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zellington · 2 years

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Holy shit Nyxie.

Holy shit.

I read this a lot slower than I usually read a fic considering the summery and your warning and I just… wanted to absorb all the feelings throughout it.

"I just know sometimes it sucks feeling all that pain alone."

It didn’t make me sob like I thought it would but it did make me cry at parts. But a sort of accepting ‘you know and understand’ crying that was sad but also a ‘hey another human who has been through pain and gets it’ bittersweet sort of sadness.

This was fucking beautiful.

let me in your ocean; [tasm!peter imagine]

— Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker x F!Reader

— Summary: Peter's been running away from his duties ever since he came back from there. Another universe. A different reality. He's been so busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that it's all real; trying his best to process all of the guilt and shame from his months of taking out his anger in the bad guys, that he stopped doing his job. Stopped being Spider-Man for a second.

Meeting you changes that.

— Word count: 9.7k

— Warning(s): Heavy angst ahead. Mentions of death, violence. Reader's going through grief, Peter finds her and they bond through shared pain.

main master list | marvel master list | ko-fi ❥

Peter hears the cries when he's coming out of Techno Lab at the end of an afternoon.

It startles him for more than one reason.

Number one—it's heartbreaking. Peter hears the choked sobs and broken whines from where he is in the corridor, and right after his spidey senses hit that there were unfamiliar noises close by, his second assessment was one of hurt.

Number two—his hearing picked up on it, despite his best efforts to train his hypersensitivity. It had been working since he came back from there—the other universe. Two days in disarray with his abilities all over the place again as if he were a recently bitten newbie, and Peter decided to get his heightened senses in check. He wasn't supposed to be listening to anything, much less the crying of someone.

Number three and most important of them all, it makes his skin crawl.

Vibrate, shiver, tremble. However you call it, Peter feels it, and the second he takes note of it, his feet are carrying him through the corridors of Empire State University and going straight to the source of those heart-wrenching sounds.

He climbs two floors, walks through staircases and at last, finds the open door that leads to the terrace outside.

His heart freezes in his chest, and Peter stops with his hands inches away from the doorknob, trying to collect the pieces of his heart from the ground and convince himself to just go for it, at the same time as his head is screaming to him what the hell are you doing?

What will you tell them? Hey, this is Peter, I heard you crying like someone just died—

No.

He's not doing this right now.

It also does not matter.

Peter pushes the door open wider and walks to one of the University's open towers. They're on the East Wing here, right where the Science and Math courses meet, and right over the tower, pacing back and forth in front of the edge of the building, there's the source of the tears.

Her sobs are as painful and as unstoppable as before.

Peter feels out of place, and at the same time, like looking in front of a mirror.

He stands there, frozen by fear, and the knot that out of nowhere lives on his throat, trying to gather any strength left in him to just go.

You're crying like someone reached inside of you and broke something.

He knows what that feels like.

Peter wonders if it'd be best to just let you be alone right now.

He sighs, letting the pain bloom and take over his chest like spring always takes over the snow at some point, like he knew it would when he saw the source of the pain. Why did he even come? Why would he interrupt someone in such a private moment?

You don't want him here.

Peter doesn't even know you. All he knows is that you're almost screaming right now, standing alone in one of your school's towers at the end of the day, probably after a whole morning and afternoon of pretending to be a person.

Of holding that all in.

It's when your body collapses against the rail of the roof and you keep crying over it that his instinct kicks in—this is the sixth floor. This is tall, you should not be leaning in this much—please step away, this is dangerous, you can't be this careless—

Peter takes the first step, letting go of the door, and the noise calls your attention. Fuck.

You turn sharply to him, and Peter raises both hands in the air in a gesture he's all too familiar with.

"I—I come in peace," he tries. It's a feeble joke, and it falls on deaf ears.

Your face is red, swollen, and your chest is still breathing rapidly since you're out of breath from how hard you'd been crying.

You turn away from him sharply, and Peter grimaces with the way he did not think this through.

"I'm so sorry," he tries again. "I promise I didn't—" didn't what? Look for you? He did. He grimaces again, and fights against his stupid brain who makes rash decisions without thinking of outcomes. "I didn't mean to interrupt you." There. That's a decent half-truth.

You're wiping your face on the sleeve of your hoodie, and that pulls Peter's eyes to it. It's a Tweety hoodie, big enough to be a dress for any occasion.

"I just... heard someone stealing my crying spot," he finishes in a lame whisper. He looks up to you and—oh. There it is. It looks like your soul's back on your body, and woah. Those are intense eyes. "You can just... go back to it. I won't bother you. I'm just gonna--can I stay? I'll just stick by. In case you want any company. Or, you know. If you want, I can go. If you say 'go' right now, I swear I'll go."

"Do you usually talk this much around people you don't know?"

Her voice is nice.

Peter almost smiles at the exasperation in her tone, and registers that she manages to give a piercing look almost as penetrating as Aunt May's.

He nods, keeping the smile down. "Yes. Unfortunately. It's a big problem, I've heard complaints about it before."

To that, you have no answer.

All you do is stare at him for a moment, wiping your face clean again.

Peter looks away from you because staring at you is suddenly very hard.

His heart spikes—something it hasn't done in a while.

Not since he stepped on a damn portal.

Slowly and with deliberate moves, almost as if he's dealing with a wounded animal, Peter kneels down, and sits on the edge of the rail.

He can feel your eyes following his movements, and his heart feels big and heavy inside his chest the whole time.

Why the hell did you come, man? What, was she gonna jump? You don't know that. That's ridiculous.

He breathes in, then out. Counts to ten in his head, all while listening to your breathing that's coming down since he stepped outside on the roof with you.

Finally, after what it seems like forever, you ask him. "This is your crying spot?"

Peter had been joking about that.

He looks to his side—your eyes are very much intent on watching him, and Peter finds that lying to you is kinda hard. His neck twitches, and he narrows his eyes, "Ah... technically, no. No, it's not. That was an impulsive lie—my crying spot is usually the bathroom."

He hears a scoff. "I can't cry in the bathroom. D'you know how many girls would come asking me if I'm okay if I did that?"

Peter turns to you, swinging his legs back and forth in the air. "Girls do that?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Girls' bathrooms are one of the best places on Earth."

"Wow." He's never heard that one before, but your heartbeat remained the same while you said it, so it must be true. "Never knew that before. I'm kinda sad now I'll never get to experience that for myself."

The next scoff was more of a chuckle—you just snorted air out of your nose in tiny laughter.

Peter wondered how hard it was to make you laugh.

"I am so sorry that as a white, probably hetero, cisgender man, this is a privilege you won't get to experience," your voice dripped in sarcasm.

Peter's jaw fell open, and for the first time, you two exchanged a proper look.

Him, looking at you dumbfounded. When he left his last class of the day and was suddenly caught by the sound of a heart breaking, Peter didn't expect to be met with so much attitude.

You, looking at him pleased with yourself. Seeing the awe on his face, your air-nose laugh slowly becomes a smile.

It never reaches your eyes, and Peter recalls why he's here in the first place.

"You know what?" He nods to himself. "You're right. That is a tragedy," he adds the last bit just to see if it gets something else from you.

There's nothing. Peter looks to his side again and sees he has lost you once more, and to his surprise, he's okay with that.

He came here for... well, he's unsure of the reason yet, but it wasn't to try and brush off your pain.

"I mean it, you know." He says those next words without looking at you. It's easier talking to you when your eyes aren't on him, for some reason. "If you wanna just... go back to crying, I can just... sit tight."

"Why would you want to listen to someone crying?" There was no malice in your question or any strangeness. Just confusion.

Peter shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know." He truly didn't. If it were any other day, Peter might not even have heard you. "I just know sometimes it sucks feeling all that pain alone."

Well. That sure is something you can tell a complete and total stranger.

There's no reply from your side, but Peter knows it's okay. Your heart's still beating the same way, and he hears the sound of your clothes shuffling until you're sitting in the same position as he is.

That makes him worry.

If he falls, Peter doesn't get past the fifth floor. He'll hold on to the wall with his adherent fingerprints, but you had a one-way ticket to the floor down there unless you were hiding radioactive bites somewhere, too.

"Why d'you cry?"

Your question pulls him out of the worst-case scenarios his mind was drawing and the different ways he could save you and get away with it.

Peter looks at you and sees you observing the trees in your line of sight. They're gorgeous Ipe trees, and they're blooming with white, purple and pink flowers.

"Because loss hurts so much that you just wanna scream or cry through every stage of it?" It was supposed to be an answer, but it comes out as an embarrassing confession.

Your eyes squint at his awkward, close-lipped smile, and then soften.

You look at every inch of Peter's face, and whatever it is that you see there, it softens every feature in your face.

"It does, doesn't it?" You agree. Turning away sharply, Peter sees your chin trembling. When you speak again after a few moments, your voice sounds hoarse and choked-up. "I... I don't..."

Peter waits.

Sometimes, people become unaware of how grief deteriorates their ability to see beyond it. To think, rationalize, or be logical with it.

Flashes of the punches he stopped pulling make him wince.

Images of the people he hurt before he took his inter-dimensional trip and discovered not everything had to be lost all the time come to haunt him, and Peter has to shake his head from side to side.

Thankfully, you don't see him fighting his ghosts. Your eyes are distant and blinded by your own, and Peter breathes in shaky, squeezing the concrete underneath him to ground him here.

Empire State University. 2022. You're Peter Parker. (The third one.) Things are okay.

Your voice pulls him back. "I don't think... I've had a single thought these past six months... That hasn't been related to her."

Peter listens to that, and feels the words in the chemic of his bones.

"Yeah, it feels like that," he agrees. "Like..." He thinks about it. Survivor's guilt. Attachment. The passage of time. How time mends, heals, erases. "Like they have nowhere else to go, so they just... live in the corners and cracks of our minds."

"Yeah. Yeah," you nod. Peter hears you swallow down thickly, and when he looks to you again, your cheeks are glistening with the tears coming down.

The sky behind you starts going through the phases of Twilight, and it should be a crime to have a scenario that might as well have been painted by Van Gogh when there's so much pain at the center of this painting.

While your pain bleeds red down the concrete of the school's walls, the sky behind you paints your frame in light pink and warm orange.

Your tears look like Renassaince details, and Peter's fingers itch for his camera for the first time in years.

The silence between you both is neither heavy nor uncomfortable.

You cry in silence now, staring at the Ipes like the trees froze your gaze in their direction. While you stare ahead, Peter stares at you.

Your hair is curly and right now, wild.

Your cheeks are big, rounded and so red. Your lips are big, and it matches well with those big, intense eyes of yours.

Peter looks away, thinking about why did he never see your face around here.

Because you haven't looked up in months.

Not even your job you've been doing.

He shakes his head again.

This time, you catch it. The gesture seems to break your spell because you look away from the trees to him and, sniffling, ask him. "I feel like—am I going crazy? Why do I feel insane right now?"

And there they are.

Peter sees the dam breaking again—the resolve you'd built when he crashed your pain parade is crumbling, and Peter wants to stay as badly as he wants you to be okay, so he has to offer one last time.

"You're not going crazy. You're hurt. And you probably have people telling you a bunch of stuff that doesn't help all the time." He knows that, because he remembers how unhelpful everybody is when someone is gone. "Can I...?"

He leaves the question unfinished, but you understand it nonetheless. Can I stay?

You nod with trembling lips, and then you do something that personally, Peter finds very brave.

You go right back to crying, just as you were before he came in here.

It's not as loud as it was before, but it comes from the exact same place.

Peter wants to inch a little closer and maybe offer a hand. Some comfort.

He stays where he is, though, and for some reason, he feels like it helps.

To his surprise, you speak up, mid-sobs and tears. "I—I don't want to be okay with it. Th—that's why I'm so—so angry. People—keep telling me 'it'll b—be okay' but they fail to fucking get that I—I—" your sob cuts your sentence, and Peter finishes for you.

"You don't want it to be okay," his own eyes sting. He came here for the heavens know what reason, and now he's forced to deal with the fact that he gets that. "Fuck people," Peter adds.

It's probably delivered with more heat than he intended because, through your cries, he hears a choked burst of laughter.

It makes him smile, and he wipes the tear coming down his cheek. "No, I'm serious. Fuck people." Your laughter comes out again, and Peter laughs with you. "What the hell do they know?"

You scoff. "Considering the state our world's in, absolutely nothing."

"Oh, wow. You're definitely a student here."

That makes you laugh again.

Just like that, Peter's enchanted by the warmth your laughter brings.

Silence falls over you two like a blanket, and Peter looks away so you can clean the traces of your tears one more time.

He hopes his presence felt like a comforting hand over yours, even if you two are strangers.

That reminds him—, "I'm Peter, by the way," he introduces himself.

You look to your side, and the smile that blooms on your face is sad, but not as hopeless as one would expect from the girl who was crying her heart out in the roof. "Hi, Peter. I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this."

"It's fine," he shrugs it off. "I've met people in much worse ways, you'll just have to believe me on that."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, I promise you. Terrible ways," he waves his hands. "Compromising positions—you've got nothing going on, actually. I caused horrible first impressions in the past. It's all good. If you ask me, second impressions are where the money's at. I think judging someone by the first encounter is a very, uhm, harsh. And unfair decision."

When his ramble ends, Peter's eyes find yours.

This time, your laughter is definitely at him. "That's good to know. I'm Y/n." You extend your hand. "Nice to meet you."

Peter sends a silent prayer to whatever he's supposed to believe in that his hand doesn't stick to yours, and shakes it.

Your palms are so freaking soft and when you lean in, Peter catches a whiff of what must be your shampoo or conditioner because—hmm. That's nice.

"Thanks for keeping me company during my breakdown, I guess," you tell him with an awkward chuckle. You two pull back, and Peter sees the tip of your ears painted on the same shade as the sky in the background. "I... definitely didn't expect today to end like this."

"How did you expect it to end?"

"I don't know." Something tells Peter that you do know. He stores that information for later. "I've just been—getting by, as people try to convince me that 'everything's alright' and the nine yards. Like—," you scoff. "Like that's just gonna... make it go away."

"Hey." Your head snaps in his direction at his call. Peter puts on his best smile. "As someone who's been hearing that bullshit for three years now, here's my hot take: you're the only one who decides what goes away, and when."

At his words, Peter watches your face fall. Your lips part and some of the ghosts must come out for a haunt because he sees a shadow in your eyes.

It's been almost four years now, and Peter's got no idea where this is coming from or how it's coming out, but he goes on before he loses those words. Something tells him he needs to hear them too.

"Sometimes... you forget." He swallows thickly and focuses on the orange taking over the pink behind you to get through it. "Like—a day will go by and you notice you haven't thought about it, and—that'll absolutely destroy you. The fact that you forgot, you know? It'll make it worse, and nothing will make it better. But then... one day... out of nowhere, okay? No one can tell you when, not even you. One day, you'll just—" he chuckles, and recalls her annoying fake laughter. "You'll just remember something so funny. So... incredibly fucking funny, or disastrous. Just... a good memory. And trust me—you'll have a blast. All on your own, too," he laughs. "You'll about it, and then you'll probably cry because you're laughing alone."

For him, it was the day he took off all of Gwen's polaroids from inside his wardrobe.

One week before his second year in college.

Almost a whole year ago, now.

"And that'll be when it starts registering. Dust settling, and stuff. The fact that it happened, and that... it's a part of all this."

He looks at the Ipe, and thinks about three months ago when they were bare—nothing but brown branches, dry and devoid of any life.

"I just wanna be able to play some word association with my friends without breaking down in the middle of class right now," you whisper to him. Ah—so that was what happened to you. A trigger, something so personal and related to the missing piece that you wanna ruin the whole puzzle. "That's all I want."

He nods in understanding. "That's fair." And probably still a bit far for you. "It'll happen. In your time."

The next heartbeat you two share Peter feels it.

In slow motion.

He hears the thump-thump of your heart pumping blood, strong and sound in the middle of your chest. He hears the birds and the ruffling of the trees, and the way your breathing is still a little clogged from all the crying you did.

What surprises him is that he doesn't mind.

"Do you think they could ruin something for us?" The question slips out of his lips almost as if it was by someone else.

Peter feels exposed, but you look at him the same way you did since he sat down. Even though you're seeing something Harry never does, or Aunt May rarely sees—there's no pity in your face like there usually is in hers, and instead, he finds you looking pensive.

Thoughtful.

"For some time, maybe? Yeah... definitely." Your mind goes away somewhere when your gaze leaves his face. "If someone played Tchaikovsky right now, I would definitely eat a bullet."

Peter's eyes widen, meets yours, and then you two burst out laughing together.

"Wow," he comments. That is some dark humor if I ever heard it.

"My bad," you laugh. "But yeah. For some time. But—forever?" You shake your head. "Nah. If there was love, it washes away. Anything that you put on love is just a taint. Real love, of course. It can be a big taint, a resilient one—my mami said and I stand by it: anything washes away if you know the right product. Or wash it enough times."

His Uncle Ben's voice comes from somewhere in the deep corridors of his memories, and the words come out from his mouth. "Constant dripping of water wears away the stone.”

You smile at him. "Yeah. Exactly."

That is a pain he hasn't felt in a while.

The significance of you bringing that small little idiom Uncle Ben was so fond of back to him hits him in the chest like a common nemesis loves doing—hard, right in the center, where it hurts.

"My uncle used to say that," he tells you.

His tone must be what gives away the grief in that part of his life, too, because your smile dims.

Then, after a second, you say. "My best friend used to say, 'having a good discussion is like having riches', and—I used to laugh," you chuckle. Your eyes set on him with a weight that means something, and Peter feels compelled to keep his eyes on you as well. "Guess she was right."

Peter smiles at the look of surprise on your face.

He wants to ask you something more—maybe what brought her to say that, or how often did she usually deliver those cheesy lines; as often as Uncle Ben delivered his, maybe?

Fuck, she's the one that's gone.

Before he can open his mouth, though, a ringtone pierces through the bubble you two have created against the outside world and you rush to find your device inside your backpack, muttering apologies to him.

Peter shakes his hand to you, and gestures for you to go head.

He bounces on his feet awkwardly, hating how now that his senses are somehow back to their crisp precision.

"Hey, Diva," you greet.

Peter grabs his skateboard in hands and starts playing with it. On the other side of the line, he hears. "Bitch, where the fuck are you? Oh my god, babe! We've been looking for you like crazy, you're not at the classroom, or the—"

"Diva, babe. Calm down. Breathe," you interrupt. It's safe to assume this Diva character must be a friend of yours given the tone and the way of speaking with you.

"Don't 'Diva' me, I was worried sick, babes."

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time—I came upstairs for a smoke and I met a new friend, that's all." The chillness in your tone impresses him. Peter looks up at the mention of 'new friend', and you give him a small smile.

"...Right." Diva does not sound convinced. "Well, are you coming? We're waiting at the car for you. If you still wanna ride we'll wait a few more minutes."

A silent and yet respectful request for you to wrap it up with your 'new friend'. Peter likes this Diva person. They sound caring, and worried, even through the static and distant voice in the phone.

"Alright, I'm coming. Lemme say bye to Peter, kay?"

"Ahhhh," now with a name, Diva's confidence that you must be speaking the truth seems to rise. "Alright. Yeah, sure. Say bye. We'll be here waiting. Ten minutes, kay?"

"Sure."

"Love, you babes."

You roll your eyes, and the fondness written on your face is priceeless. "Love you too."

"Oh—Y/n?"

"Yes?"

"I'm happy you're there making new friends, Miss Joy. Seriously."

To that, you have no answers. Diva seems to need none, though, because they hang up right after.

You look down at your phone, put it back in your backpack and this time, the silence is a little weirder.

Strange how you two find comfort in one another so easily when your hearts are bleeding out of your sleeves, but now that you have to make 'normal people' interactions, Peter's awkwardness comes back in full swing.

"So—I'll definitely see you around, right?" Ugh, Peter. He scrunches his nose at his horrible attemp. "I don't know what course you take. I imagine we'll see each other again."

"Biochem Engineer. Y/n Y/L/N," you extend your hard again, and your smile tells him it's okay, I'm a little awkward, too.

Peter realizes he now has a way to all your social media. And that it was a deliberate choice on your behalf. He smiles and shakes your hand again, one, two, three times. You laugh, and he smiles as he does a proper introduction. "Peter Parker. Biophysics."

You whistle. "Damn, Peter Parker."

"What?" He chuckles, embarrassed.

"You're a massive nerd."

"You're an engineering student!" He laughs.

"Yeah, which is one degree less nerdy than physics department." Your smile is contagious.

Peter hasn't smiled like this in a while.

You look down between your bodies and he follows your gaze, and—oh. He's still holding your hand. Again.

He drops it, and scratches the back of his neck. "Thanks for the words of wisdom," he whispers.

You take a second to reply and when you do, it's with the first real, full smile he's ever seen on your face. "Unbelievable," you whisper to yourself. If Peter's hearing was lesser than it is, he'd have missed it. "Thank you for the kind and... rare act of keeping me company in my grief rage," you chuckle humorlessly. "You didn't think I was gonna jump or anything, did ya?"

Peter's jaw drops again, and he laughs one more time at how blunt you are with your humor.

"No, I didn't." He's still unsure of what brought him here in the first place. "I just—I heard the pain. Decided to come to land a helping presence."

"And succeeded."

"Mission accomplished," he nods.

"Indeed." Your sarcastic grin is as contagious as your true — and rare — smile. "I gotta go. But, it was nice meeting you, Peter Parker."

"You too, Y/n Y/l/n."

When you leave, Peter stays on the roof for another hour before swinging his webs all the way back home.

It's instinctive.

One minute, he's sitting on the edge where you were, crying your heart out. The next, he's dropping his body in the direction of the parking lot and using the web-shooters that's been collecting dust on his wrists for three months and he's home.

Aunt May looks at him strangely, but fondly throughout dinner. She seems to be happy that whatever made him happy has him talking, and they have one of the nicest conversations they've had in a long time.

Even Uncle Ben is mentioned.

Later that night, Peter sits on the fire escape with the mask he's been neglecting in hands.

It's heavy.

It carries the weight of much more than a persona or a superhero.

It's heavier than any of the loads he's supported in these two hands, and yet...

Anything that you put on love is just a taint.

Is it? Peter asks the image of you.

Is everything he's failed at just a taint? Can he wash it away?

Is he worth the effort of it?

For some reason, it's your voice that answers him.

You won't know it 'till you try it, Peter Parker.

Peter breathes in, shakily. Exhales steadily.

He did things wrong for months after Uncle Ben died.

After Gwen, he did things very wrong, for a good while.

Then, he was transported to somewhere else, a whole other universe, and everything he knew had to be rewritten.

He knows there's still the outline of all his stains. Just a shadow of it, maybe, but—it won't go away if you don't put in the work, he thinks.

He'll have to do better.

Peter took three months and shut himself out of the world, but it left him only empty. Processing all you never processed before. He shut down everything around him, ignoring the sounds, the cries, the sirens.

Now, as if a button was turned on, he hears it all again.

He's aware now that all the weigth of New York City's safety isn't and cannot be in his hands, but he can help. He's proven that before, and if wants all the pain attached in this red and blue suit to go away, he'll have to try again.

Peter puts on the suit.

Slowly, he slips on the mask.

Maybe if he washes his eyes out of the sights that haunt him, he'll be able to see the city in the same lights he used to. He'll want to photograph it, just like he wanted to photograph the sky.

Photograph you.

Peter shoots the first web, and opens his ears to any trouble. He'll do some difference tonight and maybe, who knows—tomorrow is another day.

Maybe tomorrow he'll cook Aunt May breakfast for a change. Finish his homework before he gets to class and not five minutes before the teacher walks in.

Maybe he'll discover what corridor is the Biochem Engineer course.

Peter missed the clarity that only the night city can bring.

🏷 peter parker tag list ☆ open; would you like to be added? more one-shots with peter to come! and a series in the near future <3

#I feel surprisingly cathartic for a Friday morning #this is officially a pain healing fic of the highest order #Andrew is finally getting all the love he deserves and I am here for it #you know we’ve been talking for 6 months now and your writing still manages to knock me off me feet every time you publish something #you’re an actual blessing to the world and I adore you #tasm peter parker #peter parker

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zellington · 2 years

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(cue Bucky screaming in the background)

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zellington · 2 years

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He wants to stride across the room and just take it, and they stand there, knowing that if either of them made a move, the other would dive in, head-first.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from devouring every single word you’ve blessed us with, it’s that when you write a scene with two people at that potential crossroads moment you fill it with electricity. And such a relatable moment of electricity that you can feel yourself in that moment with them. Kitchen counter pressed into your lower back and breath caught in your throat as you try and swallow. That odd heavy chest and light headed feeling that are at war with one another over what you want in that moment and future consequences.

That is the literal power that your writing has. It burrows into you and drags you into the story until you’re a part of it without you even realising it’s happening. And it’s a fucking incredible talent to have.

And you not only keep us in these moments but you’re delving into topics regarding messed up families, single parenting, sexuality and coming to terms with it and even allowing a kid to actually act like how a child would realistically behave in these situations and it’s all just woven into the words. No drama or fanfare. Just existing as a part of this story as it would in real life. And it’s beautifully done.

A Touchable Dream

— Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Summary: Unpredictable, unfair and unreasonable—so far in, that’s all Bucky’s known life to be. With the exception of his son, nothing has ever inspired consistency or proven to be worthwhile enough for him to fight daily to keep. Going back to University while being a single parent has more than one rough edge. He feels lost, out of place, with a constant itch under his skin. Then, you arrive like a Comet, daring him to change all his skeptic perceptions. — Word count: 8.8k — A/n: If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any. Updates every Friday! I’m excited for this new journey. If you’re feeling generous, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi.

↱ Series Masterlist | Official Playlist | Previous Chapter ↰

⋅☾ CHAPTER FOUR ☽⋅

It had been a while since Bucky had to do the parenting thing the hard way.

Peter's behavior is, thanks to the gods that wrote his little DNA and, of course, raising him the best way Bucky possibly could — thanks Winnie, for teaching me all about loving and still teaching the important and hard lessons — a quite excellent behavior. He has a great, smart child. Gentle, funny, talented, and most of the time, a shy dork.

That co-exists with the fact he's also still a child. Peter can be impulsive, reckless, petulant and other things that are a direct result of being young, still.

And now he is grounded.

"Is she coming too?"

The sneer on Peter's lip when referring to Y/n when not a week ago her name was whispered with awe in this household is almost enough to make Bucky chuckle, but thankfully he swallows that condescension down. Had he mentioned how petty Peter could also be?

He can almost hear Steve's voice. He is definitely your kid, huh?

"Yes, Peter, she is." No one tells you this when you're younger, but half the time, being a parent just means keeping a straight face on the toughest times.

Sometimes, all Bucky wants to do is crack out loud at witnessing his son going through all of these emotions and learning how to process life and things around him—experience the world itself, learn through the mistakes, and how to cope with things.

Most of the time, it's hilarious.

People brush over this fact, but watching a human being grow up is different and funny in each phase of their life, for entirely different reasons.

Peter now has the ability to hold a grudge like no one else. That's fine—he's young and is learning to forgive things in his own time, but it also looks like that: full pout, frowning forehead, lips set in a thin line.

Sometimes I wonder if you ordered a photocopy of you inside that womb, man, Sam told him once. Bucky's favorite compliment.

"Stevie and I invited her." He adds that information just because. "D'you have everything?"

Peter sighs. Loudly.

Bucky ignores it because he recognizes a fighting bait when he sees one, and prizes his patience over anything else. Peter double-checks everything in his backpack with deliberate slowness, daring Bucky to say something, and Bucky quietly waits by the door.

After a long two minutes, Peter sighs again. "Yes."

Bucky nods. "Good. Your aunt is waiting." He opens the door wider to let Peter out, and Peter walks into he's standing in front of Bucky.

Once again, the look of pure hate on Peter's face at knowing he's being dispatched to sleep at his grandmother's house for the weekend is, to say the least, comical.

As if he is the one with the motive to be mad. As if he hadn't disappeared into a protest a week ago and nearly given Bucky a heart attack. As if he hadn't openly disobeyed Bucky's orders not to skip class on a 'whim' and almost ended up hurt.

Bucky opens his arms for a hug because no matter how angry Peter is with him or how much he whined and tried arguing when he got grounded a week ago and had all his electronics taken from him, Bucky always gets a hug before they don't see each other for more than 24h.

Peter looks at his father's chest and when his gaze falls down, Bucky senses his childish anger rising again. The little frown gets deeper and Bucky braces himself for whatever mean jab is coming, but when Peter angrily mutters, "You're just into her, aren't you?", Bucky halts.

Because that's not what he expected.

He's aware Peter's angry at Y/n after Bucky's stupid open mouth let it out the GPS thing had been her idea when they were in the heat of their discussion.

He witnessed the "betrayal" flash across Peter's face. Like Y/n planned him ditching class and forgetting that this time, he could be found.

Bucky's throat feels dry. He sometimes forgets there's more than one observational person in his home.

The dismissal over Y/n as a person instead of just as something Bucky likes, though, makes Bucky feel the sharp pull be of sadness instead of pain. "That's..." He sighs with eyes close. "That's not really fair, Peter."

Taken back by Bucky's open honesty, Peter seems to notice he said the wrong thing.

When Bucky looks down at him again, Peter avoids his eye contact and is gnawing on his bottom him as he does whenever he blurts the first thing it pops into his mind and it turns out not to be what he meant.

Bucky is tired, though, after a whole week of the 'being ignored' routine, so he just opens his arms again. Peter huffs air out of his nose and sort of smashes his body against Bucky's, holding it tight.

That is definitely a silent apology.

Bucky huffs, and kisses the top of his head. "I love you, little guy."

There's a beat before he feels the vibrations of the answer. "Love you, dad."

Peter leaves without looking at him, but Bucky knows his anger is only like this because two weeks in pre-teen years is an eon. He knows his temporary 'hate' over Y/n has counted days, too—finding out she gave Bucky the idea was exactly the deflection Peter needed of owning up to his mistake, and while Peter's just a kid, he's a smart one at the end of the day.

Whenever he gets grounded, it's always a tactic to win over his stubbornness. He just takes a while.

