped on her tea and mindlessly watched the brain-numbing tv show that had been playing in the background. Here felt safe. It felt better than had she dared go home, awaiting the sound of the buzzer, of the man she dreaded at her accommodation door. Or even in a motel, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she was somewhere she could call home - of even safe.

But here, here, was safe. He was safe - dare she come to admit such.

And when her eyes became heavy, she didn't stop herself. Not like she normally would. Sleep was scary when that certain ex-boyfriend was on her mind. Y/n's mind never felt safe enough to let her sleep. Not until she was sat across from her professor. In his locked apartment where no one could ever find her.

When Spencer glanced back at her, the girl lulled into her dreams, he slowly stood. He crouched before her, a gentle hand pressing at her shoulder, "Y/n-" He whispered.

The man was met with her jumping awake, a breath sucked right into her lungs like she had been drowning in her sleep. "Hey, hey," He rushed out, "You're okay, you fell asleep, it's okay." He soothed.

Spencer's hand had never left her shoulder and she was grateful for such. His touch was real. This was real - unlike what she thought. Without even thinking, her own hand moved up, grazing against his own, her eyes shutting as to give herself a moment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to jump." She muttered back before her eye fluttered back open.

His eyes explored her own. His hazel hues stared into her like he was reading her very thoughts. The girl wondered if he knew that she wanted him, that she was imagining his arms around her like a protective shield. When Y/n came to realise how inappropriate her own thoughts were, her hand fell. "How about you go to sleep?" Spencer suggested as he too pulled his touch away. "I'll get you some clothes, is that alright?"

Y/n nodded but the very thought of his material on her skin made her shiver. Still she waited in his spare room until he returned. It was like any guest room; bare of much personality. A bed that seemed to not have been slept in since it had been made. A dresser which was home to Spencer's Summer clothes he never wore and some books which weren't impressive enough to lay in his living area.

"Are these alright for you?" He questioned, passing over some joggers and a plain white t-shirt. "I don't know if they'll fit but you know-"

The girl glanced down at the clothes and simply shrugged, "They're perfect, thank you." She offered him a grin as a wave of awkward silence passed over the room; maybe she shouldn't have called his clothes perfect. They were just joggers and a top. Nothing special.

Spencer fidgeted and rolled on the balls of his feet, "Well then I'll erm- I'll let you get some rest." He spoke, already heading to escape what had become an awkward situation.

Once his back was turned, Y/n spoke up; a pathetic attempt to voice the true appreciation she felt for her professor, "Doctor Reid?" She called before the man slowly glanced back at her.

His face softened, his stiff shoulders relaxed, "Please, just call me Spencer."

Y/n's face bobbed down as her smile fought to the surface, "I erm- thank you, again, I mean it. I don't know what I would have done without you." The girl truly meant her words. It was rare she had anyone step in the way Spencer had done, offering her anything and everything. All to ensure her very safety.

"I'm here for you, Y/n." The man assured, "I'm not just your professor, I want to make sure you're okay." He said such so easily. Like he hadn't just maybe said something he shouldn't have done.

Spencer was just her professor. The professor who was looking out for his student's wellbeing. Nothing more - nothing less. Or at least that's what he would be telling himself.

For that night, the two slept in different beds, in different rooms. Yet they were barely meters apart. The comfort of safety made the bed feel like clouds as Y/n finally had the rest she was in such desperate need of. But when morning came, the daunting idea of going into the police station suddenly suffocated her.

She wandered out of the guest bedroom, dressed in nothing but Spencer's t-shirt and her own pants. The man was already there, dressed in bed-head and lazy pyjamas as he leaned over the kitchen stove. It was the scent which met Y/n's senses first; the crisp, burning smell of what she assumed was bacon. "Jesus, what are you cooking?" She winced at the smell, daring to move further into the kitchen.

Spencer glanced back, spatula in hand, "Bacon and eggs." He was gazing back with a harsh shrug, "I don't normally have guests so I'm erm- I'm-"

"Struggling?" Y/n finished his sentence for him. When he nodded, the girl slipped into view of the food. She chucked away the charred bacon pieces, slipped some more oil over the pan and placed fresh rations into the pan. "You had it on too high," She informed as she turned the fire on the stove down, "Hopefully it's better now."

When Y/n looked back to Spencer, she found his eyes already on her, like he was staring into her soul, seeing something in her that he hadn't before. Maybe it was this feeling of a domestic atmosphere. Making breakfast in their pjs, not caring for the fact they weren't ready, the care, the urge to have her here every morning. That was something of which Spencer couldn't shake.

"Right, of course." He mumbled before returning to stare at the meat.

An hour of so later and the two had something which wasn't burnt for breakfast. They were dressed and ready. Or as ready as Y/n could be for something like this. Talking about her ex-boyfriend, even thinking about her, caused her a wave of nerves she couldn't quite escape. And when Spencer's hand reached the door nob of his apartment, he came to realise the girl wasn't following after him.

With it open a jar, he glanced back, "Everything okay?" She simply swallowed the lump which had grown in her throat and Spencer knew. He took a few steps closer to her, "I know this is scary, but it will be worth it. An hour of anxiety, is worth being free of it forever."

The man then extended his hand for her to take, an offer of support. And when Y/n interlocked her fingers with his, she felt more ready than ever. "Yeah, yeah." She nodded before the two exited his home.

She preyed this was the start of the end. No more fighting in the beer gardening, no more panic attacks, no more sleepovers at her professor's apartment....no more security. Maybe it was wrong for her to yearn for this to continue. Not the stalker ex, but these nights, these mornings. Maybe it was wrong for her to long for something so inappropriate. Yet she couldn't seem to help herself and neither could he.

