i had to get a close up of him with his scruffy ish hair


FAQ  |  pt. 1  |  pt. 2  |  pt. 3  |  pt. 4  |  pt. 5  |  pt. 6  |  pt. 7  |  pt. 8  |  pt. 9  |  pt. 10  |  pt. 11  |  pt. 12  |  pt. 13  |  pt. 14  |  pt. 15  |  pt. 16  |  pt. 17  |  pt. 18  |  pt. 19  |  pt. 20

art, art, art, arrrrrrt.  okay, i’m done.  except.  also.  y’know.  ART!

Lydia’s a study in disinterest.  Gaze stretching out across campus, lips pursed in judgment of the impromptu Frisbee match forming on the quad, position oriented to scarcely acknowledge that she’s standing with Stiles.

Stiles is tempted to tell her to drop the act because once obsession with someone has been coded into his DNA, there’s not so much as a micro-expression that he’s likely to miss.  He’s definitely already caught on to and catalogued the shrewdness that has been attacking her face all day.  She knows something but she doesn’t know what she knows and she’s been hawk-eyed and predatory ever since she figured out that much.

Stiles is not going to encourage any of that, thanks much.  Side note: why is everyone around him comparable to some type of bird?  Not that he’s thinking about hummingbirds, because he isn’t.  He could be, but he’s not, because he’s in control of his brain and he’s decided: no.  Crap.  Firstly, he’s totally thinking about hummingbirds.  Second-of-ly, what kind of bird would that make him?  Oh man, probably some kind of friggin’ goose.

He hates geese.

Now he knows it’s likely because he’s subconsciously recognized a kinship to them.

“If you had to pick a feathered representation for me, it wouldn’t be a goose, right?”

Years of following his bullet-speed trains of thought has led to Lydia taking that completely in stride.  She doesn’t even bother to look up at him, hand fishing in her purse for her phone to check the time.  “A seabird probably,” she offers, lighting up the screen, “they’re clumsy on land.”

“Well that’s a self-esteem boost I didn’t know I needed,” Stiles says dryly.  “You’re a true humanitarian, Lyds.  Also, the correct answer was secret option C) some kind of dinosaur.  I would’ve preferred stegosaurus, for the record.”

She brushes the hair out of her face, glances at him.  “I could have said a hoatzin.”

Stiles has legitimately no idea what that is.  “Th… anks?”  He thinks. Probably.

“More commonly known as stinkbirds.  You’re welcome,” she confirms.  Her gaze is less glancing, more stripping and Stiles pretends not to notice.  “Expert deflection, Stiles, truly.”  She golf claps mockingly and Stiles glares back at her.  “Now what are you deflecting?”

“If I tell you, they’ll revoke my ‘expert’ status,” Stiles points out smartly, “And rip up my ribbon.  I can’t have that, I’ve already put it in the family newsletter.”