Bucky's aware of who he earned that from.

He also becomes hyper-aware of Peter's insinuation — and the fact that his little guy is not so little anymore, his perceptiveness is rising — when Steve's incoming message piles on top of Y/n's string of texts.

Steve's says "can't make it, look at the SIZE of my TONSILS" followed by a nasty shot of his swollen nodes ("thanks for that, buddy, i didn't have to witness that with you") and Bucky would normally have more sympathy for his best friend than this, except Y/n's messages read to him like an alarm. Her string of messages goes:

Debate Qween

idk if you enjoy guacamole but i made it and it tastes DELICIOUS i'm bringing extra nachos bc i don't believe in u for a second "theres enough" there's never enough nachos, barnes. silly man. ETA TEN MINUTES i knowwwww im LATEEEE but there was a teenager selling pottery art outside my brothers work and look!!!! image_03.jpg isn't that the cutest bowl u've ever seen?!?? (i also MIGHT have bought some stuff. it's awesome, u'll see) anyway im almost there if u two start w/o me im showering u both in guacamole :D:D:D:D:D:D:D

Some bits and pieces, Bucky reads it and hears her voice saying it.

His heart hammers inside his chest—he can feel her brightness and quirkiness even through the phone. He wipes the sweaty palms on his jeans and types a quick reply.

Steve isn't coming. He sent me a nasty picture of his swollen tonsils to prove he's bedridden and honestly, I'd share it with you but I like you too much to be this much of a dick (that means Sam isn't coming either. obvs.) Who the fuck says 'eta' Y/n? lol I'm waiting. (Never 'enough' nachos? What if I filled the O2 arena with it?)

It's stupid and since Y/n is most likely on the subway — where she never uses her phone — Bucky will have to wait until she arrives for the answer.

In the meantime, he paces around the house collecting the evidence of a teenager living around.

Steve and Sam's absence for this marathon of The Witcher is not something Bucky counted on. They've been great at being a group so far. It's what distracts him from the glint in her eyes whenever she's talking and he gets a bit lost in it during class, or at the library and coffee shops when she has reading glasses slipping slowly down her nose and Bucky feels his throat tightening. His fingers itching to move forward and touch.

Fuck. He opens the living room curtains which he'd previously closed for a black-out effect.

Without Steve around, he's better off being safe now than sorry later.

What if she took off her jacket?

Bucky puts the heater down just a little.

The bell rings and Bucky is forced out of his spirling thoughts.

If anything, Y/n's presence is at least grounding.

She's standing on the other side of the door with two totem bags on her shoulders, her hair put in in two space-buns and the faintest hints of make-up.

"Toss a coin to ya witcher!" Her greeting is so ecstatic and genuinely happy that Bucky feels like she picked a needle and popped the anxiety balloon swelling in his stomach. "Good afternoon, sire."

Stepping aside to let her in, Bucky takes the Tupperware and the wine out of her hands. "Afternoon, milady."

He closes the door and turns around to see Y/n taking off her coat and her ear-muffs. She's wearing a deep-purple, long-sleeved top and the coolest, most comfy-looking black sweaters. When her eyes spot the places for the shoes, Y/n sighs deeply and looks down at her black and shiny combat boots. "Ah. Okay, gimme a sec. Here, hold this."

Bucky chuckles again, taking everything from her. "I'll be back." He puts the totem bags on his own shoulder and watches as she sits down on his floor to start unlacing the things. "Make yourself at home, 'kay?"

She looks up at him with a playful smile. "I'd be careful with those types of invitations. Last time someone said that to me, I became a permanent fixture in their house." Y/n's smile squares up in a way Bucky's starting to recognize as her 'family smile', too big for her to contain any of it or to hide it. "Xavier says he doesn't regret it, but sometimes I think he might." Then, she shrugs her shoulders. "I have plans for him, anyway. He needs to marry Vatti. And fast—I am not officializing anything after my thirties. Cameras are not nice to people."

If Bucky never had Peter, he would definitely be unable to keep up with this woman.

"Who's Xavier?" He asks, heading towards the kitchen. "And don't worry, I don't extend this courtesy without meaning it. Whenever Sam comes, I just say 'welcome, don't touch my shit'. It came from the heart," Bucky tells her loud enough for her to hear.

There's the sound of her little giggles behind the wall, and Bucky smiles to himself.

"Ridiculous." She means him and Sam, and it's said with fondness. "Xavier is a Professor at Columbia. He got the job a few years ago and Vatti came back home with a lot to complain and mutter about, so we knew he found a potential friend. Turns out Dr. X owns a library in Brooklyn that's always doing book donations and L and I have been going there for years. It's been in his family or something? The guy's loaded," Y/n's voice trails closer and closer to him, and Bucky sees when Y/n enters the kitchen with wandering eyes. "And I mean 'owns real state in several parts of England' kind of loaded," she snorts.

Bucky stops plating the food and his body freezes for a moment with the magnitude of richness she's talking about.

He whistles. "Damn."

Y/n nods in agreement. "Yup." She takes a seat at the table and starts watching as Bucky serves them the food. "He recognized me and L from one of dad's office pictures and said 'wow, you're Lehnsherr's kids! feel right at home' and oh boy, was that a horrible idea."

"I hardly think he regrets making his friend's children feel welcome," Bucky offers.

Y/n snorts with the sarcasm of someone who knows better than Bucky. "Maybe not, but his employees sure as hell do. Plus—he's not Vatti's friend. They met in faculty and have been engaging in this... this weird-ass, intellectual courting for three years now? It's ridiculous. They have chess dates, Buck. Chess! It's always 'I can't, schatz, Xavier asked for my company and I must always remind him that he sucks at it'."

The quote is said with a fake grave, deep voice. By the term of endearment, Bucky imagines Y/n must be good at mimicking her father.

"I wonder if Peter does my voice that well," he muses out loud.

Y/n smiles. "Probably." She looks around the house as if the name brought her his presence. "He's at Becca's already?"

With the food served, Bucky grabs in his drawers the wine bottle opener. "Yup. One more week of jail time."

When he turns around and grabs the bottle, he sees the pout in Y/n's face. "How long does he hold a grudge for?"

Her sweet worry and adorable pout make Bucky bite down on a smile of his own.

When he informed their study table that previous Friday of Peter's little 'adventure', Y/n's worry for his safety had warmed deep into Bucky's heart. Then, when Sam dropped by to pick up Steve and Peter got out of the car with the same facial expression he's had since being discovered, he looked away from Y/n and her wave of hello.

Bucky had explained with a sheepish grimace that he let it out she was a savior in his eyes for giving him the GPS idea, and instead of sighing and shrugging off Peter's dismissal, she had surprised Bucky by looking a little sullen. "Oh." Her face fell. "Dang. Kid's gonna hate me for a while now."

No remorse, and no drama around it. The first time Sam had fucked up and Peter had taken his momentary, childish 'dislike' over him, Sam had whined about 'I thought I was making progress, it's all gone now'.

Y/n knew kids better than that, apparently.

"Not long," Bucky tells her.

"Good, 'cause that cute bowl was not the only thing I got." She shrieks in excitement and goes back to the living room in little skips, and Bucky follows her with both glasses and the food tray in hand.

She bought him something?

He puts down everything in the center table and turns on the living room, then turns around to her.

From her black satchel bag, Y/n pulls out a huge pen in one hand. It's white, bulky, and fat. She extends it to Bucky. "L said this is one of the best rainbow pens he's ever used for drawing and it was in sale on our way here, so. Tell the little guy it's my Hannukah gift for him. Or Christmas, whatever."

Bucky picks it up and sees that the tip of the pen looks different—there are several colors shining at the end, and Bucky recognizes both the brand and the style as something Peter was craving it.

He'd seen only in penciled colors before, though. "This is fucking amazing." The smile that breaks in his face feels too big for his face, but Bucky can't hide it. "Thanks, Y/n."

She shrugs it off. "No problem." She takes her other hand from behind her back, and Bucky notices it now she kept it hidden. Her fist is closed at first, but when she opens it, there's a badge on it. "Saw this at the cashier and got it for you. You don't have to put it anywhere, obviously, but we all love having at least one of ours, right?"

Inside her palm, there's a tiny and shiny badge of a flag. It's white, gray, purple and black, and Bucky recognizes it from when he read on demisexuality. He'd talked to Steve and Y/n this week about how living under a label can feel limiting at times, and how at others, it feels like putting wings on.

Like having a place.

"Bucky?"

He's been staring at it for too long. He picks it up from her hand and before something embarrassing happens like tears, he lifts a finger asking for a moment and then goes to his room to pick up his Nike bag.

Back in the living room, he sits down in his armchair and carefully places the pin in it. There's the BLM badge he got a couple of years ago, a few others about space, and a 'best dad' that was a gift from Peter this year, and now this.

His flag.

Y/n's looking at him with so much fondness that Bucky feels his lips dry up. "Thanks, gorgeous."

She shakes her head, but due to the open curtains, he can see the faint taint of blush in her cheeks. "Not a problem." She directs her smile to the TV. "Shall we?"

That's the wisest idea, definitely. He nods in agreement and moves the bag away, making space for Y/n on the couch. "Should we text Steve spoilers?" Bucky asks, throwing popcorn in his mouth.

Y/n laughs at him. "Oh, you're mean."

"Me?!" He shrieks. "Okay, now you're gonna see this." Bucky grabs his phone while Y/n sets up the new Witcher season on his TV and opens it in his chat with Steve. Opening the picture, he all but shoves his phone in her face. "This is mean."

Y/n's fake gag is even better than Steve's. She takes one look at the picture and fakes a gag so real that Bucky almost gags in return, which only gives her cause to laugh brightly. "That was gross."

"Please never do that again," Bucky points at her.

"Sympathetic puker?"

"Yes. I'll vomit on you," he warns her in the most serious tone he can.

Y/n chuckles at him. "How do you hold Stevie's hair when he's losing his dignity in pub bathrooms?"

Bucky scoffs a laugh. "I have never done that. He knows better than to ask me that."

Y/n nods, a smile still on her face, but the eyes serious as when she's trying to take in an important piece of information. Bucky and her's attention shift from zero to a hundred when the trailer starts unprompted behind them, and Y/n raises her glass to him. "To fate."

Wow. Bucky hums in appreciation and grabs his glass too. "To fate."

Any of his worries about being alone with her prove to be in vain when the first minute of the show starts.

People are different when consuming media. His close friends and family are the perfect example of that—from people who hate talkers (Sam) to people who never shut up during it (Steve) to the weird and peculiar beings (Peter) who enjoy even pausing the movie or show to have an in-depth discussion over whatever is going on in their brains.

Bucky has fun with any of them, regardless.

When watching things alone, his habit is to interact with whatever he's seeing in a conversational matter—he talks back to the tv, argues even though he's aware that no one is listening or will respond.

To his right, Y/n shows herself to be a tv conversationalist too.

It takes one episode for the two of them to realize they engage in media the exact same way and when the knowledge settles, the fun truly starts.

Bucky banters with the characters, and Y/n joins in as if everyone is in the same place or in a medieval fair. She cusses at Geralt, to which Bucky responds with, "Yeah, dude, are you fucking kidding us?" and when Yennefer — the love of Y/n's life, as she announced — does something worth of a round of applause, Y/n turns to Bucky with a hand over her heart and mutters, "Look at her go."

It's fun.

Probably one of the most fun Bucky's had in a long time.

Sure, he misses Steve and his boisterous enthusiasm over things, but Y/n is fun in her own way.

Her face never lies on what she's feeling.

Bucky becomes aware when he misses a line that he's dividing his attention a little, but can't bring himself to care.

Y/n is as entertaining — if not more — than what's on tv.

After three episodes, she turns around to Bucky clutching her glass in her hand and whispers, "I don't mean to be dramatic or anything, but if my found family over there doesn't end up together and happy by the end of this, I might have to take a nap in the interstate."

From his peripheral vision, Bucky saw her free hand gesturing towards the tv, but he can't look away from her wide bright eyes. He thinks she must be a little tipsy—the wine bottle is already empty, as are both of their glasses, but he knows that's now why he bursts out laughing.

"What?!" Y/n gasps. "I'm dead serious."

Bucky laughs because her level of drama is already familiar to him. "I'm sure you are." He puts his glass on the table before he commits a mistake, and grabs the remote. "I have a gut feeling you'll be able to sleep safe and sound in your own room. My problem right now is that fucker," Bucky points with an accusatory finger to the character who's on the screen-saving image.

Y/n hisses under her breath. "Death."

Bucky's too stunned for a second, but when his brain registers that it was her and not Alpine who's currently sleeping like the dead on her lap who hissed, he bursts out laughing again. "Did you just hiss at him?"

Y/n is laughing too, looking a little caught in the act. "I have this feral urge sometimes to scratch a motherfucker's eyes out. Or stare deep into their soul and steal it—he brings that out in me." The distaste in her eyes equals the one Bucky feels, so he's happy about that.

They watch another entire episode, and it's halfway through it that Bucky feels it.

With the change in tone happening in front of them, the living room slowly comes to an atmosphere change as well. It grows like a pot steaming. When the heat starts making itself known, it's already too late.

Wine, food and more wine also helped.

It both looks and sounds like a delicious recipe.

The first time Bucky makes the mistake of stealing a glance to his right, Y/n's lips are slighted parted as her attention razer focuses on the dialogue. Her cheeks have a glittery gold that Bucky recognizes as a highlighter — thank you, Becca — and it's so ridiculously distracting that Bucky is almost mad at it.

She's already beautiful. The soft material of her top with its shimmery glow should be enough sparkle for one person. How does she expect people to not admire the way she smiles when she literally glows?

Then, Bucky's caught in the act.

His eyes are following the colors of her highlighter tone — lilac and silver — when they meet hers.

On him.

Bucky's thankful for the twelve years in 'Dad Poker Face' school, otherwise, this would be where he buries himself. With a sheepish and awkward smile, he turns back to the tv and whispers, "He makes no sense to me sometimes," it's a complaint about Geralt and the nonsense he's talking on tv, and it gives him an excuse to have been looking out for her reaction.

"Men be like that," Y/n teases.

The joke and the plotline feel like weak lifeboats. Bucky feels an odd sense of awareness to how close Y/n had gotten over the last few episodes, how close he had moved towards her. When the first episode started, there was at least an arm of distance between them. Now, if Bucky leaned in to whisper something, their arms would brush.

He can feel the heat of her body.

Y/n's cologne smelled divine. He'd gotten a brief scent of it when she first walked in, but because of all the layers and the distance, it was hard to pinpoint what it smelled so good about it. Bucky was no expert in perfumes, but he had a sensitive sense of smell and the lemony notes followed by jasmine and amber stood out to him.

A sweet, but not candy-like type. One that you could almost taste.

The episode fades to black and Bucky realizes two things: first, he paid no attention to the last ten minutes, and second, his head spun. Dizziness, because his mouth watered and taking a breath too deep definitely made his blood rush too fast.

He hits pause the same second that Y/n lets her head fall back against the couch. "I need... a lifetime to process that." She scoffs. "Can I use your bathroom?" She asks Bucky.

Her question comes like a window opening and letting a draft of fresh air in. Bucky nods and gets up too, "I'm gonna text Steve every single spoiler I can think of that'll ruin his night."

Y/n walks out laughing. "You do that."

The kitchen is an escape tactic.

Bucky steps in and turns on the light—it's already getting dark, and the last thing he needs is the blue moonlight streaming inside and making things even worse for him.

Imagine, Y/n under the poetic moonlight. He shudders. Bucky would be fucked.

If you do this without thinking, Peter's not going to forgive you easily.

He repeats that to himself mentally three times over, brushes his hand over his face several times, and pours himself a glass of water.

It's a refreshing truth. The water helps swallow it down.

Being a parent means that for at least eighteen years of his life, his decisions are made always with someone else in mind. Peter is always there. Everything in Bucky's life affects his son's too in a direct manner and introducing Peter to his friends includes accepting the reality of other relationships and bonds created beside his.

Bucky is Y/n's friend and yes, as Peter accused he is very much "into her" — god, it's like her perfume is branded inside his brain — and while Bucky would love nothing more than test out the waters, taste the softness of her lips if she'd have him and see if she's as vocal when he has her back pressed against his couch, that's out of the picture.

Because in his big picture, the dad side of the picture, 'testing' is not enough. What if Y/n doesn't want him long-term? What if they can't have a casual relationship because that's not something she does and now that he gave a shot, she's out of his life?

He can't do that to Peter. Not when Bucky himself wants her in his life for more than just hook-ups, if that's even something that would be on the table.

Hook-ups are not worth more than Y/n here for longer than just a shared elective in college and the even harsher reality is—Bucky knows very few women nowadays want a partner and kids. She could be one of those, and where would that leave them?

He goes back to the living room after another glass of water and the sound of the bathroom door opening brings him back to reality.

He's thinking about whether he should open another bottle or not to continue the marathon when his eyes spot Y/n under the threshold of the corridor. Standing on the edge of the living room, Y/n's doing the last touch-up on one of her space-buns and Bucky just... stops.

So does she.

Y/n's hands stop in her, and her arms slowly come down back to her side. It's like Bucky's eyes have glue or honey, and the intensity that he's looking at her traps even her movements.

He's unable to go anywhere. He was right in the kitchen—the faint blue moonlight is all around his living room and they illuminate her. The glow, the tattoos, everything came together and got him paralyzed there.

Something must've caught her attention, too, because Y/n's eyes feel like a spell.

They both just stand there on opposite ends of the living room, drinking each other in with less finesse and more speed than they got through the wine bottles.

Their flushes are mirrored. Bucky observes the curve and shape of her lips, how soft she looks after hours lying on the couch comfortably.

He never wanted to do something so reckless, so bad.

He wants to stride across the room and just take it, and they stand there, knowing that if either of them made a move, the other would dive in, head-first.

Instead, Bucky closes his eyes.

He hears a shaky breath being taken and opens his eyes to see Y/n looking away from him, biting on her bottom lip. "What do you say... we leave the second half for when your other half is feeling better?"

She throws the words so easy and simple, but Bucky recognizes the shape of a saving float when he grabs one. "Yeah." How much longer would he be able to take, anyway? "He deserves at least some happiness."

Y/n chuckles and Bucky walks to the door to turn on the lights. It's sobering, and they make small talk about what they've seen so far, as well as theories about what is going to happen in the end while Y/n helps him to clean up and do the dishes.

When the living room is in the same state as it was when she arrived, Y/n grabs her bag to leave.

Bucky walks her to the station, and even though most of the tension is gone and the magical effect of the moonlight is gone, they can still feel the invisible line that was created in that living room.

One heartbeat too late or too soon for a reply and the other turns around with laughter and pinker cheeks.

When she stops in front of her station, Bucky opens his arms to her. If she's surprised by the hug request, she hides it well.

She wraps her arms around his waist, so he has the chance to feel how perfectly her body fits on his. He hugs her tight and is pleased to feel she hugs back just as strongly. It's a squeezed, tight embrace, and Bucky misses it as soon as her arms are gone.

"Thanks, Barnes," she smiles.

"My pleasure." He takes a step back and shoves his hand inside his pockets. "Text me when you get home. Bye, gorgeous."

══════════════════ ✧ ══════════════════

"Lizzo?"

He sighs. "Great voice. Cool lyrics. Beats are... too happy."

"Are you—too happy? What on earth does that—never mind. Fine." You prop the next onion in place, then try to fish an artist in your mind that could go up next. "Aha! Hozier. Vatti, you cannot tell me you found a problem with him."

"He finds a problem with everything," L mumbles. You suspect his grumpiness has something to do with Crystal more than your father's horrible taste in music and your annual attempt at widening his scope, but you keep quiet.

Max shakes his head, smiling softly. "No problem. But really—Hozier? That's what you want to listen to right now?"

You frown with your lips. Even when you get it right, he wins. "Ugh." You start chopping. "Yeah, Hozier's gonna bum me out."

"Same," echoes L.

"Can I turn on my radio now?" asks Max, trying to hide his smile.

"No!" You shriek. "Gimme one more try. Two more. Please."

He takes his finger off of the radio button and extends the knife in his hand out like a welcoming hand. You take a deep breath and go over the artists you put in the latest playlist of your volume: Get Vatti Good Taste.

This is Vol. 3. When you had a freak-out during Hannukah four years ago and threatened to break his radio if he continued to refuse you and Wanda from listening to at least some Britney Spears, Max told you to make him like new artists, then.

There was only a small, tiny problem. Your father was the bitchiest and pickiest man in existence.

"I know!" You turn around. "Mac Miller. Kendrick Lamar."

There's a pause when even L stops mixing the dough for the dessert cookies he's baking just to see the reaction.

The only change in his impassive face is the lift of his left eyebrow. "Oh. Yes, and yes." He turns to your wide-jawed faces and smiles. "Two out of five."

That was the only thing Max offered to you after listening to the playlist—the number of artists he'd enjoyed. In this volume, there had been five and you were yet to discover any of them.

"Damn, vatti. Good taste," L smiles.

You hook on a playlist with Mac, Kendrick and similar artists and go back to helping with dinner.

Viv is still at her course, but you're all used to cooking without her at this point. Her schedule is the busiest out of you all — working and studying is not for the faint-hearted — so she's welcomed by a table that is almost entirely served by the time she arrives. It's Wednesday tradition at the Lehnsherr household to have family dinner.

When Max finishes talking about what his colleague Emma did — for a stoic and serious man, your dad is a big gossiper — he turns to you with a question. "What about the internship? Have you heard back from it?"

The internship in question was one at an indie film company you loved to pieces. "Not yet." Which was okay. You were patient. If it was meant to be yours, it'd come.

"It's yours," says L.

You love the way he says it—like a claim, or a statemente.

"If it isn't, then something better will be," adds Max, to which L nods in response.

"Thanks, guys." Having a family that has your back can feel like a superpower. You open your mouth to ask L about how is his week going when your phone rings at the end of the table.

With the screen turned towards the sink, Max can see who it is with just a glance over his shoulder.

It reads 'Bucko', and the FaceTime incoming call almost stuns you there. Max throws you the kitchen cloth and you thank him with a smile, cleaning your hands in it and then putting on your ear pods to answer the call.

You prop the phone on the salt shaker.

With a silent thanks for the yellow kitchen lighting which might mask any ridiculous reactions to this man — and why is he calling —, you press the green button.

Instead of Barnes father, you're graced with the view of Barnes son.

"Peter!" The surprise is welcomed for more than one reason: first, the last time you two properly talked was before he was grounded and two, most signs of him being pissed at you were gone.

There was still something hidden in those eyes, but he greets you with one of his shy smiles. "Hey, Y/n."

"Hi, buddy." You missed him. If you were less used to kids and how quickly they could make an impact on you, maybe this would weird you out, but you know better. "What's up?"

He lifts the rainbow pen inside the screen's view and now you can see that tiny, secret smile you've grown used to. The 'this artist is pleased' smile. "I've been looking for this for a while."

Well, color you not surprised, but definitely pleased. "Have you?" You ask in a teasing tone.

"Yup."

"Damn. I think I might've inherited some of those witch powers Viv is always denying to have at the end of the day, then." You feel your father's and L's eyes on you at that remark, and L mouths 'he liked the gift?' across the table. You nod at your brother, then look back at Peter. "Is it any good?"

Instead of answering with yes or no, Peter fumbles with something off-screen. He struggles for a second, then decides to prop the phone somewhere too so he has both hands free and then, he lifts a canvas as big as his chest.

It's a mandala.

A gorgeous, intrinsic mandala in a variety of very cold colors. The choices are bold, and it feels like watching one of those externalized pieces. "That is... wow. Can I show it to my brother?"

Peter shows up on screen long enough to nod, and then you turn the phone to L.

"Holy shit!" L's genuine shriek of surprise makes even your father curious. He abandons the pots and steps behind L, and you can see the surprise and the approval in his eyes. "That's gorgeous. Wow."

Grabbing the phone back, you look at his piece for only a few more seconds. "I'm glad you liked it." Peter puts down his work when you say that, and smiles sheepishly.

"You didn't have to. Thanks a lot." He looks somewhere behind the phone, and you recall this is Bucky's mobile. "I'm sorry I ignored your hello."

You chuckle. "Apology accepted."

"And thanks for buying my dad that flag," he adds. "I caught him smiling at it four times already."

Outside the screen, you can hear Bucky's voice. "Wow. I did not raise you to be a snitch."

"What? It's true," Peter laughs.

"Doesn't mean you have to share it, buddy."

Peter rolls his eyes, a smile still on his face, then looks back at you. "Anyway. I was gonna get him one but—you know. I have no money. And I'm also grounded."

"Ah, the hardships of not being an adult yet," you sass.

"Only six years to go," Peter announces with the enthusiasm and innocence only a child could.

You laugh because it'd be impossible not to. The notion that one becomes an adult when eighteen comes around as if a magical blanket of wisdom and maturity washes over them, is hilarious, to say the least.

"Only six years 'till you realize this era is one to be missed," you tell him through giggles.

Peter huffs. "I doubt it."

"You work with imperial evidence, right?" You ask him. When Peter nods, you point at yourself. "Really fucking misses her year twelve." Looking at L, you ask him. "How much you miss being twelve?" L waits for you to turn your phone in his direction to give his dramatic answer.

"On a daily basis, on good days—a solid eight point five. On bad days, it breaks the threshold of ten and I cry about it." He delivers the line like it belongs in a Shakespeare play, and you thank him with a thumbs up.

Turning to your dad, you ask. "Vatti. Being twelve—how much you miss it?"

Max stops stirring in his own time, then turns around with the spoon still in his mouth, looking out of the window. "A nine. It's a precious and, surprising, liberating prison to be in. Being young."

Wow. You guess that's one way of Peter knowing your peculiar father.

Turning the camera back at yourself and propping the phone again on the table, you nod, satisfied. "Ask your pops and you'll have the same answer. Being young rules, buddy."

"I'm grounded."

"Yeah, 'cause you deserved it," you laugh at him. It warms your heart to see him smiling too, even though there's another eye roll. It is impossible for a child to be mature, but being conscious and intelligent is something Peter already is. "And trust me, sometimes adults get grounded too. It just looks worse."

He thinks on it for a second, then nods. "I guess." Outside the screen, something gets his attention and Peter nods. "Alright, we gotta go soon so I have to hang up. Thanks again for the gift, Y/n."

"You got it."

"I'm gonna pass the phone to dad, kay?"

"Bye, Peter!" You look at your boys and understanding your silent demand, they both voice out loud their own goodbyes.

"Oh." Peter is taken back, but his smile turns up a few notches. "Bye Y/n's brother! Bye Y/n's dad!"

They can't hear Peter's goodbye because of your phones, but you smile at them.

And that's when Bucky appears on your screen.

In a suit.

Choking on air would be embarrassing, and you wonder how it doesn't happen to you, but your mouth definitely dries up. "Hey," smiles Bucky.

"Woah." There's only so much surprise you could hide. "Hello. Did I miss something?"

Bucky looks down at his outfit and then shows Peter on screen again. It escaped you before, but now that he's standing you can see Peter's also dressed in a smart fashion.

"Don Quixote today," says Bucky. "He may be grounded, but I'm not that mean."

"Of course not." Just that handsome.

"He asked to call, by the way, so thanks for making me win a bet," Bucky informs with a cheeky smile.

You frown. "What bet?"

"I sent a picture of the pen to Steve and he said it'd take Peter twenty-four hours to fold and wanna call you. I know my kid's grumpiness a little better and said it'd be from fourty-eight to seventy-two, so here we are." Bucky laughs, probably from the look Peter must give him at finding out he's been the reason for a bet.

"Happy to be of help." And so thrilled to see you this way. You can't look away from the screen, and you wished you could take a picture of him and Peter side by side, looking handsome and beautiful together. "Have fun watching them twirl, Buck."

It makes him laugh, loudly. "I will." He throws you a cheeky wink. "Thanks, gorgeous. Bye."

You hang up with a smile of your own, and you know what's coming next.

It takes him two seconds before taking a deep breath.

"So. Who's that?" Your father sucks at pretending to be casual because he never tries to. His blunt tone has been the same ever since you met him, and the sharp you look you send him hasn't changed much, either.

"You know who that was," you answer.

"He's asking who's the father, not the kid you haven't shut up about since you met," L offers in a completely unhelpful manner.

"He's my classmate. You also know that."

"Alright. Tell me nothing. See if I care," Max replies sarcastically. "See if your sister won't tell me."

"Tell that witch to quit gossiping her assumptions, please—you two are worse than old ladies."

That makes both Max and L scoff. "Please. When you're not involved in the middle, you love joining in our gossiping sessions," says Max.

You pout in silence because there's not much comeback when your father spits the truth.

He's at least funny about it.

There's more teasing regarding your 'classmate' while dinner is prepared, but you love it. In secret. Out loud, you tease them right back—Charles Xavier and Crystal are both ways to trump the competition.

When Viv arrives from work and helps L to set the table, she joins in, of course.

It's all in good heart—the teasing only works because it's right on the spot, like any other teasing.

You float through Thursday with thoughts of Bucky in a suit.

The things he told you in the ride back home from Mizzo are still ringing every now and then, too.

I never felt adequate being like... this, you know?

I slept with her, lord knows why, and I genuinely thought—listen to this sad shit, I truly thought it'd make me feel "normal". What the fuck is normal?

I'm just tired of trying to force things. I teach my son every damn day to do the things that bring him joy and to believe in what he feels because no one else can know it better than him and I listen to a total of zero from my own advice.

Being a great father was evidently only one of Bucky's most treasured traits.

The brain on those shoulders is what's making you slowly but surely lose your mind.

Even jealousy, a feeling that you rarely ever experienced, crept up on your walls at his story. You pushed it away with a shovel, fast and quick, but you tasted its green edges. Knowing someone else touched him, someone else got the chance of being with him—it gnawed on you, and you hated it.

By the time the last Friday comes around before the holiday season, you're too much in your own head to notice things at first.

Steve is thankfully better. He brings you guys homemade cookies and brightens up the presentation rehearsal like no one else.

You and Bucky gang up on teasing him about the things he missed on the marathon, but since you schedule another session for after Howlett's project, he takes it like a champ.

