#this got way longer than I expected anyway

[luvyuuma]

Welcome to writing for &team!! I hope you enjoy it and remember to have fun 🤭

I can’t get over how much Nico would def say “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” like that sounds so baby girl of him! What are your thoughts my love?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: thank u!! yes! he definitely would say something like this HAHAHA thinking of making this into a full ass fic IDK anyways hope u enjoy this one <3

SYNOPSIS / when you break your arm, your ex-best friend nicholas is the one who shows up to the hospital and sits by you for hours. then, he confronts you about the distance you were in between the two of us.

TW / none

WC / 1.1k words

PAIRING / nicholas x gn!reader

touch-starved &team prompt list

NICHOLAS + “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” + "I can't remember the last time I did this with someone"

“Are you okay?” he asks for the umpteenth time.

You sigh exaggeratedly. Had you not broken your arm, you would’ve attacked Nicholas by now.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, eyes growing wide.

“I told you already, Nicholas. You should go home. I’ll be fine here,” you tell him.

Nicholas shakes his head profusely, “I can’t leave you like this.”

“You’re killing me, you know that?” you deadpan, looking down at the bed tray in front of you. Jelly-like pudding stared back at you, reminding you that hospital food is indeed food cooked in Hell.

“I won’t be able to sleep if I stay home, knowing I could’ve stayed with you longer.”

You look up again.

He’s staring at you, all innocent-like but you can read between the lines. Being friends with Nicholas for three years gave you a deep insight on who he really is. Smart, kind and takes care of you in a way you had never expected anyone to. It’s the fact that you wouldn’t have to ask either—he just does things around you while you simply existed.

It didn’t stop there.

It got intense at some point.

Brief touches—holding your waist to get past you, patting your head, hugs that lasted an eternity and night of sobriety at a party that felt like drunkenness. You swore that night you were about to kiss, Nicholas was about to tell you something but it slipped away.

It’s been months…

You’d distance yourself from him since. It was turning into something you weren’t sure you wanted.

He’s your best friend. He’s like a brother to you.

Then, you started craving his presence. It’s true, what they say. You only want something when it’s gone; when it was there, you had no trouble using it and now that it’s gone, you walk around forever craving it.

However, you were lucky.

You’d broken your arm and you needed someone to get your toiletries for you. Nicholas is the only one with a spare key to your apartment. The only one who would care enough to bring it to you.

So that’s why you’re sitting here—you on the hospital bed with unappetising dinner and he’s dragged a chair next to you. You’ve been like this for hours, catching up on what you missed out on the last few months.

But neither of you mentioned the distance you had.

Someone had to.

“What—“

“What happened to us?” he interrupts you.

You’re flabbergasted.

Nicholas sees it in your face. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you respond. 

It’s easier than bringing it up yourself. Confrontation was not your strongest suit. Acting like everything is okay? You’re the most confident.

“Yes,” Nicholas says. “You do.”

“Nicholas, you should really go home now,” you murmur, putting your head down.

A beat and a half of silence saunters slowly past the two of you. The faint shuffling of the nurses getting by, the buzzers in the background and the cold, sterilised hospital air renders you still. As if breathing even a little louder would dirty the air.

You feel your heart beat out of your chest when Nicholas lifts your face up. Gently. He does everything so gently. Oh, how you missed that.

He forces you to look into his eyes.

And, you can tell. You can tell how much this scares him. After all, the line between friends and lovers is so thin and blurred and who would know better than the two of you?

“Please. Talk to me, Y/N,” he pleads with you, eyebrows sewing in.

You can’t find your voice.

“I miss you. I miss us.”

You’re shattered.

“I…I miss you too, Nicholas,” you finally speak.

His eyes light up slowly as he tries to fight back a smile. Ultimately, he fails. 

Nicholas pulls you into a bear hug.

“Hey, my arm is broken!” you yelp.

He’s careful of your arm, of course but you had to put it out there.

“No!” he exclaims. “You’re legally obligated to keep holding me—broken arm or not.”

You scoff. But you can’t argue. Your face is in his chest, taking in the scent you weren’t around for for so long. You missed this, you missed him.

You’ve felt so lonely in your being that you didn’t realise how much you needed this. All those months of isolation. Sure you were around people, but they didn’t compare to him.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this with someone,” you utter.

“Me too.”

Pulling away from him, there’s a new expression on his face. 

Reverence.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing everything. Then he speaks.

“Let me take you out, Y/N. Just once. I’ll make it worth your while,” Nicholas says. He says everything like he’s pleading you, begging for permission.

Your heart skips a beat, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

“You don’t believe me?!” he asks, offended.

“Mmm, let’s say that,” you tease.

“Oh, you better be ready when your arm is healed.”

“Can’t wait.”

[erikawrites13]

"Fast Tracks and Hidden Truths" " -“Love and Thunder”

Part 4

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

Young Sebastian Vettel x journalist (reader) Enemies to Lovers and Slow Burn

Part 4 of ? Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The rain finally began to ease, droplets slowing to a gentle drizzle that misted around you like a soft curtain. You pulled Sebastian’s jacket tighter around your frame, feeling the lingering warmth like a secret between you.

Just then, a familiar voice cut through the damp air, smooth and teasing. “So, what you’re just going to keep that?”

You turned, spotting Sebastian leaning casually against the side of the Red Bull transporter, that infuriating smirk back in place.

“Feels better on me anyway,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You want it back?”

He stepped forward, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, though your heart was already racing. “Oh? And what’s the price?”

His grin deepened, a slow curve that promised trouble. “Come find me after the race. If you’re still wearing it.”

A beat passed. The kind where time stretched and the world blurred around the edges.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said softly, the teasing edge fading just enough to let something warmer through.

Sebastian’s smirk faltered just for a moment before he shrugged with that devil-may-care attitude you knew so well.

“Good. I like a challenge.”

He reached out, just fingertips brushing against the jacket’s cuff a touch light and deliberate before turning on his heel.

As he disappeared again into the paddock chaos, you stayed rooted, fingers brushing where he’d touched you, the heat spreading in a way the rain never could.

Maybe this rivalry wasn’t so simple anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, it was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Time skip

The roar of the crowd still echoed through the Silverstone paddock, even as the rain returned in heavy bursts, falling sideways now, driven by sudden gusts of wind. The race was over, and Sebastian had won convincingly. Dominantly. The kind of win that shut people up and made the headlines write themselves.

And you were still wearing his jacket.

You caught him just off the pit lane, still flushed from victory, champagne-slicked hair messy under a backwards cap, fireproofs clinging to his frame. His usual cocky confidence was on full display except when his eyes landed on you, and something flickered behind them.

“You again,” he said, breathless and grinning, walking up like you were the one person in the paddock he wanted to see not that he’d ever say it.

“Me again,” you replied, lifting your recorder halfway. “Winner of Silverstone. You’ve got ten seconds before the next outlet claws their way over here. Make it count.”

He leaned in, the mic nearly brushing his lips.

“You’re still wearing my jacket,” he said, low and unbothered, ignoring your question entirely.

Your lips twitched. “Still fits better on me.”

“Not sure I agree,” he muttered, his eyes dropping just for a fraction of a second to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “But I guess I’ll allow it.”

You shook your head, clearing your throat. “Focus, Vettel. You just won your second race here. What’s going through your mind right now?”

He looked at you for a long beat, longer than any professional distance should allow. Then, with a slow, infuriating grin, he said, “Right now? That I should’ve asked for your number instead of my jacket.”

You blinked — not expecting that. Not from him. Not now. But before you could form a response, thunder cracked across the sky like a cannon shot, followed by a new surge of rain. The media line broke, everyone scattering, shielding their cameras and running for shelter.

You cursed, scrambling to cover your recorder. “Great.”

Sebastian was already beside you, hand grazing your lower back as he leaned close, shouting above the rain. “Come on! I’ve got a room upstairs. Dry. Warm. No microphones.”

You hesitated. Only for a moment. But the storm made the choice for you.

Cliffhanger! Don't hate me, next part comes soon with a bit of heat!

[jestersprivilegee]

High and Dry | ch. 8

t. jefferson x reader

Wc: I think 2.9k?

Lotta holiday talk for these next few chapters. Yes I know it’s not thanksgiving or Christmas sue me (also sorry to those who don’t celebrate!! I couldn’t think of anything else cus there’s specific scenes that need it to be holiday, but just wait y’all I got a plan)

Happy friYAY (depending where you live)

Avoiding Thomas had become a game, and you were determined to win it.

For five-and-a-half weeks, you had successfully dodged your counterpart at every turn. If he was walking down the hallway when you needed to, you’d find a different route. If he was making copies, there’s too much paper being wasted anyway! Wherever he was sitting in a meeting, you’d find the furthest possible spot away from him.

The only exception was lesson planning. And even then you kept it short. Half the time you’d just create your shit on a shared google slide and let him figure it out (which he wasn’t super happy about, but he wanted this space so he can’t complain). Your conversations were kept strictly work-related; anytime you felt it steering towards social or personal life, you’d redirect it back to the task at hand. He didn’t call you out on it, but it clearly got to him from the way he’d huff and sigh anytime he’d ask about your day only to be met with one word responses.

Somehow, you managed to do this all the way until thanksgiving break. Or at least until the Friday right before break.

You couldn’t avoid him too much longer at the staff thanksgiving/potluck/party. It wasn’t like you were planning on staying a while anyway, work-related gatherings like that always got boring from the criminal lack of booze.

“You’ve made it to the break without quitting. I’m proud of you, I wouldn’t have made it this far working alongside Jefferson!” Hamilton smiled, wrapping an arm around your shoulder while you walked to the workroom, where the ‘party’ was being held.

“It hasn’t been easy,” you sighed, “but I haven’t spoken to him that much these past few weeks, so it’s been bearable. I’m honestly surprised I didn’t quit in the first week.”

