simpforpeterp

[simpforpeterp]

I love ur schrucy fanfic so badly oh my god

THANK YOUUUU omg i meant to respond to this earlier i could’ve sworn i had but it slipped my mind :( no but anyway i only uploaded two chapters (i think) on here but the rest is completed on ao3 with the same name and my handle is the same too! :)

[simpforpeterp]

i just read a materialists bucky fic that’s like more harry leaning (the fic was so good btw) while mine is more john leaning which make me picture materialists except it’s bucky and bucky

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x female reader

My Baby (Got Nothing At All)

summary: you and bucky have been broken up for almost a year. neither of you have moved on. now, he’s sitting next to you at your friend’s wedding.

warnings: female reader, use of the word girl in regards to the reader, kissing, oral (f recieving), (p in v) smut, unprotected sex, A LOT of emotions, emotional intimacy, if you like mushrooms just pretend you don’t

word count: 6.69k

notes: so…i saw materialists. no further questions.

Whoever made the seating charts for this wedding must’ve had it out for you. Because you somehow ended up sitting at the same table with your ex-boyfriend, Bucky.

He looks handsome. His hair is short now with a suit that fits him perfectly. You stare at the card with his name, knowing that any minute now he’s gonna come over and see it. And then sit with you because the universe must have some sort of vendetta against you.

He broke up with you almost a year ago and you still find yourself wondering when you’re gonna get over this. Your friends are beyond annoyed, your therapist doesn’t know how else to help you if you won’t help yourself. But you don’t want to help yourself, you want him.

You want his sad eyes and his soft smiles. You want those moments where you’d get him to laugh and he’d look at you in this way that made you feel precious. Like something worth looking at.

“Your name’s over here, I saw it earlier.” A guy gestures towards your table and you look up.

And when you look up, you swear you see his heart fall to the floor. And it did.

Bucky can’t hear anything his friend is saying once he sees you. He can’t even breathe. He watches as you look away, turning your neck to pretend to observe something on the little stage. Maybe the DJ or maybe the floral arrangements, anything but Bucky.

You look stunning. Still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Your hair is neatly styled in the way that was always his favorite. He’s captivated all over again.

He breathes out your name as his friend walks away, unable to say anything else. All he can think or say or feel is you. Always you.

“Bucky.” You look up, unsure of whether or not you should stand or stay frozen in your chair. But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s already moving toward you.

And when he gets close enough, when you’re both standing and just looking at each other for the first time in nearly a year, the air shifts. Thickens. Everything around you blurs, dulls. He looks at you like he’s afraid to blink, like you might disappear if he does.

You don’t even realize you’re reaching for each other until you’re pulled in, his arms wrapping around you, yours curling up over his shoulders, fingertips gripping the back of his suit jacket like you’ll fall apart if you don’t. And just like that, your body remembers.

The way his chest fits against yours. The way his hand feels on your spine, steady, warm, reverent. The way he smells like cedarwood and something darker, familiar. Like home and grief and the past.

His breath hitches when your cheek brushes his. Your lips barely miss his neck. You feel the stubble along his jaw against your temple. His arms tighten just a little like he’s afraid if he lets go now, it really is over.

“Hi,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“Hi,” you breathe back, still not letting go.

You feel the way his heart is racing. He probably feels yours, too. The hug lasts too long for two people who haven’t spoken in months, and not long enough for everything that was never said. When you finally, reluctantly, step back, you don’t go far. His hands still linger on your waist. Yours still rests against his shoulders.

“You look…” he starts, but can’t finish.

“You too,” you whisper, because anything else would shatter you.

And the way he’s looking at you now makes your chest ache. Because it’s not new. It’s not something he just discovered. It’s the same way he used to look at you when you were tangled up in sheets or laughing in the kitchen or crying on the floor. Like you were his. Like he was trying to memorize you.

“We should sit.” You swallow.

“Yeah,” he swallows hard. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here. I probably would’ve dressed better.”

“Dressed better? Look at you, you look hot.” You gesture to his outfit and watch him try not to act too embarrassed.

“I have nicer, you know that.” He laughs.

“No need to dress up more for me, my opinion doesn’t matter anymore.” You wave it off.

“Your opinion’s the only one that matters.” He says almost too seriously.

Your breath catches in your throat. He says it like it slipped out like it was muscle memory. But the weight of it lands anyway.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” You glance away, blinking quickly.

“Why not?” he asks softly.

“Because we’re at a wedding.” You struggle to stay composed.

“You love weddings.”

“Unfortunately.”

You stare at each other for another second before going to sit down. He pulls your chair out and you look up at him as you sit down. He is so confusing.

He broke up with you and now he’s acting like you’re still something to each other.

He sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush under the table again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, smell the cologne he always used to wear, the one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away for months after he left.

“I didn’t know you’d be here either,” you say after a moment, voice low. “I almost didn’t come.”

“Same.” He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it’s hollow. “Would’ve saved us both some trouble, huh?”

“Would it?” You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He looks at you then, really looks at you like he’s reading every line of your face for the first time and the hundredth all at once.

“You look happy.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not,” you say honestly.

He searches your eyes for a second and he realizes that you are just as confusing as he is.

“Yeah, well, me too.”

“Still seeing your therapist?” You ask.

“Yeah. She’s just as brutal as ever. I think you were right though, I probably don’t need a therapist softer than she is because I can’t walk all over her and pretend I’m fine.” He admits.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats. We will soon be announcing the newly married couple.” The DJ’s voice rings through the venue.

The lights dim slightly as the music changes, a soft instrumental swelling through the room. The clink of silverware and murmurs of conversation settles into a hush as everyone begins to turn toward the dance floor.

Bucky shifts in his seat beside you. You feel the movement in your periphery, but neither of you looks directly at the other.

“They did a nice job decorating,” you say lightly, fingers skimming the edge of your napkin. “It’s not too much.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Kind of reminds me of that one wedding we went to in upstate New York. Remember? The one with the goat?”

You let out a surprised laugh before you can stop it. Bucky practically feels his heart dying in his chest knowing that laugh used to be his.

“God, yes. That goat hated you.”

“He tried to bite me,” Bucky shakes his head, mouth twitching. “You told me not to go near him and I said I’d self with worse.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘he’s just a little guy. What’s he gonna do?’ and then he just snapped.” You laugh again.

He grins, and it feels like something soft cracks open between you, brief, tentative. The DJ’s voice comes back over the mic, announcing the couple’s entrance. Everyone stands, cheering and clapping as the newlyweds sweep into the room, glowing and radiant. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest.

When you sit again, Bucky does too, this time a little slower. He fiddles with his glass of water, watching the couple as they move to the center of the dance floor.

“They look happy,” he says.

“They do.”

“Makes you wonder if that kind of thing’s still possible.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you. He’s looking somewhere far away, beyond the candles and centerpieces and champagne flutes. Somewhere only he can see.

“Maybe,” you say, voice soft. “I guess it depends on the people.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. The music swells again as the couple begins to dance, slow and deliberate, faces close, arms wrapped around each other like nothing else in the world exists.

You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and when you look over, you catch him already looking away. You both pretend it didn’t happen.

“Do you think they’ll last?” he asks after a minute, his tone light enough that it’s almost casual.

“I hope so,” you say. “They want the same things.”

“That helps,” he murmurs. “Wanting the same things.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t say anything. The conversation dies there, comfortably uncomfortable. The table around you starts talking, someone comments on the cake, and someone else makes a joke about wedding playlists.

You hear none of it.

You just sit there beside him, knees still touching, hearts still racing, words still unsaid. And unlucky for you, it seems he’s the only other person you know here. Other than the groom, a SHIELD agent you both know.

There are other agents you kind of recognize but not enough. When they announce that the bar is now open and they are gonna start serving food, you jump out of your seat. You almost start to walk to the bar before you stop and sigh. And then you turn to Bucky.

“Do you want a drink?” you ask, already halfway turned toward the bar.

“Yeah. Just- whatever I used to get.”Bucky looks up at you.

“You don’t even remember?” You arch a brow at him.

“No, I remember,” he says, smiling a little. “I just wanted to see if you did.”

“Old fashioned. Orange twist, not cherry.” You roll your eyes, but it’s half a smile.

“There she is,” he murmurs, like the memory of you has just stepped into the room for the first time.

You pretend not to hear that.

“I’ll go,” he offers, already starting to move.

“I’m already up,” you say quickly. “And I don’t trust you not to accidentally get me a gin and tonic.”

“That happened once,” he says, hand over his heart.

“You said it was the same thing as a vodka soda.”

“Still don’t get the difference.”

“Exactly.” You give him a look and turn before you can smile any wider.

The bar is crowded, and it takes a while to get the drinks. You steal glances over your shoulder once or twice, just to make sure he’s still there. He is. Talking politely to someone else at the table, but his eyes keep flicking toward the bar, like he’s keeping track of you.

When you finally make it back, two drinks in hand, you see him. He picks up the plate that’s in front of your seat and switches it with the one in front of him. You step closer and when you go to sit down, you know why.

You glance down at his plate, mashed potatoes, grilled chicken, green beans, and…mushrooms. Sautéed and slippery-looking, scattered right on top of the potatoes.

You frown a little.

And then you notice the plate now in front of your chair. It’s nearly identical. Except these potatoes don’t have mushrooms on them. Just a clean scoop, plain and neat.

“You traded our plates,” you say as you set the drinks down.

“You always hated mushrooms.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s caught.

“I didn’t even say anything.” You blink.

“Didn’t have to.”

Your heart does something complicated and inconvenient in your chest. He takes his drink from your hand without looking at you too closely, just nods once in thanks. You sit back down, and for a second you don’t speak. Then, quietly, like the clink of silverware might drown it out, you speak.

“Thank you.”

“Always,” he says, just as quietly.

And suddenly you’re not hungry anymore.

“I had to ask,” He starts to explain himself. “But I couldn’t ask for yours to have no mushrooms since we aren’t…together, so I asked for mine. And then swapped.”

“I only like the kind of mushrooms that mess with my head.” You joke.

“And you know- I knew you were gonna say that too.” He can’t help but laugh.

“Glad I’m still predictable.” You laugh, quietly.

“Not predictable,” he says, swirling the ice in his glass. “Just…familiar.”

There’s a weight to the word that makes you stop breathing for a second. You cut into your chicken just to have something to do with your hands.

“Feels weird being here. Like we’re sitting in someone else’s memory.”

“Yeah. Like we walked into a dream that used to be ours.” He hums in agreement.

“Used to be,” you echo.

The conversation fades again, but it’s not awkward. It’s full. Full of things neither of you are ready to say, of years and tears and late-night arguments and quiet mornings and all the spaces in between.

At one point, he quietly slides his glass toward you without looking and you take a sip like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Like nothing ever changed.

“You still wear that perfume.” He speaks up. You glance over at him. “I noticed it when we hugged. You always wore it for events.”

You don’t answer right away. Just twirl your fork through your potatoes, the ones he made sure you’d eat.

“It’s the nicest one I own,” you finally say.

“I love that perfume.”

You don’t smile, but your eyes flick to his, hold for a moment. There’s so much in them. So much you’re both still carrying. And it would be so easy to just fall back into him, to lean over and kiss the mouth that still knows yours like scripture. But you don’t.

The more Bucky looks at you, the more he feels his heart breaking all over again. He didn’t want to break up with you. Didn’t want to break the heart he had been so gentle with for two years.

And when it’s time for speeches, he knows it’s over for him.

The clinking of glasses quiets the room when most people are done eating. A tall, lanky man in a navy suit stands and clears his throat, a notecard trembling in his hand.

“Hi, uh, I’m Connor, the best man. I wrote this at, like, 3 a.m. after a bottle of wine, so…apologies in advance.”

The crowd laughs. You try to, too.

“When Marcus told me he was going to propose to Liv, I asked him if he was sure. And he said, without even blinking- ‘She’s the only person who makes the world make sense,’” Connor chuckles to himself. “Which was wild coming from a guy who couldn’t even pick what socks to wear.”

More laughter. But your heart has already stilled.

“He told me, ‘I don’t feel like I’m being watched with her. I feel seen. I feel like she knows every part of me, and she still chooses me.’ And I think that’s what love is. Not the big gestures, not the flowers or grand speeches, but the quiet choice. Over and over again. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

You hear Bucky exhale beside you. Slowly. Deeply. Like he’s trying not to feel anything.

“Because let’s be honest, life is messy. People screw up. We let each other down. But the real thing, the real kind of love, doesn’t scare easy. It doesn’t walk away when things get heavy.”

You don’t even notice you’ve stopped breathing. Your eyes sting.

“So here’s to choosing each other. Over and over. Even on the worst days. Even when we don’t deserve it. Especially then.”

The room erupts in applause. Everyone stands, lifting glasses, and toasting to the happy couple. But you’re already standing for a different reason. You don’t say anything. You just grab your purse, push in your chair, and slip out the side door without looking back.

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

He’s out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving, murmuring something to the table as he rushes after you. The evening air outside is warm but sharp. You’re already halfway to the fairy-light-covered parking lot when you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t turn around.

“Wait,” he calls, voice strained. “Please.”

You stop, but you don’t turn around.

“You okay?” he asks softly, like the answer isn’t obvious.

“Fine,” you lie.

He watches your profile in the orange wash of the parking lot lights. The way your arms are crossed. The way your eyes stay on the ground like if you look at him, you’ll come undone.

“You left,” you say, voice sharp and quiet. “You didn’t choose me. Not when it mattered.”

The words hang there. Final. Heavy.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a quiet, helpless kind of pain. And you don’t know what to do with it. Don’t know what to do with him. With the truth. With all of it.

“What are we doing? We get drinks, you swap our plates, you talk about my perfume, I- what is this? Because I don’t know about you but I’m not over you yet, Bucky. And this is killing me, being around you is killing me. You’re the one that left so can you please just stay away from me because I-“ Your voice breaks and you suddenly feel nauseous from how badly you want to cry but don’t.

“I didn’t want to break up with you, you’re the love of my life!” He bursts, his posture failing him as he says it. “I thought you deserved better. You do deserve better. I am severely damaged and traumatized and-“

“And what am I? I’m an Avenger too, goddamn it and we are all insane amounts of fucked up. You broke my fucking heart, Bucky.” You cry out and he steps closer.

He steps closer like he can’t help himself, like your pain drags him forward.

“I know I did,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I know. I haven’t slept right since. I haven’t been right since.”

“Congratulations. You broke both of us.” You laugh bitterly through the tears brimming in your eyes.

He flinches.

“I used to think,” you continue, voice shaking, “that you were the one person who’d never leave. Because you knew what it felt like. And you still did. You still chose to.”

“I didn’t think I had the right to hold onto something good,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You were the only soft thing in my life and I- I didn’t think I deserved it.”

“So instead of trusting me to love you through it, you decided for both of us.” You blink hard, fists clenched at your sides.

His jaw clenches. He looks like he wants to reach for you, like it’s taking everything he has not to.

“You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you,” you whisper.

“I was scared,” he confesses. “That loving me would ruin you. That you'd wake up one day and regret choosing someone like me.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make.”

Silence again. A silence that shakes.

And finally, he breaks.

“I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. I see you and it’s like my body remembers how to breathe again.”

“Then why does this still hurt so much?” You shake your head, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Because we were real. And we still are.” His eyes are shining now, too.

You both stand there in the soft golden glow of the parking lot, hearts bared, years between you collapsing into this one moment.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Bucky,” you say, voice quiet, broken.

He looks at you for a long, unbearable second.

“I want you,” His voice breaks. “I thought breaking up was the right thing. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me.” You blink slowly, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“I know,” he nods. “I know that now.”

“You can’t just say things like that and expect it not to hurt,” you whisper.

“I say them because they still matter,” he says. “Because you still matter.”

“Then why did you leave?” You swallow. Hard. He’s quiet for a long time.

“Because when I looked at you,” he says, “I saw a future. Wrinkles. Gray hair. Kids that looked like you. And I didn’t think I was allowed to want that. Not after everything I’ve done. Not with the kind of man I am.”

You freeze.

Because that? That was the cruelest and most beautiful thing he could have said. Your chest tightens, your breath catches, and you can feel your pulse in your throat. You try to keep your voice steady, but it comes out like glass, sharp and fragile.

“When I saw your face,” you echo, “I saw that too,” A breath. A break. “So where does that leave us?”

He steps forward, slow, careful, as if he knows the ground between you might collapse.

“I don’t know. But I just…I don’t want to be away from you anymore. I want this. I want this with you,” He breathes out. “And maybe it’s the wedding but fuck, don’t you feel it too?”

You stare at him, at the man who shattered you and is now standing in front of you, bleeding honesty like it’s the only language he has left. And then you say it. Quiet, but fierce.

“Of course I feel it.”

It’s all it takes.

One second, you’re standing three feet apart, and the next, your mouths are crashing together like no time has passed at all. Like grief and guilt and distance never stood a chance. His hands are in your hair, on your back, like he can’t hold you close enough. Your fingers curl into his jacket, pulling him in with years of ache behind it.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not sweet. It’s everything you didn’t say, everything you’ve been swallowing since the day he left. It’s a kiss that says you broke me and I still want you anyway.

You don’t remember who moves first, but suddenly you're fumbling for the car door behind you, hands everywhere, breath ragged. You barely break apart long enough to climb into the backseat before you’re pulling him in after you, tangled up in each other like muscle memory, like instinct.

The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music from the reception hall, and the only thing left is the sound of your breathing and the desperate slide of your mouths colliding again.

Clothes shift. Hands tremble. And you don’t say I love you, not yet. But it’s there, in every inch of skin, every press of your lips, every whispered gasp. You were always going to end up here.

You let your heels fall to the floor as he lies you down, pressing the lock button by the window while he leans over you. Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer and he completely melts.

“You-“ He breathes out something between a whisper and a moan as your lips drag along his jaw. “So pretty. So warm. I missed this, I missed you.”

He leans down to pull your legs up and hike them around his hips. Bucky’s hands run along your thighs as he pushes your dress up to sit around your hips. You reach up to push his jacket off and he lets you. It falls from his shoulders and he tosses it away, coming straight back down to you.

He still knows your body like the back of his hand. He knows exactly how to touch you and have you screaming his name. And he loves that it’s you, that you are the only person who has him like that. He rests a hand on your hip as he drags his lips down your neck.

His breath is hot, his lips hungry. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had sex since the breakup but he’d also be lying if he said he didn’t burst into tears during that one time he did. And then he didn’t touch anyone else because they weren’t you.

Your fingers begin to quickly unbutton his shirt and it’s already hot in this car. Luckily, you’re parked near the back so no one could see what’s happening. And since you’re an Avenger, you can legally have slightly more tinted windows than the rest of the world.

“You want this?” Bucky breaths out, fingers gently pulling down one of the straps by your shoulder.

“Yes, Buck, I want you.” You whine as he runs his hand under your dress and up to rest on your stomach as he leans down to kiss you again.

His hands are large and warm and feeling them on your skin again after so long feels like a high. Your head tosses back as he begins kissing by your collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to have you a mess.

He’s intoxicating in this whole quick thing. Right now, it’s like you’re both getting something out of your systems that’s been building for a long time. Bucky feels so much for you, so much love, but he just needs to fuck you right now and you need him to fuck you even more.

He’s fast, lowering his kisses to your chest. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to take your nipple in his mouth, his fingers rolling the other. You slightly shiver from the contact of his hot mouth meeting your skin. You push your fingers through his hair and he’s already moving his hands lower. You sit up the slightest bit as he kisses the middle of your chest and down your stomach. You sit up to lean against the other door, reaching behind you to unzip your dress.

The other strap falls and Bucky helps you push up the bottom more.

“So fucking sexy, love,” He sighs before you unclamp your bra from where he already pulled it down to your waist and toss it into the front seat. You pull the dress that was barely even on that this point off too and toss it away.

Bucky’s shirt is open but not off yet and when you look at him, he knows you want it off. And he wants it off too when he sees you in his favorite pair of sexy black underwear.

“Take off your pants.” You tell him as soon as his shirt is off.

“Been a while for you too?” He asks as he sits up off of you more to unzip his dress pants.

“That’s an understatement.” You reach down to slip off your underwear, sliding them down your legs in a way that has his eyes tracking your every move.

“I’ll be careful, dollface.” He hums.

“Don’t be too careful.” You say and he gives the smallest and softest smile for you.

Because he meant what he said. You are the love of his life. You are the one good thing about this world to him. And being here with you in this cramped and hot car has his heart resigning itself to you all over again.

He pushes his pants down and comes back to you in just his tank top, boxers, and socks. You don’t hesitate to stick your hand under his tank top and slide your hand over his abs. Over his warm body that’s slowly but surely melting for you.

“I want to taste you, doll. Miss that taste more than anything.” He looks at you with pure lust in his eyes that’s only ever meant for you.

“Fuck, please,” You cradle his jaw as he starts to lower his body.

You spread your legs from him and move your hips forward. He looks between your legs like a shark looking at his meal. You look heavenly. Like the closest thing to heaven.

He begins to kiss all over the inside of your thighs. His lips are wet from yours as he does but it’s perfect. This whole thing is still moving fast. It feels like pure adrenaline, like drugs coursing through your body. He can feel his erection full force just from this.

When he presses his mouth to your core, it sends a light shockwave through your body. His mouth is warm and wet and feels just as incredible as you remember. Your hands instantly find his hair and your head tosses back.

He reaches one hand up, running up and down your body, the other holding your hip in place. He completely licks a stripe up before delving his tongue into you. You let out the prettiest moan he’s ever heard as he slowly presses his tongue around your folds.

His hands move back down to hold onto your ass, lifting you that smallest bit closer to his mouth. He’s hungry for you. Hungry in a way no one else has ever gotten him. His nose presses against you as his tongue brutally licks every spot he knows makes your toes curl.

You press your hips closer to his mouth, his tongue fucking into you before coming up to kiss just under your clit. He slowly drags his lips to touch your clit and as soon as he starts lightly sucking on it, your moans pick up.

The car is filled with your soft gasps and moans. It’s perfect to Bucky. He’s never wanted anyone more than he wants you right now. He wants to kiss you, to fuck you, to hold you, and promise that he’ll only ever be your guy.

You feel it coming stronger than ever as you push your hips more and more against his mouth, fucking his face. You hold onto the headrest as you feel your stomach curling and everything coming all at once.

That orgasm quickly snaps through you, you calling his name as it does. Bucky slows his movements down but doesn’t completely stop as he rides you through it. The car windows are already fogging up.

He sits up a little, his breath gone as he just looks at you.

“You are incredible, sweetheart.” He breathes out.

“Bucky, you are the incredible one,” Your chest rises and falls as you look up at the ceiling of the car for a second. “I haven’t cum that good or that fast since…you.”

“I’m trying not to cum now from just looking at you like this.” He admits.

“Stop trying not to,” You hum as you pull him back down to you by his shirt. “Fuck me.”

“Do you…need a second?” He asks.

“I’ve had a second. Now, I just need you in me.” You run your fingers through his hair that’s more than messed up now as his hands find your waist.

His dick is throbbing from your words and he wants nothing more than to slip into you. He presses his hand to your stomach as he looks at you like his world is in front of him. And you are his world.

He sits back and pulls off his tank top, tossing it with the rest of your clothes. He knows the windows are gonna be completely fogged up in a minute but he hopes that no one walks out to see the car shaking in a minute.