Keep reading

What’s Wrong

Supernatural fic

pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader



  You lay on the couch, on your stomach. Your face stuck in a pillow, and a fluffy (not to mention your favorite) pillow pressed between your bloated abdomen and the rough couch cushions. Every now and then a painful jolt would disturb you, so you would grunt and move around until you were comfortable once more.
   Sam and Dean were sitting nearby at a small table doing research, occasionally glancing your way worriedly. Just past them, there were two dopery looking motel beds. Castiel was off doing… whatever Cas does.
   The four of you had gotten back late last night from a hunt. All of you were extremely tired, and thankfully only sporting a few minor cuts and bruises. You had woken up this morning to a pleasant surprise and serious pain in your lower regions. Needless to say, you were in no mood to help the brothers at the moment.    
   You grunted again, squirming around some more until you let out a sigh, relaxing into the couch cushions.
   “Okay, what’s wrong?” Sam asked. Part of him was worried about you, the other was frustrated you were distracting him.
   You see, the only reason you were still in this crummy motel, was because Sam thought he found a lead for a case not too far away, and wanted to double check before you headed off.    
   He sighed running his fingers through his hair, both brothers now glancing your way.
   "I’m fine,” you mumbled into the fluffy, rectangular existence that is a pillow.
   “Oh, really?” Dean scoffed. He took a swig from the bottle before adding, “Because you’ve been acting like a but-hurt five-year-old all day.” He paused. “You didn’t get hurt last night, right?”
   “I said I’m fine, Dean.”
   “Alright, Princess, if you say so.”
   You flipped him off and he chuckles lightly as everyone returns to their previous routines.
   After about 40 minutes, maybe a bit longer, you felt and extremely painful jolt run through your already-aching body. Maybe you reacted a bit loudly,l but hey, what woman wouldn’t no matter if she’s a hunter.
   Sam smacked his forehead and tried to be patient, while Dean let out an exasperated sigh.    
   “Okay, (y/n), what is it?” Sam asked softly.    
   “Nothing,” you groaned over-dramatically.
   Sam sighed and you heard Dean take another swig of his beer as they went back to their research. Sam was just starting to get back into the groove of his current news article, which, if he was lucky, would be his last one. His shoulders began to slump in a relaxed position as his eyes began to scan the-
   “Hey, Sammy?”
   “Only Dean can call me that,” he grumbles.
   “Don’t care,” came your matter-of-fact reply as Dean chuckled softly.
   Sam opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, clenching his jaw. “What?”
   “C’mere,” you say, finally lifting your head up to look at him.
   “(y/n), I’m researching right now, and-”
   “Then bring your laptop over here,” you interrupted.
   He sighed in defeat and picked up his laptop. He sat against the couch in front of where you lay. You curled closer to the giant man’s head, still laying down, and began to french braid his hair.
   “Hey Sam?”
   “How tall are you?”    
   You sighed, turning towards the older brother. “Dean how tall is your brother?” you ask.    
   “I don’t know, only like an inch or two taller than me, so I’d say 6’4-ish,” He said. He sounded annoyed.    
   You thought for a moment before giggling to yourself and speaking aloud. “You know the average Sam Winchester is 6’4 and the average moose is 6’5?”
   “I’m not a moose!” Sam exclaimed as Dean choked.
   “Oh! And they both have glorious hair. Sam’s is better though,” you added.
   Sam stood up and rolled his eyes as you finished tying off his oh-so-pretty braid. Dean took a glance at him before he practically doubled over onto the floor from laughing too hard.
   “Haha, very funny, Dean,” Sam mumbled sarcastically, sitting back down in his chair.
   The two settled back into their research yet again, and you continued your squirming. Boredom, however, engulfed you once again, and you were feeling a bit lonely.
   “Dean,” you called.
   “I’m busy right now, what do you need?” he asked.
   “Fine then.”
   Sam shot him a look and Dean sighed. “Whadd’ya need, babe?”    
   You ignored him and breathed into your pillow softly. You were just getting comfortable when you felt another cramp, letting out an exasperated sigh you buried your head farther into the pillow.
   “C’mon, Princess, what is it?” Dean asked, voice a bit gruff.
   “You propped your head up and looked up at him, dead in the eyes. You actually didn’t know why you called him, but he was your boyfriend, and Sam looked about ready to smash a brick wall to pieces with his teeth.    
   “What? I can’t ask for a little attention from my sexy boyfriend?” It was a fatal attempt at getting him to make his way over to you, and you knew this. Although this seemed to catch his attention as he smirked smugly at you. “C’mere.”
   He squatted down in front of you. You smiled briefly, then grabbed his shirt him in for a kiss. After a few moments, he pulled you closer, deepening it.
   “Get a room you two.”
   “We’re in a room, Sammy, you’re just in it,” Dean said, looking over at his brother.
   Dean started to get back up, but you pulled him back down and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Ok,” you stated as you snuggled back into the pillows. He chuckled and headed back over to his seat; and although he would never admit it out loud, Dean Winchester, the cocky, badass hunter, thought you were the cutest thing that ever graced this Earth. Sometimes. Maybe. Just a little.
   Dean began to focus on his research once again.
   “Dean, will you come cuddle with me?” you ask.
   “No, I’m busy.”
   “Tch, I bet Cas would cuddle me if I asked him.    
   Dean was about to open his mouth to say something as a ‘there’s-no-way-in-hell-i’ll-let-that-happen’ look graced his visage.
    “What?” a deep, scruffy voice came from across the room as three of you jumped.    
   “Damn it, Cas!”    
   “I am sorry, Dean,” came the angel’s reply. He then scanned the room. “Someone called?”
   “Oh,” you pipe in. “I was just saying how much nicer you are than fuckface over here.” You wink at DEan, but he just scowls.
   Castiel tilts his head as Dean denies your accusation.
   You roll your eyes and look over to your boyfriend. “Can I have a hug?”
   “Oh, hell no.”
   “Cas, can I have a hug please? Dean’s hurting my feelings.”
   “Of course,” Castiel said, and walked over to you. You sat up and he sat next to you. The two of you were enveloped in the most awkward hug. Though when the two of you should have pulled away, you didn’t. You both were too relaxed and comfortable to move now.
   “Cas, I think that’s enough for now,” Dean said.
   “But why? I find this quite comforting,” Castiel stated matter-of-factly as he pulled you closer.
   You grinned mischievously over at Dean. He looked about ready to rip Castiel to peices and feed him to just about everything that was out to get him.
   “Hey, Cas, if I give you money, will you go get me ice cream?” you ask.
   He released his hold on you and nodded as you handed him various bills. He was gone as soon as he appeared.
   “Now will you cuddle with me?” you asked Dean. You don’t think you’ve seen him rush toward you so quickly. You chuckled and made room for him on the small couch. He pulled you flush against his chest.
   Neither of you noticed Sam shake his head, smiling at the two of you. Instead you were looking into the eyes of the man not even two inches from your face, and you swore they were the most breathtaking thing you had ever seen. The most beautiful green to ever green. You smiled lazily and snuggled closer into his arms.
   You felt another uncomfortable cramp form in your abdomen and pressed your hand on it. You opened your mouth to speak, but were interrupted by a loud thump. You looked over Dean’s shoulder at a fumbling Cas who was looking at a fallen ice cream tub.
 You giggled softly, pressing your mouth against the hunter’s shoulder to quiet it. Cas was holding at least  four grocery bags overflowing with different ice cream, and he had a few more tubs in his arms.
   “He looked up at you seriously. “There were so many different ice cream flavors. I didn’t know what to get so I got all of them,” he stated.
  You couldn’t take it anymore, you slumped into Dean, laughing. “So who wants ice cream??”

