OMINIS & SEBASTIAN WITH A BLIND! READER HEADCANNONS
A/N: can be seen as platonic or romantic
If you aren’t as skilled like Ominis, you best hope you had a blind cane. And that cane was Sebastian. Or you did actually have a blind cane.
Ominis could try to teach you if you want. He wishes you could see the same way he can. He will be very happy to teach you dear
You three holding hands. It’s just funny because Ominis can see for himself while you can’t really so Sebastian suggested this
If someone dared to take away your walking cane. Sebastian is literally going feral as Ominis just holds your hand while Sebastian handles the situation “well”
Sebastian or Ominis reading to you during study hall
Ominis tries to help you use your wand to navigate in the dorms as Sebastian just watched from the beds
Let’s say you accidentally fell down the stairs. Well lets just say the boys got so over protective that Sebastian suggested to piggy back you for the rest of the year
It was absolutely embarrassing and Ominis didn’t say a damn thing
Sebastian probably gets a hufflepuff to make you guys bracelets to show how powerful your friendship is. “Friendship is magic!” havin ahh 😭
When you guys cuddle, you are in the middle just being wrapped around by the boys arms
Two golden retrievers + one black cat. And you already know who is who 🫶🏾
Sometimes Sebastian is the best to the two of you. Like he is always giving good descriptions on what is happening. He likes seeing you smile at your own imagination. So he describes your smile towards Ominis who also smiles at the thought of you smiling.
Okay so imma need more twin Zuku hcs for my mental health✨
when I say ride or die I mean you’re prepared to flee the country together if need be
two peas in a pod fr
Inko has a dozen photos of the two of you in matching Halloween costumes and stuff
all through your lives, you’ve always had Izuku’s back whether you have a quirk or not, always there for him when the world was beating him down
so when he got One For All from All Might, he saw it as his chance to return the favor
also if you do have a quirk, he’s got at least 2 whole pages dedicated to it like whether it was directly inherited from of your parents or maybe it was recessive, etc.
not to mention the twin esp it’s like your shared sixth sense
your allergies also act up at the same time
heavens forbid one of you start to cry because then the other’s gonna start crying and that’s just gonna be a mess
you may not have the exact same interests, but you share the same passionate spirits
Bakugou is… not necessarily scared of you, maybe intimidated is a more appropriate word
because you’ve been willing to square tf up with him in junior high
also you’re the only other person he allows to call him Kacchan
one time All Might called for “Young Midoriya” and you both turned your heads at the same time
it was as adorable as it sounds
when Izuku enrolled at UA but you were going to a different school, you both had to learn to cope with the separation, especially when he moved into the dorms
when you come to visit, he just casually carried you around on piggy back for a little bit because he didn’t wanna let you go (also cuz he wanted to show off a lil bit how he was now able to carry you w/out breaking a sweat)
also by the time you finally get around to meeting his classmates, it’s almost as if they’ve met you already because of how much your brother has told them about you
when Aizawa found out about you, his immediate thought was oh my god, there’s two of them.
upon realizing class 1A’s problem child had a twin, he could practically feel his first grey hair come in
my lord if one of his classmates developed a crush on you :0
his reaction heavily depends on who it is
but that’s a story for another time 😉
he makes sure to grape juice far away from you tho
one time you two fell asleep snuggled together on one of the couches in the common space while watching something on your ipad
Mina took a bunch of pics and Ochako almost cried
Kirishima admires how strong your guys’ bond is and thinks it’s super manly how you two always come through for one another
you 🤝 Iida : willing to do anything for your brothers
if you’ve got a fav pro hero, Izuku will do his best to get the opportunity for you to meet them
one of you gets seriously hurt, look out world
the league of villains is honestly kinda hesitant to target you and that’s saying something
Summary: all the ways bob reynolds has been showing you his quiet acts of love or the rest of the team starts to notice his peculiar behavior around you. or the thunderbolts finally realize you and bob are dating.
Pairings: bob reynolds x fem!reader/thunderbolts!reader
Warnings: quiet acts of services, established relationship, bob being bob, fluff, language, fem!reader with vague descriptions, fem!reader has hair long enough to be put in a ponytail, little to no use of y/n, and proofreadish.
WC: 1.7K
Author's Note: me trying to get back on my bob reynolds grind so i can finish his other stories :') feedback is always appreciated (:
bob reynold's masterlist II other masterlists II john walker's version II yelena's version
zipping up your coat
Yelena is the first one to notice Bob's odd behavior. She first saw how he would always find a place beside you, whether it was during a briefing or a random "team bonding" dinner that Alexei had made a weekly thing and everyone else begrudgingly said yes to.
She would watch the way Bob's eyes scanned the room and how his body would relax the moment he saw that you were there. The way he would gravitate to your side, pulling out the chair, and sliding a little too close to your side.
It wasn't too obvious, but Yelena sees everything. She didn't mention it, just brushing it off as Bob being Bob. He's finally grown comfortable with the rest of the team, and he has a tendency to cling to certain people. Certain people, such as you, her, and sometimes Bucky, depending on Bucky's mood.
The first time Yelena had her suspicions about you and Bob's relationship was when you were heading out to meet up with Kate.
Yelena and Bob are in the living room when you wander in, coat on, but unzipped. Yelena notices how Bob's body language changes. He sits up as you draw nearer.
"Okay, I'm off. Do you want me to pick you up anything while I'm out?" You ask them.
Bob shakes his head as Yelena says. "Yeah, those fancy cookies from that one place I like."
"Okay, that narrows it down," you sarcastically say and head for the elevators. Yelena lifts a brow when Bob jumps up and rushes over to you before the elevator opens.
She can't quite hear what he says, but whatever it is makes you smile at him and touch his arm. Your touch lingers, then slides down to his hand.
It looks like you're about to lean into him when the elevator dings. You say something to Bob and wave at Yelena. Bob's hand grips yours, stopping you, and then Yelena watches as he casually zips up your coat.
Your eyes share a silent conversation with his, and then Bob's stepping back, watching as you enter the elevator.
"did you eat today?" softly dusting crumbs off their cheeks while eating
John Walker may be a divorced man, but he still remembers what it's like to take care of a partner, whether it be romantic or platonic. He just didn't expect Bob to be the one looking out for you.
He walks in on you and Bob in the kitchen. He's a little surprised to see you both up since you and Bob are both night owls. He hangs back before he makes his presence known.
He watches the way Bob moves around the kitchen, comfortably and almost confidently. You're sitting at the counter, chatting with Bob, who's making breakfast. John rarely sees Bob so open and relaxed; it's only when he's with you or Yelena that his walls start to come down.
"...anyways, I'm finally glad I'm back," you say as Bob's eyes remain on you as he starts cracking some eggs in a bowl.
"And you somehow managed to survive a week-long mission with Alexei," Bob jokes.
"Barely. I don't know what was worse, his cooking or him retelling his glory war days."
"Well, at least you're back and you can have some of my infamous breakfast."
"That does sound promising, but I'm so beat. I think I'll grab something later."
Bob frowns. "When was the last time you ate? Did you eat today?" He knows you haven't, and that worries him.
"Bob-"
"C'mon. Please, for me? I make the best pancakes."
John watches as you and Bob stare at each other before you finally give in.
"Fine, but I'm helping." You jump off the stool and join Bob at the counter. Bob looks pleased and starts instructing you on how to start the pancake batter.
Bob stands close as you start mixing the pancake mix.
"No, like this," Bob says, and moves to stand behind you. His arms wrap around yours, his hands cover yours as he helps you get the clumps out.
You smirk. "You could've just told me."
Bob smirks. "Didn't you say you're a visual learner?" You jab his stomach, he laughs, but doesn't move away. John finally walks into view, but you two remain glued to each other.