He frees his dick from the fabric of his boxers. You watch it twitch as he watches the way you drag her hand down your body. You reach to touch him, your fingers lightly grazing along his shaft. He’s so achingly hard for you at this point.

That’s only made worse when you reach your hand further. You take his balls in your hand and gently rub them before coming back up to his shaft, your thumb rubbing across his pretty pink tip.

You rest his dick on your stomach as you look up at him. You are a complete temptress with that look in your eyes.

“James,” You cradle his face as he comes down to you, your chests pressed together. “I want you. Please.”

“Please, what?” He asks, pushing hair out of your face.

“Please fuck me.” Your voice is warm and hypnotic to him.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, feeling like he could lose complete control at any second. He takes his dick in his hands as he sits up. Her legs are spread for him again and he places his tip only into her. She’s warm and soft and she already feels good.

“I’m gonna fuck you, baby. Just how you like. I still know how you like it.” He breathes out.

“Mhm.” Your voice is light and airy before he pushes into you.

And fuck, you missed this.

The way his dick fits in you. The way it’s always this perfect stretch and how he always fills you so nicely.

And Bucky? His head drops from how incredible you feel. Your walls squeeze around him and his heart flutters. He loves you. You are the only person he’s in love with and he gets to do this with you again. That means more to him than anything.

“You feel so- fuck, so good,” He groans as he presses his fingers into your hip. “Still take me so well.”

“Bucky-“ You place your hand on his arms and your voice already sounds completely fucked out.

He pulls out of you and immediately slams back in. Your hips meet and the feeling is immediately everything you needed. He’s slow and deliciously careful. His dick is deep in you, feeling every single pulse of you and the warmth that he wants to bleed him dry and leave him with nothing.

He grunts into the air as he fucks you deep and slow. It’s almost agonizing with every push how amazing he feels and how perfect his dick hits every spot he knows you love. He lets your arms wrap around him as he rests his forehead on your chest for a second as he keeps smacking his hips into yours.

His pace starts to pick up as he gets closer. It builds up for you so easily. He gasps from the feeling of being so deep in you. In the person he feels everything for. It’s not just about hot car sex, it’s about you. His ex. The girl he’s still so hopelessly in love with and who he hasn’t stopped loving since he broke your heart.

And he swears to himself that he will put it back together. That he will be so good to you. That he will kiss you and make you laugh whenever and fuck you like this whenever you want because you are it.

“I- I can’t- I have to-“ He moans as he pumps in and out of you, his hand desperately pressing onto your stomach which only has you feeling more.

You feel your second orgasm coming on strong. He feels his coming too, him brutally fucking into you with no remorse after you told him not to be too gentle. Everything is hazy, the car is completely fogged up now.

He pushes up and into you again which snaps your second orgasm through your body. He’s long and warm and has you feeling fuzzy. Your hearing is barely there when you feel it and your mind is hazy when you feel him finish in you. He fucks his cum into you more, marking you as his. And it feels incredible.

He slowly comes to a stop before he rests his forehead by your neck, resting his weight completely on you for a second. He’s warm and it’s like the outside world is gone.

It’s just you and Bucky. In this small car with every window fogged up, just holding on to each other.

“Shouldn’t have done it like this,” He looks up at you, holding your cheek as his eyes bore into yours. “I should’ve taken you home. Had you in my bed. Been more…gentle with you. Because I- I’m so in love with you. I’m still in love with you.”

His eyes are soft and slightly glossy as he looks at you. His heart is breaking for you all over again because if this isn’t what you want, then this just made it worse because his heart is in your hands.

“I want to be so good for you,” His voice breaks. “I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I should’ve bought you a ring. I should’ve told you exactly how I felt about you, even if I thought I didn’t deserve you. I should’ve promised my everything to you, this should’ve been our wedding.”

Your breath catches. His words hit harder than any kiss ever could. You blink up at him, chest rising and falling beneath the weight of everything, his body, his honesty, his regret. The warmth of his hands, the tremble in his voice, the ache in his eyes. You’ve waited nearly a year for him to say something like this. And now that he is, it doesn’t feel like closure.

It feels like a door cracking wide open. Your fingers lift, thread through the short hair at the back of his neck as you stare at him, raw and real.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper. “If you’d asked. I would’ve said yes without even blinking.”

His face crumples just slightly at that, like he’s not sure whether to cry or kiss you again. You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes. And he hates it. That he was so close to a life with you and he fucked it up. He wanted you for two years before you started dating. And before that you were his friend. He knows you so well, he’s wanted this with you for so long now. And he let you slip through his fingers.

But he’s here now and he wants you even more.

“I’m not asking for a ring right now,” you murmur. “I’m not even asking for promises. But if you mean what you just said…if this isn’t just the wedding or the night or the sex talking…”

“It’s not,” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear you hadn’t even realized was falling. “It never was. It was never just sex with you or just nostalgia. I want a life with you. I want kids with your eyes and your hair. With your nose and I want them to be ours. Me and you. I want the rest of my life with you. This past year has nearly killed me. I just want to be yours again.”

You nod, barely.

“Then don’t leave again,” you say. “Stay. Start over with me. Try.”

His exhale shudders against your skin, and he kisses you, soft this time, reverent.

“I’ll try every day,” he breathes against your lips. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

Outside, the music drifts faintly from the reception. Inside the car, the world is still. Your legs are tangled. Your hearts, slowly stitching. And for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so far away.

“I want it with you too,” you admit. “Except I hope they have your eyes. Your smile. I want you, James. I want to be your girl again.”

“Then you will be,” He takes your hand and places it on his heart, his hand over yours. His heartbeat is quick, his face pink for you. “I don’t ever want to be away from you. One day, I swear, we will do this right. I’ll give you a ring, I’ll buy you a nice, quiet, house for us to raise our babies in. And maybe we’ll get a cat or a dog or both because why not? And I will love you so deeply, baby. I will never, ever, stray. I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me.”

And this time, you believe him.

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x reader

Out of House and Home

summary: your old teammate you were never close with calls and brings his team of new avengers after a mission gone wrong. you realize maybe you’re more compatible than you thought.

warnings: mentions of the reader dating/sleeping around ish, injuries, trauma

word count: 3.8k

“Bucky?” Your voice is groggy and still full of sleep.

“Hey, hey, sorry it’s so late-“

“I haven’t heard from you- I haven’t even seen you since the funeral.” You rub your eyes, putting the phone on speaker while sitting up in your bed.

“I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t urgent. You still in the same shitty apartment?” He asks.

“Charming as ever.” You scoff.

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, me and my team are down the street.” He says quickly.

“You’re what?” You raise your voice.

“Mission gone wrong. I’ll explain later, we’re running to your place.” He says begrudgingly.

“What? Bucky, Sam is gonna kill me if he finds out about this. He’s gonna think I’m siding with you which, by the way, I’m not.” You say more intensely into the speaker.

“He won’t find out. In the building, be ready to get the door.” He says, his breath picking up.

“Oh my god.” You plant your feet on the floor and begin to head toward your front door.

You barely have time to unlock the door before it bursts open, Bucky shoving through first, dirt-smudged and bleeding from the temple.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stepping back as a flood of people you barely recognize barrels into your apartment like it’s a safehouse from some post-apocalyptic movie.

A woman with full tactical gear gives you a nod. The guy you recognize from being Captain America for two seconds grunts a hello before immediately beelining to your kitchen. A third sits heavily on your couch like it belongs to him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say under your breath, watching in disbelief as someone rips open your fridge like it owes them money.

“We won’t be here long.” Bucky turns, scanning the apartment like he’s still on a mission.

“That’s what people say right before they leave wet towels on your couch and eat all your cereal.” You cross your arms.

“I’ll buy you more cereal.”

“I don’t want more cereal. I want plausible deniability, Barnes. Do you know what Sam will do if he finds out you’re here? If he finds out I let you in?”

He looks at you then, really looks. There's a flicker of something old in his expression, something that remembers you from another life.

“He won’t find out.”

“God, I forgot how annoying you are.”

“You got any more of those purple granola bars?” Someone calls from the kitchen.

“They’re blueberry. And no. You just ate them all,” you yell back, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Goddamn super soldiers.”

Bucky sighs and shrugs off his jacket, revealing a nasty gash on his shoulder.

“You need to sit down before you bleed on my rug.” You hesitate.

“I thought you didn’t care,” he says quietly.

“I don’t,” you lie. “If Sam asks, you broke in.”

“Works for me.” He nods, putting pressure on the gash.

You scurry to the bathroom to grab your first aid kit that’s more well-used than most people’s. You bring it back and click open the case and stand behind Bucky to clean it.

Someone you do recognize steps into your living room from the kitchen. And in her hands, a bag of popcorn.

“Skinny Pop. Fine but the one in the black bag is better.” She hums.

“I’d argue with you but you’re Natasha’s sister,” you try to smile despite everything happening. “I recognize you from a picture she had.”

“I know you two were friends,” She says between another handful of popcorn. “I saw on the news you broke up with that boyfriend of yours. So sad.”

Her voice has no emotion, she’s too involved with your bag of popcorn.

“I didn’t care about him much anyway,” You shrug as you open a wipe to clean off Bucky’s shoulder. “I liked fucking him and sending him home, he liked me being mean to him because I’m generally unhappy with my life.”

Yelena cocks her head, studying you like she’s bored and entertained all at once.

“So dramatic. You Americans love turning your personal trauma into hobbies.” She hums.

“I’m aware,” you mutter. “That’s why I’m currently hosting a group of war criminals in my barely furnished apartment instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“Technically, only some of us are war criminals,” comes a voice from your couch.

“Great,” you call back. “Let me know which ones, so I can Lysol everything you touch.”

Bucky shifts under your hands as you dab at the wound. He hisses once through his teeth but says nothing.

“You need stitches.” You glance down.

“Do it.” He nods once.

“I’m not a combat medic, Barnes.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly take an oath, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” You shrug, leaning down to grab the suture kit anyway.

“Tony got you that stupid kit after you watched that doctor show one time, you practiced on everyone you could.” He speaks up.

“I wanted to be a surgeon for two seconds in high school, big deal.”

It’s quiet then, save for the sound of popcorn crunching behind you and someone cracking open a soda can from your fridge like this is their damn Airbnb.

“Team trauma reunion?” Yelena deadpans, waving the popcorn at you both.

You ignore her. You thread the needle, not looking at Bucky as you speak.

“You said the mission went wrong. How wrong?” You hum.

“Too wrong to go home. Wouldn’t let us through the perimeter without answers we don’t have yet.”

“And I’m just…neutral territory?”

“You’re the only person I knew wouldn’t shoot me on sight.” He shrugs.

“I’m reconsidering that.”

He’s quiet for another second as you work. You look a little different but your voice is exactly the same. But you still aren’t completely put together.

“Speaking of Tony,” Bucky treads carefully. “I thought he left you money. Why are you still in this shitty apartment? How much did he give you?”

“Ninety-six thousand every two years.” You shrug and hear a gasp.

“Damn!” Walker peaks his head out from the kitchen.

“Hiding in plain sight is better anyway. I mean, clearly, or else you wouldn’t be here,” You tell him. “I can’t see shit, take your shirt off.”

“Steamy.” Yelena hums as she slowly steps back into the kitchen.

Bucky grunts as he peels off the torn fabric, wincing when it sticks to the dried blood. You glance at the scarred skin underneath, old wounds layered over new ones. Some you remember. Some are fresh. Some weren’t there the last time you saw him. You try not to stare. You fail.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, grabbing a wipe. “I’ve seen hotter guys bleed on my floor.”

“Name one.”

“Thor.” You meet his eyes flatly.

“Fair.” He snorts.

You dab more gently than you mean to, which only irritates you further.

“You should’ve gone to someone else. You should’ve gone to, hell, I don’t know. Strange. Dr. Cho. A goddamn CVS MinuteClinic.”

“Jesus Christ, do I need to spell it out? I trust you, okay? You were the first person I could think of around here and I trusted you more than the others.” He admits.

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it.

“Because I knew you.”

His voice is quieter now. Not soft, just… stripped of its usual gruff edges. You pause mid-swipe, fingers still against the skin of his shoulder. It would be easier if he didn’t sound so damn sure.

“You used to know me,” you say, carefully measured. “Back when things were simpler. Back when I didn’t have to pick a side.”

“Things were never simple. You just thought they were.” Bucky looks straight ahead.

“Well. That’s comforting. I’ll add it to the list of things I didn’t ask you to unpack tonight.” You scoff under your breath and thread the needle with a little more force than necessary.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t flinch either, even when you pierce the skin and start stitching. Just sits there, jaw tight, breath steady. Like he’s used to pain. Like he’d rather feel this than whatever’s circling in his head.

You keep going, the silence stretching for a few beats, long enough that it starts to feel like maybe he has changed. Or maybe you both have, just not in ways that line up anymore.

“I read that article about you,” you say after a moment like you’re just making conversation. “The puff piece Sam’s PR people approved. Called you a ‘reluctant leader with a shadowed past and a strong moral compass.’”

“Oh yeah?”

“They made you sound like a brooding heartthrob on a CW show.” You arch a brow.

“That was the nicest thing anyone’s said about me in a decade.” He exhales a laugh, just barely.

“Clearly they’ve never met you.”

“Still know you well enough to recognize that tone,” he murmurs.

“What tone?”

“The one where you’re pretending you hate me but you’re about two sarcastic comments away from offering me a blanket and making me tea.” He looks up at you.

“You wish.” You blink.

But you also don’t correct him. And when you finish the last stitch, you’re a little gentler than you need to be as you pat gauze over the wound and tape it down. He doesn’t say thank you. You don’t need him to.

Your living room turns into a big snack party once they all find whatever they wanted and made themselves at home. You sit on your ottoman and stare at the scene for a moment.

“So, why do you have to pick a side anyway?” Yelena asks.

“Because the people are asking me to. I can’t go anywhere without people asking me Barnes or Wilson. They’re telling me to choose, to pick between two people who I thought were still on my team, I mean, with me. I didn’t even realize that no one was with me until I turned around and other people were picking sides too.” You shrug.

Yelena chews thoughtfully, perched upside-down on your armchair like gravity is a suggestion.

“So don’t choose,” she says simply. “Make your own team. That’s what Natasha would do.”

That stings a little. Maybe because it’s true. Maybe because you’re still not used to hearing her name out loud since everything.

You think about that for a while. Not necessarily putting together your own team, that’d be way too messy and you also just don’t care that much. But choosing yourself.

And it’s ironic you think about what that’d be like while blowing up an air mattress and making the couches good for sleeping.

You only have two small couches in the living room that Bob, Yelena, and Ava get comfy on. That leaves John on the air mattress with Alexei taking up most of it. Bucky just stares at the group from where he’s setting up a makeshift bed on the floor because he prefers it.

It’s good enough for the night. You head back to your bed but there’s no luck when it comes to sleeping. You’re awake now after the stir they caused. But also, now you’re just thinking about the mess the world has been. The mess your life has been.

Whatever family you had left has been ripped away from you. People who you thought were your friends…weren’t. So now, you sit in your apartment all day. Completely disillusioned.

You sit up again with a groan and stand up. The sky is dark but the lights from the city make up for it. You walk out of your room and to the living room. You step over the sleeping bodies and head towards the sliding doors that lead to your balcony.

There’s a figure standing in the dark and you already know who it is. You slide the door open slowly, just enough to slip outside. He doesn’t turn at the sound. Doesn’t flinch. He must’ve heard you coming. Or maybe he just knew it would be you.

You step out beside him, arms crossed tight over your chest against the chill. The city stretches in front of you like a sleeping beast, lights blinking in a slow rhythm. It’s almost peaceful. Almost.

“You always do this?” you ask quietly. “Stare into the void like a noir film extra?”

“Only on nights when I’ve bled on someone’s floor.” Bucky huffs a breath, the closest thing to a laugh you’ve earned all night.

You let the silence settle for a second, not quite ready to ruin it with something real. But then he shifts, leans on the railing, and speaks first.

“If I explain all of the New Avengers bullshit will you stop acting like a bunch of cameras are gonna run in and say you’re on our side?” He asks.

“Probably not but I’d love to hear what you have to say.” You laugh.

“She blindsided us. Valentina. We just finished handling all of the void stuff, thanks for your help, by the way,” He has to throw that in and be petty because you, in fact, didn’t help. “We were all disoriented and we didn’t even know she had that whole press conference and then she just…said it. And called us the New Avengers. None of us really wanted to be but it happened and now it feels impossible to step back from. Now that the people have run with it.” He sighs.

“I know we have our whole…’I don’t care’ thing with ourselves and each other but I hope you know that it’s not personal. Me not picking your side isn’t personal.” You look up at him.

“I know.”

You both stay quiet for a moment. It’s surprisingly comfortable. It’s slightly windy and cools your skin from where all of the people inside make your small apartment slightly warmer.

“I keep this apartment because Stark helped me pick it. He kept trying to help me get a nicer one but I wanted to do it for myself. So he came with me to look at all these apartments and he was asking the most insane questions to make sure it was safe. He even asked about the material this railing is made of and started researching it on the spot to see if it would ever break on me.” You tell him.

He’s quiet again, but it’s different now. More curious. You exhale, pressing your fingertips against the cold metal railing.

“Everyone used to think he gave up. Hiding in that cabin, playing house while the rest of the world burned. Sale with Barton. They resented them for that. For not picking the fight again. For wanting peace. But I never did. I think they might’ve been the only ones who got it right,” Your voice goes softer. “Living slow. Loving someone. Building something that wasn’t just another weapon or suit or cause. Tony had a daughter. A life. He chose it. I think that’s pretty brave.”

You don’t look at him, but you feel the weight of his stare. Like something’s shifted, not just in the night or the city air, but in him. In you.

“You’ve changed,” he says quietly.

“Everyone has.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re still sharp, still pissed off at the world, still smarter than most people in the room but you’re different. Calmer. Sadder, maybe.”

“And you’re not the same ghost that disappeared on me.” You meet his eyes.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in the dim quiet, and something passes between you, recognition, maybe. Not of who you were, but of who you’ve both become. Tired people, still standing. Still trying. Still hoping there’s more than just survival on the other side of it all. The lights from the city glint in his eyes as he looks back at you.

“You ever think about it?” he asks.

“What?”

“A different life. One where we weren’t… this.”

“All the time.” You lean on the railing beside him.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone when you say it.

“I think about it all the time. I think about running away, living somewhere quiet. Maybe doing something stupid like falling in love. Maybe having a family, I don’t know. I’m living so…not how I thought I’d be living right now. I just broke up with a guy because he bored me even though I never really gave him a chance because he doesn’t understand. Almost no one can understand all of this. I date guys I like sleeping with because I don’t have to think about much else when I have a boyfriend who’s good at that. But I don’t think I want to date like that anymore.” You admit.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He just listens, which somehow makes it worse. You glance down at your hands on the railing, your knuckles pale where they grip the cold metal.

“I think I’m tired of pretending I’m fine being alone,” you say finally, almost like it sneaks out of you. “I tell myself I like it. Being independent, being strong, being the person people run to when everything else falls apart. But I don’t want to be the fallback plan anymore. Or the clean-up crew.”

Your throat feels tight, but you keep going.

“I used to think loneliness made me sharper. Like if I kept people at arm’s length, I’d be safer. Smarter. I thought it made me strong. But it doesn’t. It just makes everything echo louder.”

You laugh, just once, dry and bitter.

“I have all this space in my life. All these empty days where I pretend I’m busy, pretend I’m choosing solitude when I’m just...scared. I come home and it’s quiet, and I sit in that quiet like it’s punishment. And I think, God, is this it? Is this all I get?”

You finally look at him, and it almost hurts how closely he’s watching you. Not with pity. Just understanding.

“I didn’t expect to say all that,” you murmur. “I haven’t even said it to myself.”

He shifts beside you, not crowding, not pushing, just there. Just solid. The one person who might actually get it.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think you’re braver than you think.”

“That’s a good one.” You scoff, but there’s no heat behind it.

“No,” he says, more certain now. “You could’ve shut the door tonight. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t. You helped. You stitched me up. You stayed.”

You glance back at the apartment, at the mess of people sleeping on your couches, the crumbs on your floor, the half-empty soda cans littering your kitchen counter.

“Yeah, well,” you whisper, “I’m starting to think maybe the only way through this mess is together. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s not perfect.”

He hums low in his throat.

“I think about it too. The quiet life. Some cabin up north. A dog. Something simple. Someone kind.” He turns to look at you completely. You risk another look at him.

“Think you’d be good at it?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’d try. And I’d want to try with someone who gets it.”

Your heart beats a little louder in your chest. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. But for the first time in a long time, the night doesn’t feel so cold.

“So…you’re a congressman now. Why?” You ask.

“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t think people would actually vote for me,” He shrugs, but there’s something behind it. Something heavier. “They called it service. Redemption. All these big words. But I think part of me just wanted to be useful again. Not dangerous. Not broken. Just…useful.”

You study his profile, his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his hands flex against the railing like they still remember a thousand orders he never gave himself.

“You are useful,” you say gently.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But sometimes I think I signed up just to punish myself a little longer. Stay in the fight. Stay tired. Stay guilty.”

There’s a silence between you that says I know what that feels like without either of you having to say it.

“I’ve done some terrible things,” he says quietly. “Things I remember now. Faces I see when I try to sleep. I spend most days trying to make up for something I don’t think I’ll ever fully pay off.”

You don’t interrupt. You just let him talk.

“And then I come here,” he says, voice lower now. “And you open the door. Stitch me up like it’s nothing. And then you talk about wanting something real, something quiet, and it’s like...I don’t know. Like maybe you and I aren’t as far apart as I thought.”

You look at him, really look this time. The vulnerability in his voice. The way he’s looking at you now, not like someone who needs a place to crash or a medic in a pinch, but like someone who sees something in you that you’ve been trying to bury beneath sarcasm and bad relationships and cheap popcorn.

“You’re not what I expected.” That slips out of him.

“What’d you expect?” You tilt your head.

“I don’t know. Someone colder. Angrier. Less…” He trails off, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second before he catches himself. “Less kind.”

“Kind?” You blink.

“You don’t see it, do you?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “You think being kind is the same as being soft. It’s not. You let people in even when you don’t want to. You helped me when you had every reason not to. That’s not weakness.”

His words sit in your chest like they’re taking root.

“I didn’t expect you either,” you admit. “I thought you’d be more guarded. More like...the ghost I remember.”

Bucky looks down for a moment, then back at you. His voice is quiet, but sure.

“I think I stopped haunting people the day I realized I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence. Long enough for you both to feel the weight of what’s not being said. And then he says your name. Soft. Careful.

You look up, and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, makes your breath catch.

“I think I’d be good at the quiet life,” he says again, slower this time. “If it was with someone like you.”

You’re still staring at each other when one of the soda cans clatters from the kitchen counter inside. The spell breaks. You glance away first, suddenly aware of how close he is, how warm the air between you feels. But he doesn’t move. And neither do you.

And even when you both go back inside, nothing’s the same anymore. Because for the first time, you’re both thinking the same thing: Maybe this isn’t just survival anymore. Maybe there’s something more.