After getting called into Washington’s office and feeling like shit for being rude to Thomas, you gave him plenty of space, just as he requested. The only thing eating you alive was the fact that you never apologized. It added to the shame, the humiliation you suffered. So you avoided him all together, since looking him in the eye was a particularly difficult task.

“Regardless, I’m glad you stayed. And I’m also glad you brought those crappy sugar cookies,” he said.

“You either love ‘em or you hate ‘em,” you hummed, opening the door to the workroom and letting him step inside first.

Everyone who you expected to be there was there. Your large friend group in one corner since the Schuyler sisters were the newest addition (Alex had started dating Eliza a couple weeks after they hooked up at the bar. She turned out to be one of the sweetest women you’ve ever met, and you quickly became close friends), Thomas’s friend group in another. Other staff members were littered throughout the spacious room, people you wouldn’t talk to other than polite hellos.

You set the cookies on the counter with the rest of the desserts. There was enough food to feed a small village, ranging from various cultures and carefully crafted dishes to the Walmart-produced cookies you brought. It made you a little insecure to bring something so little, but they were pumpkin pie flavored. Practically calling your name in the grocery store, begging you to purchase them.

Thanksgiving had never been a big deal. It’s not like you celebrate it with family, anyway; your mom is in a mental hospital for fucks sake. And with no other living family to celebrate it with, you never got the chance to truly enjoy it. It was just another holiday. Another meaningless break from the strenuous school year. The same goes for Christmas, which winter break is only two weeks after fall break. Not that you're complaining. A week off, then two weeks later, another two weeks off? That’s something you can get behind.

You scanned the food options, looking for one thing in particular. Mac ‘n cheese.

More specifically: Thomas’s mac ‘n cheese.

If it was as good as you remember (aka, his mother’s recipe), you would be devouring as much as possible. Any time you’d go over to his house as a kid, you’d beg for his mom to make the dish. It was that good. She never did tell you the recipe despite your years of asking, but maybe, just maybe, Thomas used it. And maybe he would tell you. If you play your cards right, but the cards you got right now ain’t looking so great considering the poor relationship with him.

“Do you have any plans for the break, Y/n?” Eliza appeared next to you, an exhausted smile on her. Must’ve been a rough day.

“Binge watch Netflix and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s,” you joked, which earned you a pity laugh.

Alexander joined his girlfriend's side, snaking an arm around her waist.

“You’re not visiting family?” She asked, the smile she wore turning to one of concern.

How awkward. They didn’t know about your mother. To be fair, you never told them, so how could they know?

“Probably not,” you answered after a beat passed, “I don’t have any family. None in New York, at least. My mother is down in Virginia, and I have yet to call her.”

“So you’re spending it alone?” Eliza’s eyes filled with concern, sadness, and empathy.

You shrugged. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal. My mother has never been big into holidays, so I didn’t grow up celebrating them. It carried with me to adulthood, I guess.”

“I’m the same way,” Alex empathized. “I'm an orphan, so I’ve never had a family to celebrate with. Closest I’ve ever gotten are these work parties,” he chuckled dryly.

“Alexander, that’s so sad!” Eliza turned to him, a pout on her red lips. ”You’re coming home with me and my sisters for dinner. Y/n, would you like to join us, too? We have plenty of seats at the table, and you’re always welcome,” she offered.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m okay. Really,” you sheepishly declined. “I’m going to talk to my mom and maybe go down to visit her. I appreciate the offer, thank you, Eliza.”

“Of course,” she smiled, “if you ever change your mind, though…”

You shared a laugh, and shook your head. Alexander looked thrilled to hear Eliza would be dragging him to her family dinner, as he wouldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear. They got their portions of food and snacks, finding a spot at the table after promising to save you a seat.

With a tiny sigh, you glanced in Thomas’s direction. His eyes met yours, because of course he would already be watching you. Instead of looking away like you did, he excused himself from James and Aaron, strolling over to you, hands in his pockets.

“Hey.”

The smell of his cologne hit you, warm and comforting and forest-y. “Hi,” you replied. He took his stance next to you, leaning against the counter. “Something you need?”

“Do I have to need somethin’ in order to speak to you?” He asked, his gaze almost challenging. Being met with silence, he continued speaking. “I just wanted to talk to you, see what your plans are for the break.”

“Why do you wanna know?” Your eyes narrowed. The flicker of annoyance in his jaw did not slip past like he hoped it would.

“I’m tryin’ to be nice here, Y/n, create some small talk.” He frowned. You’ve had this conversation many times before, and it was evident that both of you were tired of it.

Sighing and swallowing your pride, you shifted to face him fully. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know what my plans are yet.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Never thought I’d hear you admit I’m right about somethin’.” He teased, folding his arms over his chest. That burgundy sweater looked particularly good when he wore it.

“Don’t get used to it,” you scoffed. “Do you have plans you’re dying to tell me about or something?”

He gave an awkward shrug, the confidence he previously had faltering. “Nothing noteworthy. Just visitin’ family for dinner.”

“Oh yeah, I do remember you telling me about that. You’re not thrilled ‘cause it’s overwhelming, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, some other factors, too. They’ve been on my ass lately about my career and relationship choices, so it’s tough showin’ up still as an English teacher and still single,” he confessed.

“I’m sorry,” you sympathized, “that sounds frustrating. Not being supported by family members.”

A low hum rumbled from his chest, and he wiped his hands on his sweater. “Yeah, well, they’ll get used to it. These are the decisions I made and I’m happy with the direction my life has gone, whether they support it or not.”

At least he had a family whose opinions mattered.

“I like your attitude,” you paused, “Y’know, I was thinking earlier about the mac and cheese your momma used to make. Used to be my favorite part about going to your house as a kid.” A nostalgic smile spread on your lips, a warm fuzziness in your chest. Thomas shared the same experience. You continued, “do you, by any chance, have that recipe?”

“‘M sorry, can’t tell you that, darlin’. Family secret,” he winked. “Although I did bring some. Sure, it’s not nearly as good as mommas, but it’s pretty damn similar. All these years of makin’ it and I think this is the closest I’ve gotten.”

He pushed himself off the counter, motioning you to follow him to the dish he prepared. It was already halfway eaten when he uncovered it, and holy shit it looked delicious. Memories of sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by a loving family consisting of only sisters flooded your brain. His older sisters, Jane and Mary, would always sit together, gossiping away from the rest of the group. The smell of fresh baked sourdough and sweet potatoes would waft in the air, and an apple pie would be sitting in the oven.

Last time you saw his momma, she was pregnant with a boy. Unfortunately, your friendship ended before you got to enter that chapter of Thomas’s life with him. Such a shame. You would’ve loved to be apart of that babies life as much as you were involved in Thomas’s.

“I have been craving this ever since middle school.” Your eyes lit up in excitement and you snatched a plate. “Jefferson, consider this the only compliment you’ll hear from me, but you are amazing.”

He beamed with pride, wearing a giddy, toothy grin from your praise. “Been waitin’ to hear that all year. First you admit I’m right, then you finally acknowledge I’m amazin’. Two in one day. Make it three?”

“As if,” you huffed, rolling your eyes in a playful manner. “When I said jefferson, I meant your momma for creating this delicacy.”

“Funny, ‘m pretty sure you said ‘you are amazing,’ if my ears don’t deceive me.” He smirked, earning a sharp glare from you.

“Your ears doth deceive,” you grumbled, shoving some pasta in your mouth. Damn. It was fucking phenomal.

He bit his lower lip, anticipating your reaction with big, hopeful eyes. “So? Just like mommas?”

“Mhm, just like mommas,” you nodded, covering your mouth since it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. His parents are where you learned that mannerism from, actually. “You sure you can’t give me the recipe? I won’t tell anyone, I pinky promise.”

His proud grin grew wider as he shook his head. “No can do. You’re not technically part of the family, and momma gave me strict instructions to keep it within our family. She’d have my head if I gave it away.”

Thomas knew that his parents considered you to be family. He did have a teensy little lie going that misled them into thinking he wasn’t single, but he’d die before admitting that to you. Regardless of his complex relationship status, his parents had always loved you like you were their own, and that love never faded. Even after all these years.

“Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.” Your eyes narrowed, as if you were plotting to steal the fucking Krabby Patty secret formula.

“Hah, good luck doin’ that,” he snorted.

It seemed like the moment you had something else to say, your phone rang. With a disappointed sigh, you pulled it out, about to silence it but the caller ID prevented you from doing so.

It was your mom.

“Shit, I gotta take this,” you muttered, “save me some pasta please.” You handed him the paper plate, rushing out before he could utter another word.

Thomas’s eyes followed your form until it disappeared from behind the door. A small frown tugged at his lips. He had seen who was calling. He knew the history with your mom despite being private about it recently. Sure, you’d mention her here and there, maybe call her from time to time, but you never said anything deep. And he couldn’t just outright ask. You weren’t at that stage of closeness yet, there was still some lingering anger from… well, everything. There always seemed to be some sort of tension hidden beneath the surface, like something hadn’t been fully let go, or something wasn't being acknowledged. It was discouraging, to say the least.

When you said your plans weren’t decided, he wanted so badly to invite you to spend thanksgiving with him and his family. There were a few instances when you did during childhood. He’d have your mom over as well, and it would be like a small extra addition to his already oversized bloodline. But it was comfortable. They enjoyed having you as much as you enjoyed being there. And then it stopped.

He shook his head, unfreezing so he could scoop a hefty portion of macaroni onto the half-eaten plate. Then, he followed after you, finding the hallway empty. You must’ve gone to your classroom.

—

“I-I don’t know if I can make it, Mom, I’m swarmed with work right now.”

You paced around the cluttered room, the palms of your hands growing sweaty. She had asked you to come down to Virginia to visit, but truthfully? You still weren’t ready. As much as you practiced and talked through your feelings with Suzanne, the years of therapy didn’t seem to do much for this moment.

Of course, you felt like a horrible trash can of a human being for continuously putting off visiting her. She didn’t deserve this. She deserved to have her child come down at least for the holidays. Even if said child was still recovering from the trauma of having her as a mother.