Introspectiveness is not something that comes naturally to you, but it settles in deep. After Mizzo and, the latest one, Don Quixote, ignoring your attraction and how much of that attraction had nothing to do with his physical or the blinding beauty in him is impossible.

Bucky's everywhere in your mind from Wednesday to Friday and that's why you almost miss how much he's been watching you all day.

It takes Steve leaving ("Byeeeeeee, lovebirds!") with a very cheeky smile and smashing the classroom door behind him to snap you to reality.

At first, you think 'what's up with him', but when you look up at Bucky to see his reaction, you're surprised to find him already looking at you.

Sitting on one of the chairs with his folder in his hands, his Nike bag thrown over the other chair and his attention entirely on you.

Just looking.

Suddenly, you're in the classroom anymore. You're at his apartment, feeling hotter and more bothered than any of your twenty-three years of life ever managed to.

You're in Howlett's classrooms, having silent conversations with him over other people's shoulders, using only your facial expressions and your eyes to convey everything.

He's the one to break the silence this time. "What are you gonna do for the holidays?"

The question lessens some of the fluttery in your stomach, and you latch on to it. "What we always do. We'll light the candles, do our favorite readings. Dad will read us some poetry, Viv will do table readings." You smile at Bucky, and watch him collecting his things. "Lehnsherr Hanukkah traditions. What about you, what d'you guys usually do for the holidays?"

Bucky places his things in the chair and gets up, walking towards you. "What we always do," he echoes, and you two share a smile. "Visit my dad's grave with ma. Tell Peter funny stories about him, drink way too much eggnog. Share presents, karaoke, sleep a ridiculous amount of time," he finishes.

Bucky sits next to you on the table, and the proximity makes you hyper-aware. "Sounds like fun."

"Send me pictures of the lights?" Bucky asks. His voice is a little lower and his request sounds so honest that all you can do is nod. "Thanks. I always find them beautiful."

"You've seen 'em before?"

"Yeah. A friend of my ma is Jewish. It's a beautiful celebration," he says.

"It truly is." You move up one of your knees so you can sit with your body turned to Bucky. "Have you always enjoyed Christmas?"

The question seems to surprise him, and he turns his body too to face you better. "Most of the time, yeah. I see it now for what it is, but—" he shrugs his shoulders. "I try giving it its own meaning when it comes to Peter. He'll indulge in the festivities he wants to when he grows older."

"That's for sure." You two share a laugh, knowing all about the universal truth of growing up. "How was Don Quixote?"

Bucky smiles at you. The rehearsal is done and you two should be leaving, and yet, here you are. Both making excuses to talk a little more, both entirely aware of what this is.

Only... he keeps on smiling. "Pretty good. I was a bit distracted, but good."

"By what?"

"Someone I know uses tiaras with hearts on it to cook and while I'm aware of how ridiculous that sounds, that image has not left my stupid, poor brain ever since," he answers.

Oh, shit. You'd forgotten about that—using tiaras to cook was always mandatory around your house because hair in the food is absolutely gross, but you never expected to get a phone call while you did it. You had your Tatas' tiara on and it's only now that you notice it.

You groan out loud and hide your face in your hands, and listen as Bucky laughs because of it.

"It was cute," he adds.

"I'm mortified. Color me dead, please." It's not truly that embarrassing, but you still feel caught. When you put your hands down, Bucky just shakes his head no. "How long will it take for you to forget that?"

"I am never forgetting that," Bucky snorts a laugh. "Maybe after the elective is done I'll stop bringing it up."

His words remind you that in short of six months, you won't see him on a daily basis. "Halfway over. That's crazy," you whisper.

"It is. But also good?" He tilts his head. "Routine can be good but it can be misleading. I'll be glad when the elective is over, in a way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there's this woman I want to ask out on a date, but I don't know if she's putting up with me because I'm the funniest guy in class or if it's just my amazing presence and... after it's done, maybe I could find out."

The words are offered slowly, one by one.

They're simple, but still leave you with your mouth hanging open.

"Bucky..." His name slips out of your lips, and he stays silent, waiting for you to process his silent, future request. "You really think you're funnier than Steve?" You whisper, trying to distract both you and him from the tension that's building up in your bellies.

It works—Bucky laughs at you, and it gives you a moment to breathe.

"I like you," you state. Before the courage leaves, or the peace of being in the presence of someone who's so straightforward is gone and you're left to the demise of your own head. "And we don't see each other that often for that to happen, I think."

"You think so?" He asks, looking at you with genuine curiosity. Fondness. Eyes traveling from lips to eyes.

"I know so." You look at his mouth, and you decide that the spirit of festiveness might be exactly what you needed. "Can I show you?"

Bucky stops smiling, and his body stills. His nod is minimal, and you see his Addam's Apple moving before you inch closer.

He's sitting so close to you that it takes only a bit before your lips touch his.

His soft, beautiful lips. They feel like a plump peach on yours, and your eyes close. An involuntary hum leaves your chest at how sweet and tingling your lips feel against each other.

It's like rubbing a pen on your hair or walking into a crazy science fair.

You can feel him. The heat of his body and the electricity on his lips gently moving against yours. No other part of your bodies moves, and you're thankful for it. If Bucky's hands found you, letting go of him would be very hard.

When oxygen is needed, you pull back, but not by much.

He's the one to break the silence again. "Fuck." He opens his eyes, and they've blown out—the black overtook the blue, which only amplifies the depth of it. "Merry Christmas to me," he mutters with a dopey smile.

You laugh. "Yeah." You want to lean in and kiss him once more, but your point is proven.

This is not on his head, or yours. You could sing a silly Christmas carol now with how happy you are.

"This isn't routine," you rectify. Bucky nods in agreement, and you lick your lips to get a taste of him again. "I'm glad we're in agreement. I should..." You sigh deeply. "I should go. Before leaving becomes very hard."

"Please, do," Bucky laughs. You see him bawling his fists close to himself, and it makes you laugh too. "Happy Hanukkah, gorgeous."

If there has ever been a happier one, you wouldn't know.

Walking home with the taste of Bucky on your lips and his text messages showing you his home decoration for the holidays feels right.

It feels like ending the year with the biggest win ever.

Chapter Five — (10/11) | If you're feeling generous: Ko-Fi ❥

Part Two ❥ ; @bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @sstan-hoe ; @hawsx3 ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; @maladaptivexxdaydreaming <3

#I have never felt more connected to a ‘reader’ fic ever #you’re just the most spectacular human #when we have the castle you’re getting your very own dramatic writing room #or floor?!?!#with a dramatic balcony for dramatic pondering #whatever you want just keep doing THIS forever

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zellington · 2 years

Text

Nyx. My baby.

Leaving that meeting for this was hands down the best decision I have ever made. Ever.

The Lovecraft quotes. The lotr’s references. My nerdy heart is singing. The systematic take down of a feral heathen during a lecture. PETER.

I just…

This was literally perfection and it’s only chapter one. I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did and then you created this. 😭

A Touchable Dream

— Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Summary: Unpredictable, unfair and unreasonable—so far in, that’s all Bucky’s known life to be. With the exception of his son, nothing has ever inspired consistency or proven to be worthwhile enough for him to fight daily to keep. Going back to University while being a single parent has more than one rough edge. He feels lost, out of place, with a constant itch under his skin. Then, you arrive like a Comet, daring him to change all his skeptic perceptions. — Word count: 7.8k — A/n: If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any. Updates every Friday! I’m excited for this new journey. If you’re enjoying this series, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi.

↱ Series Masterlist | Official Playlist | Previous Chapter ↰

⋅☾ CHAPTER ONE ☽⋅

The Project shall be presented on the 1st week of January classes. A first draft must be delivered the week prior to Christmas break.

That's what it said underneath Professor Howlett's notes. The theme was 'A Year Through This Window', as Howlett wrote in big, bold letters across the board. It was a striking, interesting theme. It piqued your curiosity.

Displaying interpersonal and societal struggles through the media was something that could be done through subtle, minimalistic details, or as a central theme. There was a lot of room to wiggle with, and you sat in the campus coffee shop with your notebook open and several notes taken already about possible ways to approach the subject.

The due date gave your group around two months to prepare the presentation, plus a couple of days when classes returned to practice it.

Now all you needed to know was whether you'd survive all those weekly encounters.

Staring at Bucky from up-close caused severe side effects to one's heart and, worst, body.

There was a damn reason you decided to sit behind him in class, damn it.

"Where's L?" A familiar voice comes from above, stealing your attention.

Looking up, the comforting brown eyes of your best friend look down at you with the cold disinterest of someone who woke up a couple of hours ago and hates working with the smell of coffee when she barely even drinks it.

"Isn't he your brother?" The question is out of your lips in a flash—the location of L is always known by you. He imprinted on you like a baby duck when you were nine, and ever since you always knew where he was.

Viv gives you the blankest look in history. Her specialty.

Her thick, wild curls are looking soft today, which means yesterday was "personal spa" day, which means Viv has been barely sleeping and decided to treat herself mid-week. You're happy for her, and she's the further thing from happy as she stares at you and waits for a reply.

You love it when she wears only half of her hair up, especially in space buns, so you comment on it. "Love the hair."

"I know."

"He's at the Brooklyn Double Ou-8 Gallery." You lift up your overpriced cappuccino and take a slow sip, appreciating the taste of average coffee that was charged like a fine space. "Didn't Max tell you?"

Another student close by calls Viv and she silently asks him for a minute with her tight-lipped smile which always wins over anyone, and you watch as the girl smiles back and dutifully goes back to her duties.

"Max thinks I have my mother's witch psychic abilities and never tells me shit." Viv tops your cup of cappuccino without request, and you eye the cup greedily. "You know that," she scoffs.

"Your ma isn't a witch, Viv."

"Say that to every prediction she ever made and came true, bubba," she laughs.

It softens her entire face. Viv's sharp and strong features always look breathtaking with a smile on.

"Why are you looking for him?" You ask. Usually, you're the first to know if L is about to get in trouble.

Viv eyes the table she needs to go see and sighs deeply, resting her hand on her hip. She cocks her hip to the side. "He's got my fucking computer for three days now."

You snort through your nose. "Why did you let him borrow that again? You are not getting that back anytime soon."

"I'm getting that back."

"We'll see about that."

Viv narrows her eyes. "If he gives you a sign of life, tell him I want my fucking computer. I've got schoolwork to do and there's only so much one can do with a tablet." She sends the table that was politely waiting for her one of her winning customer smiles and then gives you a vicious look, as if you were the culprit. "Don't forget."

You lift both hands in surrender. "Yes, woman."

She leaves with a satisfied nod, and you look down at your notes trying to find your trail of thought.

That attempt is lost when the shop's door opens and the cause for your anxious scribbling strides in like this is the setting for a horrible CW rom-com.

He makes it look good.

Well—they make it, should be fairer to say.

Steve and Bucky open the doors to the shop like Aragorn marching inside the castle in his Return, and while the view of Steve's broad shoulders matched with his thick, trimmed beard is a sight to behold, it's him who makes you wish you'd had more coffee by now.

Or perhaps said 'no' when Rogers' puppy face turned around and asked you to join both of them in this.

Bucky has a walk that could pour a whole block.

Fuck. He looks good even walking. How is this fair?

It isn't. And the worst part is—thirsting over it would only lead in embarrassment and avoidable heartbreak, so you swallow down the stupid attraction which makes you want to find out if this man is as climbable as he looks to be and remind yourself: this is worth 25% worth of your grade.

They both wave at you when they find you in the crowd, and you focus your attention on your notes until they're both with their own doses of caffeine sitting down on the table with you.

The first awkward five minutes of small talk are inexistent with them around.

You never spent too much time with either one of them except for classes, but you'd bet your 20/20 vision that most interactions with them go easy like this.

Things are easy when they're together.

You three go over the basics of what Howlett has asked, you show them the notes you took, and just like that, it's like you've been a part of the little word they've created since forever.

Once the approach for the theme is decided — between 'subtle', 'evident' and 'main theme' there was a lenghty one-hour discussion to be had over the pros and cons of choosing each one — you three finally settle for a short break.

Bucky is sitting across from you and the way the light hits on his cheekbones and eyes makes your heart ache, just a little bit.

Some people are just so pretty it hurts.

"How many times are we gonna do this again?" Bucky asks with his phone in hands. Steve was in line for another coffee and you knew he meant the weekly meeting for Project Seethrough, as you've decided to call it.

"Two times a week. An hour after Howlett's class like today, then on Friday mornings. 10am, Steve said?"

Bucky groans, eyes still glued to the screen. "Fucking masochist," he mumbles under his breath.

It's easier talking to him when he isn't looking at you. "Not a fan of mornings, I take?"

The snort is an answer all on its own, but Bucky elaborates. "He thinks everyone should be up before 10." He looks up at you and you feel the effect of his blue eyes focusing on you—it's as distracting as it was the first time. "Early bird gets the worm or some shit like that."

"I never liked worms," you sass back instinctively, then immediately regret the stupidity of it—Bucky must see it in the way you shut your mouth very quickly afterwards, and bless his soul, starts laughing. "It's a shitty idiom."

"It really is," he chuckles, nodding along.

When Steve comes back a couple of minutes later, you and Bucky are shooting idiotic idioms back and forth at each other.

"—what even is that; 'elephant in the room'," Bucky's laughing now, with his whole chest. "How the fuck would one get in the room without people noticing, you know?!"

"That's the whole point!" You wheeze out, trying to control the volume of your laughter.

Steve sits down slowly, eyeing you two over the rim of his new cup of coffee with amusement written all over his face.

Then, another one hits you and you slap your thigh when it does. "Cock and bull story! Fuck, I love that one." Now, both Steve and Bucky laugh. They lean towards one another when they do so, like being in each other's presence changes their gravitational hold somehow. "It's so... simple. Yet so straightforward," you comment, with the narrator voice of an art critic rating a piece. "Gets the point across just right."

"That's Bucky right there," Steve gets out when he finally stops giggling. Bucky gives him a look of betrayal and disbelief at the comment, but Steve's shrug says he's sticking with what he says. "A bunch of cock and bull stories, soooo much of the time." He directs his gaze at you and then stage-whispers. "Sometimes, even Peter calls him out on it—Peter's his kid," Steve amends quickly, assuming you're unaware of the incredible artist who painted one of the coolest pieces you've ever seen.

You nod at that. "I know. The Nike artist."

Steve stops with his mouth open and, surprised, looks between you and Bucky. "I—how did you know that?"

"I told you I met Y/n at orientation day, punk," Bucky rolls his eyes.

Then, Steve's face becomes the personification of a lightbulb being switched on and he goes. "Ahhhh." He looks at Bucky with a smile. "That you did," and, with a look back at you, he nods again. "That's right, my little protegée gave Buck Bear over here his favorite gift of a lifetime."

That special tidbit of information nestles itself in your chest.

You'd seen the pride in Bucky's face when mentioning the piece that day, but knowing that his kid gave him his favorite present ever is one of those pieces of knowledge only a friend could have.

Despite knowing you're the further thing from friends, a part of you loves that you know that.

"That's so cute," you say, echoing your thoughts.

There's a faint blush on Bucky's cheek when he ducks his head in laughter this time, and that sight is definitely too much for you to handle when the late-afternoon light is making the man in front of you look like a Pinterest picture of what 'husband material' looks like, so you look back at Steve.

"Peter puts him in line?" You ask, prompting him back into story mode as you sip your coffee.

"Yeah! Oh, man, you should see him giving Bucky looks whenever Bucky doesn't know a new trend or something—I feel just as old as he does, but the look on Peter's face?" Steve clasps a hand over his own chest as he doubles in laughter. "Fuck. Priceless."

"I'm glad my boy's sarcasm can entertain you," Bucky scoffs.

"Oh, it does," Steve continues laughing.

"It would. He gets that shit from you," Bucky shoots, only causing the laughter to increase on Steve's behalf.

"Oh—spare me the bullshit just 'cause we have guests in the house," Steve jokes, throwing a quick glance at you. Watching them bicker is fun. You imagine if this is how your classmates feel whenever you and Bucky start going at it. "We both know that if Peter didn't have uncle Stevie here, he'd do just fine with you as a role model. The sass in that household existed long before he was born."

At that, Bucky seems to have no comebacks, so he just shrugs his head.

Amused, you look between them and finally pitch in. "I can imagine him learning plenty just from watching you two."

The comment draws even more laughter from them, but then Steve throws you a curve-ball. "I can only imagine what he'd learn if he could see you two in the ring," he snickers. "Thanks for getting along long enough for us to do this, by the way," he adds in his best theatrical voice.

This time, Bucky isn't alone in feeling the heat in his cheeks.

You can feel the slight burn on your cheekbones and there's no hiding that behind a cup of coffee.

"We're not that bad," Bucky states with half a pout, and you have to press your lips tightly together to avoid a witty comeback as you would in class.

Classroom You would say, That depends on your definition of 'bad', Barnes.

And he'd probably offer back a, Is there more than one definition of 'bad'? Are we getting poetic now? 'Cause if so, we're fucked when the word 'blue' comes to play.

A moment of heavy silence falls over the table as all of you can hear the bickering in your heads, and when you share looks with both of them, you break the veil with, "Yeah, we are," you chuckle.

It wasn't that you and Bucky fought.

It just so it happened that when opinions came to play and Howlett asked for the classes's, you and Bucky had unconsciously started a wit battle right in the first class when he replied to a comment of yours with a sarcastic, "Tell us what you really think, Ma'am, why won't you?"

In hindsight, you could see now the sassy and fun Bucky saying that and meaning it in a teasing way.

"You started it," you point out in a petty, yet light quip. Classroom You had only seen a white, heterosexual male you were trying very hard not to thirst over trying to sass you in a subject you were very well versed in, thank you very much. The You of now could see this only had gone on for as long as it did because no matter how much you wished Bucky was an asshole, he was just one of the rare good guy gems. "I have an ick when straight people try to be funny and I'm ranting about queer issues."

Then, Bucky's smile grows three sizes and you feel in the pit of your stomach the hit before it comes. "Oh, trust me, I know. And it's always in poor taste too, isn't it?"

Well.

The universe could color you surprised. And apparently, so could Steve and Bucky—the look on your face must be comical, because both men watch with delight as you take in the non-subtle hint of Bucky throwing a bucket of cold water over your misconception of him.

"Huh," is what comes out of your mouth.

Steve bursts out laughing again, but Bucky holds the eye contact with a lot of glee over his win of the day. "Don't worry. You're not the first one."

That does relieve some of your guilt, so after making a face at yourself, you give him your best sheepish smile. "My bad. You're the poster boy for het dude. Both of you. No offense."

"Some taken, but with resignation," says Steve.

At least they know you're right.

"Hey—At least now I know where all the heat came from your side whenever you tried your hardest to find loopholes in my theories," Bucky adds in a light tone, and while you know you're being teased, you don't mind.

"Yup," you agree.

Then, Steve claps his hands together. "This is all very heartwarming, but we should probably get back to it. At least lay the foundation, what d'you say?"

With a deep, loud sigh, you nod at him. "I say let's go."

The next hour flies by.

Steve and Bucky are excellent at keeping in track, and when there's a topic to be discussed, you can steer the focus away from the way Bucky's smile curls in the corner.

When you three decide it's enough work for the day, Viv captures your attention in the background waving her cigarette.

"Well boys, it's been a pleasure." You give them a winning smile, and then nod in Viv's direction. "I'm gonna go listen to gossip while my best friend indulges in nasty, gross habits. See you in class?"

Both men smile in return. "See you, Y/n."

"Take care," Bucky says. Get out of here right now, says your brain in response.

'Take care'? Whoever raised this boy did a job too damn good to begin with.

Viv is already surrounded by a cloud of smoke when you get there, with gossip right on her lips. While you love gossip, your attention seems to be divided.

Does he have a wife? Even though you know you shouldn't, that's all you can think about. Being a good friend requires that you listen to at least 50% of Viv's rants and you do, nodding along in the right times and asking the right questions in others, but by the time her cigarette is over and she's sighing loudly, you're already thought of at least five different ways to pitch in that question in a conversation.

Just for the sake of curiosity.

As if you want nothing from it.

"Which one of them is it?" Viv asks, and that steals your attention.

"Huh?"

"Don't 'huh' me, playing stupid is an awful look on your smartass face," Viv huffs, putting out the bud in the brick wall. "Which one of the sexy, bearded lumberjacks in there is stealing half of your brain?"

Shit. Double fucking shit on a stick. "I thought you weren't psychic."

Comparing Viv to her mother was the quickest way to distract her, and it works like the charm it is. Viv rolls her eyes, and you stifle a burst of laughter on the sleeve of your jacket at the look of 'I am done' she sends you. "Fine. Don't tell me." She passes by you with a wink and presses a soft mentol kiss to your cheek. "See if the answer doesn't pup up in my dreams."

"Witch!" You yell after her, finally laughing.

Instead of leaving, you decide to do a little bit of stalking.

Social media is the most useful curse of this century, but it tells you nothing when it comes to Bucky Barnes.

Should you be stalking Steve's page in hopes of finding out more information? Definitely not. Will this aid in your mission of not crushing like a teenager on the unbearably hot classmate who definitely wants nothing to do with casual relationships? Certainly not, either.

But fuck—Steve's got some artistic shots.

And the best part — because your traitorous brain has apparently foregone any pretense of not being at least intrigued — is that there are no pictures of Bucky with someone else.

"So you can at least look without feeling guilty," you mumble at yourself, chewing on the corner of your thumb.

Lost in the pretty shots of Steve's Instagram — because Bucky's is private —, you don't even hear when he comes out of the shop.

You only hear when he speaks up again.

"Are you serious, Becca?" Bucky's voice comes from your left side and you immediately exit the app. He's standing with his phone to his ear, and there's a deep frown on his face. "He's twelve, Becca. Not fifteen. Fucking find him."

Oh, that doesn't sound good. You hope for the sake of Becca, whoever she is, that Bucky's boy is less of a curious little shit than you were at that age.

Bucky's so lost in his conversation that he misses you sitting there on the stool with your phone in hand and a guilty look still stapled on your face.

"Becca, I don't—," he pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine." Another pause, shorter this time, and Bucky throws his head back with a deep sigh. "You better pray to Pa in heaven that you're right."

Sibling, then. She'd get in fewer problems than a nanny, at least.

"No. Still no." This time, Bucky turns around shaking his head and that's when he finally sees you. Some of the frown eases, but not entirely. "Goodbye, Rebecca."

He hangs up the phone, his gaze set on you.

"Damn. Full named her, huh?" You ask with a smile that feels more like a wince.

Bucky sighs deeply again and gets the other stool Viv was using to come to sit by your side. "You give pretty good advice in class sometimes. Got any for a parent trying not to kill their younger sibling over losing their kid at a fair?"

That new piece of knowledge eases the worry you hadn't noticed you were carrying. "Oh, he's at a fair," your shoulders relax. "He just went to buy something cool he saw, Bucky, don't kill your sister before the due time."

"'Before the due time'," he repeats, laughing weakly. He still looks worried, and there's no harm in comforting a potential friend.

"You don't GPS your kid?" You ask.

Bucky lifts one eyebrow. "Was I supposed to?"

"Hm. Dunno. I guess it depends on why you do it and how often you use it?" You were GPSed as a kid by your guardian and it only made you feel safer to know you lived in one of the busiest and most dangerous towns but, if anything were to happen, Max would know exactly where you are. "It'd make you breathe a little easier in situations like this."

Bucky hums thoughtfully, and you watch his face as he seems to think about it. "He is getting at an impossible age..." He trails off, gaze turned to the distance.

"Ask him if it's cool to have one in his backpack. Safety measures," you add.

Bucky looks back at you, half a smile on his face. "Most people would call that invasion of privacy."

"It can be if you use it with that intent, sure, but I'm pretty sure twelve isn't the age to be allowed that much privacy to begin with." Even though you have no kids of your own, you know enough about them to understand how much a twelve-year-old still needs protection.

Bucky thinks about it for a few more seconds, and it makes you squirm how he does it while looking at you. "Parents can be a bit overwhelming. I guess—I've always tried to make Peter feel like he's trusted. 'Cause he is. I trust him with my whole heart, but—," Bucky sighs, then laughs at himself. "God, he's about to be a teenager. Agh, I'm gonna get white hair before I'm thirty-five." The last part is said as he rubs his face with both hands, and you fight the urge to reach forward and take his hands in yours, or maybe brush his hair while you shush him into calmness again.

"Bucky."

He looks between his hands at you, and you give him a smile.

"I've known you for weeks and I can tell you're an attentive, smart and reasonable guy." The words feel too big in your mouth as soon as you say them, and you're aware they bring some heat to your cheeks but now that you've started it, you might as well finish. "I'm sure your kid is fine. I'm sure he'll be fine in his rebel years to come."

There's no immediate answer, which only makes the blood under your skin to vibrate. He just stares at you, eyes roaming your face as if he's waiting for the next magic trick to happen.

The doofus smile goes away when he shakes his head and looks away. "Shit." A choked laughter comes out, and when his eyes go back to you, you know you've definitely said something right. "Alright. I'll just GPS him, I guess."

You smile. "Good call."

"On that same note, if my sister doesn't call me in the next five minutes, I might have a heart attack," he laughs humourlessly. "Or order another coffee."

"Those are the same thing."

"Shhh, I wanna live in a world where they aren't," he sasses.

"Is Peter as dramatic as you?" You ask, more to distract him than anything else.

The smile on his face becomes more genuine, and he rolls his eyes with as much fondness as Viv whenever you or L open your mouths around her. "He's worse."

"Oh, damn," you laugh out loud at that.

"Yup." Bucky stops cracking his knuckles and starts picking on the strands of his ripped jeans, so while he goes on, you reach inside of your backpack for your anxiety fiddler. "I don't know how strong genes are, but—they're definitely fucking real. His mother had the driest, most dramatic humor ever. She's not dead!" He adds quickly, knowing how that sounded. "But yeah. And he's basically raised by me and Steve, so—you can imagine how that goes."

"I definitely can," you shrug, extending him the cube.

Bucky stares at it for a second with his mouth hanging open, and you're about to explain to him what it is when he opens a soft smile. "Peter died his about five different colors," he comments as he picks it from your hands.

You're careful not to brush your fingers on his because this is already too much for just one day, but you still store the knowledge that Peter has an anxiety cube just like you safely in your heart.

"I just like purple," you shrug. You had painted yours with bright purple nail polish.

"I can see that," Bucky chuckles.

His fingers start expertly moving and re-arranging the cube, and you know his mind is about to go back on a worry loop, so you ask about the one thing you know he'd spin a yarn about forever.

"So—what's his favorite art form?" Bucky looks up from the cube with a surprised look, and you tilt your head. "What?"

"You wanna know what's my kid's preferred art form?" He shoots back at you.

"Sure," you reply. "You do realize your son is one of my favorite artists, right?"

Then, something happens.

Bucky stares at you for three heartbeats, and then opens a smile that you know will never recover from. It's soft, gentle, proud. It's beautiful, and it makes the wrinkles on the corner of his eyes pop just how blue they are.

"Is he?" He breathes out. "You saw only one piece."

You scoff. "Bucky. Your twelve-year-old painted an original Eldritch horror on a backpack and it looked better than most things I see on comic stores nowadays. It looked unique. Kid's got style. Don't think I didn't notice he uses the dotted technique to make most of it—I did. I'd steal the fuck outta that backpack if you wouldn't know exactly where to look for it now."

Bucky bursts out laughing, and you swim in the surge of pride that laughter brings out in you.

"Alright. You asked for it, remember this," he says in a warning tone.

Then, Bucky starts telling you about how Peter got into art — his uncle Steve, of course — and exactly how much Bucky spent over his first five years of life in drawing and coloring materials.

He's just about to get into Peter's first canvas when the phone rings again and it's Peter. From the looks and the short answers you hear on Bucky's side, there are many apologies involved and, just as you predicted, a present as the catalyst for everything.

When you finally bid him goodbye at the front of the shop, Bucky's smiling at you differently.

He's smiling at you like he does at Steve, sometimes.

Like he's seeing something beautiful.

Bucky has a very distinct way of making people feel seen in specific ways, and you travel home with his smile and the stories of Peter playing back in your head.

══════════════════ ✧ ══════════════════

Bucky loves Room 261.

Professor Howlett's classroom evolved into one of his favorite places in University as soon as he enrolled in it.

It was a moment of his week where he could see other people apart from the ones he was always seeing in his course, and the best of all, he could learn things that were fun.

Logan Howlett was in his fifties, had an iconic beard, smoked enough to put him two grown men on the ground and cursed as much as a sailor.

Perhaps that's why Y/n could get smiles so easily out of him.

Bucky expected nothing less. The first words he ever heard from her were 'holy fuckballs on a stick' and if that is not enough to pass the impression of what kind of sailor she is, nothing else would.

She's Logan's favorite student, hands down. Whether that's because of her stupidly big brain, her witty remarks or the way she puts people in their place with the most condescending smile, Bucky will never know.

"Are those the reasons why she's Logan's favorite?" Steve asks theatrically.

Bucky stops looking at the classroom entrance and narrows his eyes at Steve. "I don't appreciate your tone or the implications behind it."

Unbothered, Steve shrugs his shoulders. "Just saying."

Steve's 'just saying' is never just anything, but Bucky lets that one go.

Since last week at the coffee shop's alley, he's promised himself he could do this and end up with a friend too at the end.

Y/n gets along great with Steve. She gets along great with him, there are no viable reasons why this shouldn't happen.

Bucky loves Room 261 for many reasons—it's cozy, there's Logan, he has fun while learning, but by the end of the week, he learns to love it for one more reason.

They're analyzing America's obsession with serial killers through the lenses of Silence of the Lambs.

The movie itself is a great one, as most of the students agree, and Logan's excellent at picking apart the psychological points of the acting performances which elevated the story to the maximum.

Then, Y/n quips in at some point with, "If only the transphobic shit wasn't so vile, I'd put it in my 'faves list'," and gets some nods of agreement throughout the class.

What Bucky never expected is for one of their classmates to snort from the background, and reply with, "God, is there always a queer offense somewhere for you people?"

Oh.

'You people'. Bucky can feel his muscles tensing up, and he imagines he isn't the only queer person in the classroom feeling the rage boiling up.