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x reader

Helpless

summary: based off the hamilton song (i’m sorry and not sorry!!) you meet bucky barnes at a dinner party and it feels like falling fast. letters follow. jazz is debated.

warnings: none

word count: 3k

When Steve invited you to a dinner party despite being on the run, you knew you had to accept. You sided with Tony, mostly with Natasha but that’s neither here nor there.

So you put on your nicest clothes and prepared for a night of your old friends poking and prodding about your life. When you step into the small apartment, there’s soft music playing. Something that sounds vaguely jazz-ish, very Gatsby.

You take a look around before immediately spotting her. Your twin flame, the girl who quickly became your sister, Wanda. You gasp and she sees you at the exact same time.

“Wanda!” Your grin widens as she tosses her arms around you.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” She smiles and takes a deep breath.

“You didn’t think I would be?” You ask.

“Wasn’t sure. It’d be smart to assume this was some kind of trap and not actually a party.” She shrugs.

“Well…you always had the better half of our combined brain cells…so.” You laugh and pull away to really look at her. Wanda pulls away just enough to grab your shoulders and give you a once-over.

“You look good,” she says, clearly satisfied. “This’ll work.”

“Work for what?” You blink.

“Just…don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can protest, she disappears into the other side of the room, weaving through clusters of friends and rebels and war criminals alike. You frown, watching her thread her way toward someone tall and broad-shouldered in the corner.

And then, he turns.

You catch sight of him only for a second, but it’s enough. The noise of the party dulls in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest.

You’ve seen him before, you’re sure of it and yet, something about the slope of his shoulders, the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way he looks like he carries a hundred lifetimes of ache, it punches all the air right out of your lungs.

“Who is that?” you whisper, not realizing you’ve said it out loud.

And of course, Wanda hears you. She reappears like magic, smug as ever.

“That,” she says, “is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

“The Bucky Barnes? The Winter Soldier?” You gape at her. “He looks so…different.”

“Reformed. Mostly. And he’s gotten more sleep since the last time you saw him,” She shrugs. “Trauma bonding is very trendy these days.”

“Wanda-”

“I’m just saying,” she says innocently, “if you wanted to talk to him…now would be the time.”

“I don’t- what would I even say? 'Hi, I heard you were brainwashed for seventy years, wanna get a drink?'”

“Sure. Or just… smile. You’re cute when you’re panicking.” She giggles.

And before you can stop her, she’s already on the move again, walking straight up to him like she’s known him forever. Which, knowing Wanda, she probably has.

You watch in horror as she gestures to you. He turns to look.

Your breath catches again, because now he’s looking right at you, and you swear the whole room dissolves around you. The dim lights glow softer. The jazz gets louder, warmer. He nods once, almost shyly, and starts to walk over.

Oh no. Oh no.

You are, without a doubt, helpless.

You awkwardly pretend to look around the room and grab the nearest glass of champagne to throw back. Which you then choke on. Which leaves some dripping from your chin. So you have to wipe off as he comes up to you.

“Bucky, do I even need to introduce you two?” Wanda asks with another laugh.

“N-no, I remember you. From the airport.” He clears his throat.

“Of course, you remember. I have the same amount of grace now with this champagne as I did being smacked into a luggage…thing, whatever they’re called.” You lift the glass back to your lips.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Steve is calling.” Wanda lies before quickly wandering off.

“I thought you were…in Wakanda.” You look up at him.

“I thought you were off-planet.” He hums.

“I mean, I was. I kinda go where I want.” You shrug.

“If only.” He gives a small laugh that’s more of a scoff but still a win.

Then it’s silent for a second. And awkward. You look around again and set your glass down before looking back up at him.

“I never really liked parties,” he says suddenly, voice quiet but rich. “Too many eyes.”

“Too many opinions,” you add, smiling slightly.

“You too?” He tilts his head.

“God, yes,” You exhale, shifting your weight a little closer to him without even meaning to. “Especially when your friends are Avengers and think every party is a group therapy session waiting to happen.”

That earns a real laugh. Low and hoarse, like it doesn’t get much use.

“They mean well,” he mutters, looking down at his hands, then back at you. “But yeah. I get it.”

“You’ve got one of those faces,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“One of what kind?” He arches a brow.

“The tragic kind,” you reply. “Makes people want to fix you.”

He blinks. Then smiles, just a little, like it surprises him too.

“What kind of face do you have, then?” He asks.

“Apparently the kind that spills champagne and trips over my own feet.” You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant.

“A rare type,” he murmurs. “Hard to find these days.”

“So is someone who knows how to survive a century of chaos and still manages a smile.” You laugh, shaking your head.

There’s a beat of silence, something tender stretching between you.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good. Definitely good.” His eyes soften, like a storm settling into calm.

You’re about to say something else when the music shifts, a slower tune now, something soft and smooth that makes the whole room feel warmer.

“We don’t have to dance,” he says quickly, misreading your glance toward the record player. “I’m not really-”

“I was going to ask you, actually,” you interrupt.

“Why?” He looks surprised.

“Because,” you say honestly, “I’d rather be awkward with you than charming with anyone else.”

And when he hesitates, you gently hold out a hand. He stares at it. Then, slowly, deliberately, places his gloved hand in yours.

“Okay,” he says. “But I should warn you, I haven’t done this in a while. I’m probably gonna step on your feet.

“Perfect,” you reply, leading him to the middle of the room. “I’ve got two left ones anyway.”

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you. But by the time the song swells again, your heart is pounding like it’s keeping tempo with the music, and he’s so close you can see the flecks of blue in his eyes.

“You have nice eyes.” You say before you can think better of it.

He stares for a second, no one looking at him like you do in a long time.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You nod and a soft laugh escapes.

You observe him for a moment. The way he doesn’t meet your eyes. The way he dances as if it’s instinct despite what he says. Bucky seems confusing and complicated. He’s like a puzzle you want the chance to solve. But not to share with everyone, just for yourself. Just to know the whole picture.

He doesn’t know what to think of you. This ball of chaos thrown into his orbit by Wanda. When she told him there was someone he had to see, he didn’t know what to expect. It definitely wasn’t you. But then it was.

“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be,” you murmur.

“You’re louder than I thought you’d be,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief sneaking into his voice.

“Rude,” you say with a playful roll of your eyes.

“Not a bad thing,” he adds quickly. “It’s…grounding. Most people either talk at me or around me. You talk to me.”

“Me too. I mean, I don’t know if it’s because of the whole superhuman thing or if it’s because they think I’m on a high horse. Either way, I don’t have people flocking to talk to me.” You agree.

“Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

There’s a beat where neither of you speaks. Your fingers, still lightly interlocked, shift just a little closer together.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice barely above the music.

“Of course.”

“Why’d you come tonight?”

“Honestly?” You nod toward Wanda, still across the room pretending not to watch. “Because she said I’d miss something if I didn’t.”

“And have you?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes locking with his. “I think I would’ve missed this.”

His jaw tightens for a second, not in tension, but in that way people do when they’re trying not to show emotion too early, too fast. His gaze lingers on you like he’s trying to memorize something.

“You’re gonna be trouble,” he says under his breath.

“Me? Never,” you tease, but your voice goes soft.

The song starts to fade, replaced by the quiet hum of chatter and the distant clinking of glasses. You both let go, but slowly, like neither of you really wants to.

“Wanda said she was gonna change my life. And then brought me over here so…she’s plotting.” He says quietly.

“I’ve been known to be very life-changing.” Your eyes shine as you look up at him.

A Few Weeks Later

The compound is quiet. Too quiet.

You’re curled on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea when a knock comes at your door, just a light one. When you open it, there’s no one there. Just an envelope on the ground, thick and carefully folded, addressed in neat, blocky handwriting.

Your name.

You pick it up, heart already skipping. Inside is a letter. You could almost squeal but you hold it in. It’s like watching a teen rom-com when you run to the couch and tuck your knees to your chest while ripping open the envelope.

This back-and-forth has been fun. Your life gets exponentially better every time you see a letter from J. Barnes addressed to you.

The previous letters have mostly been life stories and things like that. With some mostly subtle flirting sprinkled in. You asked about his arm, he asked about your questionable parentage. There hasn’t been anything off-limits. But this one is immediately different.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who writes letters in the 21st century. Feels too slow. Too vulnerable.

But somehow, when I think of you, this is the only way that makes sense. A phone call wouldn’t cut it. You deserve better than a text message.

Wakanda is peaceful. Quiet in a way that gets under your skin until you realize you don’t have to be on edge all the time. I’ve been sleeping more. Dreaming more, too but you probably guessed that already.

I thought the world had stopped surprising me. Then I met you. You talk like the world’s ending but laugh like it isn’t. You ask questions no one’s ever asked me. You looked at me like I was someone worth knowing. You danced with me like it wasn’t a risk.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night we met. You made me feel like I was something more than a shadow. I don’t know what this is between us yet, but I know I want more of it. Of you.

If you’re still interested when I’m back, I’d like to see you again. Somewhere with less jazz, maybe. Somewhere you won’t spill champagne.

Yours (if you’ll have me),

Bucky

You lose it.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a sobbing-into-the-couch-cushions kind of way. But in the way where your heart physically skips a beat and your entire face goes warm, and you press the letter to your chest like some Victorian heroine who just received word from the front.

You grin so hard it hurts. You reread the letter three times. Then a fourth, just to make sure the line “I want more of you” wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t.

You should probably wait to respond. Play it cool. Be mysterious. You set the letter down and walk into the kitchen like a normal person would.

Then you walk back. Pick it up. Reread the part about your laugh. Walk away again. Fail. You carry it around the room with you like it's a fragile, glowing thing.

That continues for almost too long. You watch a video, reread the letter. Look at the window for five seconds, reread the letter.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hear Wanda saying “Told you so.”

You consider calling her. You consider yelling for her even though she’s not here.

Instead, you do the only logical thing. You grab your favorite pen. And some very pretty, very impractical stationery you bought ironically two years ago. You sit down at the desk, heart hammering, and…you’ve got nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s like a 1940s dream man, writing you letters which is something no modern man has done or will do. You feel like you should be insanely poetic and write him some kind of Shakespearean-style poem or something near there. But with the life you’ve had as before and during being an Avenger, it’s hard to open up. Hard to say something with your heart.

You stare at the paper. Tap the pen once. Twice. Think about writing something Shakespearean again and immediately want to vomit.

You write:


Dear Bucky,


 Then you cross it out because it sounds too formal. Then you write it again because anything else sounds like too much. Or not enough. You try again.


Bucky,


 Okay. Better.

You pause. Chew your lip. Think about being brave. Then you write:

Bucky,
 You can’t just go around saying things like "I want more of you.” I have remnants of a heart. It’s fragile. Prone to dramatic flailing.

I’ve been rereading your letter like it’s going to vanish if I blink too long. So thanks for that. Thanks for writing it at all.

I don’t always know what to say. Or how to be soft on purpose. That’s probably obvious by now. But you make me want to try. This is weird. I’m a weird person and I’m sure you know that by now but I don’t know how to do this.

But I don’t know. I like you a lot. I liked being normal with you for a night. Not being some borderline bipolar flight risk disguised as a hero. I liked how you looked at me like I was more.

So yes. I’m still interested. So very, very interested. For whenever you come back.

Yours (already, if I’m being honest),
 Me

P.S. How do you not like jazz? You should be all about that considering…you know. Sorry? Maybe I’m not sorry? I don’t know.

A few weeks later, it’s complete chaos. You got basically dragged to Wakanda for what felt like armageddon.

Technically, you volunteered. Sort of. More like you told your friends, “If you’re going, I’m going,” and then found yourself on a plane full of people preparing for a fight no one entirely understood.

And now, you're here. Suit scuffed, hands already scraped raw, adrenaline screaming in your veins as you sprint across the Wakandan fields, trying not to die. Energy blasts cut through the air, smoke thickens with every second, and your lungs burn from running and fighting and running again.

You don't know what exactly you're up against, only that it’s endless. Crawling things with too many limbs, teeth like razors, and no mercy.

You punch, you duck, you barely miss being gutted, and somewhere in the middle of all that, you see him.

Not in a dreamlike way. Not with a halo or in slow motion. No, it’s way too brutal for that. He’s fighting like hell. His arm, the new one, glints as it catches the sun between blows. His face is dirtied, jaw clenched, hair pulled back sloppily, eyes focused. He looks- God.


He looks good.


Strong and fast and calm, like war is familiar but he’s somehow not lost to it. Like he chose to fight this time, and it makes all the difference.

Your heart nearly trips over itself.

Then he turns just slightly, and for the briefest second, he sees you too. And it’s not just recognition, it’s relief. Like seeing you here somehow makes the world less apocalyptic. Like your presence counts as hope.

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t. None of you can. Not now.

But you hold each other’s eyes for a beat longer than you should. Until something hisses too close and you both snap back to action.

Later, when you’re back to back, covering each other with practiced ease, like maybe the universe meant for this, you let yourself speak.

“What assholes, am I right?” You joke, gesturing to the weird creatures with an eye roll.

“That’s an understatement, doll.” He gives a dry laugh. Just one breath of it. But it’s real.

“They look like my ex.” You giggle as you slam your blade into something snarling.

“Getting your past anger out?”

“You know it.”

He smiles because he’s not sure if you’re serious or kidding. It’s weird to see him again in person after mostly talking through the letters. But it’s still him.

“Still don’t like jazz.” He calls out to you over the sound of shots coming from his gun.


“You’re hopeless.”


“You’re still cute.”

You barely have time to register that before there’s another wave. No time for softness now. Just blood and dirt and survival. But even in all this noise, this madness, you're tethered. To the space between his letter and yours. To the way he looked at you like you were more.


To the unspoken promise that if you survive this, there’ll be time to finish what you started.

Or not.

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x oc

True Blue

Chapter 3: Say It

summary: Post-Endgame, everything’s fractured, worlds, teams, people. Bucky Barnes is trying to figure out what freedom even means, and Bianca Delgado, the most powerful Avenger no one really talks about, is hiding from the fallout of her past. She’s sunshine and sharp edges, a walking contradiction with too many secrets behind her smile. He’s quiet and coiled, still fighting ghosts in every shadow. Neither of them is looking for someone. But they keep finding each other anyway.

featuring: late-night training sessions, reluctant vulnerability, Thunderbolts playing chaos matchmakers, and two tired people learning how to be a little less alone. takes place post thunderbolts pre thunderbolts post credit scene

warnings: none

word count: 4.1k

 

 

“And Ms. Delgado, what do you think about these ‘New Avengers’ moving into where the Avengers used to reside? Or better yet, how do you feel about the man who killed Tony Stark’s parents living in what used to be Stark Tower?” A reporter asks, the press conference going silent to hear her answer.

Bianca doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She’s standing in heels, blazer crisp, mouth painted a shade too bold for a press conference but perfect for a fight. She leans into the mic slowly, deliberately.

“I think if Tony were here, he’d be more worried about the fact that the world is falling apart, again, than about real estate.” She clears her throat.

A few scattered murmurs ripple through the crowd. The reporter opens his mouth, but she cuts him off with a lift of her hand.

“And as for the rest of your question,” she continues, voice cool and unshaken, “the man you’re referring to is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He was brainwashed, tortured, and forced to do unspeakable things for over seventy years. And he’s spent every second since trying to make things right. I don’t agree with the ‘New Avengers’ but to bring that up now is completely irrelevant and a little rude.”

She lets it hang a moment. Her eyes sweep the room like a silent dare.

“If Tony could look past it, so should everyone else. It was a fight when that…fact came to light but it’s over now so there’s nothing to discuss there. Next question.” Her eyes waver ever so slightly as she looks at Sam.

“Ms. Delgado, what exactly is your problem with the New Avengers? Is this going to be another civil war and if so, whose side are you on?” Another reporter asks.

“This is not another civil war, this isn’t a war at all. And the problem isn’t personal, I’ve met them all and think that they are good people, mostly, who have good intentions,” Bee starts, choosing her words carefully. “But intentions don’t automatically make you qualified. And they don’t erase consequences.”

The room stills. Cameras click. One reporter raises a phone to capture her more clearly. She doesn’t look away.

“The world’s unstable. The multiverse is cracking. We don’t need symbolism, we need experience. We need leadership that knows how to survive chaos without creating more of it,”

  She doesn’t mention names. Doesn’t have to.

  “And for the record,” she adds, “I don’t pick sides in hypothetical wars. But I don’t follow people just because they’re loud or shiny or trending. I follow people who bleed for others and don’t ask for applause.”

Her voice drops a little at the end, but it carries. There’s a beat of silence. Sam shifts slightly behind her, expression unreadable. Bianca breathes out through her nose and adjusts the mic again.

“We have no direction and the ‘New Avengers’ were very obviously a political strategy and nothing more. They can do good things but not like this, not right now. Not when they were formed by a crooked politician trying to save her ass. She didn’t form the team for the American people, she barely even formed the team. She just claimed she did because she ran out of options and honestly? The Avengers shouldn’t be political in the first place.” She says strongly.

 

“Why do I feel slightly insulted and in awe of her at the same time?” Ava squints as they all watch the TV.

“Because she’s a real Avenger and not part of whatever game we’re playing.” John scoffs.

Bianca leans back toward the mic, steady as ever.

“And let’s just be honest,” she continues. “The Avengers weren’t perfect, but we chose this. We bled for it. We weren’t drafted by a poll or assembled in a PR office. We weren’t picked to fix a politician’s approval rating. We showed up when it was messy. When there was no glory. When half the world was dust.”

Her eyes flick out across the crowd again, sharp, unwavering. She’s not raising her voice, but it’s louder now somehow. Like truth cutting through the static.

“So no, I don’t trust a team formed out of desperation, wrapped in shiny branding, and built on the assumption that the public won’t notice the strings being pulled. I don’t trust a leader who thinks a press conference is the same thing as a mission briefing.”

  She looks toward Sam, just briefly, and then back to the press once she sees his smile.

“I’m not here to make enemies. I’m here to make it clear that saving the world isn’t a marketing strategy. It’s sacrifice. If they’re ready for that, good. But they shouldn’t expect anyone to follow them just because they got a new logo and a flashy name.”

She steps back from the mic. Doesn’t wait for applause. Just folds her arms and stares down the cameras.

The TV plays, the broadcast finishing with talking heads scrambling to reframe Bianca’s statements. But none of that matters. The silence in the room speaks louder. Ava sinks deeper into the couch, arms crossed.

“Okay. That was... intense.”

“She basically called us amateurs,” John mutters.

“No,” Red Guardian grins, holding back a laugh. “She said the truth. ”

“Why does it feel like she saw through us?” Yelena mumbles, flipping a knife between their fingers.

“Because she’s not wrong,” Bucky says from the doorway. Everyone turns to look at him. He’s calm. Maybe too calm. “She’s not trying to humiliate you. She’s trying to warn you. This thing you signed up for? It costs. You don’t always see the price right away. But she has.”

“And what, you’re on her side?” Ava raises a brow.

“There are no sides. People are dying and other universes are seeping into ours. We aren’t equipped to handle this no matter how much we want to pretend. And honestly? If Valentina didn’t put me in this position, I wouldn’t be here. Sam is Captain America, I promised myself I’d always follow that shield and now what am I doing? This is stupid.” Bucky crosses his arms.

“So what, we just quit? Walk away because some girl in heels made us feel guilty on TV?” John scoffs under his breath.

“She’s not some girl ,” Yelena cuts in, voice low. “She’s been through more than most of us combined. You think she talks like that because she wants attention? No. She talks like that because she already tried silence, and it didn’t work.”

Bucky glances at her, grateful but still grim.

“She’s not trying to make us feel guilty,” he says. “She’s daring us to be better. And the worst part? She’s not even mad we’re here. She’s mad no one told the truth about why we’re here.”

“What if she’s right? What if this is all just…optics?” Bob speaks up.

“Then we stop playing pretend. We make it real. Because if we don’t, people get hurt. Again.” Alexei speaks up.

No one speaks for a long moment. The screen still shows a paused frame of Bianca, standing with her arms crossed, defiant and unshakable. Unapologetically honest. Ava breaks the silence first, her voice quieter now.

“She made us look like kids dressing up in someone else’s armor.” She sighs.

Yelena glances back at the screen.

“Then maybe it’s time we earn it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at Bianca’s face on the screen, and somewhere deep in his chest, he feels it like gravity. When did she become this person?

 

 

“Oh my god, I sounded so cool!” She squeals and jumps around Sam.

“You did sound pretty cool.” He laughs.

“Angry but cool, right? Because I meant everything I said. I hate when my job gets political because I’m still struggling to understand American politics. I’ve lived in space most of my life so this is really confusing.” She tells him.

“You just stood in front of a dozen cameras and basically accused a U.S. senator of puppeteering a superhero task force, and this is what you’re worried about?” Sam raises an eyebrow, still chuckling.

“Yes! Because now people expect me to keep talking like that and I don’t always have the words. Sometimes I just get mad and yell things and then regret them two hours later in the shower.” She flops dramatically onto the nearest couch.

“You didn’t yell.”

“Not out loud.”

  “You were honest. That’s what mattered.” Sam sits beside her, softer now.

“Do you think I was too harsh?” She exhales slowly, the post-adrenaline crash settling in.

“I think you were the only person in that room telling the truth like it didn’t scare you. And sometimes that does sound harsh. Doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

She turns her head to look at him.

“You’re a really good friend, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles.

 

 

Bucky practically camps outside her door waiting for her to come home. Waiting for Bianca takes as long as paint drying because she gets distracted by everything. It amazes him constantly that her ability to get easily distracted combined with her forgetfulness and clumsiness hasn’t killed her yet.

He hears the elevator doors open and he straightens up.

“There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando,” She sings straight out of the elevator and doesn’t stop when she sees Bucky. “They were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando.”

“Bianca.” He says as calmly as he can.

“Though I never thought that we could lose, there's no regret,” She sings and begins to dance around him and she’s suddenly singing directly to him. “If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando. If I had to do the same again, I would, my friend, Fernando.”

She ends her dramatic serenade with a bow, nearly trips over her own feet, and lands in a half-crouch right in front of him. Bucky stares.

“Hi.” Bianca grins up at him, not even out of breath.

“You okay?”

“I crushed that press conference,” she declares, popping up again and spinning once for good measure. “Also I accidentally insulted like half the government. So... possibly wanted for treason.”

“I saw,” His voice is even, but his eyes are unreadable as she unlocks her door and saunters in. “You meant every word.”

“Yeah.” She looks at him more seriously now, shrugging off her blazer and tossing it over the back of a chair. “I meant it. You know I did.”

There’s a pause. The tension shifts. Bucky watches her carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether to thank her or scold her, or maybe both.

“You didn’t have to say my name,” he finally says.

“You didn’t deserve to be dragged through the dirt either,” she replies, crossing her arms. “It’s not just about you. It’s about the kind of world I want to protect. One that forgives.”

That lands heavier than she meant it to. The room goes quiet.

“I meant what I said too, by the way,” she adds more quietly. “If Tony could look past it, everyone else should be able to too.”

He studies her for another moment. Then he moves closer, slowly, until they’re only inches apart.

“You always say things like that,” he murmurs. “Like it’s easy.”

“It’s not easy,” she whispers back. “But it is simple.”

They’re both still, standing in the low light of the hallway, her makeup slightly smudged, his jaw still tight from everything he doesn’t say.

“You’re never allowed to sing at me like that again,” he says dryly.

“Too powerful?”

“Terrifying.”