--

Taglist: - @tonystankhere @ilikw @abbiesxox Let me know if you'd liked to be added!

[bangtanfanfiction]

support system → jhs (M)

Based on Hobi’s appearance at the 2022 MAMA awards bcs I’m missing him.��

M.List

♢ Pairing: Idol!Hoseok x Idol female!Reader

♢ Word count: 4.6k

♢ Genre: Idol AU, fluff, smut, comfort, established relationship     - Warnings: swearing, male oral sex, sub/dom tones, dirty talk 

⌲ Description: You’re the support system Hoseok needs in times of uncertainty without his members. And you make sure he knows it. 

not proof read. 

Hoseok felt out of place. 

He was alone where he would usually be surrounded by his six members, each with their own ways of comforting him and making it more bearable, and it was an awkward and anxious feeling alone. The only helpful part was that he wasn’t the only solo artist attending and had someone familiar to speak to.  

But other than being the 5%, the rest were all the hottest and youngest groups to grace the current K-pop industry. And where he knew most of them by name out of courtesy, it didn’t go any further than that. 

As his stomach continued to flutter, there was a moment he thought he would need to get off the stage and just take a moment to himself until he saw his saving grace. You. 

You were walking up the steps to the seating area, your tight sitting and sparkling dress with the exposed leg drawing all the attention as you were oblivious to it, concentrating on talking to a staff member explaining the seating plan as you nodded along. 

His eyes dragged down your body slowly and appreciatively, grateful for the glasses hiding his suddenly impure thoughts. 

There was no doubt you were beautiful. You always were to him. But it was the oozing confidence that you owned in your own skin. Hoseok met female idols on a daily, it came with the job, and as beautiful as all of them were with how the standards were set, you were a shining diamond among them all. 

You had always been outspoken and fearless against the restrictions of a patriarchal and man-dominated culture such as South Korea. You refused to bow down to the sneers of the general public when it came to your state of dress, body image, and the color of your natural skin without being assisted by whitening products. 

His butterflies calmed down as he straightened out his blazer and stood up, making his way surely towards you, ignoring the piercing stares of curiosity from his fellow idols, as they tried to act nonchalantly. 

It was adorable, Hoseok thought. Many of them were nearly ten years his junior either in age or as new rookies, and were rigidly reminded about the strict rules about idols of the different sex interacting. And here he was showcasing the absolute opposite with no shits to give to the higher-ups.

As if they could touch him anyway. 

Your fleeting, yet bright smile met his eyes in acknowledgment as he stopped beside you, hand finding its natural place low on your back as you turned your attention back to the conversation and he waited patiently. 

“Hey,” you finally turned to him, eyes crinkling in the corners as your attention was solely on him. 

“Hey,” Hoseok tried his best to not shut the rest of the world out as he looked down. “You look breathtaking.”

The way your nose scrunched up was the only indication you gave away of your shyness at the compliment. 

Wordlessly he led you towards the couch, as you greeted the rest of the artists already seated with polite bows along the way. With Hoseok seated on the end, you settled down beside him, thighs pressing against each other as you crossed your legs. 

His arm settled on the back of the hardened seat, close enough for his hand to brush against your bare skin on purpose. A habit he did often to simply touch you without crossing the line in public. 

You leaned into his side without fear nor shame, with your relationship public for quite a while now despite appearances together being rare, Hoseok had never been shy to showcase his love for you on Instagram with cute daily stories of your dates and dedicated posts of candid photos. 

“Babe.”

“Hm?” Hoseok’s hum was distracted as your smirk widened, eyes never straying away from watching the staff prepare last-minute details before the show started. 

“Stop staring at my boobs, there are minors here,” your words were only heard by the two of you. 

The way he huffed out a small laugh confirmed your suspicions. He couldn’t help the fact that your dress gave your bosom a generous cleavage which he had full advantage of admiring from his taller perspective with you leaning against him. 

“Minors who are old enough to understand the sight of a man admiring his significant other,” he shrugged shamelessly. “It’s not like I’m doing anything illegal.”

With those words, he took your hand in his own and lifted it to press a quick kiss against the back of it as proof. As much as you wanted to, there was no way you were able to ignore the gasps and shrieks of the audience that was watching the artist section with rapid attention. All you could do was pretend not to notice as you gave him a mock glare and light reprimanded slap against his chest. 

“You own no fear, Jung Hoseok,” you shook your head. 

“Says Miss Fuck-The-Patriarchy.”

The proud tug of your lips was poorly hidden as both of you shared a small laugh at the memories of one of your most well-known quotes from a live stream. 

“Hmm. They had it coming,” was your nonchalant answer. “When’s your performance scheduled for again?” 

“Near the end.”

“Biggest for last, huh.”

His nudge against your side made you both chuckle to yourselves. It was always your favorite pastime to tease him and the other members of their superstar status. You had done it when they first debuted in America when it still seemed like a farfetched joke. Now it had become a reality.

You had never expected anything to come out of your long-time friendship with each other. But then one day it just did. Neither of you had planned or initiated feelings first. It just naturally blossomed into something more and was readily accepted during your usual night walks together to escape the crazy life of entertainment. 

Both of you couldn’t be happier if you asked.

Fame and public scrutiny were already tiring to begin with. But with each other, there was understanding for things normal people might not have understood. So there was a comfort in being in the same industry together and not getting mad about the crazy work hours each had to endure.

“It feels weird,” Hoseok’s low mutter admitted to you as he glanced around.

“It does.” You easily agreed, a comforting hand placed on his thigh. “It’s a new era.”

“Who would have thought?” He chuckled, but you heard the sad bitterness in it. “It seemed like forever away not long ago.”

You knew his feelings didn’t come from jealousy or malicious intent. With Jin’s upcoming enlistment only days away and each of the members preparing for their own in different ways, Hoseok had felt like it was a certain goodbye. To you and his family and friends. 