“Of course,” she mumbled, disappointment and sadness evident in her tone. “It’s alright, honey. I’d just love to see your face again, to hold my child.”

Guilt tore you apart inside out. Grimacing, you spoke, “I’m sorry, Momma. I promise I’ll come home for Christmas.”

She was silent on her end for a moment. There was a faint beeping noise coming from somewhere in her ward. “…You promise? You won’t give me another excuse when the time comes?”

God, the excuses you cultivated every time to procrastinate seeing her piled up. It was predictable. “I promise I won’t give you an excuse. I’ll be true to my word this time, I swear. It’s only another month, which I know may seem like a long time, but it’ll go by faster than you realize.”

“Okay, baby, I trust you. Will you call me over your break? Let me know you’re okay and we can talk?”

“I will. How is your medicine working for you?”

“It’s good, it’s good. I’ve been takin’ it consistently now, and I really have noticed a difference,” she expressed.

You smiled in relief, and for another thirteen minutes, she spoke about how recovery was going well, and how she’s changed. Even listening to her speak, you could hear how much more energized she was. She was taking control over her life.

After hanging up, you leaned against the wall, letting out a long breath. A hand came up to run over your features. It took a lot of fuel to converse with her. She was a curveball; you never knew if she would lecture you the whole time, cry, or tell you how much she loves and misses you. Perhaps that’s why you’ve always put off visiting her.

Three soft knocks sounded on the door, and a short moment after, Thomas walked in. He held the plate piled with macaroni and other foods he knew were your favorite, as well as a sheepish smile.

“Hey. Figured I’d bring you somethin’ since I’ll be headed out soon.” He handed the plate to you, where you set it down on the desk.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

A comfortable silence followed. Thomas was deep in thought; you could see the conflict etched between his eyebrows, the concern tightened in his jaw. He wiped his hands on his sweater again. The words he truly wanted to come out caught in his throat, and instead he stuttered backwards.

“Uhm, I should go. Have a great break, Y/n,” he stammered.

You watched him step backwards, pausing before softly speaking. “Have fun with your family, Thomas.”

With that, he awkwardly nodded and disappeared. You glanced down at the plate filled with all your preferred foods, even one of the pumpkin-pie flavored cookies you brought resting on top of an actual slice of pumpkin pie. Your favorite kind.

[fredshechinger]

If you fall, I will catch you — steddie

pairing: steve harrington/eddie munson rating: M word count: 6.5k content/warnings: 18+ MDNI, trans!eddie, bisexual!steve, coming out, abusive parents, lots of crying, depression, self harm scars, hospitals, showers, cuddling, first kiss, hurt/comfort, wounds, sexual thoughts on ao3

summary: Eddie pretty much moves into Steves house after being discharged from the hospital. Showers are had and things are revealed.

Ever since Eddie woke from the coma, Steve had not left his side. Besides literally getting dragged home to take a damn shower every once in a while by Robin. It was … surprising. The first thing Eddie saw when he woke up was Steve, curled up, sleeping in a very uncomfortable looking chair next to his bed. That had truly been the last thing he expected. You know, besides being alive. He's still not quite sure if he IS alive. But apparently, he didn't die in the upside down, only barely though. He suffered severe blood loss when Steve, Robin and Nancy got to him and Dustin. Steve wasted no time throwing Eddie over his shoulder and taking off to the portal. After that, getting Eddie to not bleed out and into the hospital was a blur for everyone. No one really knew how they did it. But they did. And Eddie was extremely grateful to all of them. But especially Steve.

The thing is, he didn't want to die back there. But he also didn't not want to die. He liked life, music, his friends, even the little brats. But it was exhausting. Life was exhausting. Hiding who you are, who you are attracted to, meanwhile getting bullied for your entire life for just fucking existing? Not conforming? Yeah, it sucked. 

Only two people in his life knew about him, his uncle Wayne and his lifelong best friend Gareth. And yet with every insult thrown at him in school, every shove, every punch, he feared everyone knew as well or that it was only a matter of time before people found out about him. 

Him skipping P.E. wasn't just because he hated it and that he was lazy. And no, it also wasn't because he would pop a boner in the locker room from seeing naked dudes, like everyone said that's the reason why he's never there. Fuck, he wishes that was it. That would at least mean he had a dick. But no, he was already sweating more than enough in his makeshift binder and he would NOT change in front of everyone, let alone take a goddamn shower. Like that wouldn't be a sure fire way to get assaulted and probably killed right then and there. Nope, nope not even going there right now, Munson. Absolutely not. 

Anyway, Steve . Jock, Arrogant, Asshole Steve, who was in fact neither of those things. Well, he was a Jock, and a little bit Arrogant. But he's forgiven because he is also legit the sweetest, most caring person Eddie had ever met. And isn't that a surprise? He can't even hate him anymore. Not an asshole AND saved his life? He's going to be the death of Eddie. Which, ironic.

After another agonizing two weeks in the hospital he was finally cleared to go home. Which opened up a whole different can of worms. He didn’t technically have a home anymore. The trailer was gone. Wayne didn't know he was still alive, and isn't allowed to know until Hopper manages to clear his name for good. So, he can’t go live with him in his new fancy government paid apartment. And staying in the Hospital for any second longer was also not an option. So when Eddie asked the Party where the hell he was gonna go, Steve immediately volunteered his house. And to be fair, it makes sense. Steves parents are never home, in fact they have never evenonce called their son to ask if he's alright. Or even still alive after the “earthquake”. How fucked up is that? And he thought his parents sucked. Well, they do but that’s for a different day.

So with no one to have any better option, Eddie pretty much moved into Steves house for the foreseeable future. Which posed a number of problems for Eddie, but he also can’t complain about living rent free in someones house now can he? 

Thankfully the house is huge . It has like 5 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms, who even needs all that space for 3 people? But right now, he’s glad rich people are weird like this. He gets his own room with a connected bathroom. Which is also big, it has a shower and a tub. Eddie doesnt know if all the other bathrooms do as well but at this point he wouldn't be surprised if they did. 

Steve’s room was right opposite Eddies temporary room. Steve said something about being closer when Eddie needed help, or he could hear if he fell down or something. He’s starting to understand why the kids all call him Mom, he truly is a Mother Hen. 

Most of Eddies wounds have closed up, but moving around is still exhausting and painful. Especially since the Demo-bats decided to give Eddie an impromptu top surgery with eating half his tits and the doctors finishing the rest. Not that anyone knows about that part. Conveniently, they did see Eddie nearly being torn to shreds so having his chest still bandaged because it took the most damage isn’t too far fetched. 

He only got a look at his new flat chest a handful of times while changing the bandages. It’s mangled as hell, more scars than anything else. But he sure as hell isn't gonna complain about free top surgery. Even if the circumstances were not the greatest. Scars are metal and he’s gonna rock them come summer, what are a few more to his already scarred body?

The first two days after getting out of the hospital Eddie spent mostly sleeping, eating, and watching TV. He doesn't really have much energy and Steve encourages him to rest, makes him food and gets him water. Which he felt slightly bad for as Steve himself was also still recovering from his injuries. While they weren't as bad as Eddies, it still can’t be pleasant to be moving around this much. 

But now he’s starting to itch. It's been nearly a week since his last shower and his little cat baths are starting to get less effective. The thing is, he’s kinda scared to take a shower. At the hospital he took two showers, both times with a nurse who helped him. She was supposed to only be there the first time because he was still very weak and could barely stand. He did get dizzy and nearly passed out when he tried to lean down to wash his legs. Thank god for the nurse and her quick reaction time that he didn't slip, fall and split his skull open on the tile. The second time he was still nervous and asked for her help again, which she very kindly did. He did get dizzy again, not as bad at the first time and she helped him with his hair because he could not (and still can’t) lift his arms up high to do so. So yeah, safe to say he’s scared he's gonna pass out and also not be able to wash his hair properly, which it really, really desperately needs. 

But a nurse at a hospital who sees people's junk every day is different than asking the man in whose house he currently lives in, who also has no idea he’s trans. And gay. And who he has a super mega crush on. Maybe he could just … leave his underwear on? Would that be weird? Would Steve think he’s weird? Well, weird is better than outing himself and probably getting kicked out. 

What other choice does he have? 

— 

Later that evening, they both sat on the couch watching a movie. Eddie wasn’t really paying attention as he was too busy trying to gather every bit of courage he has to ask Steve to help him shower . 

Eddie cleared his throat, “Hey, uh … can you maybe do me a favor? Not like you don’t already do with me living here and all…” Eddie started to ramble. Of course, even when he thinks about what exact words he was going to say he’s gonna fuck it up anyway.

“Sure, what's up?” Steve cut his rambling off, smiling at Eddie. “I… I need to take a shower.” Steve looked at him a little confused, not quite understanding what Eddie was getting at. 

“And I can’t do it alone yet. I can barely lift my arms to get a shirt on. I can't wash my hair and also in the hospital I got really dizzy every time and I just don't want you to deal with me splitting my head open and bleeding out, again .” Steve blinked at him, processing the words as a blush crept up his cheeks. “Oh. Oh yeah, sure. I can totally do that. No problem-o.” 

“Really? You don’t … mind?” 

“No. Of course not. You need help, I’m here to help. You wanna do it now?” 

Eddies heart started to pound in his chest. Right, asking was one thing, but actually doing it was another. Oh, this is going to be terribly awkward. “Yeah, I do. Or after the movie if you wanna finish it.”

Steve laughed at that. “To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention to it anyway. So, let’s go upstairs. I’ll get you some of my shampoo, because I just realized you don’t actually have anything and I’m a bad host.”

—

After gathering everything Eddie might need, they found themselves in the bathroom connected to Eddies room.

“So, how do you wanna do this? Do you just want me to stand by in case you need help or do you like … want me to get in with you?” Steve said with a blush creeping up his cheeks again. 