Sam had put away his laptop and the four of you were situated in front of the television, eating ice cream. You were sitting between Dean’s legs snuggled up to his chest, Cas sat on the other side of the couch, and Sam sat on the floor leaning against the couch.
   Another painful cramp wedged it’s way to the surface and you grumbled.
   “(Y/N), is everything alright?” Castiel asked, squinting his eyes.
   “My womb is stripping itself of it’s lining with blades and guns and fire and death, and you’re asking me if I’m okAY????”
   “(Y/N) I assure you nothing like that is going on in your womb.”
   “Oh my fucking- Cas- I swear…” you mumbled, setting your ice cream down and once again leaning back into Dean. You eventually drifted to sleep surrounded by a squinting angel, a moose, and a squirrel.

Better The Devil You Know  (Part 1)

(A Halloween-ish treat and sequel to the notorious devil!Will AU @crossroadscastiel and @weconqueratdawn)

40 Years Later…

If there was one thing demons could do, it was track down what was theirs.

It took almost no time at all to find Hannibal. And it wasn’t as though he was hiding. He was living the high-life amongst the wealthy and well-to-do, extremely visible, making no attempt to disguise his mysterious good fortune. To Will, this meant he was either very shrewd or very stupid. And, in either case, very vain.

Still, walking right up to him would be too easy. How much more fun to present himself to Hannibal in the guise of someone else, take him by surprise.

Will inveigled himself into a space he knew Hannibal was going to be. FBI profiler did not make immediate sense, but his was not to question, but to perform. And he was perfectly happy doing that.