"Oh, morning, John," you say with your usual friendly smile. "We're making pancakes, do you want some?"
John is still trying to wrap his head around the scene before him. "Uh...sure." He occupies your vacant seat and continues to observe you and Bob with a slight frown on his face.
Once breakfast is done, you hand a plate over to John. Then you and Bob are back in your own bubble. Just the two of you, laughing and joking. John kinda feels like he's third wheeling.
He almost chokes on his orange juice when Bob reaches out and brushes off some toast crumbs from your face. You're unfazed and continue to stuff your face as Bob watches you with a fond expression.
absentmindedly playing with their hair
Ava doesn't know why she agrees to these movie nights, which always end up in some huge debate or rage-baiting Walker. She prefers the latter, anything to rile up Mr. Military man himself.
A small part of her does like movie nights...deep down. Tonight, Bucky chose the movie, and she was a little surprised at his choice, Some Like it Hot.
It was entertaining enough, despite Walker's unwanted commentary on how he couldn't believe that Joe and Jerry could pass off as women.
She rolls her eyes at him as he says, again. "I mean, it's so obvious."
Yelena throws a pillow at the back of his head, and he finally shuts up. Ava's eyes drift away from Walker and to the other side of the room, where you and Bob are squished in the double recliner.
Ava is about to look away when she watches as you shift your position and drape your legs over Bob's lap. His one hand rests on your bare legs, and his other is wrapped around your neck. Ava looks over to see if Yelena is noticing this, but she's too engrossed in the movie to care.
Ava tries not to stare, but her eyes keep drifting back to you and Bob. His hand is playing with the end of the ponytail. You and Bob are constantly murmuring back and forth, probably making comments about the movie.
At this point, Ava is more invested in you and Bob than in the movie. Bob reaches up and slides the scrunchy out of your hair, and it falls freely around your shoulders. You take the scrunchy from him and then put it on his wrist. Ava can see his grin as he looks at the poka-dotted scrunchy adorned on his wrist.
Something inside of her can't help but internally awe at that little interaction between you and Bob. She finally looks away, and it's only when the movie is done that she notices you've fallen asleep on Bob with your head tucked into his neck.
the sidewalk rule
You, Bob, and Alexei are out for a grocery run. Aka, you and Bob are making sure Alexei doesn't get distracted and end up getting all snack items.
"I think two is enough, don't you think?" You say as you watch Alexei freeze as he's about to clear the shelf of Wheaties.
"But, they're healthy, no?"
"Healthy, or you want them because we're on them?"
"Ah, Bob, you know me so well," Alexei says jovially.
The grocery trip takes twice as long, and you finally get Alexei to leave the store when you threaten to call Yelena. The three of you leave the store when you see a man cut in front of a woman to get into the store first. He doesn't bother holding the door open.
Alexei shakes his head disapprovingly. "What happened to chivalry?"
The walk back to the Watchtower doesn't take too long, but it's a weekend, so the sidewalks are chaotic. Alexei is walking behind you and Bob, carrying the majority of the grocery bags.
Bob has the rest, and you have none, even though you're trying to fight Bob and grab a bag from him. He easily wins and moves all the grocery bags to one hand as he places a hand on your lower back.
Alexei doesn't miss this, but doesn't think it's strange, since the sidewalk is crammed with people going in both directions. You're animatedly talking to Bob, and you're hands are moving about.
When a person is rushing in the opposite direction and almost runs you down, Bob is glaring at them, but he can't do much since the person is already jaywalking across the street.
Bob immediately moves you to the inside of the sidewalk, even though you say it's fine.
Alexei is about to call out to Bob, and compliment him on that gentlemanly action, when he sees Bob's hand slip into your back pocket.
casually pressing a kiss to their shoulder
Bucky is tired, but can't sleep. What's new? He wanders into the kitchen, where he finds you sitting on the counter, legs swinging back and forth.
Your hand is literally in the cookie jar, and he can't help but slightly smile. Your mouth is full of chocolately goodness, but you wave at him.
"You look like the Cookie Monster," he comments as you hold out the cookie jar to him, and he takes one.
"You know who Cookie Monster is?"
"Haha, very funny."
You smirk, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, which is broken when Bucky hears faint footsteps walking towards the kitchen.
Bob rounds the corner, half asleep, and partly unaware that Bucky is there. Bob's eyes fall on you sitting at the counter, and his shoulders relax.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," you say to Bob, and Bucky furrows his brow.
"Really, cookies, again?"
You pout. "I can't help it."
Bob fondly rolls his eyes at you. "Do you want the usual to go with the cookies?"
"Yes, please."
Bucky has the urge to slip away. He can sense there's something between you and Bob.
It's then that Bucky notices you're wearing an oversized familiar blue sweater, Bob's sweater. It's slipping off your shoulder
Bucky pretends not to see Bob pass you, but not before pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
"Oh, Bucky, hi, I didn't see you there."
Bucky wants to say something sarcastic, but refrains from doing so. He instead watches Bob make hot chocolate for you.
A/N: i might do a version with bucky, yelena, john and ava... maybe
summary: traveling between worlds is no easy feat. unless, of course, peter pevensie is there to hold your hand.
content warning: mild descriptions of violence
word count: 4.2k (estimated 17 min reading time)
a/n: following a winter break-induced narnia fixation, i wrote this blurb about a year ago. i've been holding onto it, waiting to post until i had another piece to post alongside it since i fear there isn't a strong demand for narnia fics LOL. but i'm in the middle of a big piece right now (for thg...), and pretty stuck in one spot, so i went and started reading my drafts. this one is sweet and simple and innocent. i really enjoyed hunkering down to write it and listening to my lion witch wardrobe soundtrack cd (you have to immerse yourself when doing these things, otherwise what's the point!) last winter. thank you to everyone who still reads my work! i usually don't come on here until i'm about to post something, which is infrequent. but i'd like to change that. all love to each of you
masterlist archive of our own
Summary: Traveling between worlds is no easy feat. Unless, of course, Peter Pevensie is there to hold your hand.
The underground was a mess. Students were hurrying over one another to make it home in time for high tea, eager to escape the station and fall into the embrace of the warm homes that long-awaited them.
Peter Pevensie strode through the current effortlessly, his tall stature and calm demeanor dividing the sea of people with ease. Beside him, a girl in a distinguished Saint Finbar’s uniform walked closely. It was frequent a passerby’s luggage would knock against her knees as they squished between her and Peter to find their train. However, their progress was unhurried, and the two of them were lost in a conversation that drowned out the surrounding pandemonium. Having missed him since the day before, she had much to say about what transpired in their hours apart, particularly about a classmate who had taken to stealing her ideas for a series of paintings.
Peter shook his head. “People like her are probably too insecure about their own ideas that they feel they have to steal from others to prove they’re better than them. Though it makes sense she has her eyes on you. You’re the best artist I know,” he said matter-of-factly. It could hardly be read as a compliment and just a mere observation as plain as truth to him.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Peter Pevensie,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
He grinned, raising his voice to be heard over raucous students, “I mean it! You couldn’t pay anyone else at that school to have a thought half as original or interesting as yours.”
She looked away, warmth in her cheeks forcing her to avert her gaze.
“I guess so,” she said. “Thanks, Peter.”
It ended up sounding mechanical and not at all sincere but her mind had drifted somewhere else by the time she parted her mouth.
There was something unusual about Peter. He wasn’t at all like any other boy she’d met before, and she’d always known this but never had the words to explain what the difference was exactly. This frustrated her to no end, just as it did right then. It could be something as simple as a look in his eye that held an uncanny sense of knowing, or a turn of phrase that she should hear from a man twice if not three times his age. The only other people she’d met to inhabit a similar strangeness happened to be the three other Pevensie siblings she’d become acquainted with. As much as she’d grown to enjoy their company, if there were ever an automobile made with five wheels, she’d certainly be the fifth one.