Seems like he didn’t think about this much further either.

Logically Eddie knew Steve only needed to be there to help him wash his hair, watch him behind the shower curtain in case he passes out, maybe help him wash his legs. But part of him wanted to see how far he could take this. Without completely and utterly embarrassing himself. And potentially outing himself. “Can you … get in here with me? I can just … not turn around?” Eddie stuttered. “Oh! Yes. Sure. Uh… do you need help undressing as well?”

“Just my shirt, the rest I can do myself.” Unfortunately.

Steve nodded and stepped closer to Eddie. He lifted his arms up to Eddies waist, he hesitated for a moment before he took the hem of Eddies shirt in his hands and slowly lifted his shirt up. Scarred skin, bandages and tattoos revealed themselves as Steve lifted the shirt higher and higher. Eddie thinks he caught Steve looking at his torso a few times, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Slowly Steve slipped his head through the opening, following both of his arms. Finally, with the shirt off, Steve discarded it somewhere on the floor.

“We should probably take those bandages off. Getting them wet would be a mess and we need to change them after this anyway.” Eddie froze before slightly nodding. He hoped the scars on his chest looked just like the other bat bites to Steve. 

Carefully Steve undid the bandaged around Eddies chest. He was so slow and careful, Eddie got goosebumps everytime his fingers slightly touched his exposed skin.

With his bandages off, Steve threw them in the bin and carefully examined Eddies wounds. If Steve only knew what he was actually looking at under all that mangled mess. Eddie shudders at the thought. Steve, probably thinking Eddie is getting cold, immediately starts to remove his own shirt. Eddie just stared at him, transfixed. He should move, turn around. Stop staring at that wonderfully hairy chest that just got revealed.  

“My eyes are up here, you know.” Steve said with a smirk. 

Eddie mumbled out an apology and quickly turned around. Cheeks burning and red. 

Eddie took his pants and socks off, leaving his underwear on for now. Suddenly feeling very self conscious and scared again. This was a bad idea, Munson. 

Of course Steve knew something was wrong immediately. Like he can feel the energy shifting in the room. He slowly approached Eddie, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I was just joking, you know. I don’t … I’m not mad at you.” Steve said quiet and careful. Eddie let out a huffed laugh at that. Yeah no shit, Eddie knew Steve wasn’t homophobic, his best friend is a lesbian for fucks sake. And yes, Eddie knew. And Robin knew about Eddie being queer as well, they clocked each other the second they met. Wasn’t that difficult to figure out. But that’s not what Eddie was worried about. Well, a bit embarrassed, yes, because he didn’t wanna be the weirdo making a move on a straight guy, but not worried about Steve hating him for being gay. 

Eddie was silent for a few seconds too long for Steves liking “Eddie, can you please look at me? I promise, it’s okay.” 

Immediately, Eddie turned around. Eyes going wide as he realized how close Steve was. He could practically feel Steve’s breath on his face. 

Taking a few steps back to put some distance between them, for Eddies sanity and complete lack of self control to not do anything stupid like kiss those stupidly beautiful lips right in front of him.

“Okay.” is all Eddie said, he didn’t know what else to say.

Steve smiled at him wide. Eddie smiled back and once again turned around to slip into the shower. Hidden by the shower curtain, Eddie gathered all the courage in the world to take his boxer briefs off. Like ripping a bandaid off, he practically ripped his underwear off of him and threw it onto the floor. Steve took that as a sign to step into the large shower as well. Eddies back was to him, so he couldn’t see Steves eyes roaming all around his body, soaking him in. 

Awkwardly Eddie turned the shower on and stood under the stream. He was still extremely tense. One wrong move and it would be over. But the water felt good as he aimed his face at the shower head. Silently Steve reached for the shampoo bottle, opening it and squirting a good amount of the liquid into his hand. 

Eddie was so lost in his own thoughts and the water pouring down on him he forgot Steve fucking harrington was behind him in the god damn shower. Naked. That was until he suddenly felt hands in his hair. He flinched forward so hard, nearly hitting his head on the wall in the process. 

“Shit! Eddie! Are you okay? I’m sorry I should have warned you.” Steve sounded panicked and genuinely sorry. He put his hand on Eddies shoulder again. 

The warm hand on his shoulder felt like it was burning him. He slowly stood back up, starting to feel dizzy from the sudden movement. He swayed slightly and Steve immediately put his arm around Eddies waist to steady him. 

“You’re okay, I got you. I’m not gonna let you fall.” Tears started to prickle at Eddies eyes. Being in Steves arms, having him whisper encouragements in his ear, Eddie wished he didn’t have to hide himself. Could stay here, in his arms, forever. He wishes he could just crawl into Steve and never come back out again. Knowing Steve would keep him safe and warm. Unconsciously Eddie started to lean back into Steve, whose arms tightened around Eddie. Steve rests his forehead against the back of Eddies head. 

Both of them enjoying the moment for a few seconds. Needing the comfort and closeness of the other after all that happened in the past weeks. 

Eddie slowly came back to himself, while still enjoying this position they are in, he also realized that yes, that was Steves dick currently pressed again his lower back. Heat started to rise to his cheeks again. Just a few inches further and he could just slip right inside him, Eddie wouldn’t resist. Would probably beg for Steve to take him. He felt himself get wet at the thought, wanting nothing more than to arch into Steve, rubbing his ass all over his cock. Getting it hard, sliding in between his ass cheeks. 

So lost in the thought Eddie didn’t realize he was actually slowly rubbing against Steve. Just small little movements, but at the sharp intake of breath right by his ear he stopped. Frozen in place. Fuck. Eddie scrambled away from Steve. Well tried to at least, but Steves arms tightened around him. Keeping him in place. “Stay. Please.” Eddie felt his knees go weak at the desperation in Steves voice. How could he say no to that? Eddies heart was pounding in this chest as he nodded and leaned back into Steve. 

At that Steve sighed happily, burying his face into Eddies wet mess of hair. 

Eddie was confused. Needing comfort was one thing, but pretty much begging Eddie to stay after he started grinding his ass on his dick was another. His mind was racing, his heart continuing to pound against his chest.

Eddie doesn’t know if it's been minutes or hours that they’ve been standing there in the shower under the stream. Water not even going cold, being rich must be nice, Eddie thought.

Slowly Steve let go of Eddie, taking a step back. “I’m going to wash your hair now, okay?” Eddie, already missing the warmth of Steve against his back, only nodded. 

Repeating the motions from earlier, putting the liquid onto his hands and putting them into Eddies hair. This time, he was prepared for it. He didn’t flinch, instead he leaned into it. Letting out a small sigh at Steve massaging the shampoo into his scalp.

Eddie loved the feeling of Steves hands on him. His fingers massaging his scalp, running them through his long hair. It felt absolutely heavenly and Eddie wished he would never stop. But unfortunately, Steve was satisfied enough with his work. “I’m gonna wash this out now, alright?” Eddie just nodded. Steve took the showerhead and carefully rinsed his soapy hair out. Taking his time, making sure it’s all out. Eddie thinks he never spend this much time in the shower, let alone for his hair alone. But with Steve, he doesn’t mind. It’s nice.

All too soon his hair was deemed shampoo free and the showerhead was back on the wall.

“Uh… Do you mind if I also just take a quick shower while I’m already in here?” Steve asked nervously. 

“Yes! Sure, yeah. Totally fine with me!” Eddie squeaked out. God he really needs to get a grip on himself. 

“Okay cool. If you feel dizzy or weird again, just say something. I’m right here.”

“Thanks, Steve.” Eddie smiled, Steve was so thoughtful and just cared so much . 

As quickly as Eddie was able to with his limited mobility, he scrubbed his body down. Already starting to feel so much better than earlier. Careful to not turn around to reveal anything, or to stare at Steve washing his body right behind him. Oh god. For probably the first time in his life he was glad he didn’t have a dick so he couldn't pop a boner right then and there at the mere thought of Steve Harrington sliding his hands over his soapy muscled body. God, Eddie wanted to be the one doing that. So bad.

He stood under the showerhead trying to let the hot water ease away the thoughts. It was only somewhat successful. 

“I’m gonna … get out while you, you know. Finish your shower.” Eddie said pointing his thumbs towards the shower curtain. 

“Wait with your hair til I'm done, I’ll only be a minute.” Steve said, already stepping into the spot Eddie left behind to rinse his body off. 

Eddie quickly grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his waist and let out a breath. Safe. He was safe now. 

His hair was dripping wet, running down his back and leaving a puddle on the floor. But true to his word, Steve emerged from the shower not a minute later. The second the curtain opened Eddies eyes widened and he turned around to give Steve some privacy. 

He could hear Steve quickly toweling himself dry. Suddenly everything went black and Eddie panicked for a moment until he heard Steve chuckling and realized he just threw his towel onto Eddies face. At that Eddie turned back around, ready to argue until his eyes were met with a half naked Steve, only in boxers and his hair still damp. And holy shit, maybe he should have gone to P.E. at least a few times only to see this .

Steve, seemingly unaware of Eddies thoughts, grabbed the towel and started to dry his hair. And Eddie just stood there, frozen. His eyes still stuck on Steves slightly damp chest, that was so, so close to him. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if the puddle at his feet wasnt from his hair but from the way his pussy was just dripping from this entire experience. He couldn't wait until he was alone in bed later to get some relief because holy shit.

When his hair was mostly dry Steve stopped and hung up the towel. “You okay there, Eds?” Steve said when he turned back around. Worried with the way Eddie was just … standing there. Zoned out. He came closer again just as Eddie finally came back to himself. He stumbled backwards, his lower back hitting the sink as the towel caught and fell to the floor. Too busy focusing on the pain in his back, Eddie didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Fuck! That hurt.” Eddie rubbed the spot he hit with his hand. Face screwed in pain. This was gonna leave a bruise. 

Suddenly, he realized he was standing butt ass naked in front of Steve. His eyes went wide and he quickly picked the towel up to cover himself. 