He relished the way Hannibal’s eyes widened when he lifted his head and saw him standing there as the person he was meant to heal. But if surprise was what Will had been hoping for, he was disappointed. Because it was not surprise, but recognition that altered Hannibal’s features, dilated his pupils. That was disappointing, and yet… flattering. Hannibal remembered him, remembered what year this was. Perhaps not so stupid then.

“Dr. Lecter,” Will nodded behind the glasses, he thought they were a nice touch for this character.

“Will.” And he said his name with all the knowing familiarity of an old friend. An intimate friend.

What proceeded Will had difficulty recalling, he spoke little, but kept his eyes fixed on Hannibal, who even when he looked away, always seemed to be watching him too. Still within earshot of the others, Hannibal turned to him, “Would you care to accompany me to dinner tonight, Will?”

“Dinner?” Will raised an eyebrow.

“To better get to know one another before we begin therapy.”

If the others paused, if the others blinked and stared, they at least had the sense not to say anything and made excuses to themselves as they left the room.

Will’s lips pursed, “Sounds unorthodox, but…” his eyes flashed above the glasses, “I am so hungry.”


By the time Will arrived at Hannibal’s door, the performance was all but shed. Oh, he might look the part of scruffy, recalcitrant dog-owner, but that was all to do with what Hannibal wanted to see. And Hannibal was not particularly interested in Will pretending to be more human than he was.

“Good evening,” Hannibal answered the door before he could knock, “Please, be my guest.” He stepped back graciously, allowing Will inside.

Will cocked his head, fixing him with a look before inviting himself in, “How did you know?”

“Smell,” Hannibal shut the door, locking it, “The scent of hell is quite distinct, sharp, peppery, and smoky.”

Will cocked an eyebrow, “Did I give you that?”

Hannibal’s lips spread, “I have taught myself many things, but I confess your gift has proved no small aid. May I interest you in an aperitif before dinner?”

Will nodded, following him down the hall. As they walked, Will took the liberty to admire the man Hannibal had become. Forty years did much to a human; they grew and changed in the oddest ways. Hannibal was so tall now, strong-shouldered, with lines of laughter and despair claiming his face. He wore it well, remarkably well; age was no shame to him.

That was rare enough in Will’s line of work, so many summoning him, longing to be younger, prettier, thinner, willing to barter their souls to do it. He had come to think that all humans must someday sacrifice themselves to their vanity. But perhaps not all. He eyed the silver sheen in Hannibal’s slicked-back hair, caught the subtle suggestion of his face in the neat, soft lines around his eyes. Some of them had the sense to accept.

If Will thought Hannibal had been well-groomed earlier when he first saw him that day, with his soft-leather shoes and deliberately askew hair, he was now flawless. Hannibal had chosen a charcoal suit, riven through with a lightning sort of blue, just catching the light every now and then, the same shade as his tie. He had deliberately set the brightness of it against a deep blue shirt, like a silky ocean, becoming on his broad form. And yet… something about it struck Will as being off, wrong somehow. Blue was not his color. Red, on the other hand…

Hannibal pushed open a heavy, carved wood door and lead Will into a dark alcove, every wall lined with books. Prior to Will’s arrival, Hannibal had already set out a decanter and small crystal glasses for the liqueur, which he now approached. Will flicked his eyes around the room, walking to the wall and brushing his hand over the texts. Some of his old friends were still here, old and leather-bound and terrible. They were one of the few consistencies with Hannibal’s previous life.

“So this is your home,” Will sighed, stepping away, “I miss the castle.”

“Do you?” Hannibal lifted his head, capping the decanter and approaching him with a drink.

“You were suited to it,” Will sniffed at the glass, floral but not too sweet, before gulping it down.

Hannibal smirked, “I’m afraid castles are out of fashion on this continent and in this year. More’s the pity.”

Will glanced at him, wondering for a moment if Hannibal was trying to sympathize with the very devil who bought his soul. He snorted, ridiculous.

“You don’t seem at all surprised to see me.” That fact still stuck in Will a bit, resentment tempering his casual tone.

Hannibal’s mouth curved. He took a step forward, humming, “Not at all. I kept a close record of the date I bartered my soul. You’re early, as a matter of fact, but I thought to expect you some time before the year was out.”