“Just be glad it wasn’t Broadway.” She smiles.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“See you around, Sergeant.” She does a funny little salute before going to shit her door but he stops her.

“Wait,” He puts his hand on the door. “I’m going to train again tonight. If you wanted to come with.”

 

 

“And the pieces fall into place.” Yelena smiles as she watches the hallway footage.

“Oh, come on, they’re just friends. If that. Their dynamic is weird.” John leans forward to try and see.

“Okay. I’ll probably head down. But don’t wait up, I have to talk to my publicist. She’s pissed.” They hear Bee say through the speaker.

“And you remember that it’s training, not therapy, yeah?” He teases but with a serious tone so she doesn’t take it that way.

“Right. Sorry.” She nods before turning away.

“Oof, Barnes is a fumbler.” Bob hisses.

“No, no, you don’t get it,” Ava says, eyes locked on the screen. “That was him trying.”

“Trying what?” John asks, still skeptical.

“To ask her out. Or, you know…connect. Emotionally. In his very specific, deeply repressed winter-soldier way.” Yelena nods knowingly.

“Wow. So that wasn’t just about push-ups and punching bags,” Alexei says, reaching for popcorn someone definitely didn’t offer him.

On screen, Bianca disappears into her apartment and Bucky just…stands there. In the hallway. Like a man who’s already regretting not saying more.

“He likes her,” Bob says like it’s a breakthrough.

“Everyone likes her,” Ava mutters.

“I agree with John, he doesn’t like her like that. Not yet anyway.” Alexei shrugs.

“Do you think they’ve kissed?” John asks suddenly.

“If they had, we’d know,” Yelena says dryly. “The air would be different. The Earth would have tilted. Bucky Barnes kissing anyone voluntarily would disrupt the entire gravitational pull of the planet.”

They all go quiet for a second.

“We are so weirdly invested in this,” Ava murmurs.

“What are you guys doing?” Bianca randomly appears behind them and Yelena quickly closes the screen.

“Watching…um, Love Island.” Bob nods.

“Oh, okay.” She says plainly.

“Where did you come from?” Ava asks.

“Portal. I can’t find my phone anywhere. I need to call my publicist.”

Bianca starts to look around with everyone’s eyes on her. She’s still a mystery to them all. They know the fame stuff about her. They know most of her backstory. They know that the Avengers took her in when she was a 17-year-old runaway, coming down from space. They know she has two sisters and one of them was brutally murdered by her father.

And they obviously know all about her father. But they don’t know about her personality at all.

She lifts one of the couch cushions and shakes it out with zero hope. Then checks under the popcorn bowl. No phone. She doesn’t notice how quiet everyone’s gotten. Not yet.

“You guys didn’t take it, right?” she asks distractedly.

“No!” they all say a little too quickly.

She squints at them, suspicious but tired. There’s glitter on her cheek and a scrape on her knuckle. Somehow she still looks like she just walked off the cover of a magazine.

“You okay?” Yelena asks carefully.

“I’m always okay. It’s my most annoying trait.” Bianca shrugs.

She flashes a quick smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she kneels to check beneath the coffee table.

“She says that like it’s a joke,” Ava whispers under her breath, “but I don’t think it is.”

“She’s been through a war,” Alexei mutters.

“More than one,” John adds.

Bianca suddenly straightens, triumphant. When they turn back to see her, she’s lifting the couch up with one hand and she just picked her phone up from under it.

“Ha! Got it. Under the couch. Of course.” She smiles.

“You’re like…really strong,” Bob tells her.

“My dad used to make me sword fight and train all day every day. I wouldn’t be allowed to stop training with my swords until my hands were cracked and bleeding. I’m one tough cookie.” She shrugs with a smile and walks away as if she didn’t just leave everyone horrified.

“She always acts like none of it touched her,” Bob finally says.

“Because if it did, she wouldn’t be able to move,” Yelena mutters. “That’s how people like us survive.”

“You think Bucky knows?” John leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“He knows. Not everything, maybe. But enough. That’s why he looks at her like that.” Yelena looks at him, her expression unreadable.

“Like what?”

“Like he’s afraid she’s going to shatter. And he’s even more afraid she won’t.”

 

 

Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing. Waiting for Bianca like an idiot. He paces back and forth, occasionally punching the heavy bag like it’s going to give him answers.

He hates how restless she makes him feel. He hears her before he sees her, soft humming, a tune he doesn’t recognize. Maybe something from the '80s or something she made up. It’s always a coin toss with her.

She strolls into the gym with mismatched socks, hair in two loose braids, wearing sweats that don’t match. Her phone’s tucked under her arm, and she’s still texting someone as she enters.

“Nice of you to show up,” he says, though there’s no bite in it.

“I was emotionally unraveling,” she replies casually, tossing her phone onto the bench. “And also I couldn’t find matching socks.”

He watches her stretch out one leg, then the other, like she didn’t just casually mention emotional unraveling in the same breath as socks. She always does that. Lays the truth down like a punchline.

And this girl in one Snoopy sock and one Rapunzel sock is confusing him.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat.

“Yep.” She cracks her neck and stands. “Ready to get beaten up? Being a superhero is really weird.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” He sighs, widening his stance.

“Your balance is all off, that’s your issue.” She tells him as she lunges at him.

“Oh really? Maybe it’s because I have a huge metal arm attached to my body.” He groans.

“You’re not using your core,” she says, circling him.

“I have a metal arm , not a metal abdomen ,” he shoots back, dodging her next hit.

“You could’ve just said thank you for the free coaching,” she teases, ducking under his swing and tapping his side with two fingers. “That would’ve been more polite.”

“I don’t do polite when I’m being bullied,” he grumbles, already sweating.

“You think this is bullying? Bucky, please. I haven’t even made fun of your grumpy little warm-up playlist yet.” She grins.

“There’s nothing wrong with Johnny Cash.” His eyes narrow.

“There’s nothing wrong with Johnny Cash,” she mimics in a deep voice, lunging again, this time, he catches her wrist.

For a second, they’re both frozen. His hand wrapped around her arm. Her eyes dart up to his. It’s not the grip that stops her. It’s the way he’s holding her like she’s breakable.

“Don’t do that,” she says, quieter now.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m gonna fall apart.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

  Instead, he lets go gently. Too gently. She exhales and takes a step back.

“I’ve seen you lift a car with one hand,” he mutters, looking away. “And I’ve still never met anyone more fragile.”

“I’m not,” she says softly.

“I know,” he replies, even softer.

  Another long pause. The gym hums with silence. Somewhere far away, a vent clicks on.

“Training. Not therapy. And anyway, Bob Dylan is better.” She tells him before going for another hit.

“Three times a week,” she repeats, shrugging mid-punch. “And somehow I’m still like this.”

She jabs again, and this time he dodges with a low grunt.

“Isn’t that excessive?” he mutters, trying to sound casual but clearly stunned.

“Depends on your trauma rating,” she says breezily, ducking low and swiping his leg out from under him. He hits the mat with a thud.

“I’m what they call a gold-tier mental health crisis. High maintenance. Lots of feelings. And swords.” She offers him a hand.

He takes it but doesn’t let go right away when he’s back on his feet. His fingers curl slightly around hers before he realizes it and lets go.

“You make jokes about it,” he says, not accusing, just observing.

“Yeah. It’s that or scream into a void.” She glances at him. “You should try it sometime.”

“I scream internally,” he deadpans.

“Classic.” She snorts. They circle again, slower now.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says suddenly.

“Mean what?” She blinks.

“That thing I said. About you being fragile.” He clears his throat.

“Yeah, you did. But it’s okay. You didn’t mean it like an insult.” Bianca tilts her head, not smiling for once.

“I meant…” He exhales like the words are heavy. “I meant that sometimes I forget how much you’ve been through. Because you walk around like you’re fine. Like none of it touched you.”

“It did,” she says. “But I don’t want it to be the only thing people see when they look at me.”

He nods. Quiet again.

“You know,” she adds after a beat, tossing him his water bottle, “for a guy who says this isn’t therapy, you’re weirdly good at it.”

“Don’t tell my therapist,” he says.

“Three times a week, Barnes. Come on. Live a little.” She smirks.

“Maybe once.” He grunts.

“That’s the spirit.” Bianca brightens. She throws a towel at him. He catches it, but she’s already walking away, braids bouncing, mismatched socks padding across the mat like it’s a runway.

And all he can do is stand there, towel in hand, watching her like he’s still trying to figure out how she’s real.

“I can do a cartwheel, do you want to see?” She giggles before doing it anyway, doing a double cartwheel across the mat to him.

He just stares for a moment. Sometimes he wonders what her squirrel brain sounds like. She’s smart, very intuitive, but her brain probably sounds like a bouncy ball in there.

“Let’s go again.” He sets his water down.

“Round two: Metal vs. Mayhem.” She says in a video game announcer voice and he can’t help but smirk.

“Metal vs. Mayhem?”

“Our team-up name, Metal and Mayhem. Isn’t it sick?” She asks as he stands closer to her.

“Metal vs. Mayhem?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Bianca grins. “You’re Metal. Obviously. And I’m Mayhem. Because, well-” she gestures to her entire self: mismatched socks, braids, glitter still faintly on her cheek. “Look at me.”

“I don’t hate it,” he says as they take their stances again.

“Careful, that almost sounded like affection.”

They start slow, feints, blocks, light jabs. She’s quick. He’s precise. It’s familiar now, like a rhythm they’ve settled into. A quiet kind of trust.

“Don’t go easy on me just because I did a cartwheel,” she warns, ducking under his swing.

“I’m not,” he says, then adds, “you’re annoying.”

“That’s my other superpower.”

They trade a few more blows, Bucky flipping her over and onto her back but she hits the weak spot behind his knee and he’s down with her. She grabs onto his shoulder and flips him back over.

“I have night terrors.” He admits as he gets on one knee to get in another hit that she blocks.

“Don’t we all?” She pauses, unsure if she heard him right. He shakes his head slowly.

“Not nightmares. Night terrors .”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just moves, blocks, pivots, and ducks under his arm. But her expression softens. They circle each other again. Sweat starting to form at their temples. Breathing heavier.

“I’ve started waking up screaming,” he says suddenly, barely above a whisper. She stumbles, not from a hit, but from the weight of his words.

“I don’t even remember falling asleep. But I wake up yelling. Like I’m back there. With them. Hydra.” He doesn’t stop.

Bianca lowers her hands, but he doesn’t. He keeps his guard up like he’s scared of what happens if he drops it.

“I feel the chair under me,” he continues, his voice rough. “The restraints. The cold. I can hear them prepping the needle. And I can’t breathe. It’s like it’s still happening.”

She steps forward slowly, gently pushing his arm down.

“Is that why you don’t sleep?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.

He nods once.

“I get it,” she says. “I used to wake up screaming too. But I didn’t have anyone to tell.”

“You still scream?” he asks, like he’s surprised.

“Sometimes,” she admits. “It feels so real. Like I’m back in the weird tube thing I’d be in getting my ‘enhancements’, whatever they were. It’s like I can still feel them removing parts of me and putting in the better parts. Or sometimes I’m back fighting my sisters. Whichever one of us won would get to eat for the night. I always won. But we’d go back to my room and we’d share. I remember one time we got caught. We didn’t eat for almost two weeks.”

They stand there a moment. Still catching their breath. Still technically in a sparring stance, but neither moving.

  Bianca raises her fists again.

“C’mon, Barnes. Round three.”

“Metal and Mayhem?”

“Versus our trauma.” She nods.

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x oc

True Blue - Series Masterlist

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✧˖* *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✧˖* *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✧˖*

you say you’re a winter bitch but summer’s in your blood, you can’t help but become the sun.

summary: Post-Endgame, everything’s fractured, worlds, teams, people. Bucky Barnes is trying to figure out what freedom even means, and Bianca Delgado, the most powerful Avenger no one really talks about, is hiding from the fallout of her past. She’s sunshine and sharp edges, a walking contradiction with too many secrets behind her smile. He’s quiet and coiled, still fighting ghosts in every shadow. Neither of them is looking for someone. But they keep finding each other anyway.

featuring: late-night training sessions, reluctant vulnerability, Thunderbolts playing chaos matchmakers, and two tired people learning how to be a little less alone. takes place post thunderbolts pre thunderbolts post credit scene

warnings: descriptions of sparring/fighting? eventual smut, PTSD, slight age gap but not relevant to the story

Chapter 1: Stay Open

“I didn’t come here to fix you. I came here because I know you better than I know those guys and I needed a minute to not put up as strong of a front.”

Chapter 2: I Know You

“I’m not. But Barnes is annoying and stuck up so he needs to get laid. And I think he needs to get laid by a pretty ball of sunshine.”

Chapter 3: Say It

“So no, I don’t trust a team formed out of desperation, wrapped in shiny branding, and built on the assumption that the public won’t notice the strings being pulled. I don’t trust a leader who thinks a press conference is the same thing as a mission briefing.”

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x oc

True Blue

Chapter 2: I Know You

series masterlist

summary: Everything’s fractured. Worlds, teams, people. Bucky Barnes is trying to figure out what freedom even means, and Bianca Delgado, the most powerful Avenger, is hiding from the fallout of her past. She’s sunshine and sharp edges, a walking contradiction with too many secrets behind her smile. He’s quiet and coiled, still fighting ghosts in every shadow. Neither of them is looking for someone. But they keep finding each other anyway.

featuring: late-night training sessions, reluctant vulnerability, Thunderbolts playing chaos matchmakers, and two tired people learning how to be a little less alone. takes place post thunderbolts pre thunderbolts post credit scene

warnings: none

word count: 7k

 

“You didn’t get her on?” Valentina raises her voice.

“You know you don’t control us- anyone right now, right?” Bucky laughs.

“You didn’t even fight her on it, you just let her say no.” She groans.

“Great to know you’re such a warrior on consent. Was anyone recording that?” Yelena asks. “That’s going public so fast, please tell me someone-“

“And you commissioned a fucking soup from the most powerful being in the-“ Valentina continues on.

“Lay off, I met her before she was whatever you think she is now. I’m not gonna treat her like a loaded gun I have on hand for use whenever I want. If you want to go upstairs and talk to her, you’re more than welcome to. But I promise you, she’s slamming the door in your face.” Bucky tells her.

Valentina opens her mouth, probably to fire off another cutting remark, but Bucky cuts her off with a look that’s pure Winter Soldier: cold, unimpressed, final.

“Soup or no soup, I’m not dragging her back somewhere she doesn’t want to be.” Bucky continues.

“She’s a strategic asset-”

“She’s a person. ” Bucky continues.

“Fine,” she grits out. “Let’s regroup. Bob? Thoughts?”

Bob glances up from his tablet. He’s sitting in the corner, legs crossed, sipping a La Croix.

“Well,” Bob says calmly, “considering she didn’t incinerate Bucky on sight, I’d say that’s a soft maybe for future recruitment. She just told him to get bent.”

“I want solutions, not optimism.” Valentina glares at him.

“Optimism is a solution,” Bob replies cheerfully.

“God, you’re weird.” Bucky snorts.

“Thank you.” Bob salutes with the La Croix.

Yelena leans over the back of the couch, looking toward the ceiling like she can sense Bianca pacing upstairs even now.

“You know what…I will go talk to her. Right now. The least she can do is talk Sam down from suing.” Valentina turns sharply as her heels loudly click down the hallway and to the elevator.

The room stays quiet for a beat after the doors close behind her. Then Bucky stands slowly, a strange little glint in his eye.

“Hold on,” he says, heading toward the nearest console.

“What are you doing?” Yelena raises a brow.

“Just checking if something still works.”

  He taps a few keys, navigates a mostly-forgotten Stark Industries interface, and speaks to the air like he used to do on missions he didn’t want to remember.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., show me the camera feed from floor thirty.” He says calmly.

There’s a beat of silence, and then the holographic screen flickers to life, casting a bluish glow across the room.

“Creepy surveillance footage. This is the good old days.” Yelena whistles low.

“Do we do this a lot?” Bob leans forward, intrigued.

“No,” Bucky says, “but for her, I make exceptions.”

On-screen, the elevator dings open on the thirtieth floor. Valentina strides out like she owns the building, which, knowing her, she might’ve tried to. She marches up to Bianca’s door and raises a fist.

“Here we go,” Bucky mutters.

Valentina knocks, three times. Firm.

Impatient.

Nothing.

She waits. Knocks again, this time louder.

Still nothing.

“She’s not answering,” Bob observes, needlessly.

“She’s ignoring her,” Yelena corrects, smirking. “Like a god.”

On-screen, Valentina steps back, visibly bristling, and knocks a third time. The door doesn’t open for a moment and when it does, it’s a wide swing open.

Within an instant, Valentina has a full blade to her throat and Bianca just looks more brooding than Bucky, which is shocking.

“What do you want?”

Valentina freezes, her usual smugness flickering into something more brittle. Bianca doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Her expression is ice-cold, her posture relaxed in the way that says: this is not the first time I’ve held a knife to someone’s jugular today, and it might not be the last. Downstairs, Yelena lets out a sharp exhale of a laugh.

“Oh my god, I love her.”

“Holy shit,” Bob whispers, absolutely enthralled. “She didn’t even hesitate. ”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you get audio?” Bucky asks.

“Already streaming, Sergeant Barnes.”

The faint hum of hallway noise fades up as Valentina slowly raises both hands, not out of fear, but calculation.

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” She says but there’s a slight gulp.

“Well…at least we know she’s not trying to kill Valentina.” Bob hums.

“How do we know that?” Yelena asks.

“She’s not using her powers.” Bucky answers.

“No,” Bianca says simply. “You knocked three times. I gave you three chances to leave. This is your fourth mistake. No one in the Thundernuts is welcome on my floor.”

“Thundernuts?” Alexei gasps.

“Thundernuts?” Valentina says at the same time.

“I told her not to go up there.” Bucky, watching intently, mutters under his breath.

“I came to talk.” Valentina regains some of her edge. Or at least attempts to. But nothing makes you flinch anymore after your father murdered your sister for a stone that helped kill half of the universe. Briefly.

“You don’t talk. You negotiate, and you leverage, and you threaten. I’m not in the mood for any of those tonight.” Bianca’s blade doesn’t waver as she tilts it up higher and closer.

“I’m offering you purpose.”

“I have purpose. It just doesn’t include being a glorified fire extinguisher for your shady little black-ops team,” she replies flatly.

There’s a pause, Valentina clearly weighing her options. Eventually, Bianca steps back. Just an inch. The blade lowers a fraction. Her other hand appears in the frame, holding a familiar-looking folded note.

“Here,” she says, tucking it into Valentina’s coat pocket with the kind of flair that’s both mocking and terrifying.“A nice little rejection letter for your archives. Now leave.”

Valentina’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t say thank you. She just turns, walks briskly back toward the elevator, and disappears inside. The feed cuts out.

  In the silence of the common room, Bob claps once.

“Ten out of ten. No notes.”

“She wrote a note, ” Yelena adds, laughing now.

Bucky doesn’t smile, exactly but there’s something warm and solid behind his eyes.

“That stupid fucking bitch, that dumb whore.” Valentina grumbles with her arms crossed.

“Shut up,” Bucky quickly looks to her. “Seriously. Shut up and go home.”

“That fucking skank is not only rude but-“ Val starts before there’s suddenly a wide portal opening above her head.

That’s when a grand piano drops on top of her like a house on a witch. She’s fine, she’s alive and barely unscathed. But the wind has been knocked out of her. Then they see Bianca’s face come over the portal as she pretends to look shocked.

“Whoops.”

“Did she just- did she Wizard of Oz her?” John speaks up for the first time since this all started.

“Eleven out of ten. Immediate revision. She’s our leader now.” Bob is already halfway out of his seat, clapping again.

Bucky just stares at the spot where Valentina was standing a moment ago, now obscured by a grand piano. He slowly turns to the screen still flickering with static as the portal fizzles shut.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., please confirm that wasn’t a hallucination.” He clears his throat.

“Confirmed, Sergeant Barnes. The object appears to have been remotely summoned from a locked showroom at Steinway & Sons, Midtown Manhattan.”

“Of course it was,” Bucky mutters.

The sound of wheezing rises from the floor as Valentina struggles to sit up, one arm flailing uselessly from beneath a shattered ivory key.

“She pianoed her,” Alexei says, looking absolutely delighted. “I haven’t seen a drop like that since Stalingrad!”

“I’m filing an incident report.” Valentina groans.

“Tell them how the girl you tried to manipulate weaponized music against you. Very poetic.” Yelena saunters over and peers down at her, cheerful as ever.

“This is assault.” Valentina glares at her through strands of hair.

“Technically it was gravity,” Bob offers helpfully.

“Besides,” Bucky adds, folding his arms with far too much serenity, “you did call her a skank.”

The elevator doors begin to close, but just before they do, a little note flutters down from the ceiling and lands squarely on Valentina’s chest. She snatches it and opens it.

“No means no.”

And a kiss mark, smudged, like it was stamped on in real lipstick.

Valentina screams. Yelena leans back toward Bucky, smirking.

 

Bianca doesn’t enjoy being mean necessarily. Only when people really deserve it. And that bitch downstairs REALLY had it coming.

She’s been described by those who know her closely as a ray of sunshine. A shot of espresso. A rainbow after a storm. But apparently, to Valentina, she’s a bitch, a whore, a skank, and probably a calculated hoebag.

She doesn’t take pleasure in holding blades to people's throats but it’s the most entertained she’s been today.

At least until she looks at her phone.

Incoming Call: Sam W.

Bianca doesn’t hesitate to answer when she sees it’s Sam. Bianca’s name is usually the first to come up when people ask who is going to lead the Avengers now. But she doesn’t feel anywhere near qualified, she feels like a dumb twenty-something. Sam is a lot more put together and if no one can make her laugh, Sam can.

“Hey, what’s up?” She answers, setting her sword down on the counter.

“They all moved in?"

“Yeah. So far? More trouble than it’s worth.” Bianca sigh.

“Have you…talked to them?”

“Uh…just Barnes. He came up here yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Just Barnes,” Sam repeats, dry as a desert.

Bianca doesn’t answer right away. Just crosses to the fridge, pulling out an energy drink with one hand while she balances the phone with the other.

“Don’t do the tone, Wilson.”

“I’m just saying,” he says, “out of all the government goons now squatting in Avengers Tower, you only had a heart-to-heart with the one who is most actively against me.”

“He asked me to join his team very nicely,” Bianca says, cracking the can. “Didn’t even pull a gun. You’d be proud.”

“He asked you to- ugh. I’m not proud. I’m exhausted. I’ve got lawyers breathing down my neck, a PR disaster in the making, and Valentina’s name trending next to ‘piano violence’ on Twitter. I assume that’s you?” He asks.

“She insulted me.” Bianca sips. “Also the piano was on sale.”

“Jesus, Bee. I’m already in enough trouble for not publicly endorsing their ‘New Avengers’ rebrand, and now it looks like I can’t even keep my people civil.” Sam exhales heavily.

“Oh please. I’m not your people, we have no people,” Bianca replies, gently but firmly.

Silence on the line. It stretches long enough that she almost wonders if he hung up.

“Politics. Strings. You know how it goes.” He says quietly.

“Yeah. I do.” Bianca closes her eyes, leans against the counter.