Way too late though as Steve has surely seen everything already. Eddie was scared to look at Steve. He was quiet, too quiet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” Huh? What? What the fuck was Steve sorry for? Eddies head snapped up to look at Steve with a very confused look on his face. But all he could see on Steves face was … worry? Sadness? 

“W-What are you sorry for, Steve?” 

“Your thighs." Oh. Oh. Steve wasn't concerned about the lack of dick between Eddies legs but his … self harm scars. 

Eddie just blinked at him. That's what he was worried about? That’s what he cared about? He’s been clean for a while now, he didn’t even think about the scars most of the time. Sure some nights are harder than others and he got some bad thoughts, but he never acted on them.

“They’re old. Uhm … It’s fine, I’m fine! I promise.” 

“I’m still sorry you had to go through that. That must have been a bad time.” Steve said quietly, looking down. 

Yeah, no kidding. It fucking sucked. He was super depressed. Hating his body, hating himself. Getting bullied, hit, shoved. Blinking back tears at those memories, Eddie stepped closer to Steve. “Thank you, Steve. Yes. It was a … bad time. And frankly, I didn’t think I would even make it this far. But I’m glad I did. I’m glad I met you, and the kids. And all the others. Even if the circumstances were less than ideal.” 

Steve looked back up into Eddies eyes, unshed tears in his eyes. He suddenly lunged forward, putting his arms around Eddie and burying his face into his neck. Eddie was stunned for a few seconds but put his arms around Steve in return. There was clearly an underlying thing here that Eddie didn't know. But right now, it doesn’t matter. Steve needed this, needed the comfort of another person. Even if that person was Eddie.

After a few minutes Steve pulled back. No more tears in his eyes, but still looking sad. Eddie wanted to ask so badly what was wrong. But he needed to ask another question more urgently. 

“So … You don’t mind?” Steve tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. 

“Don’t mind what?” 

“Uh … the very obvious lack of dick between my legs?” Eddie asked, dumbfounded. He couldn’t possibly have missed it when he very clearly looked around that area. Seeing his scars and all.

“Oh.” Oh? Oh? That’s all he had to say? 

“I mean, I am a little confused but … You don’t need to explain yourself to me if you don’t want to. You clearly didn’t want me to know so … I wasn’t going to push, Eddie.”

And that? That was not the reaction he expected. Ever.

“I can explain. It will probably be a bit uh confusing but … I trust you.” At that Steve smiled, he missed seeing that smile even for this short period of time. 

“I appreciate that. But again, you really don’t need to. Or don’t need to, now . You can take your time. I’m not gonna tell anyone anything. I promise.”

Eddie was still a bit taken aback by the response. He nodded before saying “I’m gonna tell you, but first let’s get properly dressed. And I would prefer not having that conversation in the bathroom if that's okay.” 

“Yeah! Of course that's okay! Take your time, I’ll be uh … in my room.” Steve said.

When Steve started to leave, Eddie looked around the bathroom and realized he didn’t have any clothing besides the dirty clothes he had on before. They didn’t think about getting Eddie any clothes. 

“Steve! Wait!” Eddie almost yelled. 

Steve immediately turned around, worry all over his face again. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Need water? Need me to carry you to bed?” And woah alright, that's a lot to unpack. Another time.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m okay, I just don’t have any clothes? And I really don’t wanna put those dirty hospital clothes back on.” 

“Oh god, Eddie. I’m so sorry I didn’t even think about that! You can borrow some of my clothes until we get you some. Wait here, I’ll be right back!” Steve said, rushing out of the door in the direction of his room.

A few minutes later Steve came back into the bathroom carrying a pile of clothes. Eddie looked up from where he sat down on the toilet seat. 

“I know my clothes aren't really your style but I tried my best to choose stuff you wouldn't mind too much?” Steve said, fidgeting with the clothes in his hands.

Sweet, Sweet Steve. Like Eddie would complain about wearing any of Steves clothes. Okay well, he would definitely complain about those polos but even then, it would be worth it just to be wearing his clothes.

Eddie laughed, “Thanks Stevie. I promise not to complain too much about your choice of clothing.”

Steve handed him the pile of clothes with a smile. “I’ll be in my room when you’re ready, okay? Take your time.” With that Eddie was alone in the bathroom, staring at the clothes in his hands. 

Dropping the towel Eddie stepped into Steve's boxershorts. Next he put on the grey sweatpants and an old school shirt. Really? Steve put Eddie into his old swim team shirt? Eddie wanted to hate it so bad, but he couldn’t. It felt … oddly intimate to be wearing this shirt. At the feeling of the shirt on his chest Eddie flinched in pain. Right, in all this chaos they forgot to rebandage his chest. With a huff Eddie put the towel up to dry and took the med kit in the cabinet with him to Steves room.

The door to Steves room was slightly open. Eddie just stood there, staring at the half open door. Is he really going to do this? Tell Steve about him? He only really knew the guy for like 3 weeks, and most of that he wasn’t even conscious. But Steve didn’t seem to be freaking out, or otherwise he probably would have already kicked him out. No. He told Eddie that he didn’t even need to tell him anything. Steve was safe. He trusted him. 

With a deep breath Eddie lightly knocked on the door while he opened it. Steve was sitting on the edge of his bed, seemingly lost in thought as he startled at the knock. 

“Uh before anything, could you help me bandage my chest again? We kinda … forgot about that part.” 

Steves eyes went wide, “Oh shit yes of course! I’m sorry I completely forgot. Come here, sit down.” He gestured next to him. 

Eddie sat down next to him as Steve immediately went to help him with his shirt. 

They were both silent during the entire thing, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Not at all. Steve seemed focused on his task and Eddie just watched him. Watched his big hands wrap the bandages around his chest, holding it in place as he taped the ends down. His hands were huge and spread across Eddies chest made them look even larger. He had to suppress a noise at some filthy thoughts that made their way into his head.

When Steve was done he helped Eddie back into his shirt and went to throw the trash away. 

Steve sat down next to Eddie again, and now with nothing to do the quiet got awkward. Eddie didn’t know how to start this. Didn't even really know what to say if he was being honest. He’s never really done it like this. 

“So. I’m … You know. Fuck .” Eddie shook his head. He was supposed to be good at talking.

“It’s alright. Take your time.” Again with that.

“Okay so. I wasn’t exactly born a boy? But I never associated with being a girl. I fucking hated it. I’m a guy. My body just didn’t get the memo.” Eddie sighed.

“When I was like 9 I kept telling my parents that I’m not a girl. I’m a boy. And at first they just laughed it off, you know? Probably just a phase. But no, it wasn’t. I didn’t stop saying it, telling them to call me Eddie. Stop buying me girls clothes. They didn’t like that.” Steve put a hand on his back in support. 

“They were both drunks. My mom was an addict and overdosed when I was 10. That was kind of the catalyst of everything. My father … he was never a good man. Been in and out of Prison my whole life. He didn’t take it well when she died. Kept telling me it was my fault. That I killed her with my bullshit. He hit me a lot when he was drunk. One day he said if I wanna be a boy so bad why do I still have long hair?” Tears were now falling from his eyes at the memory. Steve gathered him into his arm. Rubbing his back, telling him it’s alright. Eddie just let himself cry into Steves neck for a few minutes. He leaned back to continue his story, Steve still having his arms loosely around him. 

“He held me down and cut my hair off that day. I cried so damn much. I yelled at him too. I guess that was his final straw as he pretty much dumped me on Waynes doorstep the next day. Not even telling him about it first. I mean how fucked up is that?” Eddie laughed in disbelief. “Wayne was in shock at the state I was in. He knew my father wasn’t the greatest man. But he didn’t think he was gonna stoop that low. And I didn’t trust Wayne at first. I mean why would I? I barely knew the man and he was my fathers brother after all. But he was so kind. And patient. Nothing like him at all. He didn’t question why I wanted to be called Eddie. He just … accepted it.” 

“I’m glad you have him. He sounds like a great guy.” Steve said, smiling at him. 

Eddie nodded, “He is. I don’t know where I would be without him. But anyway. Yeah that’s pretty much it I guess? Not born a boy but still … a boy?” Eddie grimaced. Why did he say it like that. Stupid brain.

“Thank you for trusting me with this, Eddie.” Steves hugged him, pretty much smooshing him into his chest. And if Eddie wasn’t still injured he would have just accepted it. But alas, he was injured and it hurt. “As much as I like the hug and I’m glad you dont mind. You’re kinda hurting me here.” Steve immediately let him go, looking guilty. “Shit Eddie, I’m sorry I forgot. Are you okay?” Eddie nodded, “Yeah. I’m okay. I promise.” And for the first time in Eddies life he actually believed himself when he said that. 

“So …” Steve started, looking nervous as he fidgeted with the hem of Eddies shirt. 

“While we are pouring our hearts out here, can I tell you something as well?” 

“Yeah, of course. You can tell me anything.” Eddie said serious. 

“I think … No. I know . I’m … bisexual?” Steve said, unsure. 

“For knowing it you sound very unsure about it.” Eddie replied with a smirk.

With a smile Steve said, “Shut up. I do know. I just didn’t know the term til like … a week ago? Robin told me about it after I had a “sexuality crisis” as Robin liked to call it. Not that I think it was a crisis really. I kinda knew I was into guys? I just didn’t know you could like both? Does that make sense? I feel like I sound stupid.” Steve looked down nervously. “You do not sound stupid. This shit can be super confusing, believe me, I know. I’m glad you got there in the end though.” Eddie smiled, lightly jabbing his elbow into Steves side.

“So you don’t … mind?” Steve said, repeating Eddies earlier words.

Eddie just stared at Steve. He can not be serious right now. 

“Steve. Steve. Are you serious? Do I mind? You do know who you’re talking to? I just told you I’m trans and you think I have a problem with you being bisexual?” 

“I don’t know! Maybe?” Steve mumbled. 