As her mind wandered, Peter started talking about football: a topic he’d recently become passionate about after joining the school’s team at the beginning of the term, when suddenly, a forceful shove interrupted him.
“Watch where you’re going!” Someone spat and continued on.
Peter turned and glanced down his nose at the boy, whom he recognized as a younger student from Hendon House. He turned back and resumed talking, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble.
He was then quickly shoved again, this time from behind with glaring intentionality. It was the same boy.
“You think you can just push people around, tosser?” He said. He’d completely halted in his tracks and had no intention of disarming himself.
Peter, taken aback by the unfounded abrasiveness, put his hands up in a calming manner as one would do with a riled dog. She held her tongue, despite choice words surfacing in her mind.
“There’s no need for that. We’re not looking for trouble, kid,” Peter said, looking down on the boy who barely made it past his shoulders.
“Kid?” he echoed indignantly. “Who’re you calling ‘kid’? Are you trying to have a go at me?” He inched closer, his hot face nearly in Peter’s chest.
“That’s alright, mate,” Peter said dismissively, ultimately deciding to turn away. He placed a guiding hand on the girl’s back to draw the two of them away from the boy, but when she looked back she noticed he was dropping his bag and rolling up his sleeves. It became apparent then that the situation was about to escalate past words. Of course, they should be the unlucky ones to cross paths with a rampaging child.
She ignored Peter’s attempt to leave and spun around to face the boy.
“Can’t you just bugger off already?” She snapped, uninterested in imitating Peter’s poise.
Peter’s head whipped at the sound of her voice, unable to hide the smirk on his face. The boy, already tinged red to his ears, now bore a striking resemblance to a summer beet. He stammered and shifted in such a way that she couldn’t be sure he had the decency not to strike a girl.
“Shut your mouth, cow. This doesn’t concern you!” He shouted.
The thing that happened next occurred so quickly, that it took a few seconds for her to register it. Peter’s smile fell in an instant and a blurring motion soared past her eyes that she realized to be his fist. It collided with the boy’s jaw and sent him flailing to the ground with a wince-worthy thud.
“Peter!” she exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth as he moved to stand over the kid, his fists clenched at his side.
Passersby scurried like ants at the sight of a dispute, but some of them in Hendon House uniforms couldn’t help but watch with their mouths agape. Peter stood unmoving, waiting for the kid to stand back up.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to say that again, would you?” He asked, and she found herself grateful not to be able to see his face anymore as he said it, for the ruthlessness in his tone frightened her a little.
The boy was raising himself onto his elbows, but before he could respond, more boys wearing Hendon House uniforms stepped forward from the crowd with the same hostility in their eyes as the one sprawled on the floor. They appeared older, maybe a year above Peter even.
One after the other, they lunged for Peter, throwing their fists and jabbing pointy elbows. They didn’t care to know the reason why they were fighting but did so enthusiastically regardless. The girl in the Saint Finbar’s uniform had moved out of the way and after frantically considering what she should do to remedy the situation -- whether it be to intervene or seek help, she ultimately decided to leave them to it. There were so many fists flying through the air and bodies being shoved into walls and, frankly, Peter held his own despite being outnumbered three to one. Standing there with folded arms, she began to wonder…where on Earth had he learned to fight like this? He was dodging their stiff swings and striking them in spots so tender that they’d double over upon being hit. It was the practice of someone who’d been fighting all their life.
Within the crowd, she found the familiar faces of the other Pevensie siblings, Susan, Edmund, and little Lucy, watching with amusion. They were not at all impressed by the sight, but clearly found it the least bit entertaining.
Two of the boys were splayed out on the floor. One of them was mustering the fortitude to stand, and the third boy had Peter locked in the crook of his arm. Peter thrust his elbow into his ribs, causing the boy to loosen his grip. This allowed him to slip out of the embrace and send a bloodied fist straight into his chest, knocking the kid to the floor. Just as he was knocked down, the others managed to stand back up and stumble over to continue fighting once again.
Thankfully, before the mindless beating could continue any further, bobbies broke through the dwindling crowd and blew their whistles, forcing the boys apart. They shooed them off and chastised the crowd for their sadism, not leaving the boys with anything more than a slap on the wrist each. The mongrel children hobbled away, clutching their sore jaws and ribs and cursing under their breath.
Peter strode back over to the girl, and even though a bead of sweat clung to the furrow of his brow and the skin of his knuckles was raw; he appeared puzzlingly radiant. It was almost as if he enjoyed the fighting to some extent. Despite this, he seemed worried as he looked her up and down like he could be incited to fight once more if she had a single hair out of place.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“Are you?” She retorted incredulously.
“Yes, but it went on longer than I expected. I was worried we might miss the train,” he confessed after appearing content with her answer, and casually tugged his bag back on his shoulder. It took everything in her not to scoff at how easily he moved on from what had just taken place.
Edmund strolled over from the steps and looked between the two of them bemusedly.
“What was that all about?” He asked.
“It wasn’t anything special,” Peter assured him. “The bloke ran into me.”
Edmund shook his head as if he were the older Pevensie, then walked away whilst making an off-handed remark insinuating that Peter always felt the need to show off around certain people.
Susan and Lucy emerged before Peter could respond, and similarly, Susan also chastised him for his boyishness.
“I’m sure they deserved it. Peter never throws the first punch, after all,” said Lucy, having not been there to see the beginning of the fight.
The three younger siblings strolled ahead to where they could wait for the train, leaving her and Peter to walk behind them.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked once again, looking down at his hands.
She had half a mind to take them and look closer, to rub her thumb over the reddened joints and tell him she knew how to fix it. There was a salve her mom used to make for these sorts of things. But she didn’t. That wasn’t something they did. Even though the punch had been thrown for her, she was certain he would’ve done it for anyone because that was the sort of person he was. On top of that, she knew Peter Pevensie didn’t harbor similar feelings for her as she did for him, so it was indisputable that an action so tender as that would be absurdly inappropriate.
The foundation for this belief was baseless, of course. Anyone with the least bit of sense could see Peter was really quite enamored with her.
“You don’t need to worry about me, I’m made of tougher stuff than that,” he said, hiding a smile. “But I’m sorry you had to be spoken to the way you were.”
“That’s alright, I’m made of tougher stuff than that,” she replied, mimicking his tone with a playful poke.
“Oh, are you?” Peter responded, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Once the two of them reached the others, the separate conversations merged into one. Everyone had seemingly forgotten about the altercation that just took place, or otherwise didn’t find it interesting enough to talk about and instead opted for more lighthearted discussion.
“It’s been too long since I’ve eaten anything that doesn’t come from a can or a box,” Edmund complained. “Hendon is too lazy to even cook a sausage. We’re lucky if we get something as middling as seared Spam.”
“Saint Finbar’s is much the same. It can be so miserable,” Lucy whined.
The girl at Peter's side rose at the remark. “Now that you mention it, my mother is supposed to be making pot roast tonight. She usually does it about once a month if all is well. I’m sure she’d be happy to have you all over."
“Oh, we really shouldn’t. Four mouths is quite a lot to feed,” Susan politely interjected.
“Does she make it with carrots and potatoes and brown sugar?” Lucy asked, most curiously.
“Yes, every time.”
“Please stop. I think my stomach might eat itself if you continue,” Edmund groaned.
Amid their spirited laughter, Susan flinched in her seat and swatted at Lucy.
“Knock it off!” She scolded her younger sister.
Lucy looked confused. “I didn’t do anything!”