“Look, I’m not calling to guilt you,” Sam adds. “I’m calling because there’s a press conference next week. About the future of the Avengers. And I’d really like you standing next to me when I tell the world we’re not letting some bootleg antihero ensemble co-opt the legacy we bled for.”

Bianca doesn’t say anything at first. She presses the cold can to her temple.

“They’ll paint me as unstable,” she says.

“They already do,” Sam answers honestly. “But if you show up? They can’t ignore who you really are.”

“And who’s that?”

There’s a beat.

“A girl who dropped a Steinway on a state-funded warlord and still answered my call,” Sam says, half-laughing now. “A damn Avenger, Bee.”

She exhales, long and tired. But her voice is softer now.

“Send me the details.”

“You’re coming?”

"No promises,” Bianca says. “But I’m listening.”

“What would Tony or Steve or Natasha tell you?” He asks.

“Tony and Natasha would probably be on your side. Steve would follow Barnes to hell if he had to.” She shrugs.

“Yeah…” He sighs.

“Anyway, I guess I’m gonna need an outfit.” Bianca heads straight to her room to get her shoes on.

“Don’t dress too flashy, be professional.” He laughs.

“When am I not?”

“Every damn second you’re alive.”

 

 

Bianca heads downstairs in peak Avenger disguise that is a hat and sunglasses. She has a denim skirt that is just above her mid-thigh with a Billy Joel sweater over it. The elevator opens to the lobby where the Thunderbolts are standing a few feet away.

They immediately gasp and some of them dare to step closer.

“Look, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. I just couldn’t help myself, it was like Wicked. I had to drop that piano in her,” She immediately defends herself. “I won’t do it again. Probably.”

“You’re like…really pretty. In real life. Not that you’re not pretty online, you’re gorgeous online, I follow you on Instagram! You’re just prettier in person.” Bob rambles.

“Oh. Thank you.” She smiles, not knowing what to say.

“And she’s totally badass. Don’t apologize for hitting Val with a piano, that was great.” Yelena adds:

“And the Billy Joel sweater makes that make a lot more sense.” Ava adds.

“Anyway,” Bucky clears his throat. “Remember I told you guys not to bother her?”

The room goes still for a beat. Everyone glances at each other like they just got caught sneaking cookies out of the jar.

“But she came downstairs ,” Ava argues, hands raised. “This is technically neutral ground.”

“She spoke first ,” Alexei adds quickly. “She apologized. For the piano.”

“Also,” Bob pipes up, “you never said don’t compliment her. That’s just basic manners. And admiration.”

“You’re all impossible.” Bucky sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

“Thank you,” Bob grins, thinking it’s a compliment.

“Wait! You must be Yelena, I heard a lot about you,” Bianca quickly turns to her. “And Alexei, yeah? I’m Natasha’s friend. Kind of, she treated me more like a daughter or a niece or something in between.

“Maybe a younger cousin?” Bob says quietly.

Yelena’s eyes soften for a moment because ever since her sister died, no one has said “I’m Natasha’s friend. ” Lately, it’s just been “I was” or “I used to be.”

It catches her off guard.

Bianca doesn’t seem to notice the weight of it, she’s already rambling with her hands in her sleeves like she’s nervous and caffeinated, all at once.

“She taught me how to knife-fight. Said I was too flashy. Which, rude, but fair. And she gave me this one lecture about how I needed to stop trying to save people who didn’t want to be saved, which was also fair. She was so smart. But she always made it feel like a compliment when she insulted you, you know?” She continues.

“Yes. That is exactly her.” Yelena blinks, her expression a little stunned. Bianca beams, like she just won a game she didn’t realize they were playing.

“Cool. Validation.”

“If Natasha liked you, then I like you. That is law. You are family now.” Alexei suddenly steps forward, puffed up like a proud Soviet pigeon.

“Oh, wow. Okay,” Bianca looks a little overwhelmed but she’s still smiling, cheeks pink. “Adoption speed-run. Love that.”

“So you and Barnes are…old friends?” Yelena asks and watches Bianca’s face slightly harden awkwardly.

“Friends? Um I mean I guess. Kind of. Not really. But in the line of succession, he’s now moved up really high in my list of friends/acquaintances because everyone else is either dead, off-planet, or left me.” She shrugs.

There’s an awkward pause. Even Bob stops mid-fidget. Yelena’s expression softens again, but this time it’s more knowing.

“Yeah. That tracks.”

“Anyway,” Bianca adds, clearing her throat and waving it off like she didn’t just casually drop a heartbreak bomb,

Bucky just exhales through his nose and mutters something suspiciously like “what fresh hell is this” under his breath.

“You didn’t tell us she was funny,” Alexei says to him.

“She’s not supposed to talk to you,” Bucky replies flatly.

“Then stop standing in the lobby like a divorced dad,” Bianca calls sweetly, already walking toward the front doors. “I came down here to grab coffee.”

“Can I come?” Bob blurts. “I mean- I know I’m not cool, but I’m respectful. I’ll walk two steps behind. Like a Secret Service agent. Or a respectful duckling.”

“A respectful duckling?” Bianca turns, grinning.

Bob nods solemnly. Bianca considers it.

“...Fine. But if you try to take a photo of my latte art, I’m feeding you to the espresso machine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Yelena watches the chaos unfold with an amused smirk and leans toward Bucky as Bianca and Bob head for the doors.

“Not friends, huh?” Ava adds first.

“I didn’t say that, she did,” Bucky says immediately.

“Your face is all-” Yelena grins widely and gestures vaguely at his extremely neutral expression. “Brooding but soft.”

“Go away.”

“She makes you laugh.”

“I do not laugh.”

“You almost smiled.”

“Yeah, well, we fought two wars together. I feel bad for her.” He shrugs it off.

“So now you’re gonna pretend it’s a pity laugh?” Ava raises an eyebrow.

“Whatever, I’m gonna go for a ride to clear my head after all of this.” He grumbles as he walks between them.

Yelena waits for him to leave before taking a quick pace around. Yelena waits until the doors shut behind him before turning to the group with purpose.

“Okay. So. New mission.”

“No.” Ava groans immediately.

“Hear me out,” Yelena says, hands already moving in animated gestures. “Barnes is cranky. Moody. Impossible. He needs to get laid.”

John chokes on his own spit.

“I thought this was about coffee?” Alexei frowns.

“It was,” Yelena waves him off. “But now it’s about morale. And community service.”

“Community service?” Ava echoes flatly.

“Yes. For the betterment of our team environment.” Yelena grins, almost too pleased with herself. “And because I am tired of watching him scowl at walls like the walls personally betrayed him.”

“So your solution is to...what? Get him a girlfriend?” Ava raises a skeptical brow.

“No,” Yelena says. “I’m saying maybe we get him a Bianca Delgado.”

There’s a beat.

“Ohhhh,” John nods, catching on with cartoonish realization. “Like, just enough Bianca to shake the cobwebs loose. Not, like, full-blown romance. More like...vibes.”

“Exactly,” Yelena says. “They know each other well enough for it to be hot because, you know, history. But also not enough for a friendship to be ruined. You heard her, they aren’t exactly friends but they trust each other.”

“If he finds out, we’re all dead.” Alexei points out.

“He won’t find out, it’s not like we’ll be obvious. Just a little push. She’s hot and he’s a guy, I’m sure they’ve already done it in his head.” Yelena tries.

“Okay, hold on, we need to reconvene after a short recess. I need to think about this.” Ava says with her hands up before walking off.

 

 

 

Bianca looks up and down at herself in the mall mirror. It’s pink, but sleek, and structured enough to pass for courtroom chic. If Sam saw it, he’d probably squint and ask if Barbie had joined the legal profession but she feels good in it. Classic. Confident. A little like a more stylish Jackie Kennedy.

“You’re like a more stylish Jackie Kennedy,” Bob echoes, holding his macchiato like it’s a fashion review paddle. “If she liked Legally Blonde and knew Krav Maga.”

“High praise,” Bianca grins.

There’s a beat of silence as she turns back to the mirror, smoothing her hair.

  Bob sips his drink.

“Hey…can I ask you something kinda weird?” He says without looking at her.

“That depends. Is it weirder than calling yourself a respectful duckling?”

“Possibly,” he says. “It’s about Barnes.”

Bianca pauses, glances sideways.

“Okay…”

“He doesn’t really talk to any of us,” Bob says, awkward but sincere. “Not in a mean way. Just...quiet. Closed off. But he talks to you . So...what’s he like? Like, really?”

Bianca blinks. She wasn’t expecting that. And she feels like the person least qualified to talk about Bucky as a person. That would be a Steve question or maybe even a Sam question. But Steve is gone and Sam wouldn’t answer the question. Wanda could answer this better but she’s…doing god knows what, god knows where. So could Clint or literally anyone else but it seems that Bianca’s the only one that can answer.

“Uh. Bucky’s...complicated.”

“I figured.” Bob nods. “But is he a good person?”

That makes her stop fully.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I mean, he doesn’t think he is. But yeah. He is. He’s loyal. And patient, even if he pretends he’s not. He’s better with people than he gives himself credit for. And he remembers everything, every detail, every hurt. Which is kind of the problem.”

“He let me ramble about my aquarium setup yesterday. Didn’t say a word. But then today, he left me a pamphlet on fish diseases.” Bob nods again, thoughtful.

“That’s him showing affection.” Bianca snorts.

“Yeah, I figured.” Bob smiles, then glances over. “You like him? I mean, I know you aren’t friends but do you have a good opinion of him.”

She hesitates, too long, really.

“I like that he remembers stuff. And that he listens. And that I don’t have to pretend with him,” She shrugs. “But that’s mostly because he witnessed my father’s rampage- uh, rampages. He saw the whole third act of my parental trauma so it’s not like I have anything to add on.”

“What trauma?”

“My father threw my sister off of a cliff for one of the infinity stones that took away half of the world, and that’s just one of the things he’s done.” She leaves Bob silent as she slips back into the dressing room.

 

 

The tower is silent when Bucky walks back in.

No greetings. No distant music or arguments echoing through the halls. Just the hum of the ventilation system and his own footsteps on cold concrete.

It’s comforting, in a way. The quiet doesn’t ask anything of him. He heads straight to the lower level, where the training rooms are. Not the main one with the fancy equipment and the observation glass. The smaller one, windowless, no mirrors, just reinforced walls and the kind of silence that doesn’t judge.

He shrugs off his jacket and drops it in the corner. Wraps his hands with muscle memory alone.

Punches the bag.

Hard.

Again.

And again.

Until the sound of leather on canvas is louder than the thoughts clawing at the edges of his brain. He’s angry.

At Valentina. At Sam. At himself. Sam took it personally, this whole Thunderbolts thing. Said Bucky was picking a side. But Bucky hadn’t even known there were sides, not really. He didn’t know Valentina would spin it like a recruitment coup. Didn’t know they’d brand him like some trophy. The good soldier, back in line.

He’d tried to explain. Sam wouldn’t listen.

“You always do this,” Sam had snapped the last time they spoke. “You shut down and go ghost, then pop back up with some new uniform and act like it's not personal.”

But it wasn’t personal. Or maybe it was. Maybe everything was. The punching bag swings wildly now, and Bucky catches it with his vibranium hand to steady it. His fingers flex. His chest heaves.

He doesn’t want whatever Valentina wants. He doesn’t even know what he wants. Freedom used to be the answer. But now he has it, and it feels like walking in circles. He’s not hunted anymore, but he’s not home either. Not with the Thunderbolts. Not in New York. Not with Sam.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the bag.

Maybe Bianca has it right, hiding away and taking a break. Unless she’s running but so what if she is? Maybe she knows something Bucky doesn’t. After all, she’s more powerful than him even at her younger age. Their biological age gap is only eight years but his birth year makes it feel much wider sometimes.

They have more in common than he thought but now his team is connecting with her more than him. Not that he’s been trying but still. All she had to do was smile and they were hers in a way.

Bob, Ava, even Alexei. They liked her. Trusted her. She wasn’t even trying, but somehow she fit like she’d been there all along. Like the space just opened for her. And she didn’t flinch when she took it. That’s what gets him.

Bucky’s spent years trying to figure out how to move through the world without breaking it. Careful with every word, every glance, every footstep. Like he’s made of glass and everyone else is made of paper.

But Bianca? She comes in like a sparkler on a gasoline trail and somehow leaves people brighter, not burned. She says weird shit and makes dumb jokes and bounces when she walks. And for some reason, that’s enough. No apologies. No explanations.

  He doesn’t resent her for it. Not really.

  But maybe he envies it.

The bag groans on the floor behind him, a sad, deflated lump. Same as he feels. He rolls his shoulder and reaches for his jacket.

They’re probably still out shopping. Laughing. Drinking something with foam and caramel drizzle.

He has half a mind to go for a ride. Clear his head. Or drown it out. But his keys are upstairs, and the elevator feels like too much effort. So instead, he stays. Sits on the bench. Rubs at his temple.

 

 

When she comes back to the quietness of the tower, it calms her. She waves Bob goodbye and heads back up to her apartment. Her quiet apartment. Her lonely apartment.

She used to love being alone but now it feels like she’s always alone. And it’s not her choice now. Bianca turns on the TV and it’s on the news. More multiverse problems, and more people grappling to recover from everything that happened with the Thunderbolts.

It keeps her up at night every time she can help and doesn’t. But it keeps her up more when she tries to help and can’t. She could’ve helped when The Void took over but she didn’t. She jumped off of the sinking ship. She never used to do that before, she always stayed on and put lifejackets on others or helped them into lifeboats.

But now? She just…bailed. The weight of that sits in her gut like wet cement.

  Bianca stares at the screen, but she’s not watching. She just listens to the reporter’s voice until it turns into white noise. Another headline scrolls across the bottom. Something about interdimensional instability. Another world bleeding into this one. Another day she’s not doing anything about it.

Her body still aches from the mission two weeks ago. Not physically, she’s long since healed from that, but something deeper. Her muscles feel fine. Her conscience feels bruised.

  She sighs and flops back on the couch. The silence creeps back in like it always does. The TV keeps talking, but it’s not saying anything helpful. Just more disasters. More chaos. More people looking for heroes.

She’s not sure she qualifies anymore. Her phone buzzes.

She thinks maybe it's Sam. Or Bob, maybe. But it’s not. It’s just a news alert. Another crack in the multiverse. Another reminder.

She puts it face-down on the coffee table and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the TV has changed to some late-night infomercial, cheap lighting, fake enthusiasm, and people selling exercise equipment that promises to “rebuild your life in thirty days.”

If only.

She shoves off the couch with a grunt and walks to the kitchen, flicking the light on. She doesn’t need anything, not really. Just can’t sit still. She pours herself a glass of water she won’t drink and leans against the counter.

It’s late. She needs sleep. But something pulls at her. She should get back into training before she gets rusty. Even if it’s almost midnight.

 

 

She procrastinates her whole time getting ready. She changes outfits twice, puts ice in her cup, and grabs her headphones before heading down. She sees Yelena and Bob fighting with the vending machine in the lobby, trying to get bags of mini Oreos.

“Here, hold on,” Bianca walks over and presses her hand to the glass, and within an instant, two little bags fall. “That’s what I always do but if you ever want anything and don’t want to pay, put in 4889. It’s the PLU for cilantro, it’s a little thing Tony put in for Avengers.”

“Wow, thanks, Bee.” Bob smiles.

“Bee?” Yelena hums.

“Yeah, everyone calls me that. I told Bob he could, all of you can.” She shrugs before turning around.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going?” Yelena asks.

“To train down the hall.”

“Oh.”

“Why?” Bianca asks, eyes narrowing slightly.

“No reason.” Yelena shrugs, too fast.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Bianca squints.

“I am an excellent liar,” Yelena replies, indignant. “But also, if you are training anyway, maybe use the lower level? Better equipment. Quieter. You’ll probably hear us doing karaoke if you stay up here.”

“You just said you’re a good liar, and that was your pitch?” Bianca raises an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying,” Yelena says, biting back a grin, “if you’re gonna start working out again, might as well go where the good stuff is. Lower level’s practically empty. Perfect for focusing.”

Bianca stares for a moment before remembering the karaoke thing and then she just sighs.

“Fine, I’ll be downstairs then.”

“Have fun, don’t work too hard!” Yelena calls as she walks away.

“We’re doing karaoke?” Bob asks with a wide grin after the door to the stairwell shuts.

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. She just watches the door Bianca disappeared through, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like she’s waiting for the universe to deliver something.

“No.”

“Then what was that?”

Then she turns to Bob with a completely straight face.

“That,” she says, “was matchmaking.”

“Wait, really ? You’re shipping them?” Bob’s eyes go wide. “Like on purpose?”

“I don’t ship people,” Yelena says, even though she absolutely does. “I conduct social experiments with long-term emotional benefits.”

“You’re literally playing wingman.” Bob looks skeptical.

“I prefer agent of romantic chaos ,” Yelena deadpans.

“You’re out of your mind.” Bob snorts.

“Possibly,” she says, grabbing a bag of mini Oreos. “But if this ends in a training room makeout, I’m writing a memoir.”

“You think they’d really...?” Bob watches the stairwell door a moment longer.

“You don’t see it yet, but he already looks at her like she’s the first real thing he’s seen in months.” Yelena grins, wicked and certain.

“That’s…actually kind of poetic.” Bob blinks.

“Thank you,” Yelena says, with zero humility. “Now come on. I told her we were doing karaoke, and now we have to go not do karaoke somewhere she won’t hear us.”

Bob nods, still watching the door like maybe it’ll swing back open.

“What if it actually works?”

Yelena’s already walking away, Oreo bag in hand.

“Then I buy them towels for their shared bathroom and pretend I had nothing to do with it.” She shrugs.

“I didn’t think you’d be such a romantic.” He smiles.

“I’m not. But Barnes is annoying and stuck up so he needs to get laid. And I think he needs to get laid by a pretty ball of sunshine.” Yelena gives the slightest laugh.

 

 

When Bianca walks in, Bucky is punching his life away into a hanging bag. He’s quick but sloppier than normal. He’s no Winter Soldier at this moment, he’s just Sergeant Barnes.

She steps into the room quietly, letting the door slide shut behind her with a soft click . Bucky doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps swinging, rhythm off like his mind’s somewhere else. His hits are hard but unbalanced, more frustration than form.

Bianca pauses, lingering by the entrance. She considers leaving, but then again…Yelena did go through the trouble of lying to her face. Might as well commit.

She doesn’t announce herself, just starts stretching near the weights, earbuds dangling from her hand. She keeps one eye on him though. It’s not often you get to see Bucky Barnes fall apart in real-time. After a minute, he finally speaks. Still facing the bag.

“You here to train or spy?”

“Depends. You got any good secrets?” Bianca doesn’t miss a beat.

Bucky huffs, might be a laugh, might be an exhale, and finally turns his head just enough to glance at her. Sweat clings to the edge of his jaw. His knuckles are red. His expression is unreadable, which usually means he’s thinking too much.

“You’re not usually down here this late,” he says.

“Yelena lied to me,” she replies, cracking her neck. “Said upstairs was too loud with karaoke.”

He makes a small sound of acknowledgment and wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. She does not look directly at the slice of exposed skin, but it takes actual willpower.

“I can leave if you want the room. Now I’m just wondering if that bag killed your family. Or betrayed you.” She hums.

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, finally turning fully to face her.

They stand there in the quiet for a moment. It’s not tense, exactly, just…suspended. Like neither one wants to be the first to admit they don’t actually want to be alone. Bianca sets her water down and grabs some hand wraps.

“You look like you’re trying to beat up your thoughts,” she says lightly.

“Maybe.”

“Are they winning?”

“Depends on the round.” His jaw ticks.

“Wanna spar instead? Might help to hit something that hits back.” She steps onto the mat.

“You’re sure?” He looks at her like she’s not real for a second.

“I can handle you, Barnes. Unless you’re scared.” Bianca shrugs, casual.

That gets him. His mouth twitches, almost a smirk. No one has been this bold when about to spar with him since before the metal arm.

“You asked for it,” he says, stepping forward.

And just like that, the tension shifts. Still electric. But now it’s moving. Tightening. Drawing them in. Because under the sarcasm and banter, they’re both a little broken tonight. And maybe that’s exactly what makes them fit.

“Can I ask you a question first?” Bucky asks as they stand only a few feet apart.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell is that little baby on your phone and why is it's ass out?” Bucky asks.

“It’s a Sonny Angel. He’s a baby. He’s a baby angel. He’s a cherub.” She shrugs.

Bianca blinks at him, caught off guard for a second. Then she laughs, light and startled like she didn’t expect that of all things to come out of his mouth.

“It’s called taste , Barnes. You wouldn’t get it.” She smiles.

“I just think if you’re gonna threaten to kick my ass, the little guy hanging off of your phone case shouldn’t look like a naked Pez dispenser.” He shakes his head, smirking now for real.

“Oh, you’re so not ready for what’s about to happen to you,” she says, stepping onto the mat and beginning to wrap her hands tighter. “Hope you like the taste of humility.”

“You spar like you talk?” He mirrors her, tightening his own wraps.

“Fast and a little unhinged? Absolutely.” She shrugs.

They circle each other for a beat, neither one striking first. Just gauging. Reading. Then she lunges.

He blocks. Counterattacks. They move fast, Bianca ducking under his arm, pivoting on her heel. He’s quicker, and stronger, but she’s unpredictable. Slippery. A blur of movement and sarcasm.

He gets the first hit in, a light tap to her ribs but she’s already laughing when she twists away.

“That the best you got, Grandpa?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

They keep going, not full speed but not pulling everything either. Controlled chaos. Somewhere between therapy and war. After several minutes, they pause. Breathing hard. Sweating. Close.

  Too close.

Bianca glances up at him, eyes still glittering from the fight. But something flickers behind them. Something heavier.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

She swallows and steps back just slightly, suddenly too aware of the air between them. Her voice is soft when she says, “You ever try to help someone and only make it worse?”

Bucky’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t answer right away. Bianca shakes her head.

“I was in Westview,” she says, almost too quietly. “I don’t think Wanda remembers it, or maybe she does and just...doesn’t want to. But I was in there.”

Bucky straightens slightly. His face shifts, shock first, then realization. He knows what that means.

“I didn’t go in to stop her. I didn’t want to fight her. I just thought...maybe I could reach her. One real voice in the middle of all that static.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs.

“I thought if I played along if I stayed long enough, maybe she’d see it was all fake and come back on her own. I stayed for weeks. Months in there felt like forever.” She laughs once, bitter.

He says nothing, but he takes a step closer.

“I almost had her,” Bianca continues. “Until that fake Pietro showed up. After that, she stopped listening. Started unraveling even faster. I tried one last time, cornered her in the house. Told her the truth. Told her she was hurting people. And she, she looked at me like I was the villain. Like I was the one tearing her life apart.”

She stops talking, breath catching in her throat.

“I didn’t fight her,” she says. “I should’ve. I just left.”

She turns her face away, blinking hard.

“And then the Hex came down and I felt everything all at once. All the guilt, all the power, all the people screaming in silence. I ran. Not just out of Westview. Out of everything .”

Bucky watches her, jaw tight. Then he says, “You didn’t fail her.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You tried to save someone who didn’t want saving yet. That’s not failure. That’s hope.” He tells her.

Bianca meets his eyes then. They’re soft. Honest. And something about the way he says yet sinks into her chest like warmth.

“You gonna hit me again or are we getting sentimental in here?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it’s not just amusement, it’s something gentler. Something grateful.