“Alright. First, no Stevie I do not mind. And second, You do know I’m gay right? Like, I really didn’t think I was hiding that very well.” 

“You … I mean. I had an Inkling. And the rumors in school … But I didn’t want to assume anything!”  Steves cheeks heating up as he hid behind his hands, and Eddie thinks it's the cutest thing he has ever seen. Oh, he was down bad. 

With a low mumble Eddie said “Cute.” Smiling like an idiot. This could not have gone any better, he was so relieved. And also Steve was into guys! Holy shit! Does that mean Eddie might actually have a chance? Alright, don't get your hopes up Munson that doesn't mean he likes you .

Eddie stifled a yawn, not wanting the moment to end, but Steve caught it anyway. Looking at the clock on his nightstand that showed 11pm already, Steve said with a  gentle smile “We should probably head to bed huh? You still need to rest and this was a lot.”

Knowing Steve was right, Eddie reluctantly agreed and nodded his head. He didn’t want to be alone though. Nights were the hardest. He knows his body needs rest but the nightmares just didn’t let up. More often than not he woke up crying and hyperventilating at the images in his head. Chrissy floating up the ceiling, her eyes completely white. The creatures in the upside down. The Demo-bats ripping Eddie to shreds, he would feel all the pain every time. But the worst of the dreams was when they involved Steve. Steve drowning in lovers lake. Steve getting ripped to shreds instead of Eddie. Bleeding out in Eddies arms, not being able to safe him. It was awful, and he hated it. The memories of the nightmares bringing fresh tears to his eyes, he immediately turned his head and stood up. Steve had seen enough of Eddie crying today. 

“I’m gonna … go to my room. I guess. Uh … good night, Steve.” Eddie said awkwardly pointing towards the hallway, trying his best not to let the tears fall.

“No wait! You can … stay here? If you want?” And after a moment added a small “Please.”.

Eddies heart nearly bursts into pieces at that, Steve sounded so desperate and sad. Fuck, he probably also had nightmares and needed comfort in another person. Wiping his eyes on the borrowed shirt, he turned back around to a miserable looking Steve. Yeah no, he can not just leave him alone like that. Absolutely not. “Yeah. I can stay.” 

And Steve just beamed at that. Sadness leaving his eyes as he warmly smiled at Eddie. 

Eddie slipped into Steves bed, under Steves bed sheets. And all he could smell was Steve. He sighed happily, how will he ever be able to sleep in his own bed ever again after knowing how this feels?

Meanwhile Steve got up to turn the light off, on the way back to the bed he stripped off his shirt and threw it somewhere in the direction of a chair. When he reached the bed he lifted the covers up and slipped under them turning to face Eddie. 

It was dark but the moonlight let enough light in so they could still see each other. Eddie felt giddy with happiness, something he never thought he would feel. 

Suddenly Steve shifted closer, their faces nearly touching at this point. Eddie could feel Steves breath on his lips. Slowly Steve leaned his forehead against Eddies, closing his eyes. One of his arms came to rest on Eddies waist while the other soughed out Eddies hand.

Their fingers intertwined under the blanket and Eddies heart skipped a beat. He doesn’t remember ever holding someones hand and never thought it could be this nice. To just touch someone and be close. He felt like he was touch starved, pressing closer to Steve, needing more. Steve chuckled as his hand that was at Eddies waist slowly crept up to his face. 

Cupping Eddies face in his hand, he slowly leaned forward closing the gap between the two and pressing his lips to Eddies. It was so slow and gentle. Just a soft press of lips against his. When Steve started to lean back again, Eddie immediately chased his lips again, bringing a chuckle out of Steve. “Needy aren't we?” He teases. But Eddie just nodded dumbly. Steve pressed another light kiss onto his lips, making Eddie sigh happily. 

When they parted, Steve pulled Eddie closer to him, holding him in his arms. Eddie laid his head on Steves chest and smiled as Steve pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sleep well, Eddie.”

[httpvomitello]

I'm loving your tommy stories so much, I always kind of wanted to see tommy have a found-family trope after sarah like joel did

Awwn, thank you! I know this isn't exactly a request, but I hope you like it anyway ~ ♡

What’s Left Behind .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: After losing his niece, Tommy Miller never imagined he’d want to protect anyone like that again. But then you showed up in Jackson with nothing but a baby in your arms and a tired look in your eyes.

tommy miller x f!reader

-You showed up to Jackson in the middle of a snowstorm.

They almost didn’t open the gates.

You looked like a ghost, swaddled in rags and mud and blood and grief, barely holding a bundled baby to your chest. Three months old, you said. No name offered. Just her age.

You didn’t cry when they asked what happened to the father.

You didn’t answer, either.

Tommy didn’t meet you that first day. But he heard about you. Everyone did. The girl with the baby who wouldn’t stop shaking, even in front of a fire.

You stayed silent for days. Did what you were told. Moved where they pointed. Never asked for more than what was given.

It wasn’t until a week later, in the mess hall, that Tommy saw you again.

You were standing, bouncing the baby slowly, trying to eat one-handed. No one offered to help.

Tommy was halfway through his stew before he realized he’d been staring.

The baby cooed. A small, bright sound in a room full of scraped chairs and slurped spoons.

You smiled at her. The kind of smile people only give someone they’d walk through hell for.

Tommy stood.

He didn’t think much of it — just walked over to your table, and said, “Need a second set of hands?”

You looked at him. Eyes tired, guarded. But your arms were sore. And your stomach was louder than your fear.

You nodded.

He took her gently. She was warm. Heavy in the way healthy babies are. She blinked at him, confused for a second, then grinned.

He smiled back.

Didn’t expect the sudden pressure in his chest. The ache.

He looked at you.

“You got a name for her?”

You hesitated.

Then: “Eden.”

He nodded. “That’s a strong name.”

You said nothing else.

But the next day, when he offered to carry firewood to your cabin, you let him.

It became a habit.

He’d swing by, say it was no trouble, take Eden for a loop around the settlement so you could bathe or eat or just breathe.

And Eden… Eden lit up when she saw him.

By the second week, she was babbling in his arms. Reaching for the buttons on his coat. Clinging to his shirt like it was her favorite thing in the world.

It did something to him. Opened something up.

Tommy hadn’t touched a baby since Sarah.

Hadn’t even thought about it.

But this little girl — this soft, gurgling spark of life — had no idea what the world had taken from him. She only knew that he kept coming back. That he was warm. That he smiled when she did.

And he started thinking about her more than he meant to.

About you, too.

One day, he brought over a hand-carved rattle.

Didn’t say much when he gave it to you. Just shrugged.

“Had some spare wood. Thought she might like it.”

You blinked at the smooth, sanded edges. The tiny engraving of a star near the handle.

You held it like it might break.

Then: “Thank you.”

Tommy smiled.

“She’s lucky to have you,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

Not at first.

Then you whispered, “I’m the lucky one.”

Things changed slowly after that.

You’d let him in more. Let him hold Eden longer. Let him bring food over, or fix a broken board in your porch.

You still didn’t talk about what came before.

But one night, Eden had a fever.

And you panicked.

You ran to Tommy’s cabin barefoot, eyes wild.

“She won’t stop crying,” you choked out. “I don’t know what to do.”

He dressed in seconds. Followed you back. Held her. Checked her forehead. Helped you cool her down. Held your hand while she was being cared for by the community doctor.

“She’s gonna be okay,” he said, over and over. “I promise.”

You cried into his chest until dawn.

He didn’t sleep.

After that, things shifted.

He started calling her kiddo.

You started calling him Tommy instead of sir.

One day you laughed at something he said — really laughed — and his chest ached for the first time in years.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Spring came.

And one afternoon, he was walking Eden around in the field just outside the gates, humming something soft, when you came out of the trees behind him.

He didn’t hear you until you said: “You’re good with her.”

He turned.

You looked nervous. Hands twisted in your coat.

“She likes you more than she likes me sometimes,” you added, voice almost too low to hear.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Not possible.”

You shrugged. “She gets quiet with you. Safe.”

He shifted her in his arms.

“She is safe. With both of us.”

You hesitated. “I didn’t think I’d have anyone after her dad.”

Tommy didn’t speak.

You stepped closer. “I didn’t think anyone would want us.”

His throat tightened.

“Would it be alright,” you whispered, “if we stayed?”

His voice cracked. “You already have.”

That night, he sat with you by the fire.

Eden asleep between you both.

You rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak, just kissed your head and smiled.

And with that, he felt the weight of something returning he thought had been buried for years.

Something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

But something just as real.

[thecandymaticart]

A silly little idea I had

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Ok, I think I have a pretty good idea of why a lot of Akechi's dialogue is... like that.

So, even before his confidant truly started, I noticed that he has a real knack for directing the flow of a conversation. This is very fitting for someone who is both a detective and skilled at interviews - when there is a topic and a goal, Akechi is in his element.

All this to say, he's actually kind of controlling when it comes to conversational flow. He probes for information, or turns the conversation around to a particular topic, usually the Phantom Thieves. He manages to take a few of Joker's dialogue options and spin them so they sound mildly incriminating in the context he's placed them in - the only way to truly get around this is to pick answers that feign indifference, and even then, that's more than a bit telling. He's clearly very good at this kind of thing.

But then, we get conversations where either Joker does something he didn't expect, or else he doesn't have a particular goal in mind - and the conversation stutters. In the first instance, Joker does something (a particularly egregious example is putting his glasses on him and fluffing his hair in rank 3) which both leaves him wrong-footed and no longer in perfect control of the situation. He just kind of... freezes, for awhile. It's hilarious. He has no idea how to respond.

He picks up control again in the phone call afterwards, having chosen to play into it, turning this "fooling the crowds" into a kind of game or secret between them. Nice save.