Y/n turns around in her chair slowly and Bucky sees in her narrowed eyes that she is not the one to be tried in this matter. "You people?"

"Yeah. We people would fucking love to hear how that movie is not offensive towards trans people," Steve joins in, turning around as well.

There are some agreements throughout the class, but unfortunately, Asshole N.1 has a friend who seems to share the same bullshit trail of thoughts as them and makes matters worse. "This isn't Queer Studies 101. If you wanna pick apart a movie through your rainbow lenses you're in the wrong class."

Now—Bucky knows that prejudices are still rampant and no one is safe from being raised in ignorance, but he'd think a place for higher education would have people would more than one brain cell functioning.

He joins in. "I don't think Professor Howlett would mind hearing you explain how that movie is not transphobic." He turns to Howlett, who's staring at the exchange with narrowed eyes. "D'you mind, Professor?"

Howlett shakes his head. "Nah." He leans back against his deck. "Steve's right. Share your view on how we people make everything rainbow fucking colored."

Watching transphobes squirm and make an idiot out of themselves is definitely a good way to start the day.

Asshole N.1 and N.2 talk bullshit for about two minutes, trying to go around the subject all while not offering a single reasonable point to debunk Y/n's point.

They shit talk so much that when he notices it, Bucky and Y/n are bickering and for the first time, on the same side.

"That doesn't refute Y/n's point," he says when Asshole N.2 is finally finished. He was only half-listening.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure you just proved my point," Y/n continues, looking at Bucky with a tilted head.

"Yup. You said Demme never tried making the serial killer's queerness a reason or a pivotal point for it, but it's literally the whole character's display," says Y/n.

"And it's their motive," adds Bucky, gaining a nod from Y/n. He knows everyone's eyes are on them right now, and strangely, he feels great to be sharing this ping-pong with her. "It's all the audiences sees, and having Bill dance in woman's clothes around the room contradicts what any of the other characters' perception of them may be."

"We did just have a discussion about the inner-script talk," Howlett offers from his table.

With Howlett's help, other students start joining in.

The conversation turns from America's obsession with serial killers to their desire to always portray what they perceive as wrongs as the villains in their story, usually in the most dehumanizing way possible.

"It's where most fucking stereotypes come from," Y/n says, waving her hands with the heat of the conversation.

Bucky has a bit of trouble focusing on the rest of the talk when every time their eyes meet, a secret little moment is shared.

It's like learning a secret handshake.

Or maybe getting a pass to the club you've always to be a part in.

It's Y/n looking at him and smiling like 'we're on the same team! that was fun!'.

When Professor Howlett successfully shuts down Asshole N.1's shitty argument for the last time, Y/n gives Bucky the most satisfied look and in return, he gives her a little wink.

It's supposed to be a smartass thing—kinda like when Steve behaves like an idiot and Bucky witnesses it, or whenever Peter gets something right when they're in public and looks up at him for approval.

Only Y/n blinks twice in surprise and looks away with a chuckle, and then Bucky sees it—the blush.

He looks to the front too, because if Steve catches a whiff of what that does to him, he'll never hear the end of it.

That's the first time Bucky thinks he might not have as strong of a grip on the situation as he initially thought.

The second time it happens, unfortunately, cracks a hole on his perception of who Y/n is that he knows he won't be able to block.

It's Friday — the second designed day for their weekly meetings — and it's only the fourth time they're doing this, and Bucky would love to just go, have a great yet stressful time studying and planning, then go back home.

Only that afternoon, Peter's gymnastic practice gets canceled and he has no other option.

He'll have to go with him to the coffee shop.

"Peter, let's goooooooooooo!" He yells from the door.

His son comes down running.

He has a snapback on, his backpack slung over his shoulders, and his GameBoy in his hands. When he's finally at the door, he gives Bucky one of those looks.

"You are like—so extra sometimes, Dad."

Bucky gives him a blank look and points to the car outside. "And you're like—so slow sometimes, Peter."

Peter smiles. "I was getting my homework. You told me to do my homework while you guys do yours, right?"

"Yeah. I told you that thirty minutes ago."

"And now I'm ready!" He announces happily, throwing both arms up. Bucky wonders how much time is too much with Rebecca. If Peter decides to be a theater kid on top of everything else, Bucky might not make it to fifty.

They ride to the coffee shop mostly in silence, save for the occasional comment Peter makes about something new he learned on TikTok or something Bucky remembers about the weekend.

He's been feeling a lot less stressed out about being away from Peter since he took Y/n's advice and asked him whether it was okay to put a GPS in his backpack.

It was a nice conversation. Knowing his son was old enough to understand the dangers, yet trusted him and his word that this was a safety measure, it meant the world to him. Sometimes Bucky felt like Peter was growing up too fast—all parents felt that he was aware, but seeing it was different than knowing.

It felt like yesterday when Natasha dropped by his doorstep with a serious look on her face. On rainy nights, Bucky swears he can smell her perfume mixed with the rain.

Peter clings to Bucky's side naturally. Bucky clasps a hand around Peter's neck as they walk, and that's another moment right there—soon enough, Peter'll be too tall for Bucky to do this.

When they walk in, Y/n and Steve are sitting on the table that Bucky's starting to see as their designated one.

"Is that her?" Peter asks him.

Y/n is wearing her hair up today and she's too engrossed in conversation with Steve to see them arriving, so Bucky lets himself look.

"Yeah," he replies.

"She's got tattoos," Peter comments, and the awe in his tone says all Bucky needed to know. She's won Peter's attention before even opening her mouth. "A lot of them," he whispers to himself.

She was also wearing a tank top today, and that is... distracting.

Given the end of the year weather, Bucky had only seen her without long sleeves a handful of times by now and even in those, he only saw her forearms.

Peter's right—she's inked. Both arms are covered in art, and when they're close enough to gather their attention, Bucky has to force his eyes away from them.

How far do they go? Does she have them everywhere?

Those aren't questions you ask a friend.

"Hi," he waves. He squeezes his son's nape. "Y/n, this is Peter. Peter, that's Y/n. His practice got canceled so we'll have to look after him this afternoon," he rolls his eyes jokingly, and Y/n laughs.

"We'll give him crayons and a little place to stay," she sasses back. Bucky slides in the seat next to Steve, which leaves the seat next to Y/n for Peter. When his boy sits down, Y/n gives him a small and friendly smile. "Hey there."

"Hey." Peter's too shy to make and maintain eye contact, but Bucky and Steve watch silently as he takes in the tattoos that are right in his vision field. "These are really cool."

"Awn, thanks," Y/n's smile grows. "I know you must get this from every adult, but I've heard a bit about you. I was only joking before about the crayons, but I hope you won't be too bored with all of our talk."

Peter shakes his head. "I have these," he points to his ear pods in the front pocket of his backpack. Y/n nods at him, but his eyes aren't done roaming. "And I also have homework."

Y/n sucks the air between her teeth in sympathy. "I'd offer my sympathies, but—," she points to all the material spread right in front of her.

Peter looks away from her arms for the first time to analyze all the mess on top of the table. After a moment, he chuckles. "You guys have it worse than me."

Y/n snorts at him. "You wait a few years, young man. You'll be drowning in these too."

Ah—'young man'. Bucky and Steve exchange a knowing look, and when he looks back at them, Peter and Y/n are simply staring at each other.

"What if I don't wanna go to college?" Peter asks with narrowed eyes.

Y/n shrugs her shoulders easily, unbothered by the question. "You'll be busy with something else. Unless—" she leans down a little, narrowing her eyes back at him. "D'you have plans of becoming a monk?" she asks in a serious tone.

Peter rolls his eyes at her, but there's a smile forming there. "Duh. Of course not."

"Ah, of course not," Y/n agrees, straightening up on her chair.

"I know that when dad goes—" Peter's sentence is cut short because when he leans on his chair, his eyes fall on Y/n's left arm, the one that isn't right by him.

Whatever he sees in there, it freezes him.

Steve and Bucky freeze too, so engrossed in their little exchange that the entire table seems to hold their breath for what comes next.

Peter's mouth falls open, his eyes bulging out his head.

Y/n's confusion over his reaction goes away in a blink because when she looks down at herself, she must understand the reason for all of this. Bucky and Steve are as lost as baby birds without a mother, but the answer comes in Peter's breathless gasp.

"Is that... Cthulhu?"

Both Bucky and Steve's gaze go in search for what made Peter look like a kid who got his Christmas a couple of months earlier and sure enough, right on her left shoulders, there's a gigantic and incredible colored piece which Bucky never saw before and would've never figured out what it was if it wasn't for his son.

Cthulhu, the cosmic force created by Lovecraft, is wrapped around her shoulder and goes down almost to her elbow.

Peter looks like someone hit him with a spell, and Bucky knows right there and then that if he doesn't gain a friend before this elective is over, his son just did.

Y/n's smile is blinding.

With a deeper and theatrical voice, she leans in and whispers to Peter. "That is not dead, which can eternal lie..."

"And with strange aeons, even death may die," Peter whispers back, finally looking up at her.

Bucky's heart stops.

The look on his son's face resembles the look he had when he first saw the cover of Lovecraft's book at the bookstore, two years ago.

Bucky remembers that look strikingly clear, as if someone had photographed it for him. It was the first time he's seen true awe in Peter's face, and it was the sole reason why he allowed and indulged in that weird taste to begin with.

Did he understand why his son had a fervent love for a man who enjoyed writing tales about humanity's ability to fear? No.

Would he stop it just because it's beyond his comprehension? Never.

And right across from him, is someone who understands Peter in a soulful level.

"That is the coolest tattoo I've ever seen," Peter breathes out. His cheeks are bright red, which probably happened right after Peter ended the quote and Bucky's mind went in disarray, but judging by Y/n's face, she feels as happy as him.

"Thanks, Peter." Her smile is so genuine and the way she speaks to him is so natural that Bucky almost wants to prompt Steve into getting a coffee with him. Few people speak to children or young teens in a way that isn't condescending, and she's one of them. "I'm quite a fan of your artistic eye, so that means a lot."

Is she effectively trying to fry his son's brain? They speak the same language, he thinks.

Peter's face goes two shades redder, much to Bucky's surprise.

"Well, that's our cue to go get some coffee," Steve says by his side, clapping a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky wants to stay and listen, but he knows he should let his son nerd out a little to the cool lady he just met and is finally a person who gets his... peculiar tastes.

"You want anything, buddy?" He asks Peter.

Seeming grateful for the distraction, Peter turns to his dad and bites on his lip. "Can I get a—"

"No. You're not drinking coffee."

Peter sighs in defeat, and Bucky catches Y/n's giggle over his head. "Fine. Hot chocolate?"

"Sure. Something to eat?"

"No, thanks, dad." Peter smiles at him, and now that he took a breath, he turns around to Y/n with newfound confidence. "I started learning how to draw in the dotted style instead of just using it as shadowing... D'you wanna see?"

"F—Hell yeah," Y/n stumbles over her words, and right before they leave, Bucky shakes his head at her.

"He hears worse, he knows he can't say it. It's fine," he laughs.

They leave the two of them at the table and head for the line, and Bucky knows what's coming before Steve even says it.

"So... that went well," Steve finally gets out when they stop behind someone.

Bucky tears his eyes away from Peter and Y/n, and realizes his heart is beating faster. "It did. Why? You thought he'd hate her or something?" he tries joking.

Steve never budges to his teasing. "She told me once she's good with kids, but we know pre-teens are a nightmare. We never know," he shrugs.

Bucky knows that's bullshit, so he rolls his eyes. "She's got Cthulhu tattooed on her damn arm—what were the chances of them not getting along?"

"Point, but we didn't know that."

"Fair. They were getting along before he saw it, though," Bucky points out. "She's nice. Of course they'd get along."

"Yeah." Steve smiles at him. "Of course."

That's when Bucky realizes—Steve just used his distraction and eased a worry he never knew he had.

Of course they'd get along. Bucky's heart, which was previously hammering in his chest, tugs and melts when he looks back at the table. Peter is talking animatedly, gesturing about something that's probably out of Bucky's scope of understanding, but Y/n is listening.

She's smiling and nodding along, and she offers an input a couple of times which makes Peter smile in return.

Of course they'd get along.

Now, what does Bucky do with this sight? What does he do with the fluttering in him that seeing someone welcome his kid, one he knows has very few friends and is used to the odd looks, not only with open arms but a likeminded enthusiasm, too?

Last week, Y/n spared him a handful of compliments with so much certainty it left Bucky reeling, like he was faced with someone who's been in his life for years.

Now, he's left with the knowledge that not only is she that nice and attentive, she's also good with his damn kid.

All the work he put into the mental list of 'things that could possibly fall under flaw and, therefore, are reasons why you should stick friend with this nice girl' flies out of the window.

Bucky might be a little bit screwed. Maybe.

Chapter Two — Friday (19/11) | Ko-Fi ❥ | Talk to me!

Taglist pt. One ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fairytalebucky ; @natyvwe ; @murdermornings ; Part Two ❥ ; @bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @sstan-hoe ; @hawsx3 ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; <3 PART THREE in comments;

#🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️<<< me sprinting away from my office because my baby needed my attention #I’m about ready to uproot my whole life and move to Brazil to marry the shit out of you WATCH ME DO IT #this dad bucky will have my whole heart forever and you created him so now you have my whole heart forever and you’re stuck with me k?#I just 😩😩😩#he’s perfect. YOU’RE PERFECT. This is literal sorcery you absofuckinglutely incredible being

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zellington · 2 years

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I know I’ve already said it to you but our boy Bucko is a Lovecraft nerd and I just 🥰🥰🥰

Yes. Yes yes yes.

I can’t wait to meet Peter! All I know so far is that he’s an excellent artist with fabulous taste and probably quite sarcastic due to his found family but I already know that I would die for him.

Also you know I’m a teachy teach while I do my phd and the amount of older aged students starting out after the zombie plague is a lot. The slight social disconnect and anxiety showcased here was absolutely spot on and I adored that. I always feel really proud of (and a fuckton of admiration for) those individuals for grabbing life by the balls and going after what they love just for the sheer joy and self fulfilment of it. And now I get to do that with our lovely Dad Bucky 🥳

A Touchable Dream

— Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Summary: Unpredictable, unfair and unreasonable—so far in, that’s all Bucky’s known life to be. With the exception of his son, nothing has ever inspired consistency or proven to be worthwhile enough for him to fight daily to keep. Going back to University while being a single parent has more than one rough edge. He feels lost, out of place, with a constant itch under his skin. Then, you arrive like a Comet, daring him to change all his skeptic perceptions. — Word count: 3.5k — A/n: If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any. Updates every Friday! I’m excited for this new journey. If you’re enjoying this series, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi.

↱ Series Masterlist | Official Playlist ↰

⋅☾ PROLOGUE ☽⋅

Reminding himself that this was an opportunity of a lifetime sometimes only scratched the surface.

Sometimes, all Bucky wanted to do was suffocate Steve and his perfectly white teeth for convincing him to do this. Go back to University after twelve years out of it and, consequently, out of the game.

Although his expectations for himself were low, Bucky managed to not only meet them, but excell. He surprised himself after a couple of weeks—in his imagination, after the first week of trying to jump back into studying and note-taking, he'd notice what he'd done and have a mental breakdown, running back home to the safety of his four walls and eventually, his boring office job.

None of that had happened and to his delight, immersing himself in why he was there in the first place and picture the end goal whenever the teachers handed him multiple readings or classmates blinked at him twice, even if without meaning to, just to check if they're really seeing this bearded man on their classroom too, it really helped.

Bucky was here to maybe someday get his dream job. He wanted this.

"The looks sometimes are just a compliment, dude," Steve reminded him.

They were at the parking lot returning from one of the classes and one of the girls who passed both of them literally glued her eyes to both of their frames and accompanied for so long that it left Bucky feeling naked and—okay.

He could admit that might've been unlike the usual judgy look.

Regardless of his nice reminders or how well things had been for the past couple of month, the first moment Bucky truly wants to run away from university is when Steve opens his damn mouth right after Professor Howlett mentions a trio work for the next project on stop motion pictures.

Steve opens his mouth before Bucky can even get a thought in, but as soon as the words come out the freezing dread washes over Bucky's stomach like a bucket of cold water had been poured all over it. He freezes; like a cat caught in trouble or a deer in the headlights; Bucky has his first moment of real panic at the knowledge of what will follow the words, "Fifty per cent? Fuck. We need a mean third party for this, Buck—hold on."

Bucky's body becomes a statue and his peripheral vision catches the moment when Steve turns around to the back.

The next words out of his mouth will be to you.

It's only your name, and yet all Bucky thinks is fuck.

He remembers that name being spoken to him the first time.

Bucky remembers meeting you very clearly.

"Hey Y/n!" Steve greets you with his excited and puppy-like smile. Although Bucky's back is still to you both, he can imagine you grinning at him. "If you wanna join us, we're a pretty good duo. We'd just need your big brain to make this a perfect trio."

Steve's good, Bucky's gotta give him that. Now that the invitation is extended, he feels compelled to turn around.

He's faced with you looking between Steve and now him.

Fuck.

He's always forcing his own brain to shut up its bells and gongs that go off when he's faced with you from up close.

"That'd be easier than finding another lonely wolf around here," Y/n chuckles. Her eyes stop right on Bucky's and he feels the back of his neck tingling. "You think three loudmouths together would work?"

Outch.

Bucky hears Steve's stifled laughter, and him commenting, "I think Professor Howlett's definitely gonna have a field day with us working together" as if your eyes weren't so not-subtly pitching daggers through him. Sure the question was worded as if she was talking about the three, but Bucky knows better.

He knows your sassy, smart mouth by now.

He knows damn well how to listen to the words in-between your lines. Being at the other end of your smart, loud mouth enough times these past two months makes one almost fluent in the language of Y/n-shit-talking.

"What Stevie said," Bucky agrees, maybe a heartbeat too late. He feels he's always a heartbeat too late when it comes to you. "We can't cause any more trouble than we already do, can we?"

Bucky watches as you take in his teasing back, one perfectly-styled eyebrow rising, and a low chuckle on your chest. "Yeah. What could go wrong, right?" you ask, smiling sitting dangerously at the corner of your mouth.

Every bell he has in the back of his mind starts ringing, but Bucky ignores them in favor of leaning against the backseat and nodding at you with the same smile. "Less than an A is out of the question." One would hear it as bragging, but it's mainly the truth. He looks sideways to Steve, and his friend is watching them with amusement. "Right, Stevie?"

Steve breathes in deep. "Of course," he laughs. "Let's do this."

They can do this.

Bucky smiles at you, then widens his smile when you nod back.

Even though you look almost neutral, smiling politely and nice, it still feels like a challenge.

It's felt like one ever since you two stepped inside this classroom almost two months ago, smiled at each other, only to end up caught in each other's trap the very first class.

Steve calls it pigtail-pulling.

Bucky refuses to see it that way.

Since the first moment, you two opposite each other in the opinion's you have in Howlett's classroom, but it's never been because you two disagree with each other.

Ever since the first "argument," all that happened was that you two had the same passion for it. Sometimes you saw the same point, but through different lenses, and sometimes, especially over the last couple of weeks, it's just felt like you enjoyed finding holes in each other's references, just for the sake of being dicks.

It was... teasing.

Fun.

Bucky would like to imagine that's how one makes life-long friends in university, but he's still too much of a coward to test it thoroughly. You two always end the class with a smile at each other, sometimes a bit condescending on one side or the other, but it's always respectful.

You've always been that—respectful of him, not even making fun of him for a second when you found out he was not a doctorate student or a master one like Steve. You'd never made him feel stupid and, as someone who's shared the room with you for a while now, he knows damn well that's an ability you have. A mastered skill, if you will.

It's just too damn bad that even though Bucky's already convinced himself that your beauty and every inch of your sexy brain are out of his reach, he still can't help but have a dream or two sometimes where he ends with you on top or under him.

He ignores them. Sometimes with difficulty, sometimes not.

They're just stupid dreams, anyway.

So what if he's demisexual — a word he only learned thanks to a website Peter gave him a couple of years ago — and so what if you're the first person he's been genuinely attracted to in years?

He's also very much aware that you're over ten years younger and, above all, not interested.

That's when it gets easier to ignore his desire to grab you by the chin and suck your soul out of those damn smart lips.

You're just not interested.

══════════════════ ✧ ══════════════════

✧ Two Months Ago ✧

Steve's promise to not abandon Bucky lasted about forty minutes.

Bucky checks his watch—thirty-seven minutes since they arrived.

Steve's told him at the car, "Don't worry, man, people here are super friendly. I know you're still worried about being older than your classmates, but Buck—you'll see it in your first class, no one gives a damn. I promise ya. I know we won't see each other a lot 'cause the Masters and the Bachelor programs are in different buildings, but we can take that elective I told you about together or any other elective you really like and at least we'll have one fun together."

A solid comforting, and not even one of Steve's best.

The sentiment and the attention he gave to Bucky made him all warm and tingly on the inside, even though Bucky knew he'd be abandoned before the hour ended.

His friends had been very supportive of him coming back to college now that Peter was grown enough for it.

They'd supported him when Bucky decided to be a stay-at-home dad and live in the small apartment downstairs of his mother, they helped him look for jobs that would pay enough for him to get out of his mom's building and eventually find a place of his own, they were all there for the formative years when Bucky tried his best to make Peter have a life he deserved, all whilst knowing his dad was more than just his provider.

Bucky accepted the life-long mission of taking care of his boy and every single day, he's felt blessed by it.

He knew it well enough that being a real parent involved more than just putting food on the table and a roof over their head.

That had lasted for ten years.

Now—as soon as Steve went back to university to get a Masters and elevate his job at the museum, Bucky started feeling that again.

The nagging at the back of his mind made him miss feeling alive. The way he felt when he and Steve roamed aisles of pretentious art portraits in exhibits, or mindblowing pieces on the hidden fair at 8th with 9th Ave., or even better, found new artists with messages and pieces worth talking about and all he could think of was 'I want to teach the whole world about how our society has been portrayed through art's eyes ever since dawn'.

That feeling.

All it took was Bucky mentioning it to Peter once for his son not to forget it.

Then, all it took was Peter talking about it to his uncle Stevie for him not to hear the end of it.

Until he enrolled, got accepted, and was finally here, doing it, Peter and Steve didn't rest.

It felt nice.

If only Bucky could shake off the other feeling—the anxiety he carried around like the heaviest backpack in the world, telling him all the reasons why coming back to a University campus with over thirty years on his back was a horrible fucking idea.

God, the young faces—each cool, edgy young adult with its ripped clothes, insanely talented make-up, and colorful badges on their satchels and backpacks.

They looked so young.

So free, too.

Bucky feels anxious; like he stands out like a sore thumb, or perhaps an old man wearing cardigans — which he isn't, of course — even if he's not that much older than them.

The difference is still palpable, though. Especially for someone who didn't grow up in the ages of technology and is often feeling left out of trends, Bucky knows he's an old guy because he's constantly on the lesser hand at home, feeling like one.

Thankfully, Peter explains to him stuff without making him feel pre-historic. Most of the time, at least.

With Steve abandoning him to his own demise due to another class colleague finding him, Bucky goes to find the enrollment sheets for extra-curricular classes and without needing to look much, he finds the line for the one Steve mentioned.

"History Through Art, Media and Poetry" was an elective taught by Professor Logan Howlett.

Only Art History students could take in in their first year, all the other courses could only join if they were in their second year.

Bucky signs the paper and starts roaming around the classroom, taking a closer look at the books displayed and the pairs or groups of people talking.

Then, just as he's about to leave, he catches a lonely figure at the back row with him, analyzing the summary of Howlett's book which came out during the summer break.

He knows he should leave—god knows how Bucky hates being interrupted on the rare occasions when he chooses to read or, god forbid, write.

Something about the frame's stillness makes him at ease to look, though.

His eyes go down to the satchel bag thrown over the shoulder and for the first time since he's stepped on campus, happiness floods him as he recognizes the goddamn badges on someone's bag.

There's Sparky, from the stop-motion Frankenweenie, then there's a Scorpions badge from the Blackout album, a bisexual pride flag, one that reads in bold letters PROTECT TRANS KIDS and, on top of all of them, there's a Feminist Killjoy written in cursive letters and embroidered in flowers.

Bucky loves the bag.

The punch in the gut comes when he looks up and woah.

Fuck. Bucky's not used to finding beauty in people, at least not the type which attracts him, and all the badges mixed with the jawline and the soft, plump lips kind of make him dizzy.

There's a concentrated frown on your face as well and Bucky's fingers tingle with the urge to soothe them out and—fuck, double fuck.

He needs to stop staring.

The last thing Bucky needs is a young woman from an elective he's already signed to take and who will probably share at least one classroom with him for a whole year to hate him. To find him strange, or the creepy older guy who enjoys looking at pretty women.

She's pretty, though.

Bucky looks away but for a solid second, for just one moment he allows himself to think 'now THAT, ladies, gentlemen and enby folk, is a person who could make me spit coffee out of my nostrils'.

He's just decided to leave the room and let the pretty one with the pierced ears and the tattooed arms alone to her reading when he hears your voice for the first time.

"Holy fuckballs on a stick—is that an eldritch horror?"

It's the last part of the question that startles Bucky to look because—yeah. Unless someone else in this classroom has a kid with a weird Lovecraft obsession, he's just been spoken to.

Bucky turns around slowly and surely enough, Pretty Killjoy is staring right at his bag and then, with a look up, she's looking at him.

Bucky has to mentally will himself into not staring. Don't stare at the pretty young woman. Don't be a creep.

"Oh, this?" He lifts his bag up with fake innocence. "I just thought it looked cute."

He's unaware of what brings him to be so sarcastic to someone he's just met but, to his utter happiness, your face splits in a grin and you giggle. "Of course. I'd buy it for the same reason, except." Pretty Killjoy sucks air between her teeth and gives a step closer. "This is an original piece."

She's right. He'd say she has good eyes, but this is a Nike white bag which Peter painted last year and gave it to him as a birthday present. Naturally, Bucky's worn it everywhere he possibly could.

"It sure is," he smiles, full of pride.

Pretty Killjoy mistakes the pride for personal and lifts both her eyebrows with a low whistle. "You're talented as fuck, man." She extends her right hand, propping Howlett's book underneath her left arm and then her smile softens on the edges. "I'm Y/n, nice to meet ya."

Bucky shakes her hand, and changes Pretty Killjoy's name to her proper tag—Y/n. "Y/n," he repeats, enjoying the way it flows out of his lips. "I'm Bucky, and the talent is not mine, I'm afraid."

"Oh?"

Bucky shrugs his shoulders. "My son's kind of a prodigy," he brags, totally uncaring of how dad he sounds like right now. Then, he notices a slight blush on Y/n's cheeks and following her line of sight, sees he still hasn't dropped her hand. "I know all parents say that, but—," he lets go of her hand to hold the bag in both hands and extend it closer to her, and Y/n smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear to examine it from up closer.

"Holy shit," she whispers after intensely staring at it for almost a whole minute. She straightens up again, clutching the string of her own purse. "What's the artist's name?"

"Peter," Bucky smiles. "He's twelve," he informs, just to see the shock which, certainly enough, washes all over her features.

"He painted all this alone?" she scream-whispers, holding back her excitement.

It makes Bucky laugh. "Yeah."

Y/n nods with a pout that reads 'respect' and admires the bag for another moment. "Please pass along my compliments to the artist?"

The phrase is said with a bit of reprehension; as if Bucky would be weirded out by the request, but the utter admiration he sees in Y/n's eyes make it impossible for him to not nod along enthusiastically. "I will."

The surprise on your face is so nice that it widens his smile. "Oh. Cool!" You chuckle, then look down at the drawing again and point a finger at it. "He'd do well in stop-motion, I love the way he created two scenes in one."

Bucky makes a mental note to pass that compliment along, even though he barely begins to understand the intricacies of what his son's done. "Oh... I haven't thought if from that point of view." He points at Y/n's bag in return. "I saw you enjoy Tim Burton's best movie."

Y/n laughs at that with her whole chest, and she looks down at her Sparky. "I sure as hell do." With another shoulder shrug, she adds. "Film major."

"Ah! Makes sense." Bucky points at himself. "Art History major."

He expects another flash of surprise at the major, but is greeted with another nod of respect. "The privileged lucky bitches who get to enroll in Howlett's electives since their first year." She narrows her eyes at him, comically and sassily. "I see."

Bucky laughs at that. "I'd apologize, but I was coerced by my best friend who's got a bit of a crush on Howlett, so..." he drifts off with a wince, and watches as Y/n's eyes widen.

"Do they?" She asks curiously.

"Yup. Steve's getting his masters to be a curator, he's well versed in all of these topics by now," he offers, rolling his eyes fondly.

Y/n hums, searching around the room as if Steve would jump out of the shadows and say 'it's true! i'm just here to stare at his beard', but when her eyes fall back on Bucky's, he feels weirdly exposed. "Well, I hope I'll see you both in class, then."

Bucky paused.

Y/n was blinking up at him with the softest eyes he's seen so far, and for a second he thinks is she flirting with me, but then he wills the thought away when she gives him a small, shy smile.

She's being nice to him.

The conversation was pretty short, but he could definitely see she wasn't the type to indulge in small or mindless talk with people she wouldn't want to and, for some unknown reason, she deemed Bucky to be a person she could be friendly towards.

The last thing he needs to do is fuck this up by misinterpreting the first nice act by a pretty girl and end up as the douchey classmate.

Sure, pretty girls are rareties in his eyes, but that makes it only more obvious on how he needs to tone it down. He's definitely a little blindsided.

Bucky puts on his best friendly smile, and nods along. "I hope so too." He looks around too, a little part of him wishing Steve was around as a safe boat, then adds. "I've heard plenty of this class from Stevie, I have expectations for the first time ever."

Instead of ending the conversation there, though, Y/n says, "Oh, those can be a bitch. Especially around here."

"Is that so?" Bucky asks.

That's how he ends up following you around campus for the next hour until Steve finds him sitting with you on a fountain, his mind turned off from the world around them and so engrossed in the conversation about the value of film entertainment nowadays that he only notices his friend is there when he's being poked.