“I can do both,” he says.

And they square up again, closer this time. Not just sparring partners. Not just teammates. Something in the middle of being broken and being seen.

“You used to like Pietro, didn’t you? Steve said something about that once.” Bucky asks as Bianca jumps on him like a bug, holding onto his neck before he flips her around.

“I thought he was cute. And then he- you know, died like a day later.” She sighs. Bucky flips her easily, but she lands in a crouch, rolling her shoulder out as she rises.

“He never liked me back, by the way,” Bianca says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Pietro. The real one. I was just the weird girl who stared too long.”

“You? Weird?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

She throws a jab he dodges, but not fast enough, she clips his jaw.

“Don’t act surprised.”

“I’m not. Just trying to picture you all heart-eyes and shy silences.”

“Oh, there were no silences,” she grins, circling him again. “I told Wanda I liked her brother on like, day two. She never let it go. She said I had terrible taste,” He laughs, shaking his head. “And the Westview one, how’d you know he wasn’t real?”

She fakes left, then spins and catches him off-balance with a knee tap. He grunts as he stumbles, catching himself on the mat.

“Well, for one, he looked completely different. Like multiverse-was-smoking-crack different,” she says, breathless with motion. “And two…”

She pauses, catching his eye. Her tone shifts lighter, but edged with discomfort.

“He tried to kiss me in the kitchen.”

“What?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Exactly. That’s when I knew something was off. Pietro used to steal my food, not try to make out with me while I was making eggs.” Bianca throws her hands up.

“Jesus.” Bucky snorts, almost choking on a laugh.

“Yeah. I decked him.”

“As you should’ve.”

“I told Wanda after. She said maybe he just missed me.” Bianca pauses, her voice softer now. “I think…she wanted it to be him so badly, she didn’t care if it wasn’t.”

“I know that feeling.” Bucky nods slowly.

“You do?” She looks at him, curious but cautious.

“Wanting something to be real so bad, you ignore all the signs telling you it’s not.” He meets her eyes, steady.

They stand there again, still, but not at rest. Breathing hard. Holding tension in their shoulders that has nothing to do with the fight.

“You think she knew?” Bianca asks, voice small now. “Deep down?”

“Maybe. But knowing something hurts doesn’t mean you’re ready to let go of it.” Bucky shrugs.

“Yeah. I guess I wasn’t, either.” Bianca nods, slow. Then, a beat later, she tilts her head and smirks.

"You’re stalling again.”

“You’re the one who brought up alternate-dimension boyfriends.”

“I didn’t date him!”

“You almost did. In a kitchen. With eggs.” He shrugs.

Bianca lunges again, and this time when they collide, they both fall, laughing. Not because anything’s funny. But because the weight feels a little lighter now.

[simpforpeterp]

bucky barnes x oc

True Blue

Chapter 1: Stay Open

series masterlist

summary: Post-Endgame, everything’s fractured, worlds, teams, people. Bucky Barnes is trying to figure out what freedom even means, and Bianca Delgado, the most powerful Avenger no one really talks about, is hiding from the fallout of her past. She’s sunshine and sharp edges, a walking contradiction with too many secrets behind her smile. He’s quiet and coiled, still fighting ghosts in every shadow. Neither of them is looking for someone. But they keep finding each other anyway.

Featuring: late-night training sessions, reluctant vulnerability, Thunderbolts playing chaos matchmakers, and two tired people learning how to be a little less alone. takes place post thunderbolts pre thunderbolts post credit scene

warnings: none

word count: 3k

It was dark in Bianca’s apartment. That’s quickly become the new normal, her rotting away with nothing but old sitcoms on the TV. She sat on the couch, knees to her chest and her chin resting on her knees.

This wasn’t her initial reaction to everything. She had spent months parading around the world, traveling everywhere. She saw both sets of the Seven Wonders: ancient and new. She saw the Rio Grande, the Nile, the Rhine, and the Seine. All while ignoring calls from her friends, old family, and people she barely knew who needed her help.

She ignored Doctor Strange’s call when something apparently really important was happening, Thor’s voicemails filled her machine, and Shuri tried every means of communication to reach her but she was too busy surfing mid-breakdown in Oahu. Then there was Scott’s whole thing, the Guardians, something Carol needed her for, Sam was spam calling and texting for help while in DC and most recently, Bucky.

She took all of this as a sign to stop being publicly seen as a tourist. Being the current most powerful Avenger didn’t do much for discreetness. Especially when she couldn’t even ask someone to take a picture of her next to the pyramids without them posting it everywhere.

Ever since everything happened, after Nat, Tony, and Steve were gone, she hasn’t felt okay. She pretends as well as she can but it’s not always easy. Especially when the people who took her in at 17, the people who helped her find her footing, aren’t here anymore.

Bianca Delgado was born a normal girl. Her parents were addicts but that is nowhere near the wildest part. Most people don’t know about her biological parents but everyone knows about her adopted father. Especially after one snap of his fingers caused half of the world to disappear.

During one of his missions or conquests near Earth scouting for candidates or potential warriors to bolster his forces, he saw her suffering the consequences of her parents’ addiction. Thanos intervened, taking her from that life.

Unlike Gamora or Nebula, who were abducted as children and subjected to cybernetic enhancements, Bianca’s transformation was different. Thanos, fascinated by her human resilience, brought her aboard his ship and offered her a chance at survival and strength but at a cost.

He performed experimental enhancements, not full cybernetic conversion, but genetic modifications and energy infusions influenced by the Power Stone or his advanced tech. This granted her unstable and raw abilities. These changes also came with side effects, like uncertainty about her limits and the cost to her humanity.

Bianca was always the favorite because she was uniquely human in a sea of alien warriors and enhanced beings.

When there’s a knock at the door, she doesn’t get up to answer it at first. Not until ten more spaced-out knocks.

“Bianca, I know you’re in there. For god's sake, the TV is on.” A voice calls and she knows that it won’t kill her to answer.

“Come in!” She calls and instantly puts a smile on her face to hide the brooding.

“Ugh, your floor just has to be the highest and the elevators aren’t working,” Bucky complains.

“Well, that’s for a reason. Everyone who can fly has the higher-up floors just in case of that. And anyway, I thought supersoldiers could handle a few flights of stairs.” Bianca teases but Bucky doesn’t smoke.

“A few? Try thirty flights. Anyway, I just wanted to warn you, everyone’s moved in. I told them not to even go near your floor and not to bother you. Same for whenever the others are here but you know, you’re here more.” He clears his throat.

“They don’t have to avoid me like the plague. I just don’t want to be all buddy-buddy. What would Sam think?” She asks.

“Bianca-“

“I’m not trying to get in the middle of it. But the people want to know what I think. And honestly? If I have to pick a side, I think you know whose side I’m on,” She tells him. “This was the Avengers Tower. Before that, it was Tony’s. I don’t want to be mean to anyone but this whole ‘New Avengers’ thing is-“

“You’re just as opinionated as I remember,” He sighs and begins to pace. “Sam is suing us. Did you know about this?”

“Yeah, but I’m not getting involved in legal stuff. I don’t even want to be involved at all but I have to be. This is all getting too political for me.” She tells him.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stands there, the quiet between them stretching long enough that the sitcom laugh track on the TV hits another punchline without either of them noticing. Bianca clears her throat and reaches over to hit a button, muting it.

“So. What’s the verdict? You coming all the way up here just to scold me about staircases and politics, or is there something else?”

Bucky crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, then sighs like it physically hurts him to be here.

“You know, for someone who claims she doesn’t want to be involved, you sure seem to have a lot of opinions.”

“I’m a woman. With trauma. And powers I don’t fully understand. Opinions are all I have,” she says brightly, with that too-big smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

He doesn’t laugh, but the edge of his mouth quirks like he’s fighting one.

“I just don’t get how you can sit here when everything’s on fire out there.” He tells her.

“Maybe because the last time I tried to help, I ended up almost splitting a continent. And before that, I lit a Kree warship on fire with my hands. So forgive me if I’m trying the whole ‘non-combustible lifestyle’ for a bit.” She shrugs.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Right. It’s never my fault. It’s just always my mess.” Her smile falters, but she recovers fast. “Anyway, why are you really here? You could’ve just sent a raven or a threatening email like a normal assassin.”

“I missed your cooking.”

“Oh, please. You eat like a Victorian ghost.” She waves it off.

“You made that soup once. It was decent.” He shrugs.

“Oh my god. Was that a compliment?” Bianca perks up.

“Don’t push it.”

“Too late. It’s going in the memory bank, right between ‘thanks for saving my life’ and ‘you’re not the worst.’” She grins and stands up, stretching like a cat. “I have some stuff in the fridge. You staying for dinner or just here to warm my heart and leave?”

“I can stay.”

“Really?” She freezes, surprised for a beat too long.

“Yeah. If you’ve got that stew.” He nods.

“Wow. I must be really good at hiding my breakdowns if I’ve tricked you into thinking I’m mentally stable enough to cook.” She hums.

“You’re doing better than most of us.”

“That’s the saddest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” Bianca looks at him for a second, softer now.

“Still a compliment.”

And she laughs, genuine and loud, her head tilting back as she does. The silence between them now feels a little lighter.

“What soup are you talking about? The lasagna one?” She asks.

“Yeah, the one you made for Natasha that one time. Though, it’s hardly soup. More like watery lasagna. And that’s not an insult, it’s to the dish itself, not you.” He clarifies quickly.

“Well, you just called it a soup. And also you can say that about anything. Baked potato soup is just watery baked potato.” She shrugs.

“Why would you say that to me?” He says, deadpan.

“You’re more talkative than I remember.” Bianca turns to face him more.

“You’re the only person in this tower I’ve known for longer than a week.” He says quietly.

“Yeah…you too.” She nods.

He sits on a stool in her kitchen along the little bar-looking thing. She begins to move around grabbing stuff and he sits and thinks about how much she’s changed. She used to seem more young and naive. She still kind of does but not nearly as much.

“How old are you now?” He asks.

“Twenty-seven,” She tells him as she places a cutting board in front of him and a knife that looks like it’s part of a child’s play set with its pink handle. “You’re gonna help cut stuff.”

“I had a feeling,” He sighs as she puts a tomato in front of him. “Dicing?”

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet again for a moment as he does it. So she’s more of an adult than she was eight years ago, obviously. He remembers the way it felt like everyone was trying to take care of her as if she was some shared project. Especially Tony, acting like she was his daughter and also an angel sent from Heaven.

During the whole Civil War thing, she stood with him. That’s the only side of her he really knew until Thanos came. He knew parts of her backstory from Steve. Knew that she was one of three daughters Thanos had. That was the final crack in the glass and he didn’t trust her.

But now, after she fought against her own father and reconciled with Steve before he went back in time, Bucky feels bad not trusting her. And he feels bad for his team of “New Avengers” because he trusts this twenty-something-year-old woman more than them.

He’d trust her more than them to cover his back at least and not just because she’s more powerful than any of them. When they fought against Thanos for the first time, she had his back for real. She literally watched his back and fought beside him because he didn’t have any magic powers the way she did.

“So…are you gonna tell me about this new team you have going on? I’ve heard from Sam. He’s told me a lot. A lot of…not so good things. Is that your side too?” She asks.

“Well, you remember John Walker?”

“Blegh, the ‘New Captain America’ you told me about that one time you and Sam needed help?” She makes a face, her nose and eyes scrunching.

“Yeah, so there’s him because- because I’ve gone crazy or something. And then there’s…this Ghost girl-“

“The one Scott was talking about?”

“Yeah, her. And this new face, Bob. You haven’t been watching the news have you?” He asks, pushing the fully diced tomato towards her. And he knows she must trust him too because she handed a super soldier a knife in her apartment and then didn’t flinch when he pushed it and the cutting board back to her.

“Why would I do that? All the news ever does is give bad…news. Mostly about me or my friends or dead people or my friends who are now dead people but used to not be.” She rambles.

“You used to be a lot happier.”

“I am happy. But I don’t have a reason to act like sunshine the way I usually do when you’ll know it’s bullshit. I mean, it’s not always. I am naturally a really happy person, I’m easy to please. But I’ve just had a really hard time lately.” She shrugs.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. He watches her for a moment as she stirs something in a pot on the stove, her hair pulled back haphazardly, a mismatched pair of socks on her feet. She’s so…human. And somehow, that makes her seem more powerful than anything else.

“And then there’s Yelena and Alexei-“

“No fucking shit!” She gasps, her jaw dropping as she turns to look at him. “They’re here? Right now? Oh, god, Nat told me all about her old family. Especially about Yelena when we were talking about our sisters. And- huh, I guess me and Yelena have more in common now.”

“What do you mean? Because you know me?” Bucky can hardly follow her train of thought.

“No because…you know, my sister. Gamora. And her sister, Nat.” She can’t really bring herself to say it.

Bucky nods once. Not a big, dramatic gesture. Just enough to show he heard her. That he understands.

“I didn’t know you two talked about that kind of stuff,” he says after a beat.

“We didn’t, really. Not much. But when we did, it was…real,” She doesn’t look at him as she stirs. “She made me feel like it was okay to not be okay. Like…I wasn’t the only one with weird family trauma and impossible guilt.”

“You weren’t.”

Bianca lets out a soft breath that could almost be a laugh, but it’s too flat around the edges.

“Yeah, well. She made me feel like I could still be good. Even with everything I came from.” She continues.

“You are good,” he says, simple and steady.

“You don’t know that.” She finally turns to look at him again.

“I do.”

There’s a pause. Long enough that the bubbling of the stew fills the room. Long enough that Bianca’s eyes flicker. Bucky leans forward a little, resting his arms on the counter again.

“You ever think about coming back? Working with a team again?” He asks carefully.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps stirring, slow and steady. And that’s when it hits her that maybe he had ulterior motives in coming up here. And she just got worked the way targets do.

“She sent you, didn’t she?” She says with no hint of emotion in her voice.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, I just heard your voice shift like it does when you’re closing a deal.” She steps closer to him.

“I- look, Bianca, we’re a good team. But we aren’t great. All we have, minus Bob, is hand-to-hand combat and guns. That’s it. If there was a real Avengers level threat, you know as well as I do-“

“You must be fucking with me if you think I’d ever work for Valentina. If you think I’d ever- you- you don’t know me at all, Bucky. And it’s not like I thought you did but you are just so- ugh. I thought you understood what I was talking to you about for a second.” She presses her hands into the counter.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t argue, either.

“I didn’t come on her direct orders,” he says quietly. “I didn’t even tell her I was coming here now. She had a different plan, wanted me to corner you and pressure you into joining. But fuck, Bianca, I’m not a cult leader.”

Bianca looks at him, eyes sharp, searching. She doesn’t believe him yet. Not fully.

“So what? You just dropped in because you missed my lasagna soup and thought I might like to be guilted into superheroing again?” Her voice is bitter, but under it is something closer to hurt.

“I’m not trying to manipulate you,” He says it firmly, clearly. “You think I wanted to bring this up? I didn’t. I was gonna eat soup and sit with someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m broken glass. That was the plan. But then you asked. And I told the truth.”

Bianca lets the silence sit between them again, heavy and pulsing. Her jaw clenches, like she’s trying to keep everything in. Finally, she shakes her head and pushes herself back from the counter.

“I am broken glass,” she says, but it’s quiet this time. “And every time someone asks me to come back, to help out, to join a team, to fight, they act like I’m just a weapon they can un-shelve. Like I’m not someone who’s barely holding her shit together.”

“I don’t think you’re a weapon,” Bucky says.

“Well, maybe not right now. But ask yourself if you’d still say that if another war broke out tomorrow.” She says with a certain bite in her voice.

He doesn’t answer. That silence is enough. She exhales, tired now more than angry.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, brushing her hair back. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. But you don’t get to act like I’m just this missing puzzle piece you can plug into your messed-up team. I’ve earned more than that.”

“I know,” he says. And he does. Really.

“I don’t want to be someone’s secret ace or liability or symbol of redemption,” Her voice softens now, finally cracking. “I just want to be allowed to be Bianca. And right now, Bianca can barely cook dinner without feeling like she’s going to fall apart.”

Bucky stands up from the stool, but slowly. Carefully. He crosses to where she’s still half-defensively planted near the stove, and without touching her, he speaks.

“Then be Bianca. I didn’t come here to fix you. I came here because I know you better than I know those guys and I needed a minute to not put up as strong of a front. Don’t you think I- of all peso pls, know exactly what you’re feeling? I was literally a weapon on and off a shelf for DECADES. And I don’t want to make anyone feel like that but Valentina would have my head if I didn’t try,” He shrugs. “There’s a microphone on my sleeve, they all voted me to come talk to you sometime this week.

That hits her like a slow-moving train. She closes her eyes, just for a second.

“Fucking- come on!” She rolls her eyes.“I’m still not joining your shitty team, though.”

“That’s fair.” Bucky lets out a breath of something close to a laugh as he covers where she assumes the microphone is.

She turns the heat down on the stove, eyes still a little glassy but her smirk returning.

“But I will feed you because I’m actually starving too.” She sighs.

[simpforpeterp]

my biggest tip for writing fanfiction is to do character work for whoever you’re writing about as if you were going to play the character because in a way you are. with you’re writing you’re speaking for the character and attempting to use their distinct voice for a different story so if you’re serious about your story do character work! personally, i love answering uta hagen’s 9 questions but whoever i’m writing about whether it be the reader, my oc, or the actual character i’m writing fanfiction for.

uta hagen’s 9 questions - answer as the character:

1. Who am I? (Who are you? Identify name, age, physical appearance, personality, beliefs, like, dislikes, fears, and personal philosophy.)

2. What time is it? (Identify the year, date, and season. How does the time impact you?)

3. Where am I? (Identify the country, city, neighborhood, building, and room you are in at this moment.)

4. What surrounds me? (What is happening around you? What is the weather like? The people? The objects?)

5. What are the given circumstances? (Identify past, present, and future events in your life. How does it affect you?)

6. What are my relationships? (What are your relationships with other people in the scene? To objects? To events? How do you feel about the other people, objects in the room, and events that have led you here?)

7. What do I want? (What do you want right now? What do you want overall? The ultimate want? What do you need? In other words, what is your objective?)

8. What is in my way? (What obstacles keep you from getting what you want?)

9. What do I do to get what I want? (What actions do you take to get what you want, either physically or verbally? What tactics do you use?)

[simpforpeterp]

When it hits 9 pm and I pull out this combo:

Ps: I have severe writers block. Help

[simpforpeterp]

Schroeder x Lucy

Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Daydream Believer

summary: After a semester abroad and a broken engagement, Lucy van Pelt returns to her college in California and finds herself living across the hall from her childhood crush, Schroeder, the boy who never looked twice at her unless she was singing something off-key. Now he's older, quieter, and somehow still manages to get under her skin. He’s also suddenly interested in her...which would be great, if she hadn’t stopped waiting around for him.

warnings: none!

word count: 4.05k

September

Lucy tried and tried not to wait up for a call. She watched an episode of The Brady Bunch, made dinner, and sat by herself while wistfully staring out the window just like she always does. But through all of that, she’s been looking at the phone, waiting for it to ring.

She knows he’s gonna call. He’s curious by nature and it’s only a matter of when it eats away at him too much and he wants to know more about what she’s been up to. She paces back and forth in her apartment for a while before hearing a racket just outside of her door.

She rolls her eyes and walks over to look through the peephole and admittedly be nosy. She leans down to see and sees someone scrambling to pick up a bunch of things that fell out of a crate.

Lucy just sighs and opens the door.

“Need help with- oh, Schroeder, you’re here,” she says, more uninterested than he could’ve predicted.

He recognizes her voice immediately and turns to realize that he is right, it’s Lucy.

“Did you seriously find my apartment? Just because I haven’t called you yet?” he asks, tossing things back into his crate.

“What? No. This is my apartment, the place I just walked out of,” she gestures behind her. “Wait- you don’t live here, do you?”

“I do now. 2203.” he points to the door right across from hers.

“2204.” she breathes out her number.

They stay in silence as she bends down to help him put everything back in the crate. He looks up at her from his kneeling position on the floor. A part of him wanted her to have found him there to prove something to himself but he doesn’t know what it is.

She doesn’t say anything else as she picks up a stray composition book and slides it into the crate without comment.

Schroeder watches her from where he’s still crouched, one knee on the floor. Her sweater slips off her shoulder a little as she moves, and he remembers when she used to do that on purpose back in high school when she wanted his attention but played it off like she didn’t care. Now, it’s just a sweater. It’s not for him.

He swallows hard.

She’s right here. Knees inches from his, hair falling forward as she leans down, and still, it’s like he’s watching someone through a window. Like whatever version of her once looked at him like he was the center of the room like he mattered more than anything, that version’s gone.

And she doesn’t even seem mad. She’s not cool or detached in the way that invites a fight or begs for an apology. She’s just...indifferent. Casual. Like she doesn’t expect anything from him.

Like she doesn’t want anything from him.

The thought makes something in his chest twist, sharp and unfamiliar. It’s not heartbreak, exactly. It’s worse than that. It’s the ache of no longer being held in someone’s mind the way you used to be. It’s absence.

For a second, he’s fourteen again, sitting backstage with her in some stuffy gymnasium, and she’s holding his hand too tightly while whispering that he’s going to do great. For a second, he’s convinced if he says her name the right way, she’ll remember all of it.

But she just grabs the last pencil off the floor, sets it in the crate, and stands.

“There,” she says. “I don’t want to stalk you any more than you already think I have. Welcome to the building.”

And with that, Lucy turns around and disappears into 2204, the door closing with the softest click.

Schroeder stares at the crate for a long time before reaching in and pulling out the cigarette with her number. He doesn’t throw it away. But for the first time, he realizes he might not be the one who gets to decide what happens next.

Lucy gets comfortable on the couch again, sinking into the cushions and crossing her arms as she watches the TV. Schroeder living across from her feels funny. Almost like a slap in the face. This would’ve been the best thing to happen to her as a kid but after everything, after feeling so many bad things she never thought she’d feel, she can’t bring herself to care.

She’s gonna try and pretend it’s a self-worth thing. That she doesn’t care about a man who was indifferent to her a lot for the majority of her childhood. Even if he is cute and blonde. That doesn’t make her un-heartbroken because of her ex-fiancé who she sees around campus like a ghost. Or the fact that she had a slightly embarrassing summer fling with a tan Parisian boy who she made the mistake of telling Frieda about.

She reaches for the remote, thumbing the volume up absently. She’s not even watching the show. Just using the noise to drown out whatever stupid thing her brain is trying to feel. The phone rings.

Her heart jumps, but she doesn’t move right away. She waits for the second ring, then the third. By the fourth, she sighs and reaches over to pick it up, cradling it between her cheek and shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Why are you acting strange?” Schroeder’s voice cuts in immediately, no greeting, no hesitation, like the words have been pressing against his teeth all night.

“Excuse me?” She blinks.

“You’re being...different,” he says. “Towards me. Oh! This is Schroeder Felton, by the way.”

She lets the silence stretch out for a moment. As if he needed to tell her who it was, as if she didn’t know that voice anywhere.

“What do you mean, Schroeder?”

“You’re just- I don’t know, you’re not...”

She tilts her head and lets the quiet hang just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

“You mean because I’m not following you around like a puppy anymore?”

There it is.