But in instances where there isn't an obvious topic and the goal is somewhat nebulous, for instance, that one Leblanc scene, it becomes pretty apparent that Akechi doesn't have the right "script" to go off of. Again, it's particularly notable in that scene, because I'm fairly sure he didn't have any specific reason to be at Leblanc, other than him looking for a quiet spot now that public opinion has turned on him. And because there isn't anything specific he's digging for, he kind of just ends up throwing things at the wall to see what will stick. Probing for any kind of recognizable reaction that he can jump on and work with, and that just doesn't really happen in this scene.

He references Sae, a woman in a respectable position, to Sojiro, but instead of that netting a welcome, it earns his ire, given Sae's recent actions against him. He then tries to greet Joker, his... rival? friend? enemy? person who at least seems to somewhat enjoy spending time with him? But Joker's responses are somewhat short, and Akechi practically wilts. He tries to commiserate by oversharing. He tries to involve Futaba and reaches out for the only topic of interest he can think of around "young people". He compliments the coffee. He compliments Joker. He tries to invoke that connection between them. None of it is really sticking, nor does it serve as a jumping off point for him to steer the conversation, or even really start one.

So, he basically just ends up having a one-sided chat with himself and then leaves. Hilarious. Also a little sad, if I'm being honest. It's really giving "guy with no friends who only knows how to speak to adults" energy. If there's no specific purpose to the exchange, or he is not in control of its direction, he seems to be kind of out of his depth. He succeeds only in being a little awkward and confusing, more than anything.

[tyliocellier]

Closed starter for @noiranamnesis

To direct a truly great performance is difficult. To direct the perfect performance is impossible. That was what he had been told by his mentor years ago and rather than take it as the humbling piece of advice it was intended to be, Tylio had internalized it as a personal challenge instead. Because he knew that it was possible. Perfection did exist. He witnessed it with his own eyes when he visited the Palais Garnier for the first time and saw his first ever ballet performance. To simply call it a performance would be a disservice, it had been a lifechanging experience for him. That day, he had the pleasure of bearing witness to what turned out to be the most skillfully performed rendition of Odette he'd ever see and it was also the rendition he would spend the rest of his life training people to recapture...

...with mixed results.

Finding the right swan was difficult. No, it was grueling. Last year's Odette was good, perhaps even great but she was not perfect. This year he was once again holding auditions. It was the second round today, and he honestly wasn't sure what to expect. There had been a few decent candidates but he had yet to find someone who was capable of capturing the essence of both the white and black swan. Most people believed they were capable of only one. It was his job to find the exception.

"It's your turn, miss...", he briefly glanced at the paper in his hand, before looking up and back at one of the dancers who'd been waiting by the sidelines. "...Beauséjour." A faint smile showed on his face as he realized the name was French. Dancers from all over the world traveled here for a chance at a proper education, it was not a given that his students were French. Most of them were international, which was why he held his classes in English. He gestured towards the dancefloor with one hand, while the pianist on one side of the room began to play. "Show me your white swan."

[decisions-at-3am]

Maybe I stopped smiling, When I looked around. Finally realising, No one cared if I did.

[mississpissi]

im asking you to explain :mic: abby and her dad go

ok this all started w bulks post about “abby” meaning “father’s joy” and it got me thinking about the contrast between cecil’s relationship with his mom versus the relationship i imagine between abby and her dad. fair warning that this mostly exists in my head but u bet ur burger im still gonna try to back up my ideas w quotes from the text (AP lit and lang babey).

first of all, looking at cecil’s relationship with his mom is super important. one of the first things we hear about her is that she used to hide from cecil for days and that she covered all the mirrors in their house (33). she also tells cecil to “beware, be warned, be wary”, which she apparently says to everything and cecil interprets to mean that she’s proud of him. we also hear in “Homecoming” (55) that cecil looks forward to seeing his mom every year at the homecoming game and was disappointed when he wasn’t able to. in “It Sticks With You” (182), we learn their mother would take them into the woods and walk quickly, cecil saying, “I think she wanted to lose us in the shadowy labyrinth of tall trees.” she would leave flowers at the base of the same old tree every time. she would ignore cecil’s questions. in “Bedtime Story” (132), which im convinced is about cecil (but that’s another post), cecil says “he just wanted his mother to show interest in his curiosity.” and even if that story isn’t about him, it is a story his mother would tell him at night, one he never heard the end of. in the traffic section of “Pioneer Days” (143), cecil tells a story of a boy left behind, abandoned by his family, left with nothing but a snake. im also fairly certain this is about him (cecil loves to tell his own story without ever really telling it). 

most revealing is what cecil says in “Ghost Stories” about his mother and her death. we learn their mother left when cecil was 14 (whatever that means), that cecil “thought that Mom would be back at any moment, like maybe she was away on business. Or out for a walk. Or just hiding.” He says, “And Mom flew away, when all other defenses failed her.” we learn she returned many years later, sick and old and “sorry”. we learn that she died soon after in a way that was “mundane”, that cecil was at work when it happened. we learn that cecil mourned her passing.

all of this paints a picture of a relationship that was strained, full of pain, downright abusive. and we see cecil, as he does so often, retrofit this pain to be something more palatable. she was hiding because she was proud. she didn’t speak to him because she was focused on something else. her defenses had failed her. she was struggling with alcoholism and mental illness. she was playing a game. she covered the mirrors because of pride. she came back! her death was inevitable. he misses her. he grieves her. he loved her. she might have loved him. he makes excuses for her because to do anything else would be to admit that he had experienced immense pain- to re-experience this immense pain. better to change the story.

now abby. 

we don’t know nearly as much about abby as i wish we did. we know she “approach[es] life with a total practicality,” that she will save her pain for when she is in private (It Devours!). steve says, “With Abby around, I can't imagine a bad thing that could happen" (89). we know her relationship with cecil has been tumultuous, that she leaned on cecil and then on steve as she raised janice. in “Bedtime Story”, the sister in the story fought with her brother, telling him she hated him. “she would wrestle him to the ground and pull his hair.” after the boy is buried in the ground, the sister often visits the tree he becomes. she plants flowers, removes beatles from his bark, reads in his shade, plucks his fruit. she visits with a man and a child, visits with joy and with tears in turn. this sister, this abby mourns her brother and tries to protect him, fights with him, loves him. 

and, again, in “Ghost Stories”, we learn that abby was “reserved and controlling”, that she dropped out of college when their mom left to raise cecil, that she blamed him (that cecil blamed her for not being their mom). we learn that abby was there when their mother died, that her death prompted cecil and abby to reconcile their differences. we learn that cecil and abby are both haunted by their family. 

here’s where i diverge from what we really have. 

we haven’t really heard from abby. everything we know of her we’ve learned from cecil and steve. but i have to imagine she resented their mother, that she hardly wanted to drop her plans for her future to raise her younger brother.  i hardly have to imagine what it’s like to have that kind of responsibility thrust upon you when all you wanted was to live your own life. i have to imagine watching your mother die, your mother who just reentered your life after years of neglect, would hurt, would be complicated, would cut deep.

i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer bringing home their first born child, naming her “Abby”, naming her “father’s joy”, naming her after the pride that swelled in her father’s chest. i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer doing their best to raise their daughter in a town as hostile as night vale. i imagine them wanting a sibling for their daughter, someone to keep her company when they couldn’t. i imagine abby struggling with the idea for a moment, then embracing her brother wholeheartedly. i imagine mrs. palmer naming their son “Cecil”, naming him “blind”, naming him after the future she saw.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching as he brought his son to “work in the pasture” with him (132). watching as her brother was injured by his curiosity, watching as her father avoided him in his anger. watching her mother hide from her brother. i imagine abby realizing she would have to be the one to patch him up, even while both parents were still home. i imagine abby hearing her father promise that he “would give [his] life for [his son]”, hearing him say her brother could never be a doctor because “he feared for the boy's future patients”. i imagine her wanting her father to offer his life for her, to invite her to the pasture. i imagine her becoming more reserved over time, realizing her brother needed more help and attention, willing to step into the background because she loved him, because she wanted to be strong for her family. i imagine her doing everything she could to live up to her name, to be someone worthy of the joy of her father.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching him leave. maybe she knew why, maybe she was simply left. i imagine abby watching her mother slowly fall into paranoia and fear because of her brother, because of what she had seen. i imagine abby following her mother into the woods, placing flowers on the trunk of a tree she recognizes, trying to keep cecil distracted by playing a game with him. i imagine abby making sure cecil got to school, got food when their mother was hiding from him. i imagine abby finding out her mother too had left, left her with now full time responsibility for cecil. i imagine abby becoming controlling because she had to, because she had lost control over so many other aspects of her life. i imagine abby channeling what she could remember of her father, trying to be strong, reliable- ignoring that he had stopped being that very suddenly. i imagine abby yelling at a teenage cecil, telling herself that it was better than ignoring him like they had. i imagine abby finding out she was to become a mother, a mother without a father, a mother to a daughter who had more needs than she could handle on her own. i imagine abby finding a man who wanted to help, who could provide a stability cecil was unable to, for all his enthusiasm. i imagine abby, kicking her drunk brother she had raised out of her wedding, not willing to look him in the face for years without seeing her father, seeing her mother, seeing ghosts.

and i imagine abby listening to her brother describe their father on live radio. i imagine her cleaning up after the dinner steve made, hearing about a man with a “thin mouth… [and] threatening, beckoning eyes” (192). hearing about a man, their father, her father, going into the forest with a shovel, digging himself out of the ground. i wonder if she put the pieces together retroactively or if she’d had them all along. i imagine her waiting for the shower to cry. i imagine her hearing that cecil received a photograph of their father (201, 219). i wonder if she went to see it, if she was able to, if she even wanted to see it. i wonder if she listened in, checking that her brother was taking care of her daughter, only to hear that her father, the man who’s joy she had once been, was actually talking to cecil (224). i wonder if she wondered why he was reaching out to cecil and not her. i wonder if she called cecil after, or if she knew he meant it when he said, “I refuse to look into it further.” i wonder if she hopes that when cecil is made to remember their father, she gets to as well. i wonder how long she was her father’s joy, and how long she spent grieving whatever changed that.

most of all, i wonder if WE’RE EVER GONNA GET TO HEAR ABBY’S FUCKING VOICE!!