Steve says hi to you and for a moment, Bucky hopes to see the same bat-of-eyelashes he got back inside, but all you offer to Steve is a tight-lipped smile and a hello back.

Well—he hasn't complimented your Sparky badge.

Your attention wasn't drawn to him and a cool Eldritch horror drawing on his backpack.

Bucky thinks it's stupid to feel so happy about feeling a little bit special with the first friend he makes across campus, but it also feels good.

Gives him a sense of normalcy around there.

If one of the cool youngsters can have lengthy discussions with him about the benefits and disservices of humor being used as a coping mechanism, maybe he isn't so lost.

Now all Bucky has to do is make sure he never stares at your lips a heartbeat too long.

For the whole year.

He's got this. Yeah... he's definitely got this.

Chapter One — Friday (12/11) | Ko-Fi ❥ | Talk to me!

Taglist pt. One ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @fanofalltheficsx ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fairytalebucky ; @natyvwe ; @murdermornings ;

#it’s only just the start and I’m already obsessed #how does she get it so right every single time #anyone makes Petey sad and I will throw hands #Lovecraft? LOVECRAFT?!?! FUCKING LOVECRAFT YES.#you can’t possibly fathom how much I’m in love with your brain or creative process. it’s indescribable

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zellington · 2 years

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Nyx darling. Love of my life. Literary goddess.

This was beautiful. And painful. And oddly happy in a heartbreaking way? Like being wrapped in a really sweet hug and repeatedly punched in the chest at the same time.

And so well written and the details just ruined me.

It’s probably going to take me awhile to recover from this and get my head around it. And to also come to terms with the bittersweet happiness I feel about it.

3.6k words is all it took for you to completely unravel my mind. You’re insanely talented darling 😘

Lilac Wine

— Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Summary: Bucky lost the love of his life before Thanos snapped his finger. The only issue with the whole ‘moving on’ thing is: there is someone else who can bring her back. There’s somewhere he can go back to being happy in this world, and he isn’t above asking the Scarlet Witch for a place in it. — Word count: 3.6k — Warning(s): Mentions of death, violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms (don't ask to live under a spell just to get your love back, folks), depression, mentions of suicide. — A/n: Requested by this nonnie, who clearly was on crack and wanted to feel something. This is sad. You've been warned :D You can consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, as well. If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more.

⋅☾ My Masterlist | Join the taglist | Soundtrack ☽⋅

⋅|⋅

There was somebody who understood.

For weeks, all Bucky could think about was the point in all of this ‘being alive’ ordeal, if the world itself was such a bleak and dark place to be in. Without being asked, the universe forced upon us existence and threw us in a giant rock where crazy things happened, people were no longer good to each other and to pop the cherry on the cake, crazy old beings from other planets decided to play god.

Bucky was tired.

He had been tired for years, and that ended when he met you at the V.A., but then Thanos happened and for the second time he came back to himself, he was alone and tired.

Above all, Bucky felt anger. And competing for the first place, in the layer right under anger, was the sea of grief he'd bottled up into a vial.

All the grief, and all the missing he did daily because of you.

All of it mixed together in his chest and simmered under his skin like a poisonous and allergic reaction—to what he was yet to discover.

Everything around him, even the things he had started finding pleasure in or the people he initiated a conversation and eventual friendships with— all of those lost colors.

When he was young, Bucky watched TV with no colors, then he was kept frozen in a fridge like a thing waiting to be consumed and sometimes, he’d catch the small, sixty inches box the scientists who guarded him used for distraction and they’d sometimes have to slap the little thing for the color to come back.

Looking around the world now felt like that.

Like Bucky had to slap the color back to it, except he couldn’t.

Doing so would require bringing half of the population back — for most people — and even if everyone did return, you’d still be gone.

He wondered if it was a personal thing.

It had to be, given how much shit the cosmos had put him through. Him, personally. Bucky Barnes. Branded for Pain— that’s what Bucky pictured was stamped over his forehead: an idiot with code-bars which read “please make my life as miserable as possible! and if you can, keep it interesting!”.

He found none of this interesting.

To be fair with himself, he had tried.

Bucky put in the work when Sam rose to the occasion and started the support groups with Steve. God, Steve. His best friend was as broken, if not more, than he was. Seeing him that way only broke Bucky further, and looking at the person he grew up with while failing to find the similarities between the man standing in front of him now and before…

It hurt in places of his soul Bucky forgot he had.

So for months, he tried. Trying looked ugly when you were his age and went through what he did. It looked like beer bottles littered all over his apartment’s floor, stubble so long it could only be called a beard and days without seeing the sun.

The beard brought in other problems.

When Bucky catches his own reflection in the mirror and the bearded man looking back at him has bags under his eyes deeper than the feet of snow in front of his building, he flinches away from it.

Mirrors become an enemy once more.

It hurts in other tiny spaces of his soul Bucky’s forgotten about, and even more in the places that he’s trying to “get over”.

The beard is unkempt and uncared for, so it lacks the shine and the sharp look that it evoked reactions from you not a year ago.

Sometimes, Bucky flinches away from the memories. Most times, he just sinks and drowns in them like a man surrendering to the quicksand.

“Your beard looks sooooo good.”

That one is fresh. In that one, Bucky was lying in the same place he is now — his bed — but unlike the pigsty he’s surrounded with, the memory brings him the smell of lavender from his recently-washed sheets back then and the vanilla with berries from your body lotion.

Bucky’s house smelled of baked goods, wild fruits, good and seasoned food and just a hint of sex during the year and a half when he had you.

He started recognizing the smell of home in it.

“I don’t look like a hobo?” The question had been rhetorical, made while he scratched his trimmed beard.

You shook his head, then propped your chin on his pelvis bone. The twilight sky made your skin glow due to its peachy tones. “You look… sexy.” He loved how you said the word. Bucky smiled, and your grin widened with his reaction. “Like a hot movie star.”

He laughed out loud. “I could never walk a red carpet.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, Buck. I’ve seen your strut on the tv.”

“Strut? I don’t strut—what even is that?”

His laughter filled up more rooms of the apartment when you got up from the bed and, in what was supposed to be an imitation of him, started walking with purpose around his bedroom.

You moved your shoulders a lot, and stared ahead with the biggest frown he’d seen on your pretty forehead so far.

He saw it— that was definitely a strut.

“Okay, okay! You’ve made your point. I’ve got swag,” he joked, finishing with a shit-eating grin.

You dropped your body on the bed right next to his, and rolled your eyes dramatically. “Why do I indulge in blowing up your ridiculously big ego?”

“Awn, don’t be mean, pretty. You know I love it when you talk about me, ‘s all.”

“Don’t do that!”

Bucky laughed harder. “What am I doing?”

“The cute pout thing! You know you look like a puppy when you do that— I can’t take it.”

“Even with the beard?”

“The beard makes it dangerously sexy, yes.”

You were indulging him, back then.

Hearing from your lips that he was beautiful, or sexy, or fun, all those things sounded better and more special coming from someone who knew exactly what he was and still loved him entirely. Not despite all of it, not because of all of it, but with it.

Simply love.

“What does a sexy man have to do to get a kiss around here?”

“Ask nicely.”

“Baby… please come up here… I’m dyin’ for a kiss.”

“So dramatic… c’mere.”

With difficulty, Bucky pulls back from the memory before it becomes too much.

Remembering you is sweet and necessary. If he’s honest with himself, it’s the only thing standing between Bucky and a vibranium bullet to the skull, but it’s also a tricky and treacherous river.

It can escalate from a momentary blink of happiness in his miserable days to what resembles the weight of a final nail in a coffin at a concerning speed.

He leaves your precious kisses in his memory-box and puts the lid on before something else slips out of him.

Bucky goes to sleep in satin sheets that no longer smell like you, even though he tried clinging onto those.

The missed calls from Sam continue to pile up on his phone, which keeps ringing throughout the night.

⋅|⋅

When he came back after the limbo he was stuck in, Bucky had told himself and then Steve that he would try it. That promise was kept— on his end, at least, Bucky thinks it was.

Then, Steve becomes someone else. He becomes the type of person who leaves a fellow man behind and escapes to another reality, and that’s when Bucky ceases trying to begin with.

Sam’s calls are the hardest to ignore.

Sam met you when he traveled to Wakanda with Steve, and he’d overheard Bucky’s conversation with you where the topic of moving out of the city was discussed.

“So what you’re saying is… you’re saying that if I went back— if I went back to Brooklyn and found myself an apartment after all this crap, and I moved there to live in peace. You’re telling me you’d go with me?”

“Of course I’d go with you, silly. I lived here all my life and this has been home, but I could experience other things. Plus—I meant what I said, okay? I’m with you. Ride or die, isn’t that how you say it in America?”

“It is, yeah.”

“Yup. That’s us. Ride or die. You said I’m everything you ever dreamt of. You can’t get rid of me that easily after that, Sargeant.”

“God— you’re so. I don’t even have words?”

“Say you’ll find us an apartment that I can fit a small lab in and you’ll have my eternal gratitude.”

“Baby— I’ll literally work five to ten to afford you a penthouse if I haf’to.”

“Cool. That’s good.”

“So we’re doing this?”

“Yup. Just gotta battle it out one last time.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve looked forward to a battle.”

“You just want what’s at the end of it— I know you’re dreaming about waking up with the smell of my pancakes.”

“You got me there. I love you but woah… your pancakes are the dream.”

If Bucky had seen Y/n falling in battle before the goddamn finger snapped, his knees would’ve lost their strength and his own demise would’ve come through the blades of one of the enemies.

That scenario often came to mind.

More often than not, Bucky wished he had seen. If he did, he too would’ve been before the snap.

If he’d seen it, he wouldn’t have to return without you.

The existence of a God never crossed Bucky’s mind, ever since he was a boy, but god did he pray for things to go differently.

Why me, God? Why not me and her? She didn’t deserve this. She deserved better.

It should’ve been me.

None of those thoughts brought her back.

After months of trying, none of his prayers or self-hatred would bring her back, and that’s the seed of the thought that infects Bucky for the next few weeks.

What if he could? What if bringing you back was an option?

Bucky knew the answer to those questions. He knew that if there was a way, he’d dive in, head first.

He must project his thoughts so loud to the universe that it gives him an out.

That’s all it could be— Sam’s phone calls have been ignored ever since Bucky came back and there was no reason why this one would’ve been different than the others, but after days without showering and thinking about all the things he would do to bring you back, Bucky is sitting with heavy and swollen eyes on his bedroom when the phone pings and he reads Sam’s message on the cracked screen.

There’s a situation happening… I could really use your help. It’s serious.

The message hypnotizes him. Bucky reads it over and over again until the screen fades to black again and there’s a little spark inside of him saying he should go. As a service to Sam being so good and not leaving him behind—he could do this one last thing for him.

It was only right.

It’s with those thoughts that he gets ready. Bucky showers for the first time in more than a week, trims his beard just in case Nick Fury is around, puts on the last clean clothes he can find and heads to the address Sam sent.

His arrival comes as a clear surprise, but the real gift comes in later that evening in the meeting Rambeau is conducting.

Bucky can barely look away from the files.

The situation is simple: there was somebody who understood.

He can barely feel the ground underneath him.

Everything zooms into these files, and Bucky swallows them down like the last meal. Wanda Maximoff understands what he’s going through, and Bucky pretends to listen to the rest of what people say, pretends he cares about the outcome of his mission and when he’s home, pretends there’s something to think about regarding all of this.

He pretends while cleaning his apartment, while boxing everything he owns into boxes, while packing his bags.

When the apartment is bare and everything is inside something, Bucky stops pretending.

There’s someone who understands what he’s going through, and the choice was made when Bucky read in the file ‘coping mechanism to disassociate from the loss of a loved one’.

If Wanda can create a reality where her peace and love still exists, Bucky applauds her.

And he isn’t above asking for a place in it.

⋅|⋅

It takes only three hours of Bucky standing in front of the barrier Wanda created around Westview before she shows up.

He’s sitting with crossed legs and a duffel bag over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on his hands and his head miles away, buried in the way you laughed.

When she walks through the magical wall, Bucky’s eyes snap up.

“Are you here alone?” Are the first words Wanda Maximoff speaks to him.

Bucky’s never been in the presence of pure, raw power before, and the experience leaves him with tingles all over his body. Her eyes flashed red the second she crossed the threshold and he wondered if it was a side-effect of the veil she lifted, but he realizes it when her chin lifts up and the moonlight shines into her brown orbs that it's just her.

Your voice speaks in his brain. Everyone’s darkest and best selves are revealed under the light of the moon. Did ya know that, baby?

Now he saw it.

He nods to her, swallowing the lump of intimidation on his throat. It’d been a while since he was face to face with someone who could actually defeat him without lifting a finger, and he needs a couple of seconds to regroup. “I am.”

Her expression remains flat and uninterested. “Did someone send you?”

Bucky shakes his head at that. Sam had no idea of where he was and Bucky’s only means of contact was now at the bottom of a river.

Knowing of her powers, Bucky takes a leap of faith.

You always said timing your leaps was the key to life. You gotta know when to jump, Sarge.

“I know you don’t know me, but I have something to ask of you.”

Those words get Wanda’s attention. One of her eyebrows lifts and her mouth leaves the state of the thin annoyed line it was since she made her appearance. “I’m listening.”

Bucky gets up, making sure to measure his movements so she’s aware he’s no threat. He stops a couple of feet in front of her, then takes a deep breath.

“Could you look in my head?”

Wanda’s head tilts back, confused and definitely a little suspicious. “Why?”

“‘Cause it’ll be easier than explaining.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, but finds no lies in his eyes or words because there are none. Bucky thought of several ways he could approach this and while he sat and waited for her, compiling a series of linear thoughts which explained how he ended up on her metaphorical doorstep like a stray dog was easy.

Red shines in front of him and he feels the red before he sees it.

There’s a brush of something on Bucky’s mind.

He thought too about what it would feel like to have somebody reading his mind, but there’s no pain. It resembles the feeling of someone’s hand hovering millimeters away from your skin, close enough to raise goosebumps, but not enough to touch. He feels Wanda like brushing his mind and capturing what he compiled for her, and then she’s gone, feeling as empty and alone as when he first arrived.

She gasps when the red leaves her eyes, and it’s a shaky one. “You…” Wanda trails off, and Bucky swallows the expectations down. “You want to enter. Fully enter Westview.”

Yes. The word apparently gets stuck on his throat, so Bucky nods.

“Are you… are you sure?” Wanda asks.

“Positive.”

There’s a moment of silence and Bucky fears all the scenarios which could follow if she rejected his request, but they all fade into smoke when she takes a step to the side, like she’s opening the door to her house to him.

Bucky is the one to gasp this time, because while the opportunity sounded real, it didn’t feel real until now.

“Are you serious?” He breathes out.

“I’ll need a moment to access your memories of you and her together so I can find her essence through the layers of… everything. And then you can enter.”

Bucky nods enthusiastically, because that is the easiest thing possible.

He closes his eyes and embraces the intrusive feeling of Wanda’s power ghosting over his brain, and finally surrenders himself to the memories he’s been running away from for what it feels like forever.

Y/n flashes in his eyelids in beautiful, sad, heartbreaking moments. Wakanda was where Bucky found peace, but it was through you, not the place.

You’d brought him peace.

When Wanda’s ghost is out of his mind, she nods in the direction of Westview and Bucky steps over the electric-looking veil with confidence. He expects nothing, thinks of nothing and to his utmost delight, the only feeling that washes over him is… watery.

Bucky steps inside the town and it’s like his head is being placed under the shower stream after a long day of hard work.

Refreshing.

Disorienting.

Washing away all the bad…

What was the bad?

Bucky has no idea. All he knows is that he left town to get… something. But he came back without it. What did he need?

“Bucky?”

The voice by his side snaps him back to the present, and Bucky has to shake his head.

That’s Wanda.

His neighbor… Vision’s wife. She had kids just last week. “Hey.” His voice sounds hoarse.

Y/n will be unhappy that he’s kept so quiet during his mission. She always talks about how he comes back with a smoker’s sexy tone because he refuses to talk like a human being during missions.

Wanda smiles at him and it’s a little sad, but Bucky knows how tired mothers get on the first weeks and dismisses the thought of sadness in her. Wanda’s always smiling. “Y/n told me to come get you,” she tells him.

Right! He’d left for a mission, but now he was home.

“That’s so kind of her,” he breathes out, feeling choked up for some reason.

Why is his baby so nice? God, Bucky misses her so much. He misses her like he hasn’t seen her in forever and that’s never a good thing. Y/n is his heaven on earth, and just like T’Challa said, if there was a person who deserved a little safe haven on this floating rock, it was him.

“D’you think she could look after my boys this week again?” Wanda asks him, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

He’d have to ask her, and he can’t imagine a day where Y/n would say no to a request like that. “Yeah, sure,” he laughs, feeling the same knot as before climbing up. The more he walks, the more Bucky wants to cry.

He just missed his baby so much.

“Cool. Thanks, Barnes,” she says.

“Of course.”

Wanda makes more small talk with Bucky about some of the residents and he pretends to pay attention to it, like he often does.

You’re always frowning at them! They’ll think you’re a grumpy neighbor— smile, baby. You’ve got such a pretty smile, Buck…

Was that… was it you?

It was. The voice was yours, and the memory looks foggy, but he remembers you telling him that.

You were right. Wanda was a nice neighbor. He tries smiling wider at her when she leaves him at his doorstep and it comes out so genuine that Bucky wonders why it feels like he hasn’t smiled in months.

Then, the door to his home opens and all those silly concerns fly out of the window.

There’s your frame on the door.

If Bucky was a better man, he’d smile like a stud from the old movies and strut his way to you, welcoming you into his arms.

But Bucky’s only Bucky, and he knows that if he doesn’t feel your warmth immediately he’ll crumble into thousands of pieces, so he runs.

Bucky runs to the door and he’s welcomed by the sound of you laughing at him, so pleased and amused. You’re the one who opens your arms to welcome him, and when you close them around his shoulders, Bucky feels the sobs ripping through his next breath.

He breathes in your scent and it feels like the first genuine breath he’s taken since he gained his mind back.

“Baby.”

He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but it feels like it’s over how much he missed you.

Then, you giggle in his ear and says, “Hi, baby. I missed you too.”

Bucky’s sobs all evaporate and what comes out next is a choked laughter. You missed him, but that was okay, ‘cause Bucky was here. Of course he was here.

He belonged next to his baby and through every mission, he’d find his way back.

Where else would he be? Somewhere you’re not?

“I’m here, baby.” He’s by your side now. He’s in your arms, and you’re kissing his temple like you always do when you say hello, and Bucky is at peace again. “I’m here.”

He’s here, because there’s no other place he’d rather be.

“I know, love.” Your voice feels like honey dripping all over his skin, and Bucky can barely open his eyes. Your next kiss to his temple feels like a kiss on an open wound, and Bucky smiles with water in his eyes.

He’s here, because being somewhere you’re not is never going to happen.

He’s found his peace, and that’s where Bucky will stay.

#how is it possible for a human being to be this talented?!#the void is calling me after this #I have a lotta feelings and I’m not entirely sure where to put them all #it’s like emotional whiplash #I am irrevocably in love with your mind #bucky barnes fic

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zellington · 2 years

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zellington · 2 years

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Excuse me while I just SCREAM.

This was my favourite chapter so far.

“A life without loving you is a life not worth living”

Oh. Ok then.

Col darling are you trying to ruin me for all other men because that’s what this is doing.

The Sergeant's Heart +6+

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size!Reader

Series Summary: Sergeant Bucky Barnes has just joined the 107th, and he’s keen on learning the ins and outs of war from the best medic in the regiment, you.

WC: 6.4k

A/N: :) Literally when I tell you that I have been looking forward to sharing this chapter for MONTHS, even before it was written! It was what inspired me to write this whole dang thing and I worked on this for weeks to make sure it was perfect. Nothing is perfect, but I'm beyond happy with it and hope you will be, too. <3

Series Masterlist / Series Playlist

++++++++++++++++++++

It was chaos.

Your vision blurred from your brain fritzing out at the scene playing out before you as everyone in camp ran to surround the returned soldiers. It was way more than just members of the 107th, hundreds more, and some of these soldiers wore different uniforms.

Steve had done it. He had broken everyone out.

And there, 50 feet in front of you in the center of the circle that had formed around the man in the stars and stripes uniform, was Bucky.

Somehow your heart both swelled and broke at the sight of him. To have him within reach and alive filled you with so much joy and relief that you felt as if you were finally breathing for the first time since he had been taken.

But you could see how the time away had changed him. The bruises on his face, his tattered clothes that had been torn all over, the hollowness in his features from the lack of food.

Everyone was focusing on Captain America, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Bucky.

Then, he spoke, and his voice took your breath away as quickly as it had returned.

“Hey everyone! Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

The entire camp cheered for Steve, but you saw.

You saw the way Bucky’s face broke for a second, unable to hold his composure right when his best friend turned away. The pain in his eyes, the trembling lip.

Oh, Bucky.

You debated barreling through the crowd to throw your arms around him. To tell him he was okay. That he was safe.

But you were glued to where you were standing as the reality of your situation was finally setting in.

Bucky was back.

You were leaving.

Now your heart did fully shatter. Because though you desperately wanted to run to him and tell him you loved him and hold onto him without ever letting go, you knew that doing so would make going home that much harder.

Maybe it was better to just leave now. To be grateful for this moment of being able to see him one last time before you were separated for who knows how long.

Something to hold onto until you might see him again one day.

You were about to shift your gaze to find Chris and ask him to head back to the jeep so you could depart quickly and quietly when you noticed Bucky’s features change once more. He had regained his composure, but now he was looking around, scanning the crowd frantically. As if looking for someone.

Then his eyes found yours, and you knew that he had found what he was looking for. Who he was looking for. You.

He didn’t look away from you as he handed his gun to a soldier standing next to him.

He didn’t look away from you as he walked by a confused Steve, wondering where his friend was going until he followed his gaze to you, and understanding instantly replaced confusion.

He didn’t look away from you as he climbed through the crowd, beelining in your direction.

Fuck it, you thought, and suddenly whatever spell you were under was gone, allowing you to finally move.

You ran toward Bucky, and when he was close enough he spoke your name and it felt like every broken fragment of your heart had been pieced back together from the sound of it coming from his lips.

His arms flew open as you jumped into them, wrapping yours around his neck.

You tried to say his name, say anything, but no words could break through your uncontrollable sobbing.

He lowered you to the ground but kept his arms wrapped around your waist, swaying you from side to side, face buried into your neck. His body was trembling, and you tried to squeeze him to you as tightly as possible as a way to tell him that he was safe.

That he was home.

After a few minutes of silence, both of you still clinging to one another, you eventually calmed down enough for your sobs to dissipate. But now that you were able to speak, you didn’t know what to say. There was too much to say.

So you went with something simple.

“Hi.”

Bucky chuckled, arms give you a gentle squeeze. “Hi.” His voice was soft, but you could hear a raspiness in it that hadn’t been there before.

You finally released your grip so that you could back up enough to look at him up close. You almost started crying again when you saw the bags under his eyes, the light in his blue irises slightly dimmer than they once were. Then you found yourself staring at a nasty bruise on the left side of his face.

“Are you okay?” You reached up to gently rest a hand on the bruise.

Bucky flinched before you even made contact. It was such a subtle gesture, just a slight twitch in his eye and you felt his body stiffen for a second. But it was enough for you to pull back.

“I’m sorry.” What did they do to you? “I just, I wanted to see-”

“It’s okay, doll,” he said meekly. He forced out a smile. “Just still a little rattled from everything. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

You furrowed your brows. “Sorry to break it to you, Buck, but all I’ve been doing is worrying.”

He laughed. “There’s no need for that anymore. I’m here now. You can’t get rid of me that easily. In fact, 'm not planning on being far from you ever again.”

Your face fell, and his followed suit in confusion.

“What is it?”

You took hold of his hands, taking in the feel of them one last time.

Here it goes.

“I’m leaving, Buck.” You clenched your jaw to keep it from trembling. It was time you put on a brave face. Bucky had been through so much. He shouldn’t have to try to take care of you right now.

His chuckle caught you off guard. The lightness he felt about the situation stung a bit. “Listen, doll, I know you’re a workaholic and feel like you need to go do rounds or something, but I think you can take a few minutes to relax, ya know? Plus, the entire regiment is out here celebrating so who else is there to check in on-”

You shook your head. “Bucky. I’m leaving camp. I’m going back to Queens.”

Realization set in and the tone immediately shifted, all lightness gone in an instant. All you could see was panic and confusion on Bucky’s face. It felt as if you were staring into the wide eyes of a scared young boy.

“What?”

You stared down at his hands, stroking your thumb against his calloused knuckles. “Phillips wasn’t going to let Steve go and rescue you. Peggy had to sneak him out and, well, I volunteered to be the distraction. He was….pissed. And I was already on thin ice from before. So I got discharged.”

“No.”

The sternness in his voice caused you to look back up. Gone was the boyish panic. Now, there was nothing but cold determination.

“Bucky-”

“No. I’m not going to let them kick you out like this. I’ll talk to Phillips. I’ll tell him that had you known you were going to get discharged you wouldn’t have done it-”

“I knew the risk.” You gave a small shrug. “I knew this might happen. I mean, I fucking lied to a Colonel and put America’s golden boy in danger. And I’d do it again, if it meant that you would be safe.”

“But,” his voice cracked as he pulled his hands from yours so that he could hold your face between them and he whispered, “I just got you back.”

You kept your composure as you felt your whole body deflate from the sadness tearing through you. “I know. And I’m so sorry that I have to go.” Half of your mouth curled up slightly. “At least I got to get one last look at this gorgeous face of yours.” You resisted the urge to reach up and touch said face, not wanting to startle him again.

His laugh came out as a wet sob. “So you were just planning on leaving without saying goodbye?”

“I mean, I wrote a letter. It's no Tolkien, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

His thumbs stroked your cheeks and your breath hitched as electricity jolted throughout your body from his touch. “As if I could ever forget about you. As if,” he sighed, “As if you weren’t the only thing I thought about while I was gone.”

It’s a strange feeling, to have your toes curl in delight and your lip quiver in utter despair at the exact same moment. A strange, dizzying, painful feeling. Don’t say that. Don’t make it harder. “Bucky….I-”

“Y/n.”

Bucky’s hand dropped from your face and you both jumped toward the source of the voice, Colonel Phillips, now standing in front of you. Steve and Peggy were by his side.

You cleared your throat. “Colonel Phillips.”

Bucky stepped between you and the Colonel. “Sir, I’d like to speak with you about the matter of Y/n being discharged.”

“Well, Sergeant, looks like your luck today keeps on getting better and better.” Phillips nodded his head towards you. “I came here to discuss that very thing.”

“Sir, if you could just consider letting her stay-”

“Save your breath, Barnes,” Phillips cut him off. He looked to Steve and Peggy before turning back to the two of you. “Rogers and Carter just gave me enough of an earful and I’m sick and tired of the whining.” His eyes narrowed and you grimaced. “Look, what you did was stupid, reckless, and completely disrespectful. I have every right to make sure you never step foot on any government-owned property for the rest of your life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, ready to fight. “Sir-”

“But because of your stupid, reckless, disrespectful actions, hundreds of soldiers have returned safe and sound. And I can stop signing those dreaded condolence letters.” His expression softened and he lifted his arms in surrender. “You made the right call, even if it wasn’t the smartest. I can’t penalize you for that.”

Realization knocked the wind out of you and you gasped, “Are you saying-”

“You’re staying, Y/n. Clearly the 107th isn’t ready to give up on you just yet.” He pointed a finger at you. “But if you pull anymore shit like this I swear-”

“I won’t! I’ll be good! I promise!”

He rolled his eyes before turning around to return to the crowd, muttering to himself, “Damn kids.”

Bucky whipped around to you, a smile plastered on his face. One that you knew was also plastered on your own. From the corner of your gaze you saw Steve and Peggy looking with one another, sharing their own small grins.

You breathed out a laugh, still somewhat in shock. Once again finding yourself not entirely sure of what to say, you went with the first thing that came into your mind. “Well Buck, wanna help me grab my stuff?”

He was on you in a second, arms around your middle as he lifted you up and spun you in the air. Both of you laughing in pure bliss.

“Whatever the hell you want, doll. I’ll do whatever the hell you want.”

++++++++++++++++++++

As much as you wished that you could spend the rest of the day glued to Bucky’s side, there was too much to be done with the arrival of the rescued soldiers. So once he helped carry your suitcase to your tent, and escorted you to the medic tent to start doing health evaluations on all the soldiers, it was time to part ways.

Before that, you had tried to convince Bucky to let you check on him to make sure all was well, but he graciously declined. When your hand reached up to try to inspect the cuts and bruises on his face, he gently grabbed your wrist before you could make contact.

“I told you, sweetheart, I’m fine. Your efforts would be best used on the others.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Bucky, you have to let me check on you at some point. At least the marks on your face…”

“I promise you can give me a proper inspection later.” He winked. “But I need to get goin’ anyways. Stevie wanted to talk to the Colonel and his team about what we found at the Hydra base.”

Hydra. The subdivision of Hitler’s army that had held Bucky and the rest of the soldiers captive. That was all you knew about them so far, but even the name sent a shiver down your spine.

“Promise?”

He gave you his best boyish grin. “Promise.” He gave your hand a quick squeeze before turning away and heading to Phillips’s tent. As soon as his back was to you, you let your face fall.

You wanted to believe that his smile was genuine. You wanted to believe that he was okay and that everything was fine.

But your mind flashed to the image of his face breaking when he thought no one was looking at him. You saw the pain hidden behind his eyes.

Bucky had a steel-cut wall up around his heart, guarding it from everyone, even you. It was a wall you were all-to familiar with after losing Jonny and the time that Bucky had been missing. A wall that you were determined to climb over and find the part of him that was hurting so that you could stitch him back up. You were a medic after all, it was your job.

Later, you thought.

Until then, you got to work.

More tears were shed as you reunited with your dear friends. Dum Dum pulled you in for one of his best bear hugs, and Jim ran up to join in. Gabe gave you the widest smile you had ever seen as you wiped tears from his face. Luckily they hadn’t sustained any serious injuries, but you took your time with them to gather more information about what had happened.