Then, Edmund jerked back like he’d been pinched in the neck.
“Quit it, Peter,” he mumbled.
Peter opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as fast upon feeling the same sensation.
“Wait, this feels like—” Susan started.
“It can’t be,” Peter said.
She reached down to rub a tingly static feeling out of her leg. It felt like both her feet had fallen asleep, but even as she uncrossed her limbs, the sensation traveled up her bones, through her calves, to her knees, and most peculiarly up her thighs. She’d never known what it felt like to have her thighs fall asleep.
“What is it?” The girl asked, feeling left out of some practical joke, which was a common occurrence among the siblings as much as they tried to include her. Peter looked at her with widened eyes, like he wasn’t sure what to do. He then quickly reached for her hand but before she could react, she blinked and he was gone. In fact, everything was gone. The station, the approaching train, the other Pevensies. The world had simply escaped her.
She couldn’t move her legs at all, nor her arms or her head. It was as if she was completely without a body, and just a pair of eyes observing a blurring world that shifted colors when she blinked. She screwed her eyes shut but the colors penetrated through the thin skin of her eyelids. And even though she couldn’t see her body, the ticklish feeling of static encompassed every part of her, filling her with eruptive, exhaustive energy. She felt like she could laugh just as much as she could cry. It was frightening and it was beautiful; it felt like everything at once and then nothing at all.
The transition between worlds took less than a second and the instant she felt the ground once again, the fugue washed over her and disappeared into the earth. And though the sensation lingered, the memory of it was muddled like a boring dream.
A little ways from where she lay were the Pevensie children. They arrived seconds before and hadn’t yet taken notice of her. Instead, they were running about, their bare feet padding into wet sand, stopping to cup water and sling it at one another. None of them were too confused about where they were since it was a return they each long-awaited in their own ways.
“How I’ve missed the water here!” Susan exclaimed.
The usually composed girl was a sight to behold, with the hem of her skirt dampened by the sea foam and the breeze blowing loose her plaited hair. Lucy couldn’t keep herself from grinning, and Edmund giggled with the rest of them, noticing the way the air felt in his lungs when there wasn’t smog to dirty it. Peter had discarded his blazer in the sand and stood on the shore, where the water tickled at his feet. He looked out over the horizon of the quiet sea and saw the rising southern sun turning the sky around it a shade of orange he’d only ever seen here, and never back home. It was the same sun he once watched rise for fifteen years during his reign as High King.
He’d forgotten many things about his time spent in Narnia, as was customary when romping between worlds. But the sight of that sun was something he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been a man, and there he stood, a boy once again.
It was then that he remembered the girl left behind, the one he reached for. And even though he couldn’t remember her name or the details of her face, which was something he knew better than his own only an hour ago, for a reason beyond him, he wished she was there beside him right then. The sun suddenly appeared paler without her there.
The sounds of merriness, of the younger siblings splashing and crying out, had pleasantly faded into a sweet song accompanying his ruminations. But when his cheek felt the spray of the sea and he whipped around to see Lucy running away squealing, whatever wistfulness remained in him was picked up and carried away by the breeze. They were finally back, and that should be enough.
“I’ll get you, Lucy!” He shouted and took off after her.
He chased her down the seabank with a grin on his face and golden hair in his eyes, until her little feet carried her away from the water and towards the great cliffs that loomed over the shore. She was surprisingly fast and sand flew from under Peter’s feet as he fought to catch up, but just as he was about to reach the young girl and swing her over his shoulder, she lost her footing and tumbled into the sand. Lucy, a giggling mess, held up her hands in surrender and scrunched her eyes tightly. But when she opened them again, Peter was no longer looking at her. Rather, his gaze was fixated on something behind her and by the look in his eyes, she couldn’t tell if she should be afraid. He stood still, blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. Lucy, ever so brave, turned to see what it was.
“Is that—” she started to say.
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Though breathless only a second ago, he tore through the sand with newfound vigor.
There she was, shrouded in violet shadow made by prodigious rock, enveloped by the soft beach and dampened sea breeze like a child asleep in her bed. Her hair and the lapels of her burgundy coat rose and sank with the wind. And as he ran, her name came back and he called out to her.
At once, she began to stir, raising her head to the sound. The boy fell to his knees beside her, unsure of what to do, or what to say, or how to feel. All he knew was his heart was thudding behind his ribs, and it wasn’t because he tired himself from running.
She stiffly raised herself onto one elbow, squinting up at him.
“Peter?” She said softly, but as her eyes took in the surroundings, the innocence of confusion rapidly morphed into fear.
She looked around wildly, and her voice wavered “Where am I?”
“You’re here,” Peter said, although much more for himself and less so to answer the question.
“I must’ve hit my head,” she mumbled, looking away from him. “Or worse…”
She pulled away from him and looked out at the impossibly blue sea and its sweeping horizon. The disorder of the underground felt so distant now, even though she’d just been there minutes ago. Or perhaps it was hours ago. She saw the silhouettes of the Pevensies watching her, not unkindly, from the far shore. A halo of warm sunlight surrounded their heads so from a distance they looked similar to angels.
“I’ve died, haven’t I? I’ve died and gone to Heaven…” she said with near-conviction.
“No,” Peter answered, frustrated as he wondered how many ways he could tell the truth. “This isn’t Heaven. You aren’t dead—”
“Then where am I?” She cried, hot tears welling in her eyes. “This isn’t real. None of this is real.”
The boy looked to his sisters and his brother for guidance, as he once did when they served on his council some time ago. But neither did they have answers for him. They’d been guided by a gentle hand through the wardrobe on their first journey to Narnia, but had they just suddenly appeared as she did, they would’ve been frightened as well. But most importantly, under the advisory of Professor Kirke, none of them, not once, had ever told anyone else about this world beyond theirs. Even if they’d been permitted to, finding the words to describe it would’ve been impossible.
He had to try nonetheless.
At once, he submerged his hand into the cool sand to let the grains rest in his palm. He then calmly took her hand and let it trickle through his boyish fingers into hers. Her apprehension persisted, but not more so than her confusion.
“Do you feel that?” He asked quietly. “Doesn’t it feel real?”
She pinched the fine grain between her fingers like she was inspecting it closely, then released it just as he did. She grabbed another fistful and watched it fall just the same. It was real enough. It felt just like the sand in Brighton when she’d gone on holiday with her parents some summers ago.
Not only did it feel genuine, but if she’d been embraced by a dream, and she was truly sleeping soundly in her bed back in London, it should make no sense she felt as awake as she did. Nor if she were no longer amongst the living, why she should feel so alive.
From the grains of sand, she met his expectant gaze.
“Yes,” she whispered. Though it was hardly a consolation that she wasn’t in the afterlife, and that he could be a conjured image of her dying mind. There weren’t many other ways to make sense of her situation.
She squinted her eyes and looked at him as if he were the same grain between her forefinger and thumb.
“Are you real?” She asked quietly.
The question appeared to humor him despite its earnestness. A smile flickered across his face before resolving into a more thoughtful look, like he was considering something. It only lasted a second before he reached for her hand once again.
This time he brought it to his cheek. And though she’d never touched his cheek before, the feeling of it was distinctly Peter and there was no way it could’ve belonged to another person. His skin felt soft and warm to the touch and it fit the shape of her fingers like it was always meant to find its place there. Without thought, her thumb smoothed over his cheekbone, and he, perhaps thoughtlessly as well, leaned into the touch. Their hair flickered across their eyes as the wind swelled and rested around them, but it was no disturbance. Her eyes met his and saw an air of hesitation behind the cerulean fog. He was hanging onto her every breath.
“You are,” she answered at last.
“I am,” he replied.