[skyeateyourdonuts]

weeoo

[raccooncityriots]

Ugh, do I want to go through all the stuff that I stuffed in the attic and never got unpacked when I moved back years ago to try to find my gundam seed necklaces for the movie?? I have to go up there anyway today but man I’ve got no idea where they’re actually at.

[ferronite]

It's finally time!

About Corruption (Part 1)

Yeah, it's a part one. Figured it'd be easier to split it up!

But without further ado...

The Corruption Phenomenon

"Corruption" is the name given to the condition that occurs in humans and other sapient species as a result of prolonged contact with the objects known as "Shards of Corruption"; purple crystals that vary in size and shape but are generally around the size of an adult's fist.

These Shards are believed to have a mind of their own in some capacity, though this has not been proven as there is no safe way to do so, and the words of the Corrupted cannot be trusted.

The progression of this Corruption can be detailed in "stages", similar to most common ailments, though it's effects are much more abnormal.

These stages will be detailed below:

-Stage Zero: begins upon initial contact. Individual shows no signs of change, aside from a desire to keep the Shard with them at all times.

-Stage One: around one and a half weeks after initial contact. Individual shows very slight shifts in personality, with a slight "enhancement" of some of their more "negative" traits. No physical changes.

-Stage Two: roughly a month after initial contact. Individual's personality shift is more noticeable, and their sense of morality may be slightly swayed. No physical changes.

-Stage Three: begins around two months after initial contact. Individual's personality continues to shift towards the negative, though the changes are less noticeable than between Stages One and Two. Morality changes are much more noticeable, if not incredibly major at this point. Slight physical changes: individual's eyes gain a faint lilac sheen.

-Stage Four: around three months after initial contact. Personality changes appear to be minimal at this point, and morality only changes slightly from Stage Three. Physical changes continue: individual's eyes become slightly clouded, and minimal growth of lilac crystals can be observed on the face and chest.

-Stage Five: three and a half months after initial contact. This stage is characterised by a sudden and severe decline in the individual's mental stability, including further severe changes to both their personality and moral compass, often leading to increased violent tendencies among other issues. Crystal growth continues, spreading further across already afflicted areas with crystals also appearing on the extremities. Eyes are further clouded. From this point onwards the individual will be referred to as the host of the Shard - recovery past this stage is virtually impossible.

-Stage Six: four months after initial contact. The host is virtually unrecognisable in personality, though some parts of the original self can still be recognised. Crystals cover a significant portion of the face and chest, and spread to the neck and other limbs. If the host's eyes can still be seen, they will be almost completely clouded in lilac. Despite this, they will still have complete vision and motor functions will not be impacted.

-Stage Seven: will occur any time after Stage Six. The host has been completely overtaken by the Shard. Very little of the original self remains. The majority of the body is covered in crystals, with the extremities having fully crystallised. The host is at this point little more than a shell following the will of the Shard.

Please note that the timeframe given for the stages is an average - our observations and records have shown that it can take anywhere from a month to several years for an individual to fully Corrupt.

The progression of the Corruption can be seen below (Stages One and Two have been excluded due to the lack of physical changes):

It is possible to "save" an individual and restore them to their original self in the earlier stages of the condition by separating them from the Shard and removing any crystals (though this is not a simple task - the individual will fight to keep the Shard with them). However, once the individual has become the host of the Shard, it is impossible to save them. There are recorded instances of a host having their original self restored upon the removal or shattering of their crystals, but such a thing will always prove fatal.

It should also be noted that those in close proximity to the individual for long periods of time may also experience the effects of Corruption - however, no (or very minimal) crystal growth will occur, as they will only show the psychological symptoms of yhe condition. Additionally, these individuals will become incredibly loyal to the bearer of the Shard, though this situation has rarely been observed.

The nature of this condition makes it highly dangerous, and many of the specifics surrounding it and its roots remain unknown. However, as it seems tied to the Shards of Corruption, cases are relatively rare, and many victims are ordinary citizens who can be easily dealt with. Therefore, it is unlikely to be a threat any time soon.

I will update this record when new information arises.

-Signed,

Lead Archivist, Idrilis D. Vigil

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damn, what a text wall! Good thing we decided to split this thing up. Wasn't exactly intending on writing all that as a character, but... it seems to work, soooo....

If you want me to explain anything, feel free to ask! Idk how clear all that was and it's gone 4am again oops. We have lectures tomorrow. Writing this took like an hour it's great.

But... what exactly is going on with those Shards?

Well, wouldn't you like to know~?

[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

[fingertipsmp3]

That last post just reminded me of something honestly mind-boggling that that friend did

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: break-up, angst, hung-up yandere, anger issues, insecurity, threats to regrets

♡ GN reader

Thinking about pro-athlete ex-boyfriend… 

You know, the one you broke up with because he couldn't focus on anything but his career, the one you just couldn’t stand by and watch any longer as he nearly ran his health into the ground—not to mention your relationship—all to reach his goals.

He’d been so mean—meaner than you ever thought possible when you told him you couldn’t do this anymore—said it was a real class act of you to abandon him now when it mattered most. He’d made it about you not wanting a pipe-dreaming wannabe sportsman for a boyfriend, how you never believed in him anyway, how you never cheered for him, how he thinks you don’t even want to see him succeed. 

He’d been so loud and so ugly you’d been in shock for weeks afterward, unable to wrap your head around it. You didn’t even dare tell anyone—feeling it was a beast of burden you ought to keep for yourself. Oddly enough, you felt that if anyone knew or saw him like that, it would be not just detrimental to him and his image but embarrassing for you both.

And you hadn't spoken to him since. At least not face-to-face. He’d sent you a few drunk texts then and there, which you’d replied to in short, though mostly ignored. You’d thought about blocking him at one point, but you didn’t want to be dramatic, either. And suppose, in some way, you were still waiting for an apology.

But months passed, and nothing like it ever came, and so, instead of being bitter, you accepted that was just how the two of you ended. And that was that. 

Still, it's a little awkward. You wonder if you should congratulate him on his rise in popularity, how he’s finally getting all those long hours spent training back in full—but somehow, you feel it would just sound petty coming from you. And so, you don’t bother.

He’s got other people in his life cheering him on now—he doesn’t need a measly text from his ex. No, it's better to leave it be, is what you think.

Which is why it’s surprising when you get the dinner invitation. 

And following the initial surprise, you don’t really know what to expect of it either. But you end up accepting—some part out of curiosity, wondering what he might want after all this time, and another part hopeful it was to finally address the awful break up so that the both of you could move on without it hanging heavy over your heads and hearts.

This, however, was the last thing you had in mind when sitting down with him for the first time in a long time.

“Will you marry me?”

Your whole body flares up with something reminiscent of the feeling when you trip and fall—that type of split burn that rushes through you from head to toe and then leaves you feeling cold all over. Heart in your throat, you’re speechless.

Or no, you just don’t know where to begin.

“What are you doing?” you end up accusing—a little too harshly, maybe, but who could blame you? Looking around, you’re glad your table’s in a more private sector of the restaurant before you look back at him, eyes wide and brows knit. 

“I–we broke up a year ago and haven’t seen each other since—and you’re—” Your eyes fall back to the thing in his hands. It’s an outrageous ring. “Asking me to marry you?”

He makes no move to withdraw the offer—keeping his hands where they are, on your side of the table. “You said yes to the dinner. That must mean something. I thought—”

“Yeah. It means that I still worry about you,” you say. “It doesn't mean–”

“I fought my way up. I’m finally at the top,” he cuts you off in earnest. “I’m the best, and the world finally knows it now–”

“I don't care about any of that,” you state, feeling it should have been something you told him from the very beginning. “I'm sorry. But I never cared about you being the best. I just wanted…”

You just wanted the two of you to be like other couples—together and happy. You just wanted that to be enough, but it never was for him.

“Never mind…” you end up saying. “I think I should go.”

You’re about to get up when his hand, suddenly around your wrist, tightens in a harsh grip.

“I don't think you understand,” he utters, voice lowered with a hint of a growl. “It’s either this ring or I bury you in rumors that won’t leave you a moment’s worth of peace.” 

You go stiff while looking back at him.

Did he just… did he just threaten you?

You blink. He's got that same warped expression you remember from the last time you saw him, that very odd look as if the guy you know has been switched out with someone entirely different.

Only this time, it just as quickly disappears, and he lets go of your wrist, quickly pulling his hand to himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that–I’m just—” he apologizes with a stutter, looking startled.

He puts his face in his hands. Then there's a sound—close to a sob.

“I’m just a mess without you.”

Goosebumps rise on the surface of your skin when hearing it. And swallowing thickly, you sit back down again, albeit a bit begrudgingly. But spotting how he trembles, you just can’t stop feeling sorry for him.

You sigh. “No, you’re not. You just…” Reaching across the table, you stroke his arm. “You just lose your head a little sometimes, that’s all.” 

He peaks up from his hands. A sheen under his eyes reflects the ceiling light, and your heart twists in your chest.

He really is a mess.

“But I know you…” you try smiling. “You were always destined for greatness.”

He takes your offered hand in his, stroking it, then sniffs, voice fluttering weakly, “Yeah, well…”

He keeps his head low, resting it in his other hand as if he just couldn't muster the strength to sit straight or even attempt to pull himself together.

“If I'm so great, why wouldn’t you stay?”

He sounds as if he’s been holding things back for the entirety of the year since you left. Broken now... it's all spilling out.

“Because," you start, even though your throat’s tight and you’re fighting back tears of your own, your mind hasn’t changed.

You didn’t come here to get back together. 

"You want to go places, I just can’t follow.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Enji ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Aki ♡ BLLK – Reo, Isagi, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Karasu, Shido ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Sakura, Suo, Kaji

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