You silently supported him through it. Because despite it all, this was a journey you couldn’t help him with, only being by his side whenever he needed you to. 

This is also why you made sure to attend all the same events together for extra measure. 

“At least we bring the fun,” Your lips tug up into a slight smirk.

“You mean the scandal?” He returned the look with a tilt of his brow.

“How can it be a scandal if everyone already knows, my love?” You stated, hand coming up to scrape a nail teasingly down his jaw before patting his chest as you felt him give a shiver.

“It might turn into one if you don’t stop teasing me,” He mutters as you giggle.

“Lighten up, okay?” You finally said, this time a genuine softness to your words to put him at ease. It worked, his tense shoulders easing a bit against you.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to bring down the mood today. I guess it’s just weird without the others here.”

“I get it,” Smiling you treaded your fingers through his, resting it on his lap. “They’re your family.”

“So are you.”

Although your heart swelled at his declaration, you only squeezed his hand in gratitude. “But I haven’t been with you since the beginning. That’s a deep bond you can never change.”

Hoseok sighed, nodding. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

With that, his need for intimacy and comforting touches clearly rose as the arm resting behind your shoulders tightened, pulling you even closer to him if possible. A little more and you would end up on his lap. Not that you doubted he would care. 

All the boys had come to a point in their career where they longer gave a fuck about what the public had to say about them. Fans and company included. Some of them were still strict on the privacy of their love lives, but Hoseok had caved in quite early on - his excuse being the need to show you off for everyone without shame. 

How could one say no after that?

It wasn’t until after his performance that you noticed his tension returned gradually, and you were well aware of why. The biggest awards were swept clean by BTS, with two of them being for just Hoseok himself. 

Award after award, you watched with a grin as he thanked the audience, fans, company and fellow artists for all the support. You both thought the last of it with the Artist of Year award usually closing up the show, but then were surprised yet again with a new award made just for your favorite seven boys. 

Your keen eyes noticed quickly during the last Daesang introduction that your boyfriend was getting emotional, or at least feeling the immense pressure of their status as BTS. 

That was why the moment BTS was called up as expected, you watched proudly as Hoseok took a second in his seat to take it all in before standing up. 

His eyes flickered to yours and before he chickened out from all the attention, he pulled you into an intimate hug in front of everyone, hands low on your waist as your own wrapped themselves around his neck for a short, loving moment. At the last moment, he leaned in to place a peck on the corner of your mouth before stepping away towards the main stage. 

Several eyes had widened, some squeals as well as hollers of encouragement from the younger artists. 

You continued to act as if nothing happened, trying to at least. But the flush that was spreading across your face was hardly hidden from anyone who paid attention. 

You thought that was the end of any attention on you. 

“I want to thank one more person.” 

You felt the stares burning into your skin, cameras turning as the blush came anew. 

“Where BTS and ARMY have been my mountain of support, this person has been my anchor. The one to keep me afloat whenever I felt like drowning. The one to love and support me through all my anger, stress, and sadness. But also the one to always keep me on my toes.” He added the last one with a teasing tilt as light laughter rang out. 

Your eyes were watering. Doing your damn best to keep the waterfall back as your listened to his heartfelt devotion to you. 

“Y/N, some might call us young and stupid no matter how old we are. But I know for certain you are the one for me, you have been since day 1. I love you so much, I don’t even have the right words to tell you right now. Thank you.”

Your face showed up on camera just as you blew a kiss with your hands in his direction, cheeks slightly blotchy and watering eyes, mouthing a soundless ‘I Love You’ as his grin widened. 

It felt like forever before you found yourself in Hoseok’s arms again, this behind the stage as both of you were ushered away while the encore was ongoing. You nearly bowled him over in your haste to simply touch him as he stumbled back a step before balancing himself with a low chuckle. 

“I love you so much, baby,” Your whisper was croaking with emotion just as he caught your lips into a slow, loving caress. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

+

“Baby, are you hungry?” Hoseok welcomed the feeling of pure relief as he took off all his accessories and the heavy leather coat, organizing them carefully on the table and hanging up the clothing on a hanger to give it back to the styling team tomorrow. 

He had noticed your quick retreat into the bathroom, probably to scrub away all the makeup and grime which he knew was your favorite part to the end of a long day such as these.

“I can order some room service if you want to,” He continued talking, unbuckling his belt while carefully slipping off his designer shoes. “Maybe some pasta or dessert? I’m craving something sweet after that performance.”

“Yeah, I could do with some dessert.” Your reply came softly from behind him, although lacking the fervor you usually had when he suggested to get some sweets late at night.  

“Ugh, thank god, I think my body needs some sugar after today,” Hoseok laughed, turning around only to choke on it as he coughed.

Fuck. 

Shit. He must be in heaven. Or hell. 

Because you were looking like you were sent from the heavens to torture him.

A black lacy ensemble of lingerie encasing your curves must have been laced with the devil’s poison itself with how transfixed he was taking it all in.

A lace bralette softly covering your chest with a matching thong and garter belt encasing your waist. The stockings running up your legs and strapped firmly by your thighs making his throat dry as he took in the same heels you still wore from earlier. 

You were a wet dream come true. 

And you damn well knew it with the smirk on your face as you stepped towards him. “Cat got your tongue, baby?” 

“What?”

The smirk widened at his nonsense answer. His eyes never strayed from your body as he tried to imprint the image in his brain.

You were right in front of him now, fingers playing with the lapels of his now unbuttoned shirt and hanging loosely down his frame, the belt still hanging on his hips. 

“I’m still in the mood for some dessert, aren’t you?” 