“But I don’t understand,” she said, so only he could hear. “We were just about to board the train, weren’t we?”
“Yes, we were,” he assured her. “Something happened that brought us here, but I don't fully understand what it was either. It’ll be okay, though. I know a little about this place.” He looked back on his siblings who by then had retreated to the water but were still curiously turning their heads to catch wind of the conversation. “We all do.”
At once, Peter pulled himself off the sand.
“Come on, I’ll tell you everything,” he said, extending his hand for her to take.
If up until this point she ever doubted his sincerity, she found trust settling over her all at once at the sight of his hand. The knuckles were still raw, with bits of tender skin sitting grievously over swollen joints. It was the same hand of the same boy who’d been so quick to rile at the slightest distasteful comment towards her, and perhaps he would’ve done the same for anyone, but at this moment she was no longer certain.
She gingerly accepted his help and the two of them began making their way to join the others. As they walked, with his hand still in hers, she rubbed the skin over his knuckles gently.
“I know something that can fix that, by the way,” she said, eyeing the injury.
He looked off to the side and smiled sheepishly, “That’s good to hear. I was just trying to be cool earlier, it actually hurts quite a bit.”
The two of them laughed together, and from the shore, Lucy, Edmund, and Susan could see that something strange, but not entirely unwelcome was happening. Though none of them would admit it, the secret of this world existed as a burden ever since they returned to London. There hadn’t been a single soul that could understand what they’d been through, and to no fault of a stranger’s own, but they’d never been able to grow close to another because of that. They each felt outcasted in their own lives, never feeling fully embedded in their world or amongst the people around them. This was the curse of knowing.
Whichever forces called them to return to Narnia, and whichever voice beckoned the girl to follow suit, had undoubtedly shaken their lives once again. They couldn't possibly know what awaited them here after all this time, but they were back. Finally back.
Thinking about how during those 14 months of being in the tower is likely the healthiest bob has been continuously. like hes eating more, sleeping more, he even gets more social interactions then he would have before, he'd probably be in therapy too.
I just think he'd be doing so much better I mean look at this guy, he's absolutely living his best life with his little nook and his milkshakes
Peace and Quiet : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Former Avenger/New Avenger Witch!Reader
Summary: Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He's always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you'll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.
Warnings: fluff, idiots not realizing how in love they are, two generally kinda mentally ill individuals, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*
If there was one thing the Watchtower, which stood high above New York and housed The New Avengers, lacked the most, it was quiet. Given the newest inhabitants of the staple tower in New York, it wasn’t surprising that peace and quiet were hard to come by, or even a moment alone to think.
Between Alexei running through the common room, ranting and yelling about his latest idea for a marketing opportunity for the team, or stories of his glory days, and Ava and John arguing about the smallest things in the world while Yelena tried to get them to ‘desperately shut up’ while Bucky mumbled about his ‘idiotic team,’ there were very few places in the entire building where one could go to find quiet.
Sometimes, peace was all that Bob wanted. There was only one room in his entire new home where he could find it most days, and it was your room.
The team wasn’t entirely shocked by how close you and Bob became in the few short months that Valentina had moved them into the Watchtower, after proclaiming them as “The New Avengers” to the public. From the moment you met in the vault to the moment you held him and helped pull him from his own Void in the middle of the city, everyone could see how much you’d come to care for him in such a short amount of time. Truthfully, of everyone on the team, they knew if Bob was going to lean on any of them for support, it definitely should be you, given you were the only one of them that was ever truly touted by the public as a hero, as an Avenger.
At the moment, you weren’t sure what kind of commotion could’ve been happening upstairs in the common room of the tower. This morning, Ava had thrown a knife across the table at John, who deflected it with his own fork while still digging into his waffles, sending the knife flying toward Bob as you stopped it with a flick of your hand from across the table, magic holding it in place as you send both of your teammates an unimpressed look. In the middle of the day you’d passed by Alexei trailing after Bucky as he left the training room, trying to convince the super soldier that they could make so much money doing their own “Super Soldier Swimsuit Calendar,” which left Bucky mumbling why he had even agreed to stay part of this team as long as he had.
You’d retired to your room within the tower long before you could witness the inevitable dinner fight or argument, as entertaining as it was sometimes to watch your new friends fight. Skipping dinner was something that you’d been doing for months, ever since Alexei wanted to make it mandatory that you eat in the dining room as a “family.” There were too many memories that resided in that room, in this entire tower. It’s how you found yourself on the piano bench by the windows of your room, fingers dancing across the keys to a familiar tune that you’d heard for many years as you hummed the lyrics you knew all too well to yourself. The music helped you not think about the past.
“That sounds really pretty,”
The voice at the doorway of your room startled you, fingers hitting the wrong keys as the progression of the song was interrupted. You whipped around, heart racing for a moment until it quieted, seeing who was standing in your doorway across the room.
“Bob-”
“I’m sorry!” he was quick to apologize, shaking his head as he wrung his hands together, actions that brought that soft smile you reserved only for him to your face in seconds. “I didn’t mean to startle you, or just barge in like this, that wasn’t okay, I’m sorry. You just left the door open, and usually you come grab dinner after everyone has left the table, but I didn’t see you up there-”
“Bob!” you cut in with a laugh, one that ceased Bob’s rambling and brought a shy smile to his lips as you looked at him. “It’s okay, I just lost track of time, that’s all. Also, I’ve told you before you’re allowed to come in whenever you want, when the door is open, you don’t have to apologize. I was just lost in thought, is all.”
Bob seemed frozen in his spot for a moment, just simply looking across the room at you with a smile, before he ducked out of the room for a second before reappearing with a plate.
“It’s not much, but uh…I made you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
He hadn’t admitted it out loud, though he’d thought about it daily, but your laugh was probably the best thing that Bob had ever heard.
“Shut the door and get your cute butt over here with that sandwich,”
Most of their interactions went like this, with a slight flirty edge to your words, something that Bob couldn’t quite decipher was legitimate flirting or just how you talked to him. John and Alexei tried giving him pep talks that you had feelings for him and that he should ‘man up’ and make a movie, all while Yelena tried to tell him to ignore their words and take it one step at a time.
Bob had gone with the ‘one step at a time’ approach, simply just inserting himself into your time over and over again every day. From the moment you’d first met in the vault and you’d flicked John across the room with a single wave of your magic because he’d rushed at Bob, he’d been drawn to your side. Now, living with you every day, he’d found comfort in your presence the most than in all of his new friends. When this sense of comfort turned into romantic feelings, he wasn’t sure, but Bob was terrified at the thought of crossing that invisible boundary in your interactions. He was a mess, and he knew it. What would a hero like you want with the mess of a man he was?
You’d moved over on the piano bench, leaving space for Bob right beside you. The smile hadn’t left your face, even laughing lightly as Bob still managed to sit as far from you on the bench as he could, terrified of invading your personal space.
With the plate placed on top of the piano, you quickly ripped it in half, handing the other half over to Bob. Slices in hand, you ‘clinked’ your half against his, the pair of you laughing quietly together over the little moment. Your eyes stayed on Bob for a moment, smile never leaving and softening even as he looked down at his hands, taking small bites of the sandwich as his cheeks flushed red.
“I uh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you play the piano before,”
Placing your half of the sandwich back on the plate, your fingers quickly moved back to the keys of the piano, playing that same familiar tune you had before. She glanced over to Bob, his eyes following your movements over the piano keys in wonder.
“I don’t do it often anymore, usually just when my thoughts are the loudest and I need a distraction,” you confided in him as you played. “Piano was something my mother taught me when I was little, she was good at it. Told me I had a knack for it, had me in lessons the earliest that she could put me in them.”