They told you more about Hydra, short for Hierarchical Yet Dynamically Reprogrammable Architecture, apparently. It was a scientific division of the Nazi army, but seeing that they had open-fired on German soldiers during the Battle of Azzano, they were now an enemy on both sides of the war.

“They held most of us in cells,” Dum Dum recalled as you rested a stethoscope to his back, relieved to hear a normal heartbeat. “But Bucky,” you felt your own heart stutter at his name being mentioned, “They kept Bucky in a separate room.”

“Separate room? Why?” You pulled the stethoscope away and wrote the vitals on Dum Dum’s chart, feigning more indifference than the panic rushing through your body.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. We hardly saw him. The only moments we did was when guards were dragging his unconscious body to a different room.” You felt the urge to grab one of the vomit buckets nearby. “The worst part was the screaming.” Dum Dum shuddered. “He screamed all day, and all through the night. Got to a point where we were fuckin' nervous if he wasn't screaming. It was awful. They chose some of us to torture as well, but it was nothing compared to whatever happened with Bucky.”

Your head was spinning and it felt like you were about to pass out from all of the anxiety coursing through you. Patting him on the shoulder, you forced a small smile for Dum Dum and told him he was free to go.

Next up was a Frenchman by the name of Jacques Dernier. Your French was shit, but Gabe graciously stuck around to act as a translator. Though you couldn’t totally understand what he was saying, you couldn’t help but smile at Jacques's kind eyes and shy smile.

Everyone was exhausted when the day finally came to an end, but the feeling of a need to celebrate this incredible victory coursed through the camp. As the sun set, fires were lit, music was played, and alcohol was flowing.

Soldiers danced around, giant smiles on their faces. Their singing was God-awful but their lifted spirits caused by the spirits flooding their bloodstreams gave them a confidence and joy that was contagious. You couldn’t help but laugh and smile along with them.

Bucky sat next to Steve at one of the fires, a large crowd gathered around them as everyone relayed their version of how Captain America stormed into the Hydra base and saved the day. You were standing 20 feet away, torn between the desire to curl up into Bucky’s side and staying back to let him have this moment. Because as soon as you were able, you were going to try to have the conversation you knew he was trying to avoid.

“You know, for someone who had a whole shit ton of luck turn around today, you seem to be avoiding it like the plague.” Gretchen raised her eyebrows at you as she handed you a bottle of whiskey.

You swung it back, cringing at the sting as it traveled down your throat. “I don’t want to hover.”

Gretchen threw her head back and scoffed. “Hun, no offense, but don’t be an idiot. We saw the way he looked at you earlier today. That poor boy is obsessed with you.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t seem to be too interested in talking to me at the moment.” You winced, taking another swig of liquid courage. “I think it’s because he knows I’m going to try to make him open up about everything that happened.”

She clicked her tongue, reaching for the bottle to take a sip herself. “Men. They’ll be the first to sign up to risk getting a bullet in the head but God forbid anyone asks them to discuss their feelings.”

You chuckled. “Tell me about it.”

She looked your way and gave a small smile. “Whatever happens between you two lovesick idiots, I’m happy you get to stick around a while longer.”

Your gaze softened as the corners of your mouth lifted. “Can I tell you something?”

Her brows knit together in confusion and she nodded.

You grabbed the bottle for another drink. “I never thought in a million fucking years that you would have ever said something like that.”

Gretchen barked out a laugh, but from her it sounded more like a fucking songbird. “Honestly? Neither can I. But I guess that’s war, right? Crazy shit happens everyday.”

You lifted the bottle. “Amen to that.”

“Hey babe! Get your ass over here and keep my lap warm!”

Gretchen’s eyebrows raised and she crossed her arms in front of her. “Chris, I know you did not just speak to me like that!”

The camp erupted in ooooh’s and ahhhh’s from the men as Chris blanched.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, honey? Do you mind keeping me company?”

She nodded, giving you one last wink as she took the bottle from your hand and moseyed on over to her red-faced man.

You shook your head, chuckling. Just then, your gaze turned to Bucky and found that he was looking at you with a small side-smile. You waved, and he lifted his hand a bit to wave back.

The moment between you was cut off as Jonathan planted himself next to Bucky, wrapping his arm around his shoulder and pulling him in for a side hug. Bucky jumped the tiniest bit at the sudden contact, but tried to play it off by looking at Jonathan with a huge grin and laughing at whatever the young Private was saying to him.

It was becoming harder and harder for you to fake a sense of ease while your insides were burning up with anxieties about Bucky’s actual well-being. The alcohol running through your veins was weakening your resolve in not storming over to grab him by the arms and shake him until he finally opened up to you.

So instead of standing there brooding, you decided to call it a night. Let Bucky have the evening to relax and celebrate his return with his friends. You weren’t going anywhere anymore. You had time.

A conversation could be had another day.

++++++++++++++

Sleep came more easily to you that night than it had in weeks.

Which was probably because, well, you hadn’t slept in weeks. You were too busy worrying about Bucky, planning ways to get him back, or crying yourself into some semblance of a sleep-like state that brought no rest whatsoever.

But he was back now, and in one piece (for the most part). So all that emotional whiplash, plus spending the morning saying your goodbyes only to find out you weren't leaving, plus working your ass off tending to the rescued soldiers and getting a bit of alcohol in your system?

As soon as your head hit the pillow you were out. It was a deep, dreamless slumber.

Apparently it wasn’t deep enough, though, because after an hour or so a part of your brain registered the sound of shuffling in your tent.

You jolted awake to see a figure sitting with their back against the side of your bed and you gasped. A scream that was on the verge of escaping from you was cut off by a soft, gravely, somewhat panicked voice.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry! It’s just me, doll.” Bucky’s shadow lifted his arms in the air as he turned in your direction.

You let out a shuddering breath, heart pounding loud enough to wake the whole camp. Once you felt your soul reenter your body, you moved to turn on the lantern next to you. The light revealed that it was, indeed, Bucky Barnes sitting on the floor of your tent and not some demon.

No, demons could never look so anxious and beautiful at the same time like that.

“Bucky,” you breathed out, “What the fuck-”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you would wake up. I didn’t mean for you to wake up.” He groaned into his hands.

You sat up, covering your stomach with your blanket, suddenly self-conscious of how exposed your figure was. “What are you doing here, Buck?”

He lifted his head at you. “I-” There was a pause, and he played with his fingers for a few seconds before letting out a sigh. “I couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled out. His voice sounded like he was five-years old telling his Ma he had broken her favorite vase.

“Hey,” you gently tapped his shoulder and this time, his flinch caused his whole body to recoil from your hand and you jumped back. Realizing what he had done brought a wide-eyed look of horror across his features and you felt a crack running through your heart. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I should have known better. I just wanted to get you to sit up here with me.”

Not looking at you out of embarrassment, he slowly got up and made his way next to you on the bed, a few inches apart from you.

“‘M sorry, Y/n. Didn’t mean to freak out like that.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be sorry. I noticed your reaction last time…” He winced. “It was my fault. I stepped out of line.”

Bucky chuckled, but the sound was filled with bitterness. Nothing like the joy-filled laugh you loved so much. “I can’t believe I’m so fucked up that I can’t even allow you to touch me.”

“It will pass.” You held your hand in the air close to his, and he slowly reached out to take it, interlacing your fingers together. “See?’ He looked up and you smiled. “Baby steps.”

He nodded, then stared down at your hand in his. You decided to test your luck.

“Talking about it might help,” you whispered.

“What’s there to talk about? It happened, it sucked, but now I’m out and everything’s fine.” The way he said it sounded so rehearsed, as if those words played in an endless loop in his mind. He made a face as if he had just thought of something funny. “It’s war, doll. People die all the time. I get to see another day. So, if anything, I’m fucking lucky.” Another bitter laugh.

“Bucky.” You shifted so that your right leg was on the bed and your whole body was facing him. “You don’t have to shut down like that. Not to me.”

“I don’t want you to have to worry about me, doll. You’ve already been through so much, and I already feel bad about you worrying about me all this time. I don’t want to be a burden.” He sounded so frustrated in himself. You felt another urge to shake some sense into him.

“Hey,” you said instead, “Don’t talk about my best Sergeant like that.” Your words were an echo of what he had said months ago and this time the chuckle that escaped him was a bit more genuine.

“Your best Sergeant, eh?” The corners of his mouth curved up a bit.

You winked, channeling your best flirty Bucky impression. “My best guy, really.” You could have sworn you heard a small gasp leave him. “Back to what I was saying, don’t ever think that you are a burden. You are not a burden. Not to anyone, but especially not to me. You told me on the second day we met that you were my family. And family is there through the good times and bad. Lord knows you have been there through some of my hardest moments these past few months. Please let me do the same for you, Buck.”

You saw a sheen of tears in his eyes and Bucky tried to blink them away. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. You sat there patiently, a soft look in your eyes as you gave him the time he needed to collect his thoughts.

“I’m afraid,” he finally said after what felt like minutes.

“Afraid of what, sweetheart?”

He pondered that for a moment. “Everything?” He breathed out a laugh. “It feels like everything. Afraid of this all being one long dream and I’m still at the Hydra base. Afraid that they might get me again and continue to tear me apart like I’m some rag doll meant to be ripped to shreds from the inside out.” His breathing became ragged. “Afraid that I’m never going to be able to sleep again without being woken up by nightmares. Afraid that I’ll never be able to go out on the line again because I’m nothing but a coward. Afraid that my men will forever think I let them down because I led them into the gates of hell.” He looked down at your hand. “Afraid that I’ll never be able to let the woman I- let you lay a hand on me without being afraid that touch, even yours, will bring nothing but pain.”

You felt the chill of air hitting the wetness on your cheeks.

Out of all of the emotions running through your head, anger towards the vile men who had hurt him, sadness over all of the pain and suffering he endured, the most powerful one you felt was determination.

Determination to not let Hydra win. For love to be stronger than fear.

“Do you trust me?”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, then nodded.

Keeping your eyes locked on his, pouring out every ounce of love and strength you had into your gaze, you slowly removed your right hand from Bucky’s and lifted it towards his bruised cheek. He still flinched as he saw it approach, and you could hear the rate of his breathing increase, but you kept going.

If he lifted a hand to stop you, you wouldn’t go any further.

But he didn’t, so you continued reaching forward.

Finally, as gently as you could, your fingertips grazed his temple, lightly tracing their way down until your pinky and ring fingers landed underneath his ear, and your whole palm was resting on his face.

And with that one touch, the walls around Bucky’s heart came crumbling down.

He took two shuddering breaths before his head melted into your hand, and his eyes closed at the sensation of it. The sudden relief and joy mixed with the weeks of fear and pain became too much to handle and his body collapsed forward into your arms. You held him as he cried into your neck, finally unleashing everything he had been holding in.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you whispered, rocking him side to side. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Your hands moved all around him, as if trying to replace any type of harmful contact with one of gentleness and love. You rubbed circles over his back, ran your fingers through his hair, massaged his head, kissed his forehead. Anything you could do to take the memory of his pain away. Each brush of contact of your skin to his was an act of you pouring your love into him, using it as a salve for the wounds that were not so easily found as cuts or bruises on his face.

It was unclear how long he stayed in your arms for, but as time passed, his body relaxed and the tears stopped flowing. Even then, he clung to you.

“You can say no,” he said finally, his voice raw from crying. “Please say no if you want to. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or make it seem like I'm taking advantage. But,” he took in a breath and squeezed into you a little tighter, “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Yes,” you responded without a second thought.

“Are you sure? Don’t say it because you feel guilty or anything-”

“Bucky,” you gingerly pushed him away enough to face him. Your hands cupped his cheeks. “Stay. I don’t want you to leave.”

He slumped forward until his forehead touched yours. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course, sweetheart.” You shuffled over to the edge of the bed closest to the wall of your tent, laying on your back and opening the blanket for him. You pulled Bucky down until his head was resting in the crook of your shoulder and his arm rested on your midsection. A sense of horror rushed through you at the idea of Bucky’s hands feeling the extra padding of your body underneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. But right when his hand came in contact with your stomach he let out a sigh that sounded like contentment rather than disgust.

More than contentment, actually. It sounded like someone experiencing joy for the first time in a long time.

“Can I tell you something, doll?” Bucky whispered.

Your arm snaked its way over his, holding him tightly to you. “Sure thing, Buck.”

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to fall asleep again if it’s not in your arms.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and a small squeak left your mouth. Bucky laughed, so you figured the overwhelming embarrassment was worth it. “I think I could be okay with that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A few moments passed, and gradually the sounds of light snoring emerged from your shoulder.

There was still so much to say, so many questions you had, so many things to tell him.

Three words that you wanted to share.

But those things could be saved for later.

Right now? With Bucky wrapped up in your arms?

It was more than enough.

++++++++++++++++++++++

You woke a few hours later to the regular bustling sounds of the 107th starting their day. It was what you had woken up to every morning for the past year.

One thing you hadn’t ever woken up to was a man in your bed.

Sure, you and Bucky had slept side by side in a fox hole for almost an entire week, but never like this, arms wrapped around one another.

Somehow throughout the night you had shuffled around, and instead of you holding him, you were lying face to face, hands held together in the middle.

He was already awake, and as your eyes fluttered open his whole demeanor brightened as he looked at you.

A sudden rush of embarrassment at him seeing you first thing in the morning flooded through you as your face went red. Still, you fought the urge to bury your head in your pillow, desperate to stare into those blue eyes as long as you possibly could.

“Morning,” you whispered in a raspy morning voice.

“Morning, Y/n,” Bucky whispered back, and holy shit his deep, gravely morning voice made you feel things.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked, eyes shifting into a more concerned expression.

Bucky only smiled more. “It’s the best sleep I’ve had in weeks, doll.”

You let out a relieved exhale. “Me, too.”

You stared at each other in silence for a few moments, absorbing as much of this moment as possible, both of you hoping that if you stayed still long enough, stayed quiet enough, that you could remain stuck like this forever.

Bucky is the one to break the silence. “I cannot even begin to describe how it feels to be here right now.”

Your body was now playing a fun little game of can we make our face turn even more red and was currently winning. “What do you mean?”

He used his free hand to brush away a strand of hair from your face, allowing his fingers to linger on your cheek.

“To have you here, by my side, hand in mine,” Bucky cleared his throat as a wetness shone in his eyes. Then, he pulled your hand and pressed it against his lips. You were immediately very grateful to be laying down because had you been standing your legs would have given out from the feel of it. “It was a dream my mind constantly went to while I was….while I was gone.” He took a deep breath. “While I was strapped down for days, feeling a kind of pain I never thought was possible, my head would retreat into this image of you and I dancing in your tent.” A tear fell down the side of his face. “I’m pretty sure it was the only thing that kept me from completely losing my mind.”

You moved to wipe his tears away. “It’s okay, Buck,” you whispered. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving.”

His smile returned and he nodded. “I know. And I feel like the luckiest guy around.”

You scrunched your face and he chuckled.

In a flash, his smile turned into that dangerously charming grin. “And now that I’m back, I actually was able to go back to my favorite recurring dream.”

You looked at him in confusion. “And what dream might that be?”

“Well, I’m with this girl. And she’s the smartest, funniest, kindest, most gorgeous,” you rolled your eyes and Bucky stopped, glaring at you. “Don’t even start with that, doll, or else I won’t tell you the rest of the dream.” Your brows raised and you bobbed your head up and down in acceptance, your favorite butterfly friends racing through your stomach.

“Anyways,” he continued, “So this girl, I swear she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, which I think is so it can match the beautiful soul on the inside of that beautiful body. Her smile takes my damn breath away every time I’m lucky enough to see it. And her laugh? Songbirds ain’t go nothin’ on her. And don’t get me started on her singing. It’s like I’m in the presence of an angel.” His eyes bore into yours and you were pretty sure you had stopped breathing.

“She’s probably my favorite person in the world and I’ve been in love with her ever since she had me stare at Richie’s ass the first day I arrived.” You laughed and Bucky’s smile widened at the sound of it. “And in this dream I finally have a fucking moment to tell her that I'm in love with her when there aren’t bombs going off left and right or there isn’t a kid barreling in to ruin my attempt to make a move or I’m taken by a weird red mutant guy and I might not ever see her again.” His gaze turned down for a second before coming back up to meet your eyes.

“I tell her- I tell you, Y/n, that I love you so much it hurts. So much it terrifies me. Because it feels so right and permanent and like I breathe differently because of it. Because it’s the best feeling in the world and the idea of something happening that might take it- take you away from me is something that scares me more than anything else in the world. But the thought of not giving it a chance to be what I so desperately want it to be is too unbearable. A life without loving you is a life not worth living. So yeah, that’s my dream.” Bucky paused. “Well, most of it. We also kiss at the end.” He winked at you.

Boldness and uncontained joy are quite the dangerous pair, because they're what cause you to find the strength to say and do what you’re about to.

“Like this?” And you pushed forward until your lips found their way home against Bucky’s.

The immediate groan of shock that left this ridiculously charming man caused you to momentarily smirk in satisfaction before you became completely lost to the feeling of kissing Bucky. The softness of his lips, the feeling of his nose pressed against your face, the way his hand cupped the back of your head, holding you firmly to him. All of it felt like too much. Like it wasn’t enough. Like you’d never want anything more in your life than to experience this forever.

After all these years of hating yourself, and hating the fact that you thought you were unlovable because you had never been kissed, all of it was worth the wait so that you could be loved by Bucky. You’d have endured a hundred years of loneliness if it meant you could have him.

You sure were relieved that you didn’t have to wait any longer, though.

Eventually, you parted, both of you gasping for breath.

You stroked Bucky’s cheek with your thumb, and he shifted his face so that he could kiss the inside of your palm before he turned back to you.

“I gotta say, Buck,” you said, still breathless, “Your dream sounds way better than the one I had that was filled with spiders.” You winked as he laughed. “Oh, also,” you leaned forward again until your mouth hovered over his. Your eyes were open, locked into your favorite shade of blue, and you finally said what had been in your heart for months before going back in for another kiss.

“I love you.”

+++++++++++

Next Chapter

WE DID IT!!!! We got to the smooch! Finally! It was honestly so freaking hard to write their first kiss because these two already felt like soulmates and I was like shit I need to get them to do the dang thing. Let me know what you think. :)

Tags: @blackwidownat2814 @enchantedamusedslightlyconfused @theokatz @maladaptivexxdaydreaming @carrotfantasimp @otbshan @toothhurtyam @itsdawnashlie @lostinspace33 @w0nderw0man91 @galaxy-dust @justsomeficsilike @magicalsimp @bunnymother93 @sometimesicanwright @multidreamerlovers @ceo-of-daichi @eclipses-and-moondust

#i am having an existential crisis #Alexa tell me how to go back to be a 40’s nurse but more importantly Bucky’s love interest #I am nervous about the end because THE TIME LINE #I would like to respectfully beg for you to not break my heart pls and thanks

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zellington · 2 years

Text

Do I need to say anything else?

heavy in your arms

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: It was supposed to be an easy mission—as a trained spy, rarely do things happen without your predicted planning. No one can see true danger, though, and when it arrives, Bucky and the others feel the weight of their heart, realizing how much you’ve grown to mean for the team when they’re worrying for your life. — Word count: 2.8k — A/n: Requested by the darling Cherry. If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

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Brasov, Romania — 2023

The last thing you hear before stepping on your ear-comms is your name screamed by a very angry James Barnes.

“Agent, status report.” His voice, usually rich and silky with mirth and teasing remarks for you, is filled with desperate anger. “Agent. Status report.” Even though the strain in his voice is visible, you swallow the pain and bite on your lip, still unable to answer.

If you open your mouth, they'll hear you. If they hear you, the rest of the mission is compromised.

Barnes' voice is joined by Sam's, and your heart squeezes itself with how even the Captain seems distressed.

"Buck—hold on, wait." Sam's ragged breathing says he made out of the secret compound they had locked him in, which means your interference worked. "Y/n. I saw the file you just sent—are you still at the castle? Please tell me you're still at the castle."

"What do you mean the file? What file? And why wouldn't she be—"

"Bucky, hold on," Sam interrupts. "I'm sending you. Widow found a bug and a rat, the mission's been severely compromised. They locked me in this—fuck, I don't know, secret basement thing. She hacked their files and opened the door from the outside, but I'm not getting readings on her location anymore. Y/n, do you copy?"

I do, Captain. You wish saying the words was possible.

Outside the window, there's the noise of cars approaching and you know—the time to kill your way out of this corner they backed you in has come, and given the hole in Monica's intel, chances of you making out alive were looking grim.

I'll miss him. Usually, thoughts about his smile are pushed out of your mind by yourself in order to not dive into emotions that could potentially jeopardize your job.

Now—your job has been done. Sam, Bucky and Joaquin could continue the mission, maybe salvage it, and you were two bullet wounds in too deep to care.

"Y/n?" Ah, Bucky's voice. The cars park and you hear the sound engines being killed, and you think—this is the fuel I need. I've got one last fight in me. Say my name again, James. Please. "Y/N!"

The ear-comm is the only final thing connecting you to the boys, and with your new visitors making their way inside to look for you, it's their last hope of finding the Avengers, led by their main target, Captain America.

Too bad that standing between them and their goal, there's you.

"Y/N!" Has Bucky ever sounded like this? The fuel ignites your veins in fire, and you get up, stepping in the comm.

You close your eyes, imagine James laughing at the breakfast table, and open them to face your enemies.

_____________________________________________________________

A year and a half ago, Captain America and the White Wolf helped Stephen Strange to save Scarlet Witch from dooming their entire world and reality and, after the battle, brought back from the dead the institution of the Avengers.

Led by Sam Wilson, the group of super-heroes birthed itself from the ashes with team members who seemed much more put together and like willing participants than the first try.

The Widows reunited in a secret location for a special reunion and, in the dark of a cabin somewhere in Siberia with over five bottles of good vodka and whiskey being shared, decided together if one of them would volunteer to take the place of the deceased and iconic Natasha Romanoff.

The conversation had been long, tiring and heartbreaking for many reasons, but the majority came to the same conclusion: Romanoff's legacy mattered.

It mattered to the kids, to the little girls who would see a new group of supers on their TV trying to fight the bad and needed the reminder that even if you had no mind-bending abilities like Scarlet, you too could decide to change the world.

It mattered a lot.

Taking the position involved more than just sentimentalism, though, and after a lot of deliberation, a unanimous decision was reached on who would be the one to step up for the job.

You.

Y/n. The newest Black Widow, hired by none other than Nick Fury and "approved" by none other than Sam Wilson.

The teammates loved you upon meeting you. Sam, Joaquin, and Wanda all smiled when Nick walked in the briefing and announced he'd found the newest and last addition to the team.

(Officially, Stephen, Peter and Thor were also Avengers, but the first one mostly kept to himself since his job as a Stone Keeper took up a lot of his time and required plenty of studying, the latter could only be contacted when he decided to grace Earth with his godly presence, and Peter. Well—you'd been an advocate to Nick that the boy needed time away from insanity. Brooklyn needed him—the world and its big, ugly missions could be handled by the adults.)

All the members sitting at the table smiled, waved and introduced themselves with delight.

All except for one.

James looked at you like he'd seen a ghost, and it took weeks for whatever haunted him to leave his eyes when you shared a room.

He intrigued you.

More than that—James surprised you.

"Widow. I'm sorry I haven't been... the most welcoming teammate," James had said that to you after the first month while awkwardly standing under the threshold of the shared kitchen. "I... Sam gave me file of the Red Room. Romanoff and Belova's secret mission. I—I had no idea that program still existed." He swallowed down a visible knot. "I'm sorry. I should've—I don't know what I should have, but I'm sorry."

That had been the first surprise, but not the last.

It had also been the moment you realized escaping from the infatuation you had with him would be impossible, and that you'd have to rationalize the hell out of every interaction with him in order to keep your thoughts strictly professional.

"What on earth are you apologizing for?" You had asked.

Bucky had blinked in surprise, speechless, and you'd taken the opportunity to continue. "James, listen to me carefully." His posture straightened with your request. "The previous Widow generation who trained me were the last ones trained by him. By the Asset. And while memories of the Red Room are ones I prefer buried and forgotten, these I'll share with you gladly: All of us, new or old Widows, knew that you were one of us. You, James, survived and went through more in the hands of Hydra than any other person that's lived, and you still managed to carry out the tasks the handlers demanded out of you without their strokes of cruelty. The Asset was known for helping Widows in their lowest moments, even if that cost him punishments later on."

With each one of your words, Bucky's eyes widened more.

"I don't know what you think that we think of you, but I can assure you that's not it." Then, you took a deep breath and put on your best image of what a genuine smile looked like. "And—please. Call me Y/n? Or I might have to start calling you Wolfie around this block."

That day, you were gifted with his first smile.

It had been so kind and appreciative that it almost broke your resolve and cracked a real smile out of you, and that had also been when you noticed the danger this man posed to you.

Was it your fascination with the Soldier?

It could be.

Days were spent restlessly turning in bed, wondering if the foggy and uncertain memories you had of Widows talking so fondly and reverently of him was affecting your judgment and ability to see clearly.

James, more than just a teammate, was also more than the ghosts he carried. He didn't deserve someone projecting their childish infatuations on him over bedtime stories they'd heard about the 'soldier they never managed to break.'

You had to be professional.

It's just—it was hard.

Even harder as the group went on missions together, bonded over successes and fails (more of the first than the latter, thankfully and to Nick's utmost pleasure) and did good things together.

Saving people and erasing some of the bad from this world rushed endorphins through the body like nothing else.

Nothing you tried, no exercise or food, ever brought you as much joy as working the people who you now lived with.

Nothing, except maybe making James laugh so hard he couldn't breathe, or seeing him blush when you gave him a rare and honest compliment.

James goes from teammate to colleague, from colleague to friend, from friend to person who occasionally pops up in my dreams and makes me wake up sweating, with not enough air in my lungs and my brain spinning with images of them holding me and smiling so up close.

The last development carried the most... difficulties, for obvious reasons.

So for the past months, part of your work had included talking yourself down from things involving him.

James needed a teammate of trust. Reliable. One who he would have no doubts about, sure of the fact they were watching his six and looking after him much like he did for the group.

You were the group's six.

That meant no dreams of his kissable lips, his joyous and youthful laughter, his ocean-blue eyes that looked good enough for a swim during mornings when the sun was shining just right.

That meant remembering constantly the dangers of letting yourself feel.

Black Widows were not meant for romance.

Bucky Barnes deserved a steady girl he could take on dates, you thought. He deserved so much, and you knew it couldn't possibly come from you, so it was easy to keep your mind on track.

That went well, until Romania.

One bug and one rat—you'd discovered the holes in Monica's intel thirteen minutes before Sam had been taken and Joaquin was left alone to handle the second part of this high-stake mission, so you'd taken matters into your own hands and took care of their six for them.

The window of time was clear: You could save Sam and have no time left to save yourself, or you could give Sam a window and have enough time to let Joaquin know of your location.

You were the Avengers' blind corner, and no one was making out of Romania with Sam Wilson on their trunk.

You'd taken the plunge, and if that meant two bullet wounds and three cars of highly-trained assassins coming to get you, then so be it.

This had been a high-stake mission from the start. Freeing Sam only meant you upped the chances of your team even through the loopholes.

Whether the Queen's agents managed to terminate you or not, you had allowed the road for the Avengers to win this one.

You'd go down for that easily.

_____________________________________________________________

Sovata, Romania — 2023.

Smuggling yourself with the food-produce trucks had been easy.

Staying alive for another 24h without any help had been the tricky part.

You were hiding now in a cabin lost in a small wood in Sovata, and you knew that only because you'd found the local mail post after a little searching.

From there, you could send an anonymous e-mail to Joaquin's inbox with the secret hint for your location, and then, hope to god he catches it in his spam box and Bucky decodes it before you bleed out to death or get an infection your body can no longer fight.

From your math, it had been 37 hours since the group split.

You hoped they were okay.

You were sweating, and something told you that the bullet wound which had entered your stomach area punctured something inside of you.

The medical training engraved in your brain was only enough to access the parts hurting and tell you what needed to be addressed, but not enough to tell you if you were gonna make it.

Y/n.

Bucky's voice had sounded so desperate.

You slide further down on the floor, clutching the stolen hoodie in your fists, trying to fight the dizziness.

Agent, status report.

You missed his voice.

If you were going to die, the least you could do was allow yourself the benefit of hearing his laughter, and thinking about his smile without beating yourself up for it.

He wouldn't care.

Would they care if you died?

Had you made a difference in their lives?

You'd like to think so.

You wanted to believe that Wanda liked you, given her occasional visits to your room.

You wanted to believe Sam appreciated you—even went as far as considering you a friend. You certainly valued his heart and field expertise, and he always asked for your opinion second after Bucky's.

You wanted to believe Joaquin and Peter would miss your friendly teasing and banter, always poking at their nerdiness and young, gentle hearts. They were slightly terrified of you, but always smiled when you showed up for their game nights.

Would they look for you until they found you?

Nick Fury loved Natasha Romanoff like his own daughter, but he'd barely looked at you whenever you entered a room. It hurt your feelings a lot—you could admit that to yourself now through the delirium and the pain, but maybe you were just another pawn to him.

A disposable Widow, coming from a place that created many.

You were no Natasha, that much you knew.

Something steps in the wooden floor on the cabin's first floor and you clutch the knife tighter on your right hand.

Someone was here, and if they thought finding a dying girl was their lucky they, the surprise they might find when attacking a dying spider would blow the brains out of their mind.

Instead of stabbing someone's eye, your swimming vision finds the frame of the one person you'd been thinking about since everything went down.

"Y/n!"

Bucky is here, and oh no.

"No, no, no—Sam, I got her, it was Sovata." There are arms wrapped tight around you, and the knife on your hand is taken away by stronger fingers. "Y/n. Y/n open your eyes."

When had they closed?

"You found me," you tell him. You're happy they found you—maybe there's time. "Thanks, Bucky."

"Sam, get Nick on the line and make him get a jet. We need to get her into special care right now, she's going into shock and the—Y/n? Y/n, please keep your eyes open."

His voice is so nice that all you can do is obey.

Opening them is a mistake, though.