Will felt his lips purse and turned aside, concealing his pouting. He thrust a hand into his pocket and noted the tightness of these pants. Hannibal was either looking or certainly wanted to.

“Have you thought about me?” And there it was.

Will half-turned back, keeping his eyes off Hannibal, making him work for the attention. He shrugged, hand still in his pocket, “Didn’t need to, had you in my pocket the whole time.” But he couldn’t resist flashing a smirk at him.

Hannibal’s eyes glittered when he smiled, as if the joke were not at his expense. He parted his lips, wetting them briefly before speaking, “I’ve thought about you, often.” His voice grew soft, fond.

Will ignored him; he paced around the perimeter of the room, not too quickly, intentionally unfocused.

“Always the same, always just as you are now. I never dreamed a demon could appear so beautiful,” Hannibal turned with him, his voice following him, floating high over his shoulder at his ear, “You were always with me. I was always glad to see you.”

In his mind’s eye, Will could see exactly what Hannibal meant, not that he needed to. Hannibal infused his words with such emotion it was impossible not to catch how much he had thought of Will and under what circumstances. Writhing on a bed, still young, body tortured by feelings never before expressed… Will shook the images out of his head roughly. He did not come here to get distracted.

He returned to the decanter and poured himself another drink, feeling Hannibal’s eyes flick over him curiously.

“No, it doesn’t affect us,” Will muttered, before elegantly straining the liquid through his teeth. Didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the taste though. After all… they shared a hunger.

Will exhaled slowly, “Is this what my gift has brought you?” He raised his eyes to Hannibal, lifting one eyebrow with effort as if both were too heavy.

Hannibal’s lips danced, somehow completely secure in the change of subject and completely delighted. His mouth strained not to smile too hard. The look was… infatuating.

Hannibal stepped forward, bending over Will. “Would you like to see my pantry?” he murmured, breath reminiscent of the smoke of hell. Will’s eyes nearly lidded as he nodded.

Hannibal returned his glass to the tray with the decanter, then beckoned Will to the door, waiting expectantly. Will set his glass down, less carefully and less caring than Hannibal, but followed him deliberately out of the room, down another dark hall, past the kitchen, to a black but otherwise nondescript door. It had no outward show of being heavily locked, but as they crossed its threshold, Will could sense a certain amount of power behind it.

“Enchantment?” Will frowned. If Hannibal had crossed paths with another demon without him knowing, putting aside the staggering unlikelihood, it would make this next part… sticky.

“Disenchantment, actually,” Hannibal clarified, coming to the landing and hitting the lights, “nothing strong enough to cause suspicion, but a gentle nudge to ignore that door.”

Will had to concede, the planning was impressive. It was always refreshing to meet a human who took magic seriously. How much richer his soul then…

Hannibal proceeded through plastic tarps and suspiciously scintillating tables to a butcher’s block where a partially dismembered woman lay. Will brightened at the display, admiring the knife-work that had gone into removing her stomach, kidneys, lungs, and tongue.

“She’s beautiful,” Will murmured.

“Thank you,” Hannibal bowed his head, “I so rarely get to show off my selections.” He smiled thinly and Will couldn’t resist smiling back.

“The sweet meats are already cooking, but, as you are my guest, and I trust your taste, perhaps you would wish to choose a cut?”

Will’s eyes traveled between Hannibal’s keen invitation and the handsomely preserved body. Only a few days old, dry-aging in the air, her meat should be tender. “It is a feast, is it not?” Will stepped in closer, considering.

“Yes,” he murmured, hot and close, “To suit even your appetites.”

Will allowed his mouth to curve up, just slightly. “This,” he pressed at her thigh, “Give me her leg.”

Hannibal nodded, smiling with pleasure. He unbuttoned his coat swiftly, folding it neatly out of the way, then unbuttoned and rolled his sleeves. He removed a glinting knife from the wall and stepped toward Will, “If you would please…” Will stepped out of his way, backing up to watch Hannibal perform.