Bob found himself looking at you again, observing you as you played and stared out the window over New York City before you both. He could see it, the slight frown in the corner of your mouth as you spoke.
“You…you said your thoughts were loud?”
You glanced over to him as you played, seeing the hesitation in his question. You gave him the softest of smiles to try and comfort him as you spoke.
“You know how I used to be an Avenger? Part of the original team?” Bob gave you a small nod. “There’s…a lot of memories in every corner of this tower. It’s different now, Valentina has made sure to give it a complete makeover, but I can still feel the memories everywhere. Especially in the dining room. When I saw everyone in there earlier together for dinner, it all came flooding back to me. I just needed to come and find some-”
“Peace and quiet,” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. You and Bob shared yet another smile, a similar red flush to both of your faces in that moment of understanding. “I look for that too, a lot. Our friends they’re uh, they’re loud.”
Another laugh fell out of you as Bob spoke, nodding your head in agreement with his statement.
“You’re not wrong in the slightest, they’re the loudest people I’ve ever lived with. I’m glad that you’re able to find some peace and quiet here, though,”
“Yeah, it’s usually just when I’m with you,” even Bob seemed surprised at his own comment, stumbling for a moment as he tried to understand where that came from within him. “That uh…sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come off as-”
“If that was your first attempt at flirting in awhile, I have to hand it to you Bob you aren’t half bad at it,” the giggle that fell from your lips fell in line with the music that you were still playing as Bob ran his hands down his face, shaking his head over the entire thing. “Come here.”
Bob hesitated for a moment, but that moment didn’t last long. He slid across the bench to your side, legs pressed together and shoulders just barely touching. You stopped playing for a moment, turning to him with a smile as you flicked your hands, magic dancing from your fingers as it flipped the sheet music in front of you back to the beginning of the book.
“Have I mentioned how cool your magic is?”
“Just about every time I use it in front of you, though I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,”
“Well…it’s really cool. Do you think you could uh, maybe show me how to play?”
“Give me your hand,”
You took hold of Bob’s hand, placing it on top of the keys and laying your own on top of his, spreading your fingers to cover his own. Both of you flushed, silently hoping the other couldn’t hear the intense beating of both of your hearts at the gesture.
“Just relax and let your fingers do what I tell them to,” you told him softly, experimentally pressing one of his fingers down onto one of the piano keys. “This is a song Steve used to play all the time, here and in the compound. It was hard not to get it stuck in your head after so long.”
“Does it bring up memories?”
“Yes, but good ones,”
Bob felt himself relax, something he hadn’t truly done in a long time. In the rush of it all, there had been very few moments to relax since he’d awakened in that vault just a few months ago. He felt truly at peace as you worked your magic, dancing his fingers across the keys in the same patterns as the sound of the piano was the only thing playing in the room. Your eyes lay on your hand and Bob’s together as you helped him play the music, but his eyes rested solely on the side of your face.
“Can you…can you sing the words?”
You didn’t answer him, instead doing just as he asked.
“Never thought that you would be standing here so close to me. There's so much I feel that I should say,” you sang in the softest voice you could muster, glancing up at Bob’s flushed face as she smiled at him. “But words can wait until some other day…Kiss me once, then kiss me twice then kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time.”
Bob smiled, every memory and bad thought tucked away in his head fighting to get out simply background noise at this point, every one of his senses invaded by you instead, and he never wanted you to leave.
“Haven't felt like this, my dear since can't remember when. It’s been a long, long time,” you bumped your shoulder with Bob’s, smile growing andchest fluttering with an emotion you knew was far some simple fondness at this point as he laughed at you. “You'll never know how many dreams I dream about you…or just how empty they all seem without you…”
Your singing trailed off as you and Bob simply looked at one another. The piano keys beneath your two hands ceased playing as you took a leap of faith, sliding your hand into Bob’s as you fingers intertwined together. You could hear the sharp intake of breath from Bob at the initial contact, but it didn’t take long for his hand to mould to your own, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world and keeping the Void inside him at bay.
With one hand still playing the piano, music drifting through the room, your head made it’s way to Bob’s shoulder, tucking itself into the space between his shoulder and neck as you stared out at the setting sun over the New York City skyline. It didn’t take Bob long to rest his head back against your own, every ounce of tenseness in his body leaving as he settled against you, overwhelmed by the feel of you against him, grounding him in the real world and keeping his thoughts at bay. Just two people who found one another, basking in the peace and quiet they’d found in each other.
They were none the wiser to Yelena right outside the bedroom, peaking through the doorway that Bob had forgotten to close in his haste to enter the room, smiling softly at the pair closer together than ever before, and shut the door to give them the privacy that they deserved together.
I’M SO SORRY BUT HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN BABY LEWIS PULLMAN ??? BECAUSE I’M ACTUALLY UNWELL. LOOK AT HIS LITTLE FACE😭. HIS TINY FEATURES. THE SOFT HAIR. I’M GOING TO PASS AWAY 💙💙 I DIDN’T MEAN TO RUIN YOUR DAY BUT ALSO YES I DID. THIS IS PAYBACK FOR NOTHING IN PARTICULAR. TAKE THESE PHOTOS AND SUFFER WITH ME 💙😭
✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
✮ Summary: You try to teach Bucky how to use your Polaroid camera. He ends up more interested in taking pictures of you than anything else. One kiss. One photo. That’s all he wants… or so he says.
✮ Genre: Soft Fluff, Domestic Vibes, Clingy!Bucky, Hurt-Your-Teeth Cute
✮ Word Count: ~2.3k
✮ Warnings: None, unless you count excessive pouting and unrelenting affection
💌Author Notes: This one’s pure mush. Like sticky marshmallow fluff on a warm day. Clingy, pouty Bucky, armed with a Polaroid and zero chill, is here to ruin your day in the sweetest way possible. Inspired by the idea of him just wanting something to hold onto when you’re not home. 😭
🩷 Please enjoy — and yes, he will ask for another photo in the middle of the night.
Based on ✦ this ✦ request.. thank you @buckyismysafehaven 🫶🏻
✦ welcome to my bucky brain rot. masterlist lives here ✦
───── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────
“you know this isn’t a weapon, right?” you ask softly, raising a brow at bucky, who’s holding the pastel blue polaroid camera like it might explode.
“are you sure?” he replies, squinting suspiciously at it “feels like it’s got a mind of its own.”
you giggle, gently pushing his arms down “babe. it’s literally made of plastic.”
“so are landmines in cartoons.”
“okay, soldier,” you tease, taking it from his hands and showing him, slowly “this is the lens. this is the shutter. this button here—”
he cuts in, voice low and all heart-eyed “you’re really hot when you go all teacher mode, y’know that?”
“bucky.”
“sorry.” (not sorry at all.)
✦✦✦
ten minutes later, he’s already used half the film.
not one photo of furniture like you suggested.
just you.
you tying your hair up.
you reaching for the remote.
you laughing with your head thrown back, nose scrunching just right.
“you were supposed to practice with objects, not your emotionally-unavailable girlfriend,” you say, flopping dramatically onto the couch.
he hums, carefully tucking the latest photo into his wallet “the couch doesn’t smell like vanilla and steal my hoodies.”
you peek over. “what are you doing with that one?”
“backup.”
“backup??”
“yeah. in case you go to the grocery store without me again and i spiral.”
✦✦✦
click. you blink. “did you just take one without asking?”
he smiles, slow and sleepy, cradling the photo like it’s treasure.
“you looked real soft just now. had to keep it.”
“you can’t just collect pictures of me like—like trading cards.”
“why not?”
“because i probably look weird in half of them!”
he walks over, lifts your chin with gentle fingers “you’ve never looked weird. not to me.”
twenty minutes later, you’re wrapped in a hoodie that almost eats you alive, legs tangled in a blanket on the couch.