Bucky's the one holding you—oh! That's nice. Bucky is strong, and you don't feel so cold anymore with his arms around you. Even the metal arm that you can feel through his clothes seem warmer than you, and you realize that's probably because right now, it is.

"Y/n, please, please keep your eyes open." There's a crack in James's voice that brings a chill in your spine, and you want the sadness stored in that crack to go away. Bucky should away be happy. "Oh, god, please stop talking, I can't—you can't do this like this. Not like this."

His voice is sounding a little distant, but that's okay—Bucky's always been a good thing to ground your mind in 'cause everything about him is so bright and warm.

The crinkles on the corner of his eyes exude the warmth of a summer afternoon, his laughter is the fireplace that keeps a house happy in winter, and his eyes.

Oh, Bucky's eyes have enough in them to make a poet out of a trained assassin.

"If you weren't trying to die on my arms right now I'd make fun of you for complimenting my eyes when the whole team can listen, but you're heavy and I'm way past jokes right now." Did he just say you're heavy?

You force your eyes open—your entire body aches, and there's no gravity under you because Bucky's carrying your body bridal-style somewhere else, and the trees blur together behind his head.

"Oh, thank fuck," he exhales shakily, and the tears in his voice make you wish you had yours.

"Bucky..."

"Yeah? I'm here. What is it? Sam is coming, Y/n. We're gonna fly you to a hospital, okay? Don't strain yourself," he tells you. He's crying.

Bucky Barnes is crying because you're dying in his arms, but the last part bothers you less than the first one.

Listening to his voice break in certain words hurts almost as much as the bullets holes in you or the stab wounds you know are still open on your body.

Still. Telling him this is important. And it's no strain.

"You..." your mouth feels like sandpaper, but the words still taste sweet. "You... are... the best guy... I've ever met."

There's a broken sob above you that feels like another gunshot, but you have to finish this because it's important. "And... you're... so good."

The feeling of your tears washing your temples are the last thing you feel before darkness takes over.

Even Bucky's broken scream of your name goes unheard.

Still—you're in his arms.

It's the most peaceful sleep you've ever slid to.

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#I have no tags I can think of rn #I AM FREAKING OUT #YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE

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zellington · 2 years

Text

I feel like I’ve just reunited with friends after not seeing them for ages.

My babies are baaaaaaaack 🥰

I adored this little look into how they first met. How they they became friends and how she always seemed to know exactly what he needed from then very beginning. Urgh I’ve missed them!

see me from your pov

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: It takes one night smashing old cars in an abandoned, dark yard with his neighbor for Bucky to know she's a permanent fixture in his life. She saw the good, the bad, and through all of it, she remained. Too bad it takes him the same amount of time to notice he wants her as more than just a friend. — Word count: 3.2k — A/n: If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. You can consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, as well. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

⋅☾ Series Masterlist ☽⋅

Bucky’s apartment turns into his home three months after he moves in, and it’s not even because of him.

It’s his neighbor.

He finds her kneeling down in front of her door with a bunch of thick textbooks fallen in front of her, body soaked from the pouring rain outside, her thick, nice hair glued to her face and dripping water into her eyes and when she hears him stepping closer, Bucky sees in the slight wobble of her lips she’s about to cry.

Although he’s moved only weeks ago, he’s seen her around enough. He’s heard her — very nice — music playing in the mornings, he’s heard her singing along to it off-key, seen her talking to all the dogs from the neighbor at the end of the corridor before even talking to him. She’s a good kid—young enough to be in college, but with that extra something in her eyes that tells him she’s not really a kid.

For no logical reason whatsoever, something takes over Bucky and he would rather let Ayo rudely disconnect his arm than see tears falling out of her face.

He rushes to help, and the first thing that catches his attention is the charcoal drawings that are so fucking beautiful he gapes at them.

That’s the night Bucky discovers three things:

Number one, Y/n is an artist, just like Stevie was. Number two, she’s just as good as him, if the glimpses he catches of the sheets are anything to go by and, and last but not least, she’s got the kindest smile he’s ever seen.

When he goes back to his apartment after accepting her cup of ‘thank you’ coffee and a conversation so nice and long both of them gasp in surprise when they notice the time on their phones, Bucky notices how different his apartment is from Y/n’s.

Her apartment was alive.

“You’ve got a nice place,” Bucky said when he walked in, feeling all sorts of out-of-place in the dim-lit living room filled with canvases and more textbooks.

Y/n, dripping wet and shivering, still managed to send him the most precious thankful smile. “Thanks, neighbor.”

When she insisted he stayed for her coffee and left him to take a quick shower and change, Bucky roamed the entire apartment in her absence in his usual check-up for bugs and other possible threats, but all he finds are bits and pieces that spark interest in him.

He sees a collection of books in the center table which Shuri had mentioned to him in a text, and it makes him want to reply to her, which he hadn’t yet.

There are paintings in her corridor, pictures spread everywhere and so much more to put together a puzzle of what she is.

The place is a home. There’s personality in it.

Y/n comes back from her shower, makes him her special Brazilian coffee and, when he expects one of the familiar questions to come — what’s he like, is your job dangerous, I saw you on TV last week — what comes out of her mouth instead is, “Did you know Ms. Vennoch has a fan club for you?” and she’s smirking, and Bucky’s brain is a little fried.

What?

His brain pulls up the file: Marie Vennoch. Widow. 64. Second floor, apartment 35. Level of threat—zero; that Ms. Vennoch? Bucky stops with the mug half-way to his mouth. “What.” It’s supposed to be a question, but it comes out more like a choked statement.

Y/n laughs in front of him, and Bucky feels happy just listening to it. “Oh, yeah,” she nods, faking a serious look. “Ever since you helped her with her bags, Barnes. The woman’s infatuated.” She sips her coffee calmly, then with a deeper, raspy voice of a 64 year old woman who smokes 1 pack of Malboros a day, she goes. “Oh, Y/n, did you see our darlin’ Sargeant Barnes today? Looked so lovely! Oh, Y/n, dear, did you happen to see Bucky this week? He hasn’t dropped by to pick up the cookies me and Martha baked for him and I’m worried! You know how dangerous his job is—” when she finally stops, Bucky’s cheeks are aflame and Y/n’s giggle turns into laughter. “Dude. If you go missing, I’m telling the cops to look in hers and Martha’s secret basements.”

Bucky groans, but he’s laughing too. “Please don’t call me dude. I’m at least 60 years passed ‘dude’.”

Y/n chokes on her coffee, and Bucky notices his slip up, but instead of hyper-focusing on the fact he’s just recklessly inferred, she surprises him again. “Alright. I must say, you are looking very fine for an elderly man, neighbor.”

There’s a second of silence where Bucky has to swallow his surprise, and then he bursts out laughing again.

For hours, they talk about the building and the people.

He laughs in those hours more than he imagined he was still capable of doing, and when he steps inside his apartment, the emptiness and lack of him makes him itch.

Makes him eager to expose all of him to the world.

So now he has to go and find out what all of that is. Again.

_____________________________________________________________

Some people walk into each other’s lives, others run and crash, while most just circle in laps and then continue on their paths, as if crossing yours never happened.

Y/n waltzes her way into Bucky’s and, strangely, he feels the dance is mutual.

After the rain incident, their stiff and awkward hellos to each other in the corridors become friendly interactions and, if the timing allows them, a quick and sweet catch-up at the elevator.

Y/n is witty. Her dry humor is expert enough to match his, her easy smile fools everyone else into thinking she’s just the sweet girl she presents the world with, but those with sharper minds could easily poke underneath that surface and see her cat-like eyes painting in beautiful strokes most of the conversation with sarcasm.

It goes over most people’s heads.

Bucky is trained well in dealing with brats, though.

Slowly, as the days turn into weeks, he becomes familiar with the organized mess that is Y/n’s lair, and when Alpine arrives, his home becomes a hot spot for encounters, too.

Apart from Sam, there’s no one else Bucky can call a friend in this new life.

Being born again is hard work. Troublesome.

How do you become friends with a person over the age of a hundred and with a past like his?

During the first few weeks of their tentative approach in friendship, Bucky’s head drowns in self-deprecating thoughts.

What if she discovers everything you did? Why don’t you tell her more about yourself— oh yeah, you know why. ]

She’ll leave.

Brace yourself for the repulsion.

She’ll be scared.

They eat at him, take chunks and bits and pieces, and that’s when she notices.

Bucky avoids Y/n for a total of five days before she knocks on his door with determination written all over her eyes and her lips set on a thin line that says bullshit will fly over her head if he dares try some on her.

So Bucky spills about Hydra. They sit in the dark of his apartment and she listens with the respectful patience he’s only ever gotten from Sam and Shuri, and by the time he’s done, Bucky is shaking underneath his damp hoodie, the cold sweat on his forehead is making him feel greasy and as uncomfortable as he did during the first weeks with his new therapist.

He waits for a blow, but when his silence stretches for a minute and Y/n notices he’s done, all that comes out of her mouth is.

“It’s cathartic, isn’t it? Letting it all out?”

Bucky had been right— the eyes never lie, after all. She might be young, jovial, but she was no kid.

“It is.”

“James?”

“Yeah.”

“What you’ve been through…” Here it comes. Bucky feels sweat sliding down his nape, and for one heartbeat, he misses her even though she’s not gone yet. Y/n sighs and Bucky sees it on her body before he catches her eyes; it trembles, and holy shit, she’s enraged. “You know. Pops and I used to talk a lot about the state of this world. Shit that happens, what led to it, etc. And you know the conclusion we arrived at? That some people are way past second chances. Some people— some are just cruel. And soulless. What led them to that stops fucking mattering, ‘cause nothing matters to them, and— what they do, these things they do… They’re unforgivable.” Y/n’s eyes are watering, but Bucky sees that she wills the tears to stay and not fall. “I’d kill every one of those scientists if I got my hands on them for what they did to you. I… I have no idea how you can still be so good after all of it, still get up every day and decide to help this world that failed in helping you earlier, but. I would.”

Too overwhelmed for words, all Bucky can do is hug her.

Y/n is his friend. She forgives him, even if the mistakes hadn’t been his fault. Denying their existence or pinning them under someone else’s name (whether it was Hydra or a god) never worked for Bucky because the blood had been spilled in his hand.

He wished for more time to feel accepted and happy in his friend’s presence, but a new mission pulls him away and away from Y/n, Bucky has the time to replay her words in his mind until they’re a broken record.

I’d kill every one of those scientists if I got my hands on them for what they did to you.

It brought a smile to his face whenever he summoned the words in his head.

Apart from Sam, his only friends were Shuri — who was very far away now — and Yori.

Having another badass person to love by his side is more than just a breath of fresh air— it’s a whole window opening.

_____________________________________________________________

With extensive therapy and patience, the days are not so bad anymore.

They fluctuate—life is an endless roller coaster, no stops or getting off of it, but the ride starts feeling like fun again for Bucky ever since he moved in.

Ever since he got a home.

There are still bad days.

And then, there are the horrible ones.

Bucky’s job always involved seeing the ugliest parts of the world and people, and the field at some point becomes a wound that never heals. It closes, scabs, but inevitably, something happens that pokes it and makes it hurt all over again.

When Bucky’s wounds are poked, they spew blood everywhere.

It’s how he meets Luke Cage and finds a new safe haven in Brooklyn—boxing is a grounding and safe way to let out all the build-up rage his soul can accumulate. The super-soldier strength goes well against a bullet-proof body, but Luke’s not always around.

He transforms his apartment’s spare bedroom into a weird little mixture between his green thumb heaven, and a place to let out his anger.

Between all the plants he’s learning to take care of there’s a harness designed to support his punches and a punching bag that needs replacing every now and then.

After a mission that drives and drops them somewhere into the cold, wet winter of Russia, Bucky’s sleepless nights get tinged in flashbacks and his spine shivers with dark memories, almost as cold as the weather he and Sam face.

He comes back home and starts punching his way through the pain.

That night, he discovers Y/n is not just a friend.

What is she is a question he could spend hours trying to explain, but would never find the words to.

Something otherworldly. Wicked, fiery, free.

And absolutely, batshit insane.

She knocks on his door, frowns at his drenched in sweat body and sighs. “C’mon. I’ve got a secret to share.”

Bucky changes quickly and then joins her in a late-night trip to a place she only defines as ‘a secret’. There are no questions about why Bucky hasn’t spoken to her since he came back from his mission, or why his knuckles were bleeding when she knocked.

Y/n looks over to him and asks him whether he’s picked up the habit of watching things again since he ‘came back to modern times’, and Bucky’s chest lightens with that one simple question.

They ride the subway together, then walk a few blocks side by side talking about movies, and Y/n gasps in horror at all the things Bucky’s missed.

He’s still jittery with the rage, but it’s simmered with her delightful distraction. He wonders if that was her plan all along, until she finally says, “We’re here!” and Bucky looks at where Y/n took them.

They’re at a car junkyard.

A very old, distant junkyard. Bucky asks her to wait and scans the surroundings, and when he comes back to her, Y/n has protective goggles on and is taking a second pair out of her backpack. Extending the pair to him with a youthful smile, she says. “I know you technically can’t be blinded, but I’d rather not see your eyes regenerating tonight, thanks.”

Bucky takes it with a chuckle, and tries his best at believing they’re really here for what he thinks they are.

Could it be? He follows Y/n and she walks inside with the confidence and organized direction of someone who’s been there before, and Bucky has a hard time believing the sweet, nice girl who lives across from him and eats baked goods while saying things like good gracious gods this is better than Gilmore Girls could be here for that.

For destruction.

But she is.

Bucky stops behind her when she does. They’re in the middle of a corridor of cars stocked in piles, and there are a few of them in the middle, all lined up like they’re waiting for their turn.

There are two Maple-wooden baseball bats resting against the wheel of one of the cars, and she takes one, then hands the other to Bucky. “Sometimes, I’m so mad I just wanna smash something,” she shrugs.

Bucky takes the bat without a word, and the lingering jitteriness returns, but different this time.

Y/n continues. “I used to think somethin’ was wrong with me, but my mom told me once that we humans try to act too high and above, but at the end of the day we’re still animals, and our instincts will always be there. We can ignore them, push ‘em away or pretend they don’t exist, but that never erases them.” She looks over her shoulder, taking a couple of swings at the air as she talks. “She had a really good point. I see it now— I mean, how much of this world is moved by sex? Or by hunger? Or by rage?” She sighs. “We like to bottle those things ‘cause they’re scary, but just like the good feelings, they’re just… feelings.”

Then, without warning, Y/n takes a perfect swing at a side-mirror from one of the cars and smashes it into oblivion. The loud, sharp shattering sound startles Bucky for a second, even though he saw it coming.

Laughter bubbles out of his chest. “You brought me here to smash shit?”

Y/n shrugs, lining up her bat again. “I brought you here to stop that annoying ass thumping you were doing. Poor punching bag.” She smirks at him. “You can just look, if you wanna. Or you can join. Either way, no judgement. I just… I wanted to remind you that it’s okay to be angry sometimes, I guess. God knows you out of all people has more reasons to be.”

They’re just words, and Bucky still feels like he’s climbing on them like a cloud and floating into the sky.

It’s okay to be angry sometimes.

Bucky uses the bat in his right hand, and then remembers he has another weapon with his left, and follows Y/n into a destruction rampage.

At some point, she takes out the music box from her backpack and hooks on an amazing rock playlist, and Bucky somehow ends up sweaty again, climbing on cars like a madman and helping the madwoman who brought him up there too so she can break things on higher places too for a change.

The mayhem they cause can probably be heard over miles away.

They break, scream, sing along, throw things at each other so the other can swing at them, smash and, when all of that is done, they find a nice pile of car with decent seats so they can sit down and recoup.

Breathless, sweatier than they’ve ever been in each other’s presence and with the biggest smiles on their faces, both turn to each other.

Y/n also brought four beers with her, so they crack open the first two. “Feel better?” She asks, smiling smugly.

He can’t help but laugh. Between one broken car and another, Bucky realized this wasn’t about violence— it was about letting out the remnants of what seeing violence and other horrors brought in you. “I feel awesome,” he smiles.

That widens her smile. “Good, good.”

He sips his beer, then glances down at it curiously. It tastes good. Most times, he drinks without enjoying the taste, but this one tastes like a celebratory drink.

“It’s like…” He starts, but drifts off without finding the right words. Y/n waits in silence by his side until he finds them. He tries again. “You know when someone dies and all of the sudden, everyone who knew them is silently forbidden to talk about them in any way that isn’t nice?” She nods with a grimace, and Bucky chuckles. “This feels like the confession stand in Church on Sundays where you can just say my pa was bad sometimes, he hit my ma and no one gets to look at you sideways.”

Her sip of the beer slows down at the last part, and Bucky wonders if he talked too much, but gets his answer soon after. “I get it.” Do you? Please tell me more. “It’ like… when pops died, I found this bathroom.” She stops abruptly, and looks at Bucky with the saddest smile.

Bucky’s heart leaps to his feet, and he wishes he knew entities who could bring back the person who makes her eyes shine that way. “Whenever I was angry with him, I went there, grabbed a sharpie, and wrote on the door a reason why I was pissed off that he died and left me here.” A choked laughter comes out of her. “Best free therapy I’ve ever fucking been to.”

He nods to her, because he gets it.

Death burns, leaves marks and scars. Wounds that resemble the ones of violence— hard to heal, open up several times before they’re gone.

He gets that, and so does she.

Bucky sits happier and lighter on the hood of a broken car because of that fact.

That’s when he realizes it— Y/n smiles at him, reflecting the grin that was on his face as he stared at her, and she looks so delighted to be here with him, seeing all the ugly parts of him being let out, and Bucky thinks oh shit.

That’s the smile he’s been trying to push out of his dreams.

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☆ Part TWO | @sltwins ; @iamtheonewhocares ; @spiderdudetom ; @pineprincess ; @carmellasworld ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @sstan-hoe ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsmedramaqu33n ;@strongpowerthank-yu ; @fiftyshadesofokay ; @peonyophelia ; @hannabritta; @sweetdreamsbuck ; ♥

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#this was the best way to wake up #my baaaaaabies have returned to me #Nyx you genius you’ve done it again #aiwb

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zellington · 3 years

Text

I think I want to cry at how sweet this is 😭

Why is everything you write so magical?

do i move you

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: Bucky often ends up in the hospital because of his fathom-limb pain and other issues related to his injury. That never was a problem for him—but the heart monitor broadcasting to the entire world what happens inside of him when Y/n walks in might be. — Word count: 1.5k — A/n: This is a fluff fest! The prompt was sent to me here. If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. You can consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, as well. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

◦➳ soundtrack ♫ ◦➳ nyx masterlist

Bucky was a fool to have let her come.

What else was supposed to happen?

Ever since he first laid eyes on her, Y/n had shaken his foundations. His stupid heart has always answered to her presence. The only difference is that so far, whenever it happened, they were together at work, surrounded by the smell of old books or sharing a nice cup of coffee before Bucky walked her home and then, went back to his place feeling a little lighter and a lot more in love than the day before.

Never before had he had a heart monitor strapped to his chest.

Bucky is an idiot.

Y/n walks in and, like a traitor, the monitor announces to her and everyone else in the room — thanks universe, for the fact that Steve and Natasha will never forget this — just how much she affects him.

The beeping goes up and what follows, is the most awkward silence falling over the room.

For a total of two seconds, there’s only Y/n’s eyes on him.

She has a small bouquet of lilac and light blue flowers Bucky fails to recognize and it’s sad that he can’t even appreciate her nice gesture for his post-surgery moment, because her eyes go from Bucky’s frame to the heart monitor going absolutely berserk by his side, then back to him.

There’s a healthy and beautiful flush on her cheeks and oh no, the monitor’s beeping goes up once again.

Then, all heavens be blessed for his existence, Steve breaks the infinity stored in those heartbeats of quiet and says, “Well, there she is!” He opens a blinding smile. “Thought you weren’t coming. I’ve been meaning to meet ya for a while.”

And just like that, Bucky has a window to hide his shame.

“Hi!” Y/n smiles from the door, stepping into the room slowly. She’s shy—Y/n sticks to her office most days when the library is full, and joins Bucky in restacking whenever there aren’t many people around. “I’ve been meaning that too. Bucky likes to keep you all to himself, though,” she teases, looking from Steve to Nat. “You must be Steve. And Natasha.”

Natasha’s deviant smile widens at being recognized, and while Bucky wants to remove the equipment on his finger measuring his heart rate, he thinks disarray is better than a flat line. “I am.” She gets up to shake Y/n’s hand, and Steve does the same. “You must be Y/n,” Natasha’s face turns a little friendlier when you nod, and she hums, pleased. “It’s a pleasure. Let me get a vase for these beautiful flowers that Barnes one hundred percent does not deserve.”

The mention of Bucky’s name pulls your attention from her to you, and oh.

There it is again— a spike in rate, and he feels his cheeks burning up.

Y/n’s cheeks do the same thing, and it makes Bucky smile through the embarrassment.

He wonders what he’d hear if she had a thing on her finger, too. “Hi,” he says.

She smiles back, tilting her shoulders a little. “Hey you,” her left hand goes straight to her necklace, and her nervous habit makes him strangely comfortable. Less exposed after being literally outed by fucking technology. “I’m glad it went well,” she tells him.

The surgery was yet another attempt at diminishing his fathom limb pain— Bucky’s left arm ended a little bit before his elbow and, sometimes, it was hard for his brain to get that. “I am too,” he hoped it worked. He’d like to not need Y/n’s help when restocking top shelves after a hard day of work, or knowing he could fall asleep with her on top of his arms (whichever one she liked) and not wake up in insane amounts of pain. “Thanks for the pretty flowers— I didn’t know people still brought those in visitations.”

“I heard that jab, and I do not appreciate it,” Steve pitches in.

Nat agrees with a hum, “Yeah, I’m not giving you plants so you can kill them two days later, Barnes.”

Bucky would rise to their bait and join the teasing, but the softness in your eyes are too good.

Your presence always makes him too happy to be a dick.

(Mostly.)

“Just ignore them— I do it all the time,” Bucky jokes, and when you laugh under your breath, looking back at his friends with a sheepish look, he has to flip Natasha off discreetly after the not-so-subtle eyebrow trick she does when his heart rate does a little beep bEEP BEEP.

Y/n turns back to Bucky and then gasps, looking like she remembered something. “Oh! I brought you these,” from her coat, she takes out his dog tags.

They’d fallen somewhere in her office when he fainted in pain all those days ago. “Thanks, darling.” You walk closer to his bed and he gets it from your fingers, and this time, Bucky doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his lips.

Was Natasha right with her advice a week ago?

Bucky had told her pretty much everything about the relationship he had with you, drunkenly asking whether he was crazy to think he had a chance or not.

Y/n shakes her head, biting her bottom lip. Nervous habit number two. “No problem.” She forces a smile back into her face. “I was gonna sell it to your adoring fan-club to the highest bidder, but—figured it wasn’t nice to do that to you.” The ‘fan club’ in question are the kids to whom Bucky reads every Monday and Wednesday, and he laughs at your obvious teasing. Nat and Steve are laughing in the background too, and he’d almost forgotten they were here. Your smile widens at everyone’s laughter, and you go on. “You could find out, then quiet and I could never find someone who makes coffee like you,” Y/n sighs in fake exasperation.

Bucky’s nurse would have Y/n’s head for how much she’s making him move, but he could care less. “Noted. Saved by my coffee skills.”

“Hey— speaking of coffee, we’re gonna get some.” Nat’s voice snaps both of your heads to the door where she and Steve are standing with happy grins on their faces. “You keep him company, Y/n?”

Y/n teasing smile becomes honest and she nods. “Sure thing.”

Steve nods at Bucky. “You want anything?”

“Nah, man. I’m good. Thanks.”

When they exit, Bucky exchanges a look with you, and your smiles return. “Wanna hear all the juicy gossip you missed?”

There’s not even a need to answer.

You always fill things in for him— just like Bucky deals with customers you prefer not to, or now makes deals for the library because you know he’s good with people, you give him bits and pieces about others that help him navigate people — which has been harder for him for multiple reasons — and always, without fail, hug him before saying goodbye.

The little things, which are not little are all.

Which are everything, actually.

Bucky’s known long before his best friends (and you, he thinks with a little mortification) heard it: his heart found a home, and just like a loyal puppy, it answers to its home only.

What he was unclear until now was whether the place he found home in was just him and vacant rooms— but you bring clarity.

You bring him flowers, laugh with Nat and Steve when they come back, then talk to them when he falls asleep without noticing. You hold his hand and whisper in his temple, “I missed you… don’t even do that to me again, please? You really scared me, Buck. I thought my heart was gonna shrink and die. I’m… I don’t even have words,” there’s a kiss to his forehead, and Bucky thanks the gods he’s drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness for the stupid monitor not to give him away now. “I’m so happy you’re okay.”

Bucky wakes up with your hand still holding his and you sitting by his side, reading a novel with a smile on your face, and he’s happy too.

He’s happy to have no more doubts. Happy to know he can think about all the places he could ask you out to, knowing you’d say yes and not laugh in his face.

Bucky wakes up and smiles at you, and you smile back, and he knows you two are on the same page.

Bucky’s heart is home, and the whole world knows about it.

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#pls marry me forever #Hello yes I would like to purchase one order of Bucky Barnes #soooooo soft #bucky barnes imagine

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zellington · 3 years

Text

I should be sleeping but this popped up and….

I feel like I’ve just been wrapped up in a blanket when it’s raining outside and handed a cup of tea.

All the comfort. All the softness. This was 🥰

main thing, baby

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: Bucky shows his love by cutting off the crust on your sandwiches, letting you know how pretty you are, regardless of how worn-out you look, by calling you when he’s out drunk with his friends because, or just doing your laundry ‘cause he knows the washing machine hates you. The concept of a safe haven was lost on you until Bucky Barnes walked into your life, wrapped his arms around you and spent his Saturday nights carefully wiping off your make-up before you two go to bed. It’s a beautiful concept to learn. — Word count: 7.3k — A/n: This is a commission made by Amy. The plot was here, and I had the utmost fun writing this. I hope you like it, darling. If you read and enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

◦➳ soundtrack ♫ ◦➳ nyx masterlist

You on your way, it's a Friday night Hear the rain outside, yeah It's rosé on ice Candlelight and I'm feeling nice Anything you like, boy, you know it's on me Been a minute since I tasted something so sweet

◦➳

If two years ago someone told you that you’d leave the comfort of your own home to go pick up your drunk boyfriend at the bar, you would have eyed them up and down, muttered a “sure thing” with enough sarcasm to commute from Brooklyn to Bronx and back, then walked away shaking your head in disbelief.

Then again, two years ago, Bucky was yet to walk into your life.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I’m almost there,” you tell him over the phone.

On the other side of the line, there’s a hiccup and the distinct sound of Sam and Steve’s voices talking one over the other—it’s hard to make out what they say, but you’ve known both long enough to imagine the jokes and teasing remarks. “Babyyyyyy,” Bucky slurs out, laughing.

It works like a charm, every time, pulling a giggle from you— Bucky’s delighted and drunk laughter is one of your favorite sounds in the whole world.

“I’ll be there in ten. Wait inside with the boys, okay?” Knowing your boyfriend, he’s twice more likely to forget what you instructed when he called all those minutes ago considering how drunk he still sounds with that ‘baby’.

There’s a hiccup on the other side of the line, more indistinguishable laughter and conversation in the voice of his friends, and Bucky goes, “Kay,” sharp and decisive— you can see him nodding in compliance in that cute military way he sometimes does; “By the way, Steve said— hic— said you’re WHIPPED. For me,” he clarifies after the giggled ‘whipped’, and it comes out high-pitched, sounding a little incredulous of Steve’s accusation.

You roll your eyes, trying your best to pay attention to the traffic and what Bucky is saying. After turning on the right street, you answer. “I kinda am.” It’s the truth. MJ would laugh in your face for admitting to it, and the thought makes you smile. “I am picking you up at almost four in the morning on the other side of the town. I don’t drive all this for anyone, Barnes,” you tease. “MJ’s been my best friend for four years and my roommate for two and I still tell her to get the bus sometimes when she calls me asking for a ride.”

Bucky laughs. “I told her I was cuter than her,” he says.

“Smugness is an awful look on you, babe.” The GPS tells you that you’re two streets away, so you call Bucky’s name to get his attention. “I’m hanging up to find a spot and park and I'll find you. Mwah,” you kiss the air.

“Love youuuuu.”

Bucky’s tendency to become a Disney prince and start singing, it turns out, goes beyond just his morning shower or when he decides to cook dinner for a change.

When you’d met him in the Nanotechnology class your courses shared, you’d heard from Natasha he was a bit of a playboy. “Not too bad—he’s not a dick or anything, but with a face like that—can’t blame the dude.”

The rumors did nothing to phase you; judging people by whether they liked to have casual fun or not, fortunately, was something you never thought of.

Becoming one of the lucky ladies to get the attention of Bucky would be lucky, you had considered, and then the universe threw you the curveball when Bucky laid his eyes on you.

According to his own words and the imprinted memory of him seeing you a few roads away and halting the twirling of his pen— eyebrows raised, mouth falling slightly open, then slowly, very slowly because in the same way he froze, so did you, a smirk started forming in the corner of his mouth.

You were the one to break eye contact first.

What on earth possessed you to keep looking at him when he stared at you, you didn’t know.

Even without knowing, you thanked it whenever you could. Even if that meant navigating a sea of sweaty Chemical Engineering grad students at ungodly hours of the morning; hours you were gladly wasting away by binge-watching Love, Death, Robots with MJ.

With eyes like a hawk, you find Bucky in less than two minutes inside the pub.

Steve’s boisterous laughter helps, as well.

You nod hello to Luke when passing the bar — Cage had been the one to make Bucky phone you, and you had to thank the bartender before leaving — and walk straight to the table where Sam, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky are sitting.

Their faces are all flushed but to different degrees. Nat appears the least inebriated, and Bucky by far is the most.

Taking his stellar grades into account, he deserved even a couple more shots, in your opinion.

(Bucky’s report card had been immaculate. Few people knew this about the star playboy nerd of the Chem course, but Bucky Barnes was ridiculously intelligent.)

None of them notice you at first, but when Bucky’s eyes fall on you, the funniest thing happens.