“Whatever you say, baby,” His dazed muttering made you let out an airy laugh, giving him one firm push as he stumbled back a step only to meet the edge of the bed and stumbling down, elbows pushing him up to never lose sight of you. 

"Aren’t you gonna ask me what kind of dessert?” You damn well near purred, slowly creeping your way up along his body, hand teasing his expanse of exposed skin raising goosebumps along the way until your face was hovering inches above his.

“What kind of dessert?” He murmured, dark brown eyes locking with your own, flickering down to your lips. 

“My favorite kind.” 

With that you pressed a firm yet teasing kiss against his lips, leaving him to chase after you as you put a stern hand on his shoulder to push him back down before stepping off the bed and down on your knees between his spread legs. 

He had already done half the job by unbuckling the belt. Distracting him with the press of your lips against the soft surface of his stomach, his abs tensed along with the deep breaths he took before relaxing. 

Hoseok was already half hard as you palmed him, his silent groan vibrating through his whole body before pulling down his underwear for enough access to his whole cock. 

Without hesitation you started at the base, wrapping your hand around his length and rubbing him firmly as he sighed above you, fingers curling into fists by his sides. 

Keeping an eye on his face, you watched while leaning in, sucking the tip of his cock into your mouth, tongue swirling against the slit as Hoseok’s head fell back with a soft moan. Slim, large hands automatically found leverage on your head as you took him deeper, gently moving up and down as your own hands moved to palm his balls - causing his soft moans to turn into guttural groans, veins in his neck straining. 

Feeling the tenseness of his whole body you pulled away, as his eyes snapped open, neck craning to look at you, protest clear in his mouth. 

“Relax, baby” You grinned at him. “This is my gift for you, so enjoy it.”

“You’re gonna be death of me.” Hoseok huffed out a laugh, voice slightly choked as your hand never stopped moving on his length. 

“Wait,” his voice was deliciously hoarse, a darker rumble that went straight down to your own throbbing pussy. You watched fondly as he stretched backward to grab the closest hotel pillow and handed it to you. 

He had barely settled back on the bed before you gripped him tighter, tongue already making a path down his veins and swallowing him deeper without preparation. 

Hoseok nearly lurched up, fingers digging into your scalp with a hissed curse.  

“Jesus Fuck, Y/N.” His moan of your name did ridiculous to your body, eagerness to please your hardworking boyfriend increasing until his knees were shaking. 

Bobbing your head, you sucked enthusiastically, following the motions of his own hands whether he noticed it or not.

Hoseok had somehow managed to push himself up into a sitting position, the need to watch you closer as you pleased him controlling his body. 

Your intentions had been obvious to him early on. You wanted to spoil him to completion, but at the same time torturing his senses through the journey - just because he knew you could. He had learned fairly quick in the relationship that you had a thing for seeing him come apart beneath your touch, controlling his pleasure and seeing him beg you to let him come. 

His half-lidded gaze never left the perfect-picture vision of your pretty pink lips around his cock, swollen and drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth as you moaned softly to his harsh pants, eyes fluttering shut. The vibrations of it sent tingles down his legs and spine, coaxing another moan from him. 

“You’re so fucking good, baby.” Hoseok managed to breathe out. Praise only spurring you on if that was possible. 

The love of his life was sucking his cock like it was the best damn lollipop in town, and the sight of it would always be one of the most arousing scenes he would ever see. 

He was pretty certain he could die in this position without regrets. 

“That’s it.” Murmuring he eased his hold on your hair, the other supporting him on the bed, fingers curling into the sheet as he watched you spellbound. 

Shit, you were loving it between his legs. Sounding and looking like Hoseok was already pounding your brains out. He was basically yours to own at the moment.  

“Spell your fucking name on it.”

Your broken moans at his words caused a knowing smirk to play at his lips for a single moment until he nearly fell apart again the very next, eyes falling shut at the mindblowing sensations your tongue could give him. 

You hummed, deep in your throat, drawing the most panth-worthy moans from Hoseok’s lips, his usual decorum of trying to keep it down evaporating. His moans were some of your favorite sounds in the world - going from soft high pitches whenever he got close before falling back down to the low tones as he tried to catch his breath. 

His thighs tensed, fingers gripping the strands of your hair nearly frighteningly tight with a mutter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m-I’m gonna cum–”

Hoseok knew you had heard him. His moans turned desperate, breaking up into near frantic stutters as he got closer to his high, just for you to pull back slowly with a pop - a knowing, almost vindictive smile on your face. 

“Baby!” If you didn’t know better, you would almost say that was a sob coming from him as you left him high and dry. 

Your cunt was throbbing almost painfully at this point, craving any touch for relief, but you held it back for favoring your boyfriend’s pleasure. 

“Patience, my love,” You murmured as your rose up, gently pushing him back down on the bed as you pulled off his underwear and pants off, kicking them to the side, leaving only the open shirt on his otherwise sweating, naked body. 

And what a glorious body that was. 

Lean and tan with smooth expanses of skin you wanted to lick all over, the lines of a dancer’s firm muscles lining every part of him. 

Fuck, Jung Hoseok was fucking delicious, and all yours. 

Making sure that he was watching, you slipped off the thong down your legs, watching as his throat bobbed in anticipation. You left the bralette on and the strategically worn garter and stockings to not be in the way of your underwear. 

Easily taking off your heels too, you crawled over his body on all fours, settling just on his slim hips and giving a teasing roll of your own, his bare cock sliding against the evident arousal of your own as he gave a breathy curse. 

“You’re so wet, baby,” Hoseok said almost fascinated, despite your years together. And he supposed he wasn’t wrong. You were going a bit wild tonight compared to the usual sex the two of you had. 

“All because of you,” Leaning forward again, you kissed him softly, but Hoseok was done playing nice and giving into your demands.