“don’t even think about it,” you mumble, not even opening your eyes.
“i didn’t say anything!”
“you don’t have to. i can feel it. you’re staring at me like i’m a sunrise.”
caught. he pauses, camera halfway to his face “okay, but hear me out: the angle? god-tier. the light? holy. your face? illegal.”
you groan into the pillow “you’re ridiculous.”
“you’re breathtaking.”
“that’s not gonna get you another picture.”
“…worked seventeen times already.”
eventually, he curls up beside you, cheek smushed against your shoulder, arms tucked around your waist.
he’s quiet for a while—just tracing little patterns on your skin then, he whispers, shy “can i take one of you kissing me?”
you blink. “like… a photo?”
he props himself up “yeah. just one.”
you hide under the blanket “nooo, that’s so embarrassing!”
“what? why!”
“i don’t look cute when i kiss. i squint weird.”
he gasps like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever heard “your kissing face is my favorite face!”
“bucky—”
“i’m serious! that’s the face that says you love me.”
You stay quiet.
he softens, leaning down with a pout so genuine it borders on tragic.
“baby.”
no response.
“baby please.”
silence.
“you don’t love me.”
you peek out. “bucky.”
“you don’t. that’s why you won’t let me have a picture. my heart is broken. i might cry. this is the end of bucky barnes as we know him.”
you start laughing.
he immediately flops into your lap with a dramatic groan.
“just one photo of my girl loving me. is that so much to ask?”
“you’re a menace.”
“i’m your menace.”
finally, you give in. one kiss. one photo.
he sits up straighter than a soldier, camera ready, eyes wide and sparkling like he’s about to meet santa.
you lean in. kiss him softly.
click. his lashes flutter. His hands tremble slightly as he gently fans the developing photo, like it’s sacred.
and when the image comes in?
he just whispers, barely audible “…wow.”
later that night, while he’s asleep, you find the photo tucked into his wallet next to his dog tags.
you trace your thumb over it and smile.
he stirs, catches you looking.
“needed something to hold onto when you’re not home,” he murmurs.
“bucky, i was gone for ten minutes today.”
“and they were the longest ten minutes of my life.”
next morning, there’s a new polaroid stuck to the bathroom mirror.
you, fast asleep, curled into his chest on the back, in his boyish handwriting
“this is what peace looks like.”
and when you roll your eyes and tell him he’s obsessed?
warnings: bad date, jerk behaviour from said bad date (not bucky, never bucky, he's a sweetheart)
summary: after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like.
based on this request
word count: 2.2k
author's note: i love, love this request, soft!bucky will always be my weakness. love you guys and stay safe out there!
You could already feel the headache blooming behind your eyes by the time he said, “Oh, you don’t mind paying, right?”
He said it like it was nothing. Like asking the time. Like it wasn’t already the second time you had pulled out your wallet tonight.
You stood at the counter, nodding stiffly in your carefully chosen outfit, the one you’d debated over, hoping it struck the right balance of effortless and cute.
Beside you, Dylan barely glanced up from his phone. He rattled off an order without looking at you, or the menu. The most expensive combo on the board, with extra toppings and a drink, then added, “And large curly fries. Thanks, babe.”
You paid. Not because you wanted to. Because the alternative—arguing in front of a line of strangers under fluorescent lights sounded even worse.
The restaurant wasn’t charming. It was loud, crowded, and sticky. One overhead light buzzed and flickered every few seconds, just enough to make your eyes hurt.
Dylan slid into the booth across from you and immediately launched into a monologue, about his job, his bench press max, and the supplements he was “thinking of selling on tiktok.”
He didn’t ask you a single question.
Somewhere between his story about getting banned from a gym “for being too intense” and the fourth time he called himself an “alpha,” he showed you a blurry photo of his car. Then one of his abs.
You tried to smile. Tried to stay polite. Tried to find something redeeming.
But then he started in on his ex—how she was “too emotional,” how he was “so done with drama,” and how he liked girls who were “chill, you know? The low-maintenance kind.”
You stared at your plate, appetite long gone.
Afterward, he dragged you to a movie you didn’t pick, barely noticed you during the previews, and spent the first twenty minutes whispering unsolicited commentary about the actresses.
“Hot, but too skinny,” he said more than once.
When you finally tried to reply, he shushed you. Loudly.
You sat through the rest of it in silence, wondering when exactly the night had started to feel like a mistake. Maybe from the moment he said “you free fri?” without even using your name.
By the time the credits rolled, your shoulders were tight, your patience was gone, and you’d barely spoken a full sentence that wasn’t met with a shrug.
He looked at you then, slightly annoyed, like you were the one who’d ruined the vibe.
And just to really finish it off, when the parking machine spit out the total, he patted his jeans with mock surprise and said, “Crap, still no wallet. Can you…?”
You paid. Again.
He didn’t even say thank you.
You went home quiet, heels clicking against pavement, the weight of disappointment sitting like lead in your chest. You’d planned for butterflies.
Instead, you got a stomachache and a receipt.
You hadn’t planned on telling anyone about the date. Honestly, you just wanted to forget it. Bury it somewhere behind your laundry pile and pretend it never happened.
It felt embarrassing, like you’d walked straight into something you should’ve seen coming. And maybe part of you had. But god, some part of you had hoped, just for once, that someone would surprise you. In a good way. And this date was anything but.
Yelena asked how it went the next morning. Just a casual message. “So? How was it?”
You considered ignoring her. Then sighed and typed a reply. Quick. Blunt. No flourishes.
“Paid for everything. Talked about himself. Rated actresses. Didn’t even say thank you.”
It took her barely ten seconds to respond.
“I’m telling Barnes”
You let out a groan and dropped your phone onto the bed.
Of course she was, he was your best friend after all.
The knock came just after sunset, soft, unhurried and almost unsure.
You weren’t expecting anyone. But the moment you heard it, you somehow already knew.
You opened the door, and there he was, Bucky, standing on your front step in a fitted black tactical tee, sleeves hugging his arms just enough to remind you he never really knew how not to look ready for a mission.
His hair was tucked neatly behind his ears, a few strands falling loose across his forehead, and his expression was all soft concern. He looked comfortable, calm, like someone who knew how to carry the weight of the world but had left it all behind just to check on you.
In one hand, he held a brown paper bag. In the other, your favorite drink, the lid slightly fogged over from the cold.
And when he smiled at you, it was the gentlest thing in the world.
“Hey,” he said gently, offering the smallest smile. “I brought cinnamon rolls.”
You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t hesitate. You stepped aside to let him in, and he moved carefully, quiet steps, easy presence almost as if he knew you were still holding something fragile in your chest and didn’t want to make it worse.
He placed the bag on your study table, then turned back to you with a softness that made your ribs ache.
“Yelena filled me in,” he said, voice low. “I heard the date didn’t exactly go great.”
You huffed a dry laugh and folded your arms, leaning against the back of your couch. “That’s one way to put it.”
He nodded, not pushing, not prying.
Just listening.
“I’m sorry he made you feel like that, doll” Bucky said after a pause. “Like you weren’t worth the effort.”
The words hit somewhere you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge. You looked down at your hands, suddenly too aware of how tightly your fingers were laced together.
“I don’t know why I let it get to me,” you murmured. “It was just one night and some guy.”
“It’s not about one night,” he said, quietly but firmly. “It’s the way he treated you. You deserve someone who shows up. Who sees you, someone who tries.
You looked up. And he was already looking at you.
Steady, present and kind.
There was a silence that stretched between the both of you, comfortable, not tense. Like neither of you needed to fill it with anything unnecessary.
Then he cleared his throat, nervousness flickering in his expression.