Hannibal bent over his work, sliding his hands over her like a sculptor finding the grain of the marble. He located the joint he wished to sever, pressed firmly, then took up his knife and, with all of his weight, sliced into her. Will watched his shoulders move beneath the shirt and vest, the broad, powerful levers behind his precise movements. The wave of muscle mesmerized him, the bunch and ripple with each crushing stroke. It hadn’t really occurred to Will until just then that he had made Hannibal a hunter, that his gift required him to have a body to carry it out.

The leg now separated from the body, Hannibal broke it at the knee and began the delicate business of flaying the skin from the meat. For this, he reached for a new knife, sharper, but thinner, smaller. It slid between the layers of flesh with scarcely any resistance. Will crept up closer, peering around Hannibal at his elegant hands, at the steady, focused look in his eye. Will found himself longing for the decanter from the study, to drain it in one long swallow.

“I’ll roast it, bone in, until it’s tender enough to fall apart,” Hannibal explained, turning to present Will with the finished cut.

Will swallowed, but nodded curtly, “I look forward to it.”

Hannibal’s eyes glittered with something that worried Will, but as he turned to wrap the cut to carry it upstairs, the glitter was gone.

Will followed him up the stairs again, absently folding Hannibal’s coat over his arm. Hannibal lead him into the kitchen, rich and fiendish smells pouring out of it. Will took a deep breath and found himself salivating.

The main course was laid on the cutting board, then Hannibal turned with a mildly puzzled expression. He spotted his jacket in Will’s arms and beamed, “Thank you.” He moved to take it out of Will’s arms.

Will blinked, not remembering he’d picked it up. Flustered, Will half-moved to put it on him, half-hand it to him, resulting in the coat wrinkling, one arm dragging on the floor. Will winced, upset with his clumsiness. He stepped away while Hannibal picked lint off the fine wool. He reminded himself why he was here, felt the IOU burning in his pocket, and tried not to think about the 40-years-older man standing behind him, nurturing and treasuring his gift like… like it was a real gift. Humans like Hannibal were few and far between…

No, he was here to take the man’s soul. But… no one said that had to be tonight.

Oh La La - Bucky X Reader

Not Requested

Bucky X Reader in which Bucky and the reader switch bodies on accident. Whoops.

Note: This ain’t that great but it’s okay-ish. I think. But enjoy! ps. I may have accidentally switch from past tense to present tense ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry. -Aly

Warning: language, mentions of nudity and sex.

Originally posted by thespoilerwitchblog

A knock on the door is what woke Bucky. He grumbled loudly, letting a few cusses slip as he wrestled with the sheets. They were tangled in his legs and he kicked at them, causing him to roll off the bed ungracefully.

“(Y/N)?” A voice he recognized as Steve’s called through the door. Bucky grunted in reply, wondering why Steve was looking for (Y/N) in Bucky’s room. He was surprised by how light his voice sounded, but brushed it off as something stuck in his throat. He untangled himself and stood up from the floor, stumbling towards the door.

As he put his left hand on the door, he screamed. It wasn’t metal! Then he realized his voice was feminine and smooth.

“(Y/N)?! What’s going on?” Steve called through the wood, juggling the locked door knob.

“What the fuck?” The man–who was more woman at this point–exclaimed, stumbling over to the closest mirror. Instead of seeing his usual tired blue eyes and scruffy brown hair, he saw his coworker, (Y/N). “What the fuck?” He reiterated.

Steve chose that moment to bust the door down, immediately assuming a fighting stance. His gaze darts around the room and lands on Bucky, er, (Y/N), who was spinning in circles, a confused as hell look painting her features.

“(Y/N)? Why’d you scream?” Steve relaxes, resting one hand on a slightly cocked hip. He begins smirking like a little shit before continuing, “Did you see another spider?” He thinks back to the one time (Y/N) saw a spider. Concurrently, it also happened to be the time the tower almost burned down.

Bucky looked down at his figure, his very feminine figure–if the breasts were any indicator–and tried to think of a rational explanation of why the hell he looks and sounds like (Y/N). And why Steve is acting normal. Didn’t something happen? All Bucky remembers is going to sleep with a dick, and waking up with a vagina.

Maybe it’s just him, Bucky rationalizes. This is probably some freaky dream where he’ll discover some hidden kink for body swaps. Deciding to play it off, Bucky rolls his eyes in a very (Y/N) manner and pushes past Steve.