His hand curled around the back of your neck, forcing you completely down against his chest, bodies lining up against each other, mouth licking into your own harshly, catching your breath with a sigh. 

Your hips had a mind of their own at this point, slowly grinding against his hard cock, covering his length with your wetness as Hoseok moaned, the sound caught by your lips as you gave a firmer roll. 

Wordlessly reaching down between your bodies, you gripped his length in your hand lining him up and slowly pushed down with a breathy moan, his fingers digging into your hips as you both shuddered when he bottomed out. His whole body trembled in near relief, and you knew he wasn’t going to last long with the amount of teasing you had already put him through. 

“Fuuuuck…”

Your nerves felt like they were on fire. Every single movement sending zips of bliss through you as you breathed in deeply to take control of your sanity. With a loving smile, you firmly placed both hands on Hoseok’s chest for support before lifting your hips only to slam them down with a shuddering moan. 

Hoseok was sure he was going to come within the next five seconds with the way you were moving your hips above him, obviously trying your damn best to send him into oblivion. 

The sound of your wet cunt was almost obnoxious, squelching for every single lift and drop of your thighs. Through his pleasure glazed haze, he could see the inside of your delicious thighs glistening with the evidence. 

He thought he already knew of the best feelings in the world; the adrenalin before getting on stage, hearing his fans scream his name or sing to their songs as he basked in their cheers. 

But his personal, and secret favorite would always be the complete bliss that spread through his entire body from your pussy clenching down on him.    

You were getting tired, Hoseok noticed. Your rhythm slowing and pleasure tenfolding as you started to grind down with airy moans, trying to find relief for your throbbing clit. 

Despite being rock hard and ready to burst, he couldn’t help but coo at you as he pulled you back down against his chest. “Is my princess getting tired?”

You whimpered, fingers traveling up to grip his hair, your grinding starting to loose its control. 

Tracing a hand down your sweating back, he gripped your ass with a rough tug, pushing his cock further against your walls as your breath hitched. 

“What do you want, baby?” He whispered into your ear, giving it a nip and soothing it with his tongue. “Use your words, princess.”

“Please fuck me, Hoseok,” It was your turn to beg now. “I need you to fuck me. Make me cum on your cock, please.”

Just your words were ready to end him. 

With an almost chaste kiss against your temple, an opposite action to what the two of you were doing, he granted your wish. Changing his position, he put both feet on the bed for support and then he truly fucked you. 

Nearly pistoning upwards to meet your shallow thrusts, with your high pitched moans and nails raking down his arms spurring him on like a madman chasing after gold. 

His moans mixed with your own, both craving release at this point, your skin slapping against each other without abandon. With half a mind, Hoseok managed to push his hand between your sweat slicked bodies, long fingers finding your soft, swollen clit as he circled the sensitive nub. 

You came with a silent scream, mouth open and body tensing like a log, the pleasure zipping through you like fucking lightning, toes curling as your pussy clenched down so hard, he followed you shortly with a muffled groan against the curve of your neck. 

His fingers didn’t stop, only slowing down and gently guiding you through your high. 

Just as the sensitivity was starting to kick in, his cock still firmly nestled inside you throughly emptied, you whined at him. 

“Too much,” Your voice was a hoarse whimper, trying to swat at his still moving hand. 

But his next stern words grunted out, made your throat dry. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

“I-I can’t,” You whispered, but voice shaking in anticipation.

“Yes, you can. One more, sweetheart. Just for me.”

“Baby, I-” 

Whatever it was you wanted to say cut off with a sob as his fingers sped back up from their gentleness, pressing down more firmly on your clit as your hold on him turned damn near painful.

“Come on, just one more.”

What was supposed to be him falling apart had now turned - Hoseok having you at his mercy as his movements didn’t stop. 

Despite your begging, you could feel it again. That addicting pleasure building within you as your resistance turned into compliance, hips starting to move again, grinding against his touch. Your orgasm came slowly this time around, heat coating your senses like a caress - with you almost sobbing softly as your high came, body trembling and twitching as his fingers finally stopped. 

Neither knew how many minutes you simply lay in each others arms in silence. Soaking each other in, his soft cock still inside you as your skin cooled down to the point of goosebumps as the air was no longer stuffy. 

“We need to shower,” Hoseok whispered gently, hands slowly caressing up and down your spine lovingly. 

“Just a little longer…”

Chuckling at your drowsiness, you managed to lift your head up from his shoulder only to grin. “I love you.”

His eyes were sparkling. “I love you too.”

This has been in the drafts since last year. So yeah. 

[marvelstoriesepic]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[yoonavii]

Never popped a request to anyone via tumblr before but ahhh I loved your most recent Sanji fic so much. You're so talented ❤️

If you ever feel inspired, what about something where Sanji joins the crew, and sees how close reader and Zoro are (whether or not Zoro actually does have feelings for reader, idk!), and he gets jealous, until some event or fight and the reader shows how she cares for him and it all comes out in the open

(love me a bit of angst!)

Thank you!!🥺 and Welp, I’m inspired!! I tried my best with this one cause I’ve been a little dusty with angst lately so I apologize in advance. Hope you still enjoy it though!

Jealous

OPLA! Sanji x Reader

After the tumultuous events at the Baratie, Sanji officially joined the Straw Hat Pirates as their skilled cook. Initially, he was thrilled to be part of the crew, living his dream of sailing the Grand Line with an extraordinary group of individuals. However, as the days turned into weeks, he couldn’t help but notice something that gnawed at his heart – your growing closeness to Zoro.

On the surface, it was an inseparable bond formed through countless adventures, battles, and shared moments. You and Zoro seemed like kindred spirits, and it was clear to everyone that you had each other’s backs. They trained together, sparred together, and sometimes, they even spent hours talking about their dreams late into the night.