“I- what? No, that’s not what I-” He falters. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, I- look, I just...it used to be easy. With you. And now you’re just... I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” She lets out a short breath of a laugh.

He doesn’t say anything. For a moment, all she hears is the faint rustle of the phone line and the muffled echo of her TV in the background.

“You thought I was gonna fall all over you just because you showed up, didn’t you?” she says softly. “You thought I’d still be that girl.”

“I didn’t-” His voice lowers. “I didn’t expect anything. I just thought maybe you’d be...happy to see me.”

“Schroeder, come on. I- I am happy to see you. I don’t have a lot of close friends here and it’s nice to see a familiar face but we haven’t talked in so long. And anyway, you used to hate me! You thought I was so annoying and now what? You think of me as a friend?” She asks.

“Yeah. I do. I never hated you. Seriously.” He tells her.

She sits for another moment. He’s one confusing guy. Lucy breathes out as she tangles the phone chord around her finger.

“Wanna watch TV? My favorite show is about to come on after another Brady Bunch episode.” She breathes out.

He pauses for a minute before looking around at his empty apartment.

“I should probably unpack first.”

“Need help?”

The next thing he knows, Lucy van Pelt is welcoming herself into the bland apartment. He shuts the door behind her and she only sees the crate on the counter and a suitcase on the floor.

“Is this…is this all you have?” She asks.

“Well, my piano is getting delivered tomorrow. But other than that, yeah. My bed is in there though! I just…don’t have any blankets. But I’ll live.” He shrugs, trying to smile as Lucy just stares blankly at him.

She lets out another large sigh as she turns to his crate.

“Good grief, Schroeder. You’re in your twenties and this is all you’ve got?” She accidentally laughs.

“Hey! Pianos are expensive. And anyway, I’m barely in my twenties,” he says, half-defensive, half-grinning. “I’m a minimalist.”

“You’re a disaster,” she mutters.

She walks past him into the bedroom like she owns the place. He follows behind slowly, watching her take in the bare mattress pushed up against one wall like it’s offended her.

“What size is your bed?” she asks, spinning on her heel to look at him.

“Uh…full?”

“Okay. Don’t move.” She nods once, decisive.

“What? Where are you-“ He blinks.

“I have spare sheets. And a throw blanket. And probably an actual mug that isn’t chipped.” She’s already halfway to the door. “Do you even have a toothbrush?”

“Yes?” He sounds unsure.

She stares at him.

“Okay, yes, but it’s still in my suitcase.”

“Unpack your toothbrush and clear off that counter. I’ll be back.” She tells him.

He watches her disappear into 2204 with the same stormy efficiency she always had when she decided something was going to be done her way. And maybe it should bother him, how quickly she slipped into this version of herself, the caretaker, the fixer, the girl who once carried Advil in her purse for other people’s headaches but all it does is make his chest feel full.

Ten minutes later, she’s back. Arms full. Sheets slung over one shoulder, a folded blanket hugged to her chest, and a bag of things dangling from her wrist. She kicks the door shut behind her with her foot like she’s been doing this her whole life.

“This doesn’t mean I like you again,” she says, brushing past him.

“Okay.” He tries not to smile.

She tosses the sheets on his bed and gets to work like it’s second nature. He stands in the doorway, useless, watching as she fluffs a pillow she brought and folds the blanket at the edge of the bed.

“Why do you even have all this?” he asks eventually as he moves to help her make the bed.

“My fiancé was getting ready to move in and he left all of his old bedroom stuff here. He never took it back.” She tells him.

“You’re engaged?” He asks.

“Was.” She says quietly as she smooths out the flannel sheets.

He doesn’t say anything else as they finish making the bed. It’s nothing fancy, just basic sheets and a throw that doesn’t match anything but suddenly the room looks like someone lives here. Like he lives here.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“You’ll owe me.” She shrugs.

“I always do.”

She doesn't reply, just drops the bag on his counter, inside is a clean mug, a travel-size toothpaste, and a roll of paper towels.

Schroeder looks at it all, then at her.

“You’re still kind of a hurricane,” he says.

Lucy pulls her sweater sleeve down over her hand and reaches for the doorknob.

“So…TV?” She asks and he accidentally nods too fast. He tries to play it cool, but it’s already out there.

Lucy smirks and leads the way back across the hall like she’s done it a thousand times. Her apartment is small but cozy, full of mismatched throw pillows and candles in various states of use. The kind of place that looks like someone lives in it and has for a while.

She flops onto the couch, grabbing the remote, and curling up like she’s been waiting for this moment all day. Schroeder hesitates for half a second, then takes the other end of the couch. He sits stiffly.

She notices.

Without even asking, Lucy shifts and stretches out her legs, socked feet finding their way into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Schroeder looks down at her legs, then up at her, like she’s just casually set a time bomb in his lap. She doesn’t seem to notice or she pretends not to.

“Don’t get weird about it,” she mumbles, flicking through channels. “You’re the only one here, so you get to be the footrest.”

“Right.”

The Monkees theme starts playing, loud and peppy, and Schroeder visibly recoils.

“Oh no,” he mutters. “This again?”

“Yes. This again,” Lucy says, wiggling her toes at him.

“This isn’t real music.”

“Of course it is,” she counters immediately, not even looking away from the screen. “Look at how cute Davy is.”

“That’s your metric for music? Cuteness?” He makes a sound of deep offense.

“No,” she says, smiling, “but it helps.”

Schroeder slouches lower into the couch, glaring halfheartedly at the screen as Davy Jones flashes his signature grin and starts singing something overly cheerful.

Lucy laughs quietly, shifting just enough to nudge her knee against his side.

“You’re so snobby. You play one Rachmaninoff concerto and suddenly everything else is trash.” She looks at him.

“I don’t think it’s trash,” he lies. She turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Okay, fine. It’s catchy. But it’s also objectively ridiculous.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” she says, softer now. “It doesn’t have to be deep to mean something.”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She’s watching the screen again, face half-lit by the flicker of black-and-white television, and he wonders how he ever forgot how loud she laughs when she’s not trying to impress anyone.

The weight of her legs in his lap is warm. Familiar. Dangerous.

He presses his palm against her ankle under the blanket, like it means nothing. Like he’s not sitting in her apartment, watching The Monkees.

They watch absentmindedly, Lucy slowly sinking further and further into the couch. Schroeder’s hand rests on her knee and it suddenly feels like they’re kids again.

Lucy’s eyes are slowly shutting as the channel changes to reruns of I Love Lucy. Schroeder doesn’t notice though, deciding to ask her a question.

“So…you were engaged, then?” He asks quietly and her eyes flutter back open.

Her eyes flutter back open, hazy with sleep and something else. She blinks up at the ceiling for a second before turning her head slightly toward him.

“Mm. Yeah,” she says softly. “I was.”

Schroeder doesn’t say anything at first. His fingers press just a little firmer into the curve of her knee, grounding both of them.

“What happened?” he asks after a beat.

Lucy exhales through her nose, slow and quiet.

“He was nice. Safe. The kind of guy you’re supposed to end up with.” She shrugs one shoulder beneath the blanket. “But I think we were both pretending. He wanted someone softer, less...me. And I wanted someone who wouldn’t leave.”

Schroeder doesn’t move. Just listens.

“It got messy at the end,” she adds, voice low. “France was a good excuse to run.”

Silence stretches between them, filled only by the laugh track of I Love Lucy and the quiet hum of the city outside her window.

“Sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I asked.”

Lucy nods. She shifts again, her legs sliding slightly in his lap as she curls onto her side. Her hand finds its way to the edge of his sweatshirt.

“You ever been in love?” she asks suddenly, almost absently. “Real love. Like…so much so that it made you feel nauseous and like your head would explode if you even looked at the person for one more second?”

Schroeder’s throat tightens.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.

“That’s not a no.” She hums.

He looks down at her, at the way she’s half-asleep and still managing to ask him things he’s never said out loud.

“I think maybe I was once,” he says after a moment. “I think I was just too young to understand what it was. What it meant.

Her eyes flicker open again, meeting his. Something heavy passes between them, an echo of a past they never quite figured out how to name. But she just nods once, closes her eyes again, and whispers,

“Don’t let me fall asleep here. I’ll slug you if I wake up with a crick in my neck.”She hums.

“Got it.” He smiles, just a little.

But he doesn’t wake her up. Not for a long time.

October

Lucy van Pelt was not ready for classes to start. Not ready for people to ask why there’s no ring on her finger anymore. So she tried to enjoy her last day of freedom to the fullest. She rearranged her entire apartment and made a smoothie, all while blasting The Locomotion.

Schroeder was more than ready. With him finally getting his shot at doing something big with his music, it feels like the stars are aligning.

“Spread out your fingers just a little more,” He leans down to try and move the fingers of the bratty kid he’s teaching. “We only have a few minutes left for this session, do you want to try and play the whole thing by yourself?”

The kid scrunches her face in protest.

“But my fingers don’t go that way.”

“They will if you practice. Like we talked about.” Schroeder exhales slowly through his nose.

“But I did practice!” the kid insists. “For, like, twenty minutes! That’s a lot!”

“You told me last week you practiced for five.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, I got better !” the kid says proudly, then slams both hands down on the keys to play something that sounds like Chopsticks if Chopsticks had fallen down the stairs. Schroeder visibly flinches.

“Okay,” he says calmly, standing up. “That’s all for today.”

“But we still have-”

“I said that’s all for today .” He’s already collecting his sheet music. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

The kid hops off the bench and zips out the door, clearly thrilled. Schroeder drops onto the bench and rubs a hand down his face, just before the rotary phone on the side table starts ringing.

“Are you done yet?” Lucy asks without a greeting.

“Yeah. Last lesson for the day:” He nods.

“I need music that won’t distract me, I need to write this article last minute for the newspaper and I’ve got nothing.” She tells him.

“Are we gonna relive the past if you come over and sit on my piano?” He asks.

“Mm, I probably won’t sit it on it. I don’t want it to break.” She tells him.

“Are you kidding? You won’t break the piano.” He tells her.

“Anyway, I’ll be over in a jiffy.” She tells him before the line goes dead.

He turns around and finds his place at the piano and his fingers rest on the keys. There’s something so easy about talking to her that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was and he just wasn’t as lonely as he is now.

When the door opens, Lucy doesn’t waste a second to set her typewriter down and get to it. Schroeder doesn’t need another second to start playing.

He notices the way she tries to casually interview him for this as if he won’t notice. She asks him questions about the Spring Arts Showcase and his role in it before quickly typing up his quotes. He doesn’t say anything though because he doesn’t mind it.

His mind is more at ease playing and hearing the typing noise.

The rhythm of the keys and her typewriter syncs into something strangely melodic, clicks and chords, the two of them building something quiet together.

For a while, that’s all it is. The music and the soft clatter of her fingers.

“You hungry?” Schroeder asks, letting a final chord linger.

“Starving. I skipped lunch for a meeting that could’ve been a nap.” Lucy pulls the paper from the typewriter and folds it in half.

“Takeout?” He laughs lightly and swivels on the bench to face her.

“Only if it’s Chinese,” She points a finger at him. “I want egg rolls.”

“You’re very demanding.”

“And you’re very agreeable.” She grins. “We make a great team.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his hand-me-down couch, a brown paper bag spread open between them. The room smells like sesame oil and soy sauce, and Lucy’s already unbothered by the lack of plates, picking at the carton of lo mein with her chopsticks.

Schroeder pulls out a corkscrew from the drawer and opens the cheap bottle of red he bought weeks ago on a whim. He pours them each a glass in mismatched mugs. Hers says “#1 Grandpa.”

“You really go all out,” she teases.

“I’m a man of culture,” he says, toasting her with it.

They eat in the flickering glow of the old floor lamp, knees brushing now and then without either of them pulling away. The window’s cracked just enough to let in a breeze, and for once, Lucy doesn’t seem in a rush to fill the silence.

Eventually, Schroeder leans back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, wine half-finished.

“You really think anyone’s gonna read that article?” he asks.

“Of course.” She flicks a noodle at him. “People are obsessed with you.”

“No, they’re not.”

“They are,” she insists. “You’re like this mysterious piano prodigy who only speaks in brooding metaphors and stares into space dramatically.”

“I do not.”

“You kind of do.”

He shoots her a look, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You ever miss how simple things used to be?” He asks quietly.

Lucy takes a sip of wine, eyes on the string lights above the window.

“All the time,” Her voice is softer now. Less biting. More honest. “But I also think things feel more real now. Even if they’re messier.”

He looks at her like he’s trying to memorize the way her face looks in this light.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

“Being in France for a semester made coming back feel like I’m coming back to the real world after being in…Barbie-land or something.” She admits.

“Hey, what’s Frieda tell me about your ‘hot Parisian boy’?” He asks.

“Ugh,” She rolls her eyes. “Summer fling. Doesn’t matter much.”

“So,” Schroeder says, leaning back on his hands. “Did you actually learn any French while you were over there, or did you just eat croissants and break hearts?”

“Excusez-moi, I did both. I didn’t go through Paris, Lyon, Annecy, Strasbourg, Dijon, and not learn anything.” Lucy grins.

“Prove it.” He says before she tilts her head dramatically, then slips effortlessly into perfect French.

“J’ai passé mes après-midis dans les musées, et mes soirées à me demander pourquoi je suis tombée amoureuse d’un idiot.” She says before taking a sip of her wine.

“Wow. Okay. I have no idea what you said.” Schroeder blinks.

“Good.” She smirks.

“You wanna hear real foreign language skills? I learned German.” He shakes his head.

“Let me guess, Beethoven?”

“Obviously,” he deadpans.

“Alright then, what’s your line?” Lucy leans forward, curious.

“Ich habe viele Jahre Klavier gespielt und-” He straightens up a little, and tries to summon a sentence.

“Do you know any German,” she interrupts, “or are you just faking it with musical vocabulary?”

“Do you know any German?” He glares at her.

She pauses, raises an eyebrow, and then, without missing a beat, clears her throat.

“Willkommen, meine Damen und Herren, Guten Abend, wie geht’s-“

“Cabaret?” He stares at her.

“I hate you.” She accidentally laughs.

“No, you don’t.”

“I really, really do.” She just grins and tosses a fortune cookie wrapper at his chest.

But before she can gloat, he lifts his chin a little, almost smug.

“Well then. Check this out.” He clears his throat and says almost too smoothly: “Bienvenue, étranger, je suis enchanté, reste bienvenue au Cabaret, mesdames et messieurs, bonsoir, comment ça va? Je suis votre compère.”

“You like Cabaret?” Lucy’s jaw drops.

“No. Not really.” He shrugs, already turning away.

“You’re such a liar.” She grabs a pillow and throws it at him.

“I appreciate the orchestration. That’s different.” He catches it mid-air, grinning.

“You learned a whole intro monologue for the orchestration?” She lowers her eyes.

“I was bored.” A beat. “Also it’s a good tonal exercise.”

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, but she’s trying not to smile.

He tosses the pillow back onto the couch, barely hiding his own grin.

“Willkommen to my tragic little life.”

[simpforpeterp]

Schroeder x Lucy

Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours

Chapter 2

Summary: After a semester abroad and a broken engagement, Lucy van Pelt returns to her college in California and finds herself living across the hall from her childhood crush, Schroeder, the boy who never looked twice at her unless she was singing something off-key. Now he's older, quieter, and somehow still manages to get under her skin. He’s also suddenly interested in her...which would be great, if she hadn’t stopped waiting around for him.

Warnings: None!

Word Count: 3.7k

Chapter 1: California

California is rarely cold and rarely scalding hot. The leaves are never crunchy or brown, even in September. Students are still surfing before class and walking around shirtless as the sun beats down with the wind contrasting to the heat. It’s very different to France, where Lucy van Pelt had just spent the last semester and summer.

It rains there more often than depicted in movies and books or even songs. But it was beautiful and now she’s back on campus and everything feels different.

The walk to her barely off-campus apartment is just as sunny and bright as she remembered. Her shoes click against the sidewalk as she lifts her sunglasses to rest perfectly on her head.

She’s barely home and there’s already so much to do.

Like hand out flyers and find her megaphone for the rally she’s throwing tomorrow. Step one, after putting her bags in her apartment and heading straight back out, is to head to the library to make copies of the poster she made on the plane.

Her Mary Janes makes her stride feel quicker and much more academically charged as she walks into the library.

“Lucy!” Her Vice-President, Monica, calls. “Got the flyer?”

“It’s finally finished, now all we have to do is hand them out.” she breathes out, placing the paper on the table with the rest of the student government around her.

“This is pretty last-minute. What’s the deal?” Another member asks.

“I have a lot to say. Things are so much different in France right now. With the war and-“ Lucy starts.

“Were you really observing the political climate of France when you were with that cute Parisian boy?” Freida speaks up and Lucy tries not to grow her smile too much.

“Anyway-“ Lucy sighs with that same smile as the meeting goes on.

The student government meeting is chaotic, but she’s used to it by now. Posters get passed around, Monica talks a little too loudly about their supplies, and everyone tries to get in one last word before they have to leave for class. But Lucy is only half-listening. She’s already moving and organizing her thoughts for tomorrow.

“Come on, I already told you! I need this, I already moved out of my dorm. I have the down payment, I have everything I need.” Schroeder sets his crate down on the front desk counter, his voice evidently frustrated.

“Look, buddy, it wasn’t there when I looked.” The wannabe landlord front desk guy laughs.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly on my bank statement, your boss said-“ Schroeder groans.

“My boss isn’t here, man.”

“I have all of it right here, in this box. I have the down payment, the security deposit-“ He starts rambling. “Look, I don’t care if your boss is on the moon, I was promised a lease.”

“Then talk to the moon,” the guy shrugs, flipping through a folder like Schroeder’s not even there.

He leans on the counter, exasperated, hair falling into his face. He mutters something under his breath about dropping out and moving to Canada.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Schroeder?” A voice says from behind. Schroeder turns around with his eyes half-lidded and annoyed.

The last person he expected to see so far from home was Charlie Brown. He’s taller now but still not as tall as Schroeder. None of their old friends are after Schroeder sprouted and outgrew everyone as if the world wanted him to fit a musician stereotype.

“Charlie Brown?” He’s still holding the crate, still standing under the flat, uncaring light of the housing office.

“It’s been forever. I didn’t know you lived here. You go to-“ Charlie Brown starts.

“Yeah, yes! I do, I just moved out of my dorm and now this is what I get for thinking that I could move out with the finances of a musician.” He sighs.

“You, uh…got a place to stay tonight?”

Schroeder lifts the crate again in answer. It’s all he’s got. Charlie Brown sighs and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Come crash with me. Couch isn’t great, but it’s better than arguing with Moon Guy all night.”

“You sure?” Schroeder asks.

“You’d do it for me.”

Schroeder follows him out of the housing office, the crate knocking awkwardly against his leg and his suitcase in his other hand as they step into the golden haze of late afternoon.

“So,” Charlie Brown says as they cross the quad, “you still composing, or are you just surviving?”

“Is there a difference?” Schroeder huffs a laugh. Charlie Brown doesn’t push. Just gives him a look that says he’s not surprised. “I’m in the music department. Composition. Classical. They say ‘modern theory,’ but it’s mostly pretentious arguments about dissonance.”

“Do you like it?”

“I like playing,” Schroeder shrugs. “Everything else just comes with it.”

“Still playing every day?”

“As much as I can.” He pauses. “Sometimes I book practice rooms just to sit and not talk.”

“That sounds about right.” Charlie Brown grins a little.

They cross into the residential area just off campus, the smell of someone grilling drifting through the air. Schroeder adjusts the crate in his arms again, it’s heavier than he wants to admit.

“What about you?” he asks. “Still a philosophy guy?”

“Technically undeclared,” Charlie says. “But yeah. I guess I’m chasing a degree in overthinking.”

“That fits.” Schroeder snorts.

“And Lucy?” Charlie Brown adds quickly before he can think better of it.

“Lucy?”

“Yeah…you guys don’t talk?” He asks.

“I haven’t seen her since…sophomore year of high school, man.” Schroeder sighs.

“Really? I really thought that you two would…anyway, I think she goes here. I haven’t talked to Linus in a bit but I’m pretty sure he mentioned it.” Charlie Brown tells him.

“Jesus, does everyone go here?” Schroeder quips.

“Feels like it. Half our graduating class is probably in the quad right now pretending they’ve changed.” Charlie Brown laughs. Schroeder shakes his head, squinting as the sunlight filters through the trees.

“Lucy van Pelt,” he mutters. The name tastes strange out loud, like something he used to say all the time but forgot the meaning of. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Why don’t you talk anymore? I thought you guys started to actually get along?”

They reach a narrow building with ivy crawling up the sides. Charlie leads them around back and up a rickety flight of stairs to the second floor. He unlocks the door and nudges it open with his shoulder.

“It’s not glamorous,” he says, flipping on the light to reveal a cluttered but cozy apartment, hand-me-down furniture, records in crates, and a half-read book face-down on the armrest of the couch. “But it’s something.”

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Schroeder steps inside, setting his crate and suitcase by the door.

“I wouldn’t’ve offered if it wasn’t,” Charlie says, tossing his keys in a bowl. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Couch pulls out if you feel ambitious.”

“Thanks, man.” Schroeder nods.

Charlie gives him a small smile, then disappears into the kitchen. Schroeder stands still for a second, letting the quiet sink in. Then he moves to the window, peering out over the neighborhood.

He doesn’t know it yet, but Lucy’s apartment is just a floor away. The group is buzzing from the meeting, but Lucy stays behind with Monica to finalize a few plans, paperwork, last-minute banner fixes, and Monica's handwriting being “too bubbly for a war rally.” They split up just as the sun dips low and the flyers crinkle from the breeze.

She tucks her last stack under her arm and walks past the quad where the housing office sits. A boy with a crate passed her in the crowd, but she didn’t look twice. She didn’t realize it was him.

It’s hard to sleep that night. She plans on lying and saying it’s because she’s excited for the rally but honestly? She’s antsy and not because of a protest. She left so abruptly as soon as the spot to study abroad in France opened up last minute because she felt so disillusioned. She went from an engaged student buying an apartment to share with her fiancé to now, living in it alone.

He never lived there but might as well have, he was going to. And then everything just exploded before she had the chance to take a breath. The place still looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same. She painted the bedroom walls herself, he picked the color. His books are gone, but the shelf still sags where he once stacked them. There’s a hook by the door he installed for his coat. She uses it anyway, even though it stings every time.

Lucy sits at the tiny kitchen table, barefoot in her oversized shirt, flipping through her annotated speech. Her tea’s gone cold. The room is too quiet, but she doesn’t want music either. Every song reminds her of something.

She tells herself she’s fine. France helped, in some ways. It distracted her, pulled her into something bigger than herself. But it also made the silence sharper when she came back. Now that she’s here, back on the campus she left mid-semester, surrounded by people who didn’t know the whole story, she’s haunted by everything she almost had.

She presses her forehead against the table and lets out a groan.

She doesn’t miss Warren as much as she probably should, she misses not being constantly in her head and trying to drown out the noise. And then she realizes that she misses the music.

Schroeder woke up late with no alarm clock to help. Schroeder woke up late with no alarm clock to help.

The couch cushions are uneven and the blanket’s too thin, but he’d slept worse. Practice room benches, train stations, and the floor of his freshman dorm the night his roommate hosted an unannounced jam session. He blinks up at the ceiling, squinting against the light that leaks in through the blinds, and for a moment he doesn’t know where he is.