“No, you sassy mother, i didn’t see a spider.” At this point, she is halfway to the elevator with Steve trailing behind. They step in the metal box-on-strings and Steve asks FRIDAY to take them to the common area. “Have you seen me–er–Bucky today?” Bucky stutters over the names. It’s only his first time switching bodies, so he’s bound to get mixed up.

“Yeah, he was sitting in the corner of the kitchen eating a muffin. He was acting really odd.” The elevator stops, depositing the two on the open floor where the Avengers spent most of their time. It had a kitchen, bar, living area, and even a pool table.

“Thanks, Stevie,” Bucky-as-(Y/N) mutters, already heading to where he saw himself sitting in a corner. Bucky’s body looks up as (Y/N)’s body approaches. Relief and wariness sweep across both faces as the (brunette/blonde/redhead) sits by the (other) brunette.

“Please tell me it’s (Y/N) in there.” Bucky begs.

“Uh, yeah. Hey, didn’t it occur to you that you–I–whatever–aren’t wearing a bra. That t-shirt is to flimsy and loose and those shorts to short and thin for wearing around the team.” (Y/N)-as-Bucky scolds. “Whatever. Please tell me you know how to reverse whatever the hell this is.”

“I don’t even know what this is. Believe me, I don’t want these boobs as much as you don’t want that penis.” Bucky sneers back, already irate. (Y/N) mutters something under her breath, causing Bucky to roll his eyes. “Look, we should just tell the team–”

“Hey, lovebirds. Mind moving, I need some coffee.” Clint interrupts, earning himself a glare from the pissed off assassins sitting in front of the coffee maker. “Alright, alright! Jeez.” he throws his hands up in surrender, backing away and grumbling about cranky old people.

“We aren’t telling the team. We should be away from the team. In fact, let’s go now.” (Y/N) stands, tugging Bucky up and into the elevator. She requests to be brought to her room, and then they’re climbing off and shutting the ‘apartment’ door.

“Okay, so we just hang out here and wait for this to be fixed?” Bucky asks, already climbing onto the couch and under the thick pile of blankets.

“Guess so. Hey, anything you wanna share with me before I go to the bathroom?” (Y/N) asks, one hand already on the knob.

“Just aim and shoot.” Bucky grumbles, half asleep. He had another rough night, and it was taking a toll on his mind.

The bathroom door closes, locks, and then he hears some shuffling. It’s silent a second, then a loud snort can be heard. Bucky furrows his–(Y/N)’s–brows and looks in the general direction of the bathroom. Silence ensues the interim, before another snort can be heard. Then the toilet is flushing, the water is running, and then the door swings open to an almost smug Bucky,–(Y/N).

“I think I just won me a bet,” (Y/N) smirks. “Got a ruler?” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“If you got to look,” Bucky pauses, pulling the t-shirt hem up and looking down, “…then so do I…” He gulps heavily, dropping the shirt hem and muttering quietly, “goddamn.”

“You’re a fucking perv, Barnes. Now scoot over, I’m tired.” (Y/N) flops down on the couch, sprawling out. Bucky’s conscience in (Y/N)’s body roughly shoves against his real body, but ends up just crawling to lay on (Y/N)’s conscience in Bucky’s body. They wind up in a spooning position, asleep.

It’s nearly five hours later when the two of them wake up. Bucky cracks his eyes open and glances down. When he sees (Y/N)’s (hair color) resting against his chest he sighs in relief. Somehow, they wound up with Bucky laying on his back with (Y/N) on top, hugging his waist, and Bucky feels like the position might not be too bad. He’s actually comfortable.

For the first time since he was shipping out to England in the ‘40s, James Buchanan Barnes is comfortable and peaceful, all because of (Y/N) (Y/L/N). So, he shifts and settles, wrapping his arms tighter around her delicate hips, and relaxes as he falls into a soothing slumber.


Clint knocks on (Y/N)’s door twice before getting impatient and heading in. He freezes upon seeing his best friend laying on top of Grandpa 2.0.

“Oh La La.”