For Sanji, it was painful to watch. He had harbored deep feelings for you but never found the courage to express them. Instead, he masked his emotions with jealousy, believing that you and Zoro shared a connection that he could never hope to replicate.

As the crew continued their journey, heading toward the tumultuous waters of the conomi islands to save Nami, the tension between Sanji and Zoro escalated. Their arguments, once subtle jabs, had evolved into full-blown conflicts, often ending in physical confrontations. The crew couldn’t ignore the rift growing between them, and their division was affecting their performance in battles.

One day, as the crew faced off against the Fish-Men on the foreboding Arlong Park, the simmering animosity between Sanji and Zoro reached its boiling point. The battlefield became a stage for their pent-up anger to explode. Swords clashed against kicks, and fists met with blades in a cacophony of violence. You, exhausted from fighting alongside your bickering crewmates, couldn’t take it any longer. With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you stepped boldly between Sanji and Zoro, ignoring the danger of the ongoing battle. “Enough!” you roared, your voice cutting through the chaos. “We can’t afford to be divided like this, especially in a battle like this one!”

Sanji and Zoro froze, their faces flushed with anger, but they both turned their attention to you. Your presence had an immediate calming effect. You took a deep breath, then continued, “Sanji, Zoro, we’re a crew. We’re a family. And I can’t stand to see you two at odds like this.” Sanji’s expression softened as he listened intently to your words. You took a step closer to him, your voice quivering slightly with vulnerability. “Sanji, you should know that I care about you deeply. It’s not just about Zoro and me. I want us all to be close and support each other. If it’s causing you pain, then let’s find a way to work through it.”

Sanji’s heart raced as he absorbed your confession. He never expected to hear those words from you. Slowly, he nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I… I feel the same way y/n. I was just being stupidly jealous.” You reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, your touch gentle and reassuring. “Let’s put this behind us, Sanji. We can be together as a crew, as friends, and as something more, if you want.”

With the tension diffused, Sanji and Zoro exchanged a begrudging nod of understanding. The three of you returned to the battle, but this time, there was a newfound unity among the Straw Hat Pirates. While they hadn’t completely resolved their differences, they had taken the first steps toward mutual respect, recognizing that they each had their unique strengths and weaknesses. The bonds of the crew were stronger than ever, and as you fought side by side, you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that you had mended a broken heart and solidified the crew’s unbreakable spirit.

As the sun set on Arlong Park, a feeling of hope and reconciliation washed over the crew. Sanji and Zoro had begun to understand that their differences could be complementary rather than divisive, and with your support, they would continue to grow and adapt as a unified crew. The journey continued, marked by a deeper sense of camaraderie, love, and acceptance, proving that even in the face of jealousy and conflict, the bonds of friendship could prevail and grow stronger.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

[rosecoloredsunshine]

come and find me now — kyle spencer

masterlist | request link

PAIRINGS: post-death!kyle spencer x female!reader

SUMMARY: you knew that there was something wrong that's going to happen the moment zoe brought kyle back to his mother, so you took the matters into your own hands.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, mentions of death (minor), reader is a witch, there are some inaccuracies, angst, hurt, comfort, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i've been very busy this week, reason why i haven't posted any fics. but i have a free time now, so i'll try to post the other fics (mostly requests). to the one who requested this, i hope it's up to your standards. enjoy! :)

The garden at Miss Robichaux’s was quiet today, magnolia trees swaying gently as their petals floated to the earth like snow. You sat beneath one of them, fingers grazing the yellowing page of an old spellbook. You were always reading, always observing. The world moved fast around you, too loud and too careless, but you took your time. You listened and you learned.

You knew things. Things the others didn't and couldn't notice, like how Queenie tapped her foot when she was lying, or how Cordelia’s smile never quite reached her eyes anymore. You definitely knew that Zoe Benson had done something reckless, the energy around her had changed that night she and Madison came back from that frat party. There was a stillness to her now, like she was holding her breath, and it wasn't long before she confided in you.

“We brought someone back,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as though the walls might be listening. “His name is Kyle. He died, and we used resurgence.”

Your heart dropped like a boulder in your chest. A resurrection spell—a dangerous and volatile magic. Forbidden unless under direct order of the Supreme, and even then, only if it was clean, but this wasn't. You already knew that without needing to ask, though you also knew Zoe wasn't strong enough to pull it off alone.

“He didn't deserve what happened to him,” she says, voice thin and trembling. “He was a good person.”

You believe her. That's the thing, Zoe never lies, not really. She just wants to fix things, and she thought bringing Kyle back would fix it. But you also know magic like that comes with a cost. You saw it in Kyle’s eyes the day she brought him back, there was nothing behind them.

Then Misty got involved, and you understood that too. She’s a wild soul—Misty, but she knows resurrection better than anyone. You could sense her magic clinging on Kyle like vines, but still, Misty couldn't restore what had been broken. Not entirely.

The broken pieces of a boy sewn back together like some patchwork doll. The only part of him that was truly him was his head, but the rest? It was a collage of other bodies. No wonder the soul had trouble finding peace, no wonder Kyle screamed more than he spoke. His body wasn't home anymore, it was a cage. He didn't speak, he grunted, sobbed, and lashed out. There were days he sat curled up in the greenhouse, rocking himself, murmuring things that didn't make any sense.

You would always watch him from afar. You wanted to help, but he flinched at everything that wasn't Zoe.

“I’m taking him back to his mother,” she whispered to you one day. “He needs someone, someone familiar.”

You stared at her like she had grown a second head. “You can’t do that, Zoe.”

You had seen the bruises on his spirit, and it’s not the kind magic could heal. The kind left by years of secrets, you saw the way his entire body locked up when Zoe mentioned his home.