“I, uh… I was thinking,” he said slowly, “maybe I could take you out sometime.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I mean, only if you want to. No pressure. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “I’d like to show you what it’s actually supposed to feel like. A date, I mean.”
Your heart gave a small, startled flutter. Not because he asked, but because it felt different this time—genuine. No pressure, no performance. Just quiet sincerity.
He meant it. That was the difference.
You exhaled, the tension leaving your shoulders like a slow breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.
“You don’t have to fix anything, Buck.”
He met your eyes again, unwavering. “I’m not trying to. I just want to be around you. That’s all.”
And somehow, that felt like everything.
You smiled, soft but real. “Okay.”
His whole face lit up, barely, but enough. Like the sun peeking out after a long stretch of grey.
The next evening, Bucky picked you up right at six.
He rolled up on his motorbike—sleek, black, and already rumbling softly beneath him. He swung off and pulled off his helmet, that familiar smile tugging at his lips.
“You said you liked the wind in your hair,” he said, handing you a second helmet. “Figured we’d start the night right.”
You took it with a grin, nerves and excitement tangling in your stomach.
He stepped closer, reached out gently, and began adjusting the straps under your chin—careful, precise, but somehow impossibly tender. His fingers brushed just beneath your jaw, and when he looked up to check the fit, he was close—close enough to smell the hint of his cologne, warm and clean, like cedarwood and something familiar you couldn’t name.
“Too tight?” he murmured.
You shook your head, voice lost somewhere in your throat. “It’s perfect.”
He helped you swing onto the bike, his hand on yours steadying you as you climbed on behind him. And when you settled, you hesitated for only a second before wrapping your arms around his waist.
His body was solid beneath you, warm even through the cotton of his black tactical tee. You felt him breathe once, deeply, before his hand found yours and gave it a soft squeeze.
“Hold on tight,” he said over his shoulder, and the words felt less like a warning and more like an invitation.
He pulled away from the curb, and you tucked your face into the space between his shoulder blades, the wind rushing past your legs as the bike hummed beneath you. The world blurred in gold and shadow, and all you could do was hold on and try not to smile too hard against his back.
You weren’t sure where he was taking you.
But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t mind not knowing.
You expected maybe a quiet restaurant. Maybe a movie that didn’t make you want to gnaw through your seat or chew grass. Something safe, predictable.
But what you got instead was entirely different.
He drove you out of the city, down winding backroads lined with trees still clinging to the last golden scraps of autumn. The air was crisp, soft-edged, full of that late-day hush the world sometimes offers just before the light disappears.
After a while, he pulled into a gravel turnout near a small, wooded park. You glanced at him, confused, but he just smiled and turned off the ignition.
“Trust me,” he said.
You followed him up a narrow trail, the path crunching beneath your shoes. Leaves stirred beneath your steps, and ahead, tucked just out of sight from the road, was a clearing bathed in the last touches of daylight.
Tiny string lights had been hung from low branches, their warm glow flickering gently in the growing dusk.
You blinked, unsure what to say.
He unclipped a bundle from the rear of his bike, and pulled out a folded picnic blanket, a small cooler, and a speaker tucked under one arm. Everything looked like it had been thought through, not fancy, not showy, but thoughtful.
“I figured you probably had enough of restaurants for a while,” he said, his voice light with something just shy of nervous. “Hope you’re okay with something quieter.”
Your chest warmed instantly. “This is… really nice,” you said softly, eyes meeting his. “Thank you, Bucky.”
His smile deepened, and you caught the faintest hint of colour rising in his cheeks.
He laid everything out in the center of the clearing, the softest blanket, a pair of cushions, sandwiches he had made himself (cut diagonally, because you once had a debate with Walker about how sandwiches tasted better when they were cut that way), a thermos full of warm coffee and a little container of shortbread cookies, the same kind you always looked at when you went to the market together, but never bought.
You sat beneath the lights, the world soft and golden around you, the rustle of wind through the trees the only thing breaking the silence.
Bucky was thoughtful in ways that didn’t need to be loud, quietly showing up with the kind of care that made your heart ache in the best way.
He didn’t try to impress you. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t steer the conversation toward himself. He asked you about your week. Your favourite childhood memory. What you’d been reading lately. What song had been stuck in your head.
And he listened, oh, he really listened
He remembered things you didn’t even realise you had said. Little things. Quiet things that you had mentioned in passing. He wove them back into conversation gently, like handing you small gifts wrapped in ease and attention.
When you had asked about his life in the ’40s, he didn’t hesitate, just smiled, a little nostalgic, and told you stories like they were memories he had kept safe just for this moment.
You laughed more than you had in weeks. Not polite laughter, real laughter. The kind that filled your chest and made you forget about the rest of the world for a little while.
When the food was gone and the sky had faded into that soft in-between of night and not-quite-night, Bucky pulled out the speaker and played a playlist with songs you had mentioned liking—cozy, easy songs.
Then, without a word, he held out his hand to you.
“Dance with me?” he asked, voice so quiet it could have disappeared into the trees.
And you took it.
Because there was no reason not to.
You danced under the lights, slow and unhurried, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. His hand rested warm and steady on your back. Yours fit perfectly in his, like it had always known its place there.
At some point, your head found his shoulder. His cheek came to rest lightly against your hair, and he held you just a little closer.
Neither of you spoke.
You didn’t need to.
Because this, this felt like something good. Something simple, something true.
It felt like safety. Like quiet, like someone had finally shown up just to be there with you.
And for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe this wasn’t just a nice night.
Maybe it was the beginning of something that finally felt right.
a/n: and to anyone who has been on a bad date, i hope this helped!
Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.
Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.
You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.
It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.
He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.
Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.
Still, you didn’t argue.
Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.
There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.
You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.
So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.
No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.
Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.
You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.
And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.
He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.
The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.
Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.
A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.
It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.
Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.
You grab a basket and move forward.
He follows without a word.
You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.
You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.
Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.
Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.
He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.
It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.
His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.
“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.
You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.
“What?” you ask softly.
His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.
“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”
He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.
For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.
Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”
Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.
You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.
Bucky watches.
He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.
His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.
He simply observes.
You step over to the plums.
Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
But you feel him.
The attention he gives you.
His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.
You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.
You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.
But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.
“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.
Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.
“S’ fine.”
But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.
So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.
Bucky doesn’t look away this time.
And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.
The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.
You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.
Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.
His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.
It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.
He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.
You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.
He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.
It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.
That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.
You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.
He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.
You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.
“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.
But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.
Something warm fills your chest.
You missed him, while you were gone.
He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.
You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.
You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.
He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.
It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.
He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.
You remember how he was when you left.
Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.
He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.
And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.
Maybe that’s why he came with you.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.
Maybe he missed you, too.
He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.
You can’t have that.
Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.
“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”
Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”
You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”
Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.
“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”
You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.
“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”
Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.
You glance up at him, arching your brow.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”
You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”
“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”
Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.
You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.
You plan on keeping him that way.
You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.
“Creamy or crunchy?”
Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”
You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”
There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”
Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.
“You’re wrong.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”
You snort.
Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.
You watch him.
The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.
Because you want more.
More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.
So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”
Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”
You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”
For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.
You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.
You wait, patiently.
Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”
You gin. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.
You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.
“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”
Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.
His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
But there is no bite to it.
And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.
You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.
You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.
You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.
Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.
A soft thud.
Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.
Chocolate-covered almonds.
The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.
The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.
The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.
Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”
Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because you like them.”
Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.
Just a fact.
Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.
The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.
You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
“How do you know that?”
The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.
Something about the fact that he’s been watching.
That he’s noticed.
That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.
His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.
He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.
“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.
You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.
Or if he just really is that observant.
That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.
So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.
“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”
Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.
“Don’t.”
“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”
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