“Woah. You’re pretty,” he blurts out, the words are slurred in person as they were over the phone. You grin at the compliment and watch as all eyes on the table turn to you, but before you can say anything, Bucky shakes his head to himself. “Sorry! My bad. Shouldn’t be talkin’ to pretty girls, ‘ve got a girlfriend. She’s a pretty—hic—the prettiest girl!” He’s too busy squinting his eyes at you to see Steve trying to hold his laughter behind his hand. “You look a lil’ like her. ‘s why I was like ‘... woah.’ You know?” He blinks a couple of times at you and then, before the whole table bursts into laughter, Bucky’s eyes widen and he exclaims happily. “Baby! It’s you!”

Unlike all of his friends who are doubling in laughter because of him, you manage to hide your mirth in just a smile.

Because of his passion for games and coding, Bucky’s sight took a hit in his teenage years and another thing few people know about your boyfriend is that he sees jack shit.

Well—not complete shit.

His glasses are not the thickest you’ve seen in your life, but his impairment definitely allows for happy mistakes such as this to happen. You know how foggy lenses can get when you’re piss drunk the way he is because the near-blindness is a common trait between you two.

“It’s me.” You wave a hand in everyone’s direction. “Who’s taking all of you troublemakers home?”

“I called Clint already,” Nat smiles at you, sheepishly thankful for the concern.

“Sarah said she’ll pick us up from the party she’s at,” Sam tells you, pointing between him and Steve. “She’s her friends’ designated driver anyway.”

Good. Everyone’s making it home and you don’t need to give anyone else a ride—that’s perfect.

A voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like Peter’s says ‘You’re such a hermit, Y/n’.

That may be true, but at least you’ve found someone who likes you exactly like that.

Bucky smiles besides Steve, looking at you with a gleam in his eyes that makes your stomach feel all sorts of funny things, then claps out of nowhere, snapping from his own trance. “Well! I’m out. Byeeeee, losers. M’girl is here, we’re goin’ hoome.”

Not trusting his motor skills abilities all that much, you step closer to the table. “Yeah—c’mon prince Barnes.”

Bucky stops his sluggish steps to make an adorable face at you. “You think I’m a prince?”

Sam laughs and taps Bucky’s side with his hand. “You’re the picture-perfect of a Disney prince, buddy. Sing your way home.”

He does.

When you turn on the radio, Bucky’s attention shifts from the story he was telling you of Nat and Sam’s performance during the beer pong game — which he won, and which also explains the drunken rambles you magically are able to understand — straight to the music.

Bucky looks at you and asks you to sing with him.

How could you not?

The way home is filled with whatever crap is at the top forties right now. Bucky knows all the lyrics and you don’t, but he sings them to you anyway.

It’s nice to hear his voice.

When he’s sober, Bucky claims not to know why people talk about his ‘singing’. If sober Bucky could meet his drunk version, he’d understand so many things.

Saying you dislike how silly he gets would be a lie; Bucky’s a touchy, funny, and flirty drunk.

He drapes himself over your back and wraps his arms around you like a bear. “Is MJ awake?” The way he says eemjeee makes you laugh, and you lose the keyhole a couple of times because he decides the door is an excellent place to start making out with your neck.

“She’s always awake. Girl’s a vampire,” you snort. The door opens and you pull Bucky inside by the hoodie, then close it while struggling to get away from his octopus hold taking over you again. “Bucky,” you whine.

His giggle feels like soft feathers on your neck. “Sorry. I’ll behave.”

“Liar.”

“I will!” The arms around your body loosen their hold and you miss their heat as soon as it’s gone. Bucky turns around, taking off his black baseball cap. “I’mma drink water.”

“Great idea.” Water on him means sobering him up and fewer chances of Bucky throwing up on your room’s trash. Some things are better not repeated.

While Bucky hydrates, you go knock on MJ’s door to interrupt her gaming and let her know you two are back, and gain a thumbs up as a response.

You find him already in your room, slipping out of his clothes clumsily, a glass of water on your nightstand.

“Come ‘ere.” Bucky smiles at you with his head stuck in his t-shirt and you walk closer to help him out of his clothes. “Did you have fun tonight?”

His naked skin is flushed, and they only highlight to you the beautiful color of his eyes. “Soooo much.” From the sleepy way he smiles, Bucky’s ten minutes away from blinking into unconsciousness. “Stevie said our bet’s nerdy. And that we’re nerds.”

Pulling his jeans and his socks, you snort with amusement. “We are, baby.”

Bucky lies back completely, and points at you with a smug grin. “You more.”

There’s no point in denying it, so you only shrug again. “You’re the one who decided to date the nerd from the Aerospace course.” You hand Bucky his sleeping t-shirt and after he (clumsily) puts it on, he pulls you by the back of your knees to lay on his lap. Bucky’s smiling at you, and you recall what he was telling you before leaving for drinks earlier that day. “Did Nat and Clint solve their issues?”

His eyes are closed from your fingers running through his face, so he only nods and hums. Eager puppy, you think. “They never get upset at each other for more than a day,” he tells you after a few moments.

“That’s a good sign.” Couples who left minor stones linger between them usually ended up with too many little things to bother them. Movement underneath you calls your attention to Bucky again, and he’s making grabby hands behind your back to the glass of water. Faking his voice, you sass. “‘Baby, can you please get it to me,” you lean back to get him the cup, and he flashes you a smile as thank you.

Bucky starts telling you all about Luke’s competition while he downs his glass of water like a good boy, and you listen with interest, laughing at the detours his brain sometimes takes and how muffled his voice still gets.

By the time he’s done with the water, he’s done with the story and almost falling asleep with you on his lap.

You pull him by the arm to lie on the bed with you and his muscle memory kicks in— Bucky wraps his legs between yours and pulls you close by the waist, burying his face on your neck.

Before you picked him up, the TV and the energy drinks kept you wide awake.

Bucky brings you peace.

It’s like twilight— a magical moment between bright and awake, then dark and quiet.

Bucky rubs his fingers on your back absently, still whispering to you questions about how your own night went. Even though he will remember only bits and pieces, you answer him.

Going out is not really your scene; when you met him, Bucky and his group tried dragging you to their bars and beer pongs, but over time, he noticed how much you truly enjoyed your alone time.

You knew Bucky Barnes was in love with you when, willingly and without you even asking, he ditched one of the biggest parties on campus with Steve and Nat in favor of playing video games and watching TV with you, MJ, Peter and Clint.

When you think he’s drifted to unconsciousness, Bucky places the softest kiss on your neck. “Missed you tonight.”

It’s a simple statement—he misses you often, and verbalizes it whenever it happens.

It still flutters your insides and brings a dopey smile to your sleeping face.

Kissing back what part of him you can reach, you answer. “We have tomorrow.”

There’s the vibration of a hum on your skin, and you feel his lips opening in a smile. “We’re free from morning classes.”

God, he’s adorable. “We are, baby.” Bucky studies hard; his dedication to school comes from both his passion as well as his desire to provide for his mother and sisters in the near future, and you know how much he deserved this celebration. You two did good. “Love you, James.”

Bucky lets you win in almost everything—video games, football matches, he even gives you the last slices of pizza.

The one thing he never gives up on having the upper hand is this. Like clockwork, he answers. “Love you more, Y/n.”

If two years ago someone told you that deep and peaceful sleep would only come in the arms of someone, you’d have rolled your eyes, perhaps scoffed and gave a sassy reply back.

Then again— you were yet to be embraced by him.

◦➳

It's time to go, take it nice and slow Tiptoe to the bedroom, lookin' at me like when it's cold You gon' keep me warm All I wanna do is spend my time with you Even when the learning's done and nothing's new

When you were young, your grandparents always told you that there was such a thing as a ‘special match’.

The concept was lost on you for a long time.

In your teenage years, skepticism took you over and you’d swear up and down that love, actually, was a waste of time.

There was no plausible explanation in your mind as to why someone would decide to spend the rest of their days by just one person’s side.

Relationships all around you deteriorated and, every time that happened, every time the upstairs neighbors fought loud enough for the entire building to hear or you saw couples in the grocery store aisles having scream-whispered arguments over cereal or kale, you recoiled.

It seemed… too much.

Too forced for all the trouble.

When you got into University, while all your friends embarked in on-and-off relationships which resulted in either heartbreak or just horrible stories, your time was given to your insanely thick textbooks and your friends.

Even they teased you relentlessly for it, or tried setting you up on dates without you noticing every now and then.

None of it mattered.

The reason why relationships seemed so feeble and unnecessary to you was one only, and when Bucky waltzed in Nanotech I, he turned it into dust within a week.

The reason was that things, more often than not, felt forced.

Nothing with Bucky felt forced.

Bucky came in as a breath of fresh air and, even through the difficult moments, complicated confessions and overwhelming weeks, you two worked it out like a well-oiled machine.

With bumps, and stops. Through tears, sometimes, if it meant you stumbled upon past traumas and darkness— regardless of what came into your life so far, the important part was, you two faced it together and made it work.

That meant picking up drunk boyfriends on end of terms, it meant being picked up when you were drunk with MJ in the middle of Central Park in cosplay, or having him find you drenched like a duckling in your apartment laundry area.

Bucky’s hurried steps can be heard over the loud, clunking sounds of the breaking washing-machine.

When he finally gets a view of the scene in front of him, Bucky’s laughter escapes between his bitten lips.

You scream. “IT HATES ME!”

Laughing hard enough to double his body with it, Bucky runs through the soaked floor and finally finds a way to turn off the bumping and spinning sounds that the broken thing was emitting.

There’s soap and water all over the floor and since you tried turning the machine off by the plug on the back, there’s water all over you too.

You’re aware you look like you forgot your umbrella right before a horrible storm and when Bucky turns around to get a look at you, he’s right back at laughing, slapping his knees and leaning back against the machine.

You stand in front of him looking like an angry and wet chicken while he lets it all out, and when he’s finally done, he takes a couple more steps to you and pulls you into his arms without caring if he’s gonna get wet or not.

“Baby,” he mutters in your ear, still giggling. He presses a kiss under your ear and you whine, hiding your face on his chest. “I told you to call me when you do laundry, Y/n.”

Huffing, you wrap your arms around his waist. You hate feeling useless and asking for help is not your strongest suit. “I finished cleaning the place with MJ and I didn’t wanna wait for you to come back,” you whisper with a pout. “I thought I had it.”

Bucky had taught you the ‘tricks’ for how he made that stupid old thing function without causing absolute chaos but, unlike what you’d thought, you hadn’t learned them.

“I don’t mean to sound like a dick, but I don’t think you had a choice.” With a theatrical voice, he leans down a little to be in the same eye-level as you and whispers. “That thing is sentient, Y/n. It hates you, babe. Remember when you tried using another one? They’re all in this, together.”

The petulant child inside of you still wants to be mad to be drenched and defeated by a stupid appliance, but his words summon a smile against your will.

Bucky clearly picks up on it. “I shouldn’t even be seen with you if you want it to answer to me,” he continues, dramatizing it. “Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll do the laundry?”

The pout comes back, and you drop your entire weight on his chest again. There’s a muffled ‘umph’ when your face gets buried on his hoodie. “You don’t separate your laundry.”

Bucky laughs. “I’ll separate yours.”

You’ve seen Bucky Barnes doing his own laundry before. Not trusting him, you lean your head back and narrow his eyes at him. “White, colors, delicates and jeans?”

Bucky smiles fondly down at you, runs one his hands over your face, taking the wet strands of hair away from your forehead and eyes. “Yes. I’ll do ‘em all, promise.”

The offer makes you pout harder, feeling overwhelmed.

Blame the accumulated stress of a semester, the physical labor you did all day and then becoming Stuart Little, but Bucky’s attentive care makes you want to try.

He sees your trembling lips and his expression does an 180 turn, from fond to worried. “What’s wrong?”

Going up on your tiptoes, you smack his lips. “You’re great,” you sniffle. Bucky holds your face between his hands and kisses your lips again, slower this time. “I’m all wet,” you whine.

He looks down with a sympathetic look. “I know, baby.” After one more peck, he whispers. “Go shower. Order foot. I’ll be up when these monsters are under control and doing their job, okay?”

You giggle at the dramatic way he says the last part, and nod.

Bucky’s good with machines so you’re not worried about his day ending in tragedy like yours did. You leave him after a couple more kisses and go upstairs for a shower.

MJ and Peter are passing by the living room when you enter the apartment still dripping and the rest of your bad mood dissipates when your ridiculous state is enough to bring the couple to tears with laughter.

It drains the rest of the broodiness out of you, but you still cry a little bit in the shower.

The reason?

Your boyfriend is a few floors under you, doing your laundry.

It may be a ridiculous thought to others, but when you’re alone under the stream of the water, all you can suddenly think about is your grandmother talking about the special match.

“What’s a special match, nana?”

“Hmmm, you really wanna know, bug?”

“Yeah!”

“Well… you asked why your mama and your papa scream so much at each other, and this is a secret, so I shouldn’t be telling you, but… they’re not a special match. They’ve… your mama and papa decided to be together for a lot of reasons, but they knew they had a lot of differences. And all those differences are the reason why they fight, bubba. It’s not about you, okay?”

“If they’re so different why did they decide to be together, nana?”

“‘Cause grown ups insist on doing the wrong thing sometimes, lovebug. Because they’re stubborn, or proud, or they’re scared to look for the right thing. Finding the right thing takes time, and it means you have to be alone for a while, and some people don’t like being alone.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause they never learned who they are, and what they like, and what they love, so they don’t enjoy their own companies, baby. And that’s sad. That’s why Nana tells you to learn what you like without others, you see?”

“Yeah… and… you and grandpa are a special match?”

“Oh, yes. See— sometimes, if you’re patient, you find a match out there that’s special. There’s more than one ‘cause there are so many people in this world, but very few of them are special. Wanna know why?”

“Why, nana?”

“‘Cause they vibrate in the same frequency as you, lovebug. A frequency is your energy inside and around you, see? And it changes depending on who you are, what you like, what you do, it depends on a lot of different things. And… if you meet a person who has a frequency that’s almost the same as yours… there’s fewer reasons to fight. Even if you two enjoy little of the same things, or if you see things a different way… they’ll always be able to see and hear you better. They want to understand you. They accompany you, side by side, and that’s when you have all these years together, like me and grandpa. It can get hard, and sad, and very complicated sometimes, but I know that with your grandpa by my side, I can get through all of it easier.”

The conversation replays in a loop in your head.

That’s how Bucky finds you— sitting in the kitchen counter with the phone in your hands, your knees pulled up against your chest and your mind miles away.

There’s a wet patch on his hoodie in the middle of his chest, but other than that, he’s golden.

A little flushed and hair in disarray, but that’s a great look on him either way.

“Hey.” He walks to the fridge and opens it, grabbing a bottle of water. “What did you order?”

Is he it? Is Bucky your special match? Looking at him, all the words she said make a lot of sense to you. “Chinese.”

He looks back with a smile. “My favorite.” I know, you think. “Thanks, love.”

It’s the least you could do for him. “Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

When you think of how to ask him the question, Bucky stops drinking his water in favor of observing you with sharper eyes. He walks closer until he’s standing right in front of you. “Are we… d’you think we’re good together?”

The question comes out in a whisper, and by the raise of his eyebrows, it gets his attention.

Putting the bottle by your side, Bucky crowds your body between his arms, placing both hands on each side of your waist by the counter. “I’d say ‘silly Y/n’ and give you a kiss, but I can see that’s a serious question?” The way he phrases it sounds like a question too, so you nod. Bucky hums.

Unlike you, Bucky’s had a few relationships in the past. Maybe that’s why your grandmother’s words are ringing in your ear and why you’re scared you feel them— what if you’re the only one to?

He gets your attention by poking your thigh, and Bucky’s eyes on you are as serious as they were when he told you he loved you for the first time.

They’re darker when he’s being serious—the blue of his eyes are a direct window for whatever the weather is inside the head of a Barnes.

(You’d met Becca— it was a shared trait.)

“I think…” Bucky’s eyes are roaming your face, from your eyes to your lips, and one of his hands goes up; the tip of his finger starts tracing lines on your face, but you resist the urge to close your eyes because seeing him is more important than anything right now. “Remember when I told you I love you?”

Sometimes you do that.

Both of you, actually— saying what the other is thinking became a running joke among your group. The telepathic couple, they called you when it happened.

Nodding, the corner of your lips lift in a smile. “Vividly.”

“Good.” He nods seriously, and closes the distance between his waist and the counter. Bucky pulls your legs down with his other hand and they fall naturally, wrapping around his waist. “‘Cause that was the first time I meant those words,” he tells you. “I’ve said them before but… I didn’t know what they mean.” Bucky licks his lips, completely unaware of the hurricane he’s started in you. “But I definitely do now,” he chuckles. “You know—at the pub last week, Steve was making fun of me ‘cause according to him, he thought I’d be the guy that would only really learn what being in love’s really like when I’m in my forties or somethin’, but— well. Here we are,” he laughs again, and so do you. “He said he was happy, though, ‘cause that means he gets to see me making up songs about my person and embarrassing myself for many more years,” he concludes, pressing a kiss on your smiling lips.

My person.

Bucky says it simply, without a trace of fear.

He’s come a long way from the shy boy who hardly ever admitted he wanted to spend more time with you because he wanted to ‘look cool’.

A piece of that speech stays flashing in your mind like a neon sign. “Many more years?” You ask in a whisper, and there it is.

Bucky stops for a second and, noticing where your mind is, smiles even wider.

“Yeah.” He nods with confidence, and the hurricane takes you from Texas to the land of Oz in a blink. Guess we are home now, Toto. “You think you're getting rid of me any time soon, babe?” Bucky scoffs out loud, and you laugh at his joke. “Please. My girl’s gonna be an astronaut engineer. I can’t fucking wait to be a stay at home partner who works every now and then while my babe makes six figures a year.”

That teasing renders you to loud laughter.

Ever since the first date, Bucky’s loved talking about how your career path was much more interesting than his and as soon as you two officially started dating, you’ve watched him brag to others about your big brain and how much he adored you for it.

“I see what this is,” you say between giggles. “You’re just with me to live your fantasy of going to Mars through me.”

Bucky stops laughing to give you an offended look. “To Mars?!” He shrieks. “Babe, are you insane?” He grabs your laughing face between his hands and says with fake desperation. “Y/n if you go to Mars I will literally die. Oh my god, are you kidding me?! Do I get a vote in this?”

He continues his antics for a while; matter-of-factly, Bucky’s still daydreaming about scenarios where he’s abandoned when Peter and MJ join you for dinner.

The jokes only get more and more out of control, and he’s almost faked tears before all the take-out is eaten.

You, MJ and Peter almost choke on your food a couple of times, too busy laughing at his crazy goofiness.

When you catch MJ’s eyes across the table at some point, the look she gives you makes you answer your own question.

That’s special match material, right there— singing and dancing “Hungry Eyes” in the middle of the living room.

◦➳

You, know you're really different, baby You, you might be the main thing, baby

Although it’s rare, sometimes you go for drinks too.

Not exactly ‘go’ as ‘have multiple drinks with MJ while you two play several games in only one night’, but the idea is still the same.

Game Night, officially, is a thing between you two, but it’s often crashed in by your friends and, occasionally, boyfriends.

You’re swimming in happiness that weekend.

It’s officially summer, your internship has been evaluated and accepted and, the cherry on the cake— Bucky had asked you to go to his town for a few days with him to meet his parents.

While you knew his sisters, parents were still a threshold you two were yet to cross and when he nervously approached you a couple of days ago, you’d barely contained yourself from attacking him in kisses and love when he’d extended the invitation to you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now, but I didn’t know how and I didn’t wanna do it during exams ‘cause, you know— didn’t wanna put pressure on you while there’s already pressure, but my mom called last night demanding an answer, so. Here I am.”

This Game Night, Bucky had come to your place after boxing practice with Clint and Nat, and sat there watching everyone play.

That was the kind of chaos you lived for.

At a certain point, the neighbors from downstairs came knocking on your door to let you know it was too much and Bucky played the friendly host who would definitely make the kids tone it down.

What he did was make piña coladas with Peter and turn the video games into a marathon of Rick and Morty so all the drunk minds could gather around and diminish the havoc.

It worked wonderfully, but it also meant two couples snuggling together until they were each in their own worlds.

Sometime after 3am, Peter bids everyone goodnight and carries a sleeping MJ to her room.

You turn to Bucky, smiling through the foggy vision. “Hiii, babe.”

He smiles down at you and tucks your body closer to his. “Hi.” He kisses the top of your head. “Wanna go to your room?”

Bucky Barnes and your room, all in the same place? Count you in.

In wobbly feet you get up, grab him by his clothes and drag him as well as the rest of the piña colada jar to your room.

You and Bucky were always great at keeping the party up between you two, anyway.

You hook a horror movie that was on the watch list on your computer, serve the rest of the drinks and sit by his side, throwing your legs over his.

Watching horror movies is one of your favorite couples activities.

The fun you two have watching people go berserk and be absolute idiots is the best. “What’s he doing?!” Bucky asks the screen, the straw of his glass still inside his mouth. “Oh, he’s so gonna die.”

As it’s tradition, you start placing your bets. “I give him… ten minutes.”

Bucky taps the screen on his phone to check the hour, then looks back at the screen where the character is breathing loud enough to be heard in any room of the house. “Too much,” he sips his drink and looks at you with a challenging glance. “He’s got… seven.”

“Deal.”

You two lean forward to seal the bet in a kiss, and go back to watching the movie with eager eyes.

The first bet is yours, but Bucky’s soberer than you and takes the next three.

“That was stupid,” you laugh at one of the characters.

“You’d never do that to me, right?” He asks.

You give him an incredulous look.

“I’m just confirming!” He raises both hands in defense. “I know you’re smart but some people seem to lose all functioning brain cells when shit happens.”

You scoff. “Yeah, no shit.” You poke him with your foot. “Watcha do when there’s a noise in your place and Steve ain’t around?”

Bucky hums. “I’ve got Alpine,” he winces. “When you’ve got a cat, blame always falls on them.”

That was true. “Kay… what if Alpine is lying in bed with you?”

Bucky licks his lips and absently pulls the straw between them, taking the last sip of his drink. “Well— First, silence. Right? Gotta see if it repeats.”

“Bam bam!” You slap his thigh, and he laughs at you. “It happened again.”

You know that laughter of his—that’s the ‘my girlfriend is being adorable’ laughter, but you’re too drunk to care about the fond way he’s smiling at you.

“That’s the noise? Bam bam?” He mimics, and smiles when you nod. He puts both of your cups on the nightstand, humming in thought. “Alpine is with me. There’s a bam bam sound…” He turns to you with what’s supposed to be a scary look, but only makes your skin grow hot. “I’ve got a butcher knife behind my nightstand for a reason, babe.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. That was new information. “You’ve got a knife behind your nightstand?”

He nods, oddly pleased with himself. “Sure do.”

“And you do what with it?” You ask, suddenly very curious.

Bucky laughs again before answering. “Nothing for starters, but I get it and wait for the next sound.”

“BAM BAM!”

Bucky bursts out laughing with your next slaps, and then pulls you by the legs, placing his body weight on top of yours.

With him lying on top of you and his face closer to yours, it’s harder to care about the destiny of the supposed intruder.

The movie’s forgotten, and Bucky’s lips are pink and pretty. When he speaks again, you’d almost forgotten about the scenario, too busy staring at him. “Knife in hand, I stay quiet.” He ducks his head and hides it in your neck, and the next part comes whispering on your neck. “I’m waiting for them behind my door…”

His words trail off, and you notice that your investment moved entirely with just a position change from him.

Now you’re not inspecting Bucky's moves— you just want him to keep talking.

“Bam bam?” It comes out in a breathless whisper, and Bucky starts giggling.

He pulls his head back to look at you, and fixing his gaze on you, Bucky creates a static in the air.

Suddenly, you’re it. The intruder, or at least, his enemy.

His prey.

Bucky’s looking down at you like he’d do it—like he’d attack you, pin you against the door, eat you alive.

The static is stronger than the earth after lightning. Bucky’s lips inch closer to yours deliberately slowly and you can feel the hairs on your arms lifting in goosebumps.

The cold late night breeze drifting through your window makes you want to become even smaller so you can fit entirely in his arms. With lips inches away from yours, Bucky whispers. “You should see how I can handle a knife.”

That’s so fucking hot.

Well—that’s new.

You never pegged yourself as one of those people who would find it hot when you see someone showing off their dangers, like people who enjoy others with guns, but the idea of Bucky flipping a knife flips your insides out.

You whine on the back of your throat and he chuckles in response. “See?” He whispers, ghosting his lips against yours. “I can be dangerous.”

Bucky is a nerd. He’s gentle, and he’s a great brother, a great student, a marvelous lover.

If there’s one word you’d never relate to him it would be that one: dangerous.

Still, for a moment, you believe him.

Maybe he can be dangerous given the situation, just like you.

“So am I,” you whisper back to him.

You’re not. You’re a nerd too, and you’re not that good a sibling, but you’re a great daughter and if his praises are anything to go by, you’re a good girlfriend too.

But if there was an intruder in this apartment, or if the world ended in zombies, or if someone dared thinking they could hurt him— you could be.

The number of people you consider your people is small. Something else taught to you by grandma was the importance of differencing a colleague, a friend, an acquaintance and your people. Your closest friends, your family, the ones you chose to have and hold for good.

In this apartment alone, there are two people for whom you would become dangerous.

On top of you, Bucky licks his lips and nods his head. “Yeah.” He gets it. You see it in his eyes, you vibrate at the same frequency. “My dangerous baby.”

My person.

Bucky’s lips close the distance and capture yours in a soft and innocent kiss, which turns not so soft and not so innocent in under a minute.

He tastes of pineapples, rum and Bucky.

It’s your favorite taste in the world, and if you had it, you’d drown in it.

You drown in it.

Like magnets, your bodies move together, wrap around each other like octopuses and the kiss deepens. Bucky’s hand holding your head opens your mouth even wider at some point and the way he sucks on your tongue drives you insane.

His tongue’s ability to render you speechless, to make a mess out of you and to melt you into a puddle of nothing but willing and pliant limbs could never be mastered.

Could never be studied.

Bucky hums delighted when he feels you whining, but you know what’s coming before it gets there.

The kisses being slowed down are the first sign, but you don’t complain.

It’s hard to think about complaining when Bucky’s kissing you like he’d rather do that than anything else. Or when he pulls back and looks at you with swollen lips, a dreamy smile and the eyes of someone who’s looking at their favorite painting.

Bucky kisses your lips multiple other times, and kisses your face too, and his smile is reflected in your face when he stops pouring his love on you for the time being.

“You drank a lot today, miss,” he says, and there it is, you think.

Bucky wants you to shower, or to eat something, or to wait until tomorrow before you two can continue this delicious exchange he started.

You pout your lips at him, but all you get is a bigger smile in response.

What you want is to flip him around, straddle him, ride him until morning.

Bucky always looks lovely under the early morning sunlight. He’s tanned from practicing outside with Nat and Clint, but it’s the eyes and the smile that do you in.

“Shower.” The word reads like a command, and Bucky hums in surprise at your disposition so late at night.

He knows you to the dot— knows how much you like your sleep, and how easily you fall asleep after all that alcohol.

You lean up to press another kiss on his lips. “Wanna show you something really cool,” you tell him, kissing him again.

Bucky raises his eyebrows in curiosity, then leaps out of the bed, eager. “Well, let’s go!”

It makes you laugh. “You look like an NYU cheerleader.”

Bucky props his hand on his waist and lifts the other arm. “Gimme a C!” He wiggles his hips. “Gimme a dou-ble-O!” He spins. “Gimme an L.” He pretends to wiggle pom poms. “Gimmeeeeee something really cool!”

Your boyfriend is a dork. It’s only your luck—half of your time with him is spent either laughing or smiling and that’s when you know, your grandma is always right.

Maybe it’s the experience or the years, but she knew exactly what she was talking about when she said that the frequency mattered.

There are numerous differences between you and Bucky.

He’s sloppy enough to drive you mad sometimes, he’s an expert in postponing and a much bigger social body than you can dream of being.

But none of those matter.

When Bucky’s washing your hair while humming Disney songs, or waking up before you and cooking you breakfast, or just looking at you.

Outside of your shower, Ariana is singing about a person who is ‘really different baby, you might be the main thing baby’ and all you can think about is yeah, Ariana.

He might be the main thing.

He is.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Bucky rinses the conditioner out of your hair, and pulls you closer.

I’m thinking about how you might be it for me. Knowing your boyfriend, hearing that in a 4am shower might give him a heart attack. “Would ya face off a demon for me like that idiot in the movie?”

Bucky starts laughing, then he turns around and wiggles his head to you in permission for you to wash his hair now. “Sure would.” He looks back at you over his shoulder. “Would ya hold a snake for me?” He smirks.

You shudder with your whole body, but— well. “If it was a matter of life and death, sure.”

He turns back to the front with a smile. “Good. Don’t tell my parents when you meet them ‘cause I’ve got a reputation to keep as their cool child, but it’s good that we’re both in for a ride and die, you know? I always wanted my person to be someone dope enough that I think ‘wow, we could definitely live through a zombie apocalypse’.” Bucky turns his head around to glance over his shoulders again, and you put your hand protectively over his eyes so the shampoo doesn’t blind him. “We’ve got apocalyptic changes, babe.”

My person.

The ‘might’ in your previous assessment loses strength with each passing day by his side.

Ariana sings ‘All I wanna do is spend my time with you’, and you say, “We definitely do.” Leaning up, you kiss his pink cheek, feeling the love inside you metamorphosing into something even bigger. “I got your six, baby.”

“And I got yours.” Bucky smiles at you, and when he tilts his head back to rinse the shampoo, he’s singing under his breath. “Always pull up when I call you, call you. Yeah, you never keep me waitin', waitin'. Got me trippin', I adore you. I adore you, boy, oh baby.”

Your special match — or main thing, you realize with a chuckle — has a beautiful voice.

It matches all the rest. All of Bucky is beautiful.

#just adding this to my list of forever comfort reads #so many feelings cannot compute #It shouldn’t be possible for one human to be this talented #bucky barnes imagine

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