“She loves him,” she insisted. “She’ll help.”

You didn't agree, but you didn't fight her. Instead, you just watched her go, and something in your chest wouldn't settle for that.

It was like an itch you couldn't scratch, a scream you couldn't let out. Days passed, and you decided to keep your mouth shut, hands busy. But the silence got louder, it clawed your insides, gnawed at your thoughts. Then one morning, you woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and you knew—something was wrong. You didn't tell anyone, so you grabbed your keys and drove.

The Spencer house sat tucked in a sleepy New Orleans neighborhood, all peeling paint and dying hydrangeas, a hollow place. The front door was open, so you let yourself in. The house was quiet, not peaceful, but dead. There were dishes in the sink, a chair knocked over, and a picture frame shattered. The air also reeked of copped and rot and something else—something grief-stricken.

You heard it. A sob that is raw, broken, and animalistic. It led you down the hall, past family photos that made your skin crawl. Smiling faces, Kyle’s too, but younger and innocent, not yet touched by death or magic or cruelty. The sobbing got louder as you walked towards the sound, you then pushed the door, and there Kyle was—curled into himself on the bloodstained carpet, his finger torn and red. The wall behind him splattered with it, and his face wasn't just blood on him, it was grief.

You saw her mother slumped on the floor, lifeless. You didn't look at her long, you only saw Kyle. He didn't see you at first, he was trembling, rocking, chest heaving with ragged sobs. Every breath sounded like it hurt. When you moved towards him, his head snapped up, eyes wild and desperate.

Kyle didn't speak, he couldn't. But the look on his face broke your heart. You dropped to your knees beside him, not caring about the blood, not caring about anything except the boy that is in front of you.

“I’m here,” you said softly, reaching for him. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a scream, and then he collapsed against you. His arms wrapped around your waist, body shaking with silent horror. You held him tighter as the blood soaked into your shirt, you didn't flinch.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, over and over. “I know. I know.”

Because you did. You knew what she did to him, what his mother was. You could feel it in the walls of this place, the ghosts and shadows. You held him until he stopped shaking.

You quickly got to work. It was frantic, messy, and desperate. You didn't think, you just moved like a robot. Bleach, towels, garbage bags—you knew how to make things disappear. You have seen enough in this life to know what the world doesn't want to look at. By the time the sun began to set, you were done.

You stood in front of him, blood still under your nails, and offered your hand. “Come with me,” you said. “You don’t have to stay here, I’ll take care of you.”

Kyle’s eyes were wet, lost. But he took your hand.

Once you were both back, you brought him to your room, where it was quiet and safe. You set up a cot beside your bed, but when you turned around, Kyle was already curled on your comforter, clinging to your pillow like it was a lifeline.

You smiled softly. “Okay, you can stay there.”

You dimmed the lights and slipped in beside him, unsure of when the last time he’d had real sleep. In the quiet of the night, you felt his finger reach out for yours. He didn't speak, he didn't have to.

“I’ll protect you,” you whispered into the dark. “I know what it’s like to have a body that remembers pain, but we’ll unlearn it. Together.”

Kyle pressed his forehead to your shoulder, and for the first time, his breathing was steady. You didn't tell anyone that he’s back, at least not yet. Not until he was ready. You would teach him again—how to speak, write, and most importantly, how to live. Then, maybe in time, how to trust.

You were the quiet one, the one who knew everything, and now, you knew what love looked like in its rawest form—it is the broken boy that is in your bed right now.

You promise that you would never let him break again.

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[k-popbookshelf143]

Brother's Best Friend

Synopsis: Your older brother, Chan, is gone on a trip to Italy for a week. He doesn't trust you to stay by yourself so he enlists the help of his best friend (unbeknownst to him your secret boyfriend), Felix, to keep watch over you for the entire week.

Key:  Y = Y/N, F = Felix, C = Chan

*Y/N's POV*

I really can't believe this.  Bang Chan, MY BROTHER, doesn't trust me to stay by myself at our apartment while he goes on a trip to Italy for the week.  He asked his best friend, Felix, if i can stay with him for the week, and of course Felix said yes.  Don't get me wrong I love Felix, but its the principle of the thing of being perfectly capable of being on my own.  

Y:  Chan you do know that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself right?

C:  Of course I know that, but I still don't trust you alone, especially with the fact you don't clean        your room.

Y:  What does cleaning my room have to do with anything?

C:  Everything, you're a complete mess and you're gonna make a mess when I'm gone.

Y:  Wow I feel the love.

C:  You know I love you, I'm just making sure your gonna survive for a week without me.

Y: I could survive without you

C:  Mhm sure you could

Y:  Hurtful

C:  I'm joking love, but seriously don't burn the house down.

Y:  How can I with Felix watching me?

C:  Exactly, he'll keep an eye on you.

Y:  You got everything.

C:  Yeah yeah, I'm leaving now, love you both, bye.

Y:  Love you too, see you next week.

C: See you next week, and remember to clean your room while I'm gone, or else I'll force you to         clean it when I get back.

Chan smiles before he walks out the door with his bags to go to the airport and Felix and I are left to our own devices.  All I can think is now that my brother has finally left for his trip I can act all lovey dovey with my boyfriend, Felix, without getting caught by my brother who is also his best friend.  We haven't told him about us because we are afraid of how he will react and if he will make it weird.

Y:  I'm gonna miss him.

F:  I know right he is such a pain in the butt.

Y:  Don't lie your gonna miss him too.

F:  Yeah, I'll miss him a lot, but at least I'm stuck with you for a week~

Y: Exactly

F:  *he smirks and looks at me* Alone with you for a whole week~

Y:  So, MOVIES AND CUDDLE TIME.

F:  *his smirk grows* That sound good to me darling.

We make our way to the kitchen to get popcorn and snacks.  Felix stands behind me while I grab the popcorn , and he wraps his arms around my waist.  I then move to put the popcorn in the microwave and he moves with me while still holding onto my waist like his life depends on it with his face buried in the crook of my neck.  I turned around in his arms while the popcorn was popping.

Y:  I'm actually surprised that Channie hasn't figured it out.

Felix chuckles as I turned around, now my back was pressed against the counter and I was trapped between his arms.

F:  I know, I honestly though he would have caught on by now.

Y:  Should we tell him when he gets back or see how long it takes for him to realize we are a                 couple?

F:  Let's see how long it takes for him to realize, this is way more fun.

The microwave beeps signaling the popcorn is done.  Felix pulls away from my neck to get it out of the microwave and sets it on the counter. 

F:  Go pick out a movie princess, I'll get us some drinks.

Y:  Ok

Felix pats my butt gently as I walked away to head to the living room.

Y:  What movie do you want to watch? 

F:  Surprise me darling.

He called out as he was getting two cans of coke out of the fridge.

Y:  Wanna binge watch the Marvel movies?

F:  Yeah, I love Marvel movies, and I love you.

Y:  I love you too.

Felix walks into the room and hand me a can of coke.  He goes to sit down on the couch.

Y:  Wait

F:  What's wrong Princess?

Y:  Do you want to do a blanket fort?

F:  *chuckles and nods* Sure, I like that idea.

Y:  You get the pillows and I'll get the blankets.  Then we can flip the couch together.

F:  *stands up* On it Princess.

I run upstairs to grab as many blankets as possible (especially the Marvel ones) while he got as many pillows as he could.

Y:  *runs back downstairs* GOT THE BLANKETS!

F:  *chuckles as he watches* Your fast, come here and give me some princess.

I trip on the end of one of the blankets and start to fall down the stairs.

F:  *his eyes widen in fear for my safety and he quickly grabs my waist to stop me from falling*             Woah there be careful.

Y:  My hero.

F:  *pulls me close to him and chuckles* I'll always catch you darling.

Y:  You know what?

F:  *raises a brow* What is it Princess?

Y:  You look like Link from the Legend of Zelda

F:  *laughs* Do I? That's funny, I guess you can call me Link then.

Y:  And he was my first childhood fictional crush.

F:  *smiles* Oh yeah? He was your first childhood crush huh?

Y:  Yep and your my childhood dream come true.

F:  *He chuckles and kisses my forehead* I'm glad I can fulfill your childhood dream princess.

Y:  You truly are the Link to my Zelda.

F:  *snickers at my corny joke* And you are the Zelda to my Link Darling.

Y:  You could be Link and I could be Zelda for Halloween.

F:  *hums in thought and nods* That's a good idea, you'd look amazing as Zelda.

Y:  And so would you my Link.

F:  *smiles and picks me up, carrying me to the couch* I can't wait to see you in that costume              darling.

After he puts me and the blankets down near the couch, I help him flip it over and finish setting up the blanket fort.

F:  *after setting up the fort, he sits down in the middle of the blankets and holds his arms out to        me* Come here princess.

I  crawl over to him and we lean back against the pillows.  He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest and holds me in his lap.  We watch the Marvel Movies in timeline order until we both start to drift off to sleep.  Felix holds me tightly in his arms as he falls asleep with his head resting on top of mine.

Y:  *sleepily* I love you Felix

F:  *he mumbles in his sleep* I love you too princess so much."

[xiao-qian]

What if I told you none of it was accidental? Oneshot

A/N: this is inspired by the line “what if I told you none of it was accidental?” In mastermind by Taylor swift. Btw so sorry if this is trash, it’s 1:37am, I’m not a very good writer but I needed fanfic lmao

TW: none

[this is set in an AU where Y/N is dating Tim but he doesn’t know Y/N had it all planned it all out]

Word count: 367

Link to mastermind

Spotify Playlist

He planted a kiss on your forehead. 

“Hurry up I made us dinner”

“Lemme take off my shoes first damn💀”

He had just gotten home from work. Tim was definitely a workaholic, but he’s always make time for you, no matter what. 

As you chatted on, he joked that you were a mastermind it’s an inside joke lmao and so, as every girl who knows that song by Taylor swift, you started singing the song in your head.

“Dinner was so good. I’m gonna go shower, you should rest for a bit” he said as he grabbed his towel. 

“Mhm” you responded

“What if I told you none of it was accidental and the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me” the lyrics repeated over and over again in your head.

And it reminded you of the first night you saw Tim.

You were walking through the gala. Your typical few groups of people. Nothing special. Socialites putting on fake personas, old ladies dressed like Queen Elizabeth, ambulance sirens in the background. because well its Gotham 

And then you saw him - Tim drake. You knew of him, but aside from maybe business? He probably didn’t know you existed. Either way, your extroverted ass walked over to him and you started talking .

Y/N: yo, you’re Tim drake right? It’s Y/N. Y/N L/N 

Tim: oh, hi

Y/N, leaning against the table: galas suck bro. My feet hurt so bad

Tim: real. 

After a while, after the initial awkwardness had faded away, you found out you both had a lot of shared hobbies and basically ignored everyone else until the gala ended because you two were to busy yapping away

Then, you snapped back to reality. Eminem reference yay “what if I told him I planned this all out” your conscience was getting the better of you. No. You couldn’t. You shouldn’t. He probably break up with you and call you a stalker. 

“Whatever” you were quite good at ignoring your conscience, as you had done it on multiple occasions.

That night, before you slept, you thought of it one last time. Yeah no, I’m taking this to the grave, you thought out loud.