Then the faint smell of burnt toast reminds him. Charlie Brown’s already up, clattering around in the kitchen. There’s a record spinning softly in the background, Todd Rundgren, maybe? Schroeder stretches, slowly pushing himself upright. The blanket falls off his shoulders and the air is cool against his skin. His hair sticks up at strange angles.

He rakes a hand through it and grumbles, standing to pad barefoot into the kitchen.

“You look like a man who lost a fight with a pillow,” Charlie Brown says over his shoulder, flipping something in a skillet.

“Feels about right,” Schroeder mumbles.

Charlie slides a plate onto the counter, eggs, toast, something vaguely breakfast-adjacent, and Schroeder stares at it like it’s a peace offering from a world that hasn’t given him much lately.

“Thanks,” he says, surprising himself with how much he means it. They eat in companionable silence. Schroeder glances at the clock.

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Shit,” He rubs his eyes. “I was supposed to check in with my department chair today.”

“There’s time,” Charlie says. “Unless you’re planning on joining the protest crowd?”

Schroeder looks up and Charlie Brown nods toward the window.

“Big rally on the quad. Vietnam stuff. Student Government organized it.” He shrugs.

“They’re probably gonna block my path. I better head out before the rioters show up. Or worse, Bob Dylan,” Schroeder quickly stands up. “Thanks, Charlie Brown.”

“You know, you can just call me by my first name. You don’t have to say the full thing every time.” He laughs.

“It feels wrong not to say the whole thing.” Schroeder shrugs.

Charlie Brown shakes his head, amused.

“You’re a weird guy, Schroeder.”

“I play classical piano for fun,” Schroeder deadpans, grabbing his bag. “Weird is the baseline.”

He quickly slips out the door and tries to walk as fast as he can to avoid the rally. Though, that’s nearly impossible once he sees the amount of people there.

Lucy’s already outside, her clipboard tucked under one arm, hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail as she directs someone on banner placement. There’s tension in her shoulders she’s trying to hide, but it shows in the way she chews on her pen cap and scans the growing crowd like she’s bracing for something, though she’s not sure what.

“Do it now, make your speech!” Monica gently shoves her to stand on top of a table. Lucy hesitates for half a second, then climbs onto the table.

The crowd quiets around her. There’s a moment where all the sound is just wind and distant music and the shuffle of papers. Then she raises the megaphone.

“My name is Lucy van Pelt,” she begins, voice steady despite the slight shake in her hands. “I’m a student here. I’m also a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a citizen of a country that keeps sending people my age into a war we didn’t start and don’t believe in.”

A murmur of agreement rolls through the crowd. Cameras flash. Someone cheers. She finds her rhythm.

“I don’t think it’s brave to die for a cause you don’t understand. I think it’s brave to question it. I think it’s brave to say, ‘No more.’”

Applause now. Loud. Angry. Energized.

“They call us un-American. But what’s more American than standing up and saying, this isn’t right? What’s more patriotic than caring enough to want better?” She paces the table a little, letting the feeling rise in her chest.

“How many more names will go on that wall in D.C. before they realize they’re not fighting for freedom, they’re fighting to survive? How many more kids have to come home in a box before someone listens?” She raises a flyer high in one hand.

The crowd is loud now, shouts, clapping, and fists raised. Monica yells something in support. A few students push forward, climbing onto benches, waving signs higher.

“We’re not violent. We’re not the enemy. But we are done being silent. And if you won’t listen to us when we speak, then you’ll hear us when we scream!” Lucy’s voice lifts above the noise.

That’s when someone throws a smoke bomb. A homemade one, probably, but enough to set off panic. The crowd shifts, some students coughing, others screaming. Someone knocks over a trash can. A sign splinters against the pavement.

“Shit,” Monica mutters, grabbing Lucy’s arm. “Get down, Lucy, get down!”

Blue lights flash at the edge of the quad.

“Campus security,” someone shouts. “No- cops! Cops are coming!”

Lucy jumps off the table just as two officers push into the crowd, hands already on their batons. They yell for dispersal, for IDs, for people to back away. But the students are too riled up now, too angry, too scared. One of the cops grabs a boy trying to run and slams him against a bench.

“We can’t back down! Stand up for what’s right!” Lucy shouts over the microphone, her voice cracking with effort.

The crowd is chaos now, with students pushing, shouting, and some scattering as the police form a perimeter. A second smoke bomb goes off, and someone pulls the fire alarm in the dorm across the quad. Sirens and static fill the air.

A cop breaks off from the others, heading straight toward the makeshift stage.

“Miss, step away from the microphone. This is an unlawful assembly!”

“I’m exercising my rights!” Lucy yells, stepping forward defiantly. “We have every right to be here!”

The officer grabs her arm. She jerks back instinctively, but he’s faster, twisting her wrist behind her.

“Hey!” Monica screams, trying to pull Lucy free. “She didn’t do anything!”

But Lucy’s being restrained now, the cop barking orders as he yanks her other arm behind her back, cold metal brushing her skin.

Across the quad, Schroeder pushes through the edge of the dispersing crowd, irritated and confused until he hears her voice. That voice. He stops in his tracks.

For a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating it. The shouting, the sirens, it’s all blending together. But then he sees her.

Hair a mess, eyes blazing, face flushed from adrenaline and fury. Her arms pulled behind her, a cop’s grip too tight on her wrists. She’s yelling something, maybe still protesting, maybe just trying to be heard over the chaos but all Schroeder can think is, it’s Lucy.

His heart drops out of his chest. And then he’s moving.

“Hey- HEY!” he yells, shoving forward, weaving through students and scattered signs. “Get off of her! That’s- let her go!”

Lucy’s fighting the hold, not violently, just shocked, breath coming fast, trying to keep her footing. Their eyes lock for one split second, and the shock registers on her face too.

Schroeder’s here. And suddenly she doesn’t feel so alone.

“Schroeder?” She says, not yet regulating her volume.

“You know her? Is this your wife, sir?” The police asks after seeing the look in Schroeder’s eyes. Schroeder’s brain is working overtime to analyze the situation and what he should say.

“Uh- yeah. Yes, sir, this is my wife. Can you please let her go?” Schroeder looks to the officer and watches Lucy’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as she looks between the two men.

The officer thinks about it for a moment before letting her arms go.

“Take her home. Watch this one, she’s loud,” he says, and Lucy nearly launches into a tirade about how he only let her go once she was suddenly someone’s wife, but Schroeder knows her too well. He grabs her arm and steers her away fast before she can escalate anything else.

She stumbles in her heels as he pulls her through the crowd, still fuming, still trying to make sense of what just happened. Once they’re far enough from the flashing lights and raised voices, she yanks her arm free and whirls on him.

“Schroeder Felton? What are you doing at my school?” she asks.

“You mean at my school? I was just trying to go meet with someone and then I see you about to get arrested, what the hell was that about?” He asks.

“You go here? Since when?”

“Since always!” Schroeder snaps, just short of exasperated. “Well, since freshman year. Transferred after one semester somewhere else, but yeah, this has been my school for a while.”

“How did I not know that?” Lucy stares at him, stunned.

“Don’t know,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets and starting to walk off, only half-turning to see if she follows. “How did I not know you were here? Oh and by the way? You would’ve talked my ear off about the ‘wife’ thing if this were ten years ago.”

“Yeah, well. I haven’t seen you since high school.” Lucy huffs a breath, half a laugh, half a scoff. He turns around to face her, walking backward as she begins to follow.

“I had to start getting serious, you know? If I wanted to make it out of the Midwest, anyway,” he shrugs. “I’d say ‘look at me now’ but I’m late for a meeting with the chairman of my department. So…”

“Wait, hold on-“ she holds her hand up before turning to dig in her purse.

The longer dark hair, tied back by a little blue headband. The fitted blue sweater, and sharp black pants. She’s shorter than he remembered, maybe always was, but somehow she seems even louder, her presence, her posture, her everything. Her hair’s bigger. So are her opinions. She still talks with her whole body. Still commands space like she owns it.

She pulls a cigarette out of her pack and a pen, suddenly unable to find any paper. Without knowing what else to do, she scribbles her phone number on it and hands it to him.

“I can’t- we have to talk about this later, so call me, or else I’ll have to find you myself,” she tells him.

Schroeder stares at the cigarette in his hand, then back up at her. She’s already walking away, turning back just once to toss him a look over her shoulder, a look that says ‘don’t forget’.

As if he could. He tucks the number into his coat pocket and watches her until she’s out of sight, her silhouette swallowed up by the thinning crowd of protestors and campus security.

For a moment, he just stands there. Lucy.

She was supposed to be gone. Just someone he’d remember once in a while when he thought about his youth. She had such a big crush on him and he distanced himself before he got to tell her that he thought he was starting to feel the same way.

And now here she is. Hair bigger, mouth sharper, still somehow managing to unearth pieces of him he thought he'd left behind in high school band rooms and late-night piano practices. And it’s a good thing he didn’t tell her because it went away fast once he stopped sleeping and spent every minute working on an audition piece.

He exhales hard, rubbing his hands over his face before turning on his heel and jogging toward the music building. He’s already ten minutes late.

The chairman’s office is on the second floor, tucked in the corner behind the recital hall. Schroeder knocks once before stepping inside.

“Ah, Mr. Felton,” the chairman says, standing to greet him. “We were just talking about you.”

“Sorry, I’m late, sir. There was…chaos. Outside.” Schroeder forces a polite smile.

“Ah, yes, the protest. I heard,” The chairman waves it off like a mild thunderstorm. “No matter. You’re here now.”

He gestures for Schroeder to sit, then slides a folder across the desk.

“We’re putting together this year’s Spring Arts Showcase, and your name came up more than once. I’d like you to take the lead on composing the central piece.” he requests.

“Me? But that usually goes to a senior.” Schroeder blinks.

“You’re one of- if not our strongest composer, and you’ve proven yourself as a performer. I want this year’s program to be memorable and bold. Political, even, if that’s what speaks to you.”

Schroeder opens the folder slowly. There are timelines, venue details, and a list of featured performers. It’s…a big deal. Bigger than he expected.

He nods, trying to stay focused but Lucy’s voice keeps cutting through the memory, defiant and electric, the way it did when she was fourteen and yelling at a judge for giving Schroeder a B rating at regionals.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “I’ll do it.”

“Good. I trust you’ll bring something meaningful to the table.” The chairman smiles, satisfied.

Schroeder leaves the office with the folder tucked under his arm and Lucy’s number burning a hole in his pocket.

[simpforpeterp]

me and that one twink that does NOT want me

[simpforpeterp]

sam sdv x OC

The Dugout

summary: an excerpt from my story on AO3 Get It Right the First Time! a story in which the most famous woman in the world suddenly disappears to move into her grandpa’s old farm and reunite with her best friend from kindergarten to high school (this excerpt is from sam’s eight (???) heart event with the band)

warnings: mentions of alcohol/addiction

word count: 4.5k

“Hi, everyone. We’re from Pelican Town…er- and we’re called Xenon Chip 3.0,” Sam announces, his voice cracking slightly. He scratches the back of his neck, glancing nervously at the crowd, and Lainey can’t help but smile. She laughs under her breath, watching him fumble for a second before he adds, “Here we go.”

The first chords of the song hit, and Lainey’s grin spreads wide as Sam’s voice carries over the noise.

“Woohoo! That’s my best friend!” She shouts, jumping up and down in the front row. Her voice cuts through the cheers, and for a moment, Sam glances her way, his lips twitching upward in a shy, fleeting smile.

But as she cheers again, she catches Penny’s unintentional glare from her left, quick and subtle, but sharp enough to leave an impression. Lainey falters, her hands dropping to her sides as heat rises in her cheeks. It’s stupid, she knows, Penny probably didn’t even mean it, but the look lingers in her mind. It feels like a reminder that she doesn’t quite belong here anymore, that no matter how many nights she spends in Stardew Valley, part of her is still the pop star who doesn’t know how to blend in.

She forces herself to shake it off, turning her attention back to the stage. Sam is moving now, falling into the rhythm of the music. His hands glide over his guitar with practiced ease, his voice gaining strength with each note. He’s in his element, and it’s breathtaking to watch.

She’d seen him like this before, all those years ago, when they were teenagers and he’d play her his rough demos in his room. He’d sit on the floor, cross-legged, his hair sticking out at odd angles, strumming his guitar like it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d sit on his bed, half-listening, half-distracted by how his hands moved over the strings or the way his voice cracked in a way that was somehow perfect.

He hasn’t changed much since then. But she has.

She isn’t just the girl next door anymore, the one who spent summers running through the fields and sneaking out to the forest with Sam. She’s been on stages like this herself, looking out at seas of strangers, feeling the weight of their expectations. She knows what it’s like to stand where he’s standing now, and somehow, that makes watching him all the more surreal.

Because she knows how much this means to him. She knows how hard he’s worked, how much he’s doubted himself. And she also knows that no matter how good he is tonight, he’ll never believe it’s enough.

Her heart twists as she watches him, her cheeks flushing again for an entirely different reason. She feels it like a knot in her chest, a mix of pride and longing that she can’t quite unravel.

She’s never felt this way about anyone before, not even Adam, not even during her so-called glory days. With Sam, it’s different. It’s quieter, steadier, deeper. It’s in the way he looks at her, the way he tries to hide his nerves but always fumbles just a little when she’s around. It’s in the way she knows him better than anyone else, and still, she wants to know more.

She wants to tell him how good he sounds, how proud she is, and how much it means to her that he’s letting her be here for this. She wants to tell him that the reason she’s here, the reason she came back to Stardew Valley at all, has everything to do with him.

But for now, all she can do is watch, her hands clasped in front of her as if holding them together might stop her from falling apart.

And when Sam looks her way again, his eyes scanning the crowd and landing on her for just a moment, her heart skips. Because in that moment, it feels like the whole world has disappeared, and it’s just the two of them, like it’s always been.

She looks up at Sam with starry eyes. She knows now without a doubt that liking the boy in the band can still apply to famous artists. Because her face is flushing more and more as she watches Sam on stage.

The skyline of the city is perfectly in view behind them so she pulls out a little camera from her bag. She turns it on and immediately angles it up to see all three of them with the skyline behind them. Sam sees and feels pain rip through his chest because he’s never wanted anyone more than the girl smiling so wide as she takes a picture of them. How did he ever kiss her and not just tell her how he felt right then and there?

Sam’s fingers stumble over a chord, and he bites down hard on his lip to recover before anyone notices. But Lainey notices. She always notices. Her head tilts just slightly, and for a second, their eyes meet again, and it feels like the air between them crackles with something neither of them can name.

Lainey lowers the camera, her lips curving into a smile so radiant it almost hurts to look at.

Sam’s heart twists painfully, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks about the night they kissed. He can still feel it sometimes, the press of her lips against his, the way her hands trembled just slightly when she touched him, the way everything in the world had gone silent except for the pounding of his heart.

It was perfect, wasn’t it? And yet, somehow, it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t said the things he wanted to say. He hadn’t told her the truth about how he felt, about how she made him feel.

And now she’s standing there, looking up at him like he’s the center of the universe, and it’s breaking him apart because he knows he can’t have her.

The song builds to its final chorus, and Sam tears his gaze away from her, pouring everything he’s feeling into the music. His fingers press harder into the strings, his voice rising with a rawness he can’t contain. He doesn’t know if anyone else in the room can hear the difference, but he knows Lainey can.

She always can.

When the song ends, the applause is thunderous, but all Sam can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. He glances toward Lainey again, hoping she’s still looking at him, hoping for something he doesn’t even know how to name.

She’s clapping, her camera hanging loosely from her wrist, her face glowing with pride. And in that moment, Sam swears he sees something in her eyes—something soft and warm and achingly familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by her playful grin as she holds her camera up again and snaps another photo.

“Thanks, everyone!” Sam says proudly into the microphone before his eyes fall on her again. Everyone can tell he’s looking at her from the lovestruck look on his face as she obliviously smiles and waves at him. “But you should really be clapping for Lainey. Without her help, we would've never decided what kind of music to make in the first place.”

There’s more applause and cheers as her cheeks go pink. Penny smiles softly before swallowing and turning to her.

“So you're like an honorary member of the band, then?” She nudges Lainey.

“Not really, they’re all the brains and I’m just happy to be here.” She laughs to Penny before looking back up at Sam.

“Oh! And don't forget to pick up one of our demo cassettes on the way out... Only 10g!” Sam adds and the crowd cheers again.

The crowd’s energy still buzzes in the air as the band files off the makeshift stage. Sam pulls his guitar strap over his head, letting the instrument hang loosely in his grip. His hands feel clammy, his heart pounding from more than just the performance.

“You good, man?” Sebastian asks, his voice low as they shuffle backstage.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, not meeting his eyes. “I’m fine. Let’s just get out there.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond but Sam already feels off. He leads the way to come back around where the audience once even though they’ve already dispersed. Some are by the bathrooms, some are by the bar, and some are just chatting around.

When they walk out, everyone from town is waiting for them happily. It’s shocking how excited they all are. Jodi tosses herself around Sam and sways for a moment so happily. Lainey rushes to Abigail first, pulling her into such a tight hug. Pierre and Caroline didn’t bother to show up so Lainey makes sure she has someone to go to right after.

“You are one hell of a drummer, Abby.” Lainey smiles as she holds onto her so tightly.

“Thank you, Lainey,” She squeezes back. “That was so much fun!”

“You have got to see the pictures I got later, they are incredible.” Lainey finally pulls away and tells her.

After that she sees Sam and Sebastian talking to Robin and Demetrius but she walks over anyway. She gently grabs Sam’s arm and slowly pulls him her way because Robin was telling Sebastian something anyway.

“Sam! Oh Yoba, if I could pick you up right now and spin you around, I would.” She tells him happily before quickly pulling him into a hug.

Sam freezes for a fraction of a second, her sudden embrace catching him off guard. But then his arms find their way around her, squeezing her back just as tightly. He rests his chin lightly on top of her head, letting himself get lost in the warmth of her hug for just a moment too long.

“You’d totally drop me,” He murmurs, trying to keep his voice light, but there’s a tremor there and something he’s sure she doesn’t miss. Lainey pulls back just enough to look up at him, her hands still gripping his arms.

“Don’t underestimate me. I’m stronger than I look,” She teases, her smile so genuine it makes his chest ache. “If I had enough adrenaline I could carry you for a good bit.”

“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the lingering hum of the crowd. “I know. You’re strong but not strong enough without the adrenaline.”

“When we’re in the zombie apocalypse, you’ll see how tough I am.” She flashes him that smile again where her eyes crinkle and she looks completely and utterly happy.

“Sam! We’re heading over to the bar. You coming?” Sebastian calls as he’s walking away.

Sam glances over his shoulder, the spell between him and Lainey breaking.

“Yeah, give me a sec!” He calls back.

“Go celebrate with your band,” Lainey lets go of him, stepping back with a soft laugh. “I’ll still be here after. Probably dancing but most definitely sober for when you’re ready to go home.”

Sam hesitates, his gaze lingering on her as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and flashes him that patient, glowing smile. Part of him wants to stay right here, just the two of them, away from the noise and the crowd and the mess in his head. But another part, the louder, messier part, pushes him toward the bar, toward the night that’s already waiting for him.

“Yeah,” He says finally, forcing a grin. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

As he turns and follows Sebastian, he feels her eyes on his back, and he wonders if she sees through him, if she knows just how badly he’s unraveling.

Lainey watches him go, her smile fading as a strange, gnawing sensation settles in her chest. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s something deeper, something that’s been building ever since she came back to Stardew Valley. She shakes it off, telling herself it’s just the adrenaline from the show.

The music playing in the area is picking up and people from Pelican Town are already dancing in the middle area. It’s funny to see people let loose in a way they haven’t before.

“That show was incredible,” Harvey sneaks up behind Lainey as she watches the people dancing. “It’s been a minute since me and you have really talked.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” She tells him honestly. “Things have been so hectic on the farm, there’s hay coming out of my ears. And then I have these farm half-dreams half-hallucinations when I’m in that stage between awake and asleep. I know I’m in my bed but for some reason, I’m also doing farm work in the hallucination and I ask myself why I’m doing farm work when I’m in bed but I don’t stop because it’s piling up in front of me. Sorry, you didn’t want to hear all that, Harvey. Let’s dance. You probably danced a lot in college, huh?”

“I don’t talk about those first four years a lot because I don’t remember half of them, I partied too hard.” He smiles, holding a hand out to her.

“Oh, come on, we are so dancing!”

“What is going on with you?” Sebastian asks as Sam gets comfortable at the bar with a drink in his hand.

“I’m a musician! Let me be.” Sam tells him.

“Whatever, dude. You’re doing too much.” Sebastian sighs and turns around to face the crowd.

He sees Lainey and Harvey and her face is totally lighting up. She looks happy. It’s been a while since she’s been around any of this and it’s clear to them she’s handling it well.

“Lainey’s having a good time.” Sebastian hums.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks but Sebastian just points and he sees Lainey with Harvey. She’s laughing and holding onto his arm as she does because she’s laughing so hard. Sam just rolls his eyes. “Oh, Harvey, you’re here. This fucking guy.”

“Hey, what’s your deal? We just had our first show and you’re being negative.” Sebastian complains before immediately walking off.

Sam sits there for a moment as the sun begins to set completely, darkening the area. It’s getting harder to focus on one thing as he anchors himself to the bar.

“Hey, you were great out there,” A voice says from beside him. He turns to see this girl with red hair who’s smiling at him like she’s trouble. “You’re cute. You should buy me a drink.”

Sam thinks for a moment. This is weird. But he also doesn’t really care when the girl he’s sure he loves is dancing with his doctor.

“Sure, why not?”

After an hour of having more fun in the city sober than she had in a long time, Lainey and Harvey step to the side. Elliott and Leah could definitely give them a run for their money.

“They could be cute together, don’t you think?” Lainey gestures to them.

“I don’t know. Don’t they seem more like friends?” Harvey asks.

“See, that’s what I thought at first but after doing some research I think it could make sense.” She tells him.

“What kind of research?” He laughs.

“I was talking to Leah and giving her a lot of goat cheese and eventually she told me all about her ex from the city. She opened up about a lot of things with her art too. See, she does physical art with her sculptures and stuff and he writes poems and stories and he’s definitely a lover, not a fighter like her ex. He’d probably worship her, which she probably needs right now.” Lainey tells him before reaching into her bag.

“How do you connect with people so easily? You’re so observant and easy to open up to, I don’t think I could ever be that w-“ Harvey starts before she loudly gasps. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my lipstick. Fuck, it must’ve fallen out of my bag when it was laying on the couch backstage to joke around. Sorry, I’ll be right back.” Lainey places a hand on his arm before turning that way.

Lainey moves quickly toward the backstage area, weaving through the clusters of people still chatting and lingering around the festival grounds. Her mind is half-focused on the missing lipstick, but there’s also a lingering warmth in her chest from the evening, the music, the laughter, the fun. It feels like she’s finally settling into something she hasn’t felt in years.

But as she pushes open the door to the backstage room, that warmth freezes into something cold and sharp.

Lainey stands frozen, the scene in front of her hitting her like a sucker punch. Sam, HER Sam, is tangled up with some girl on the couch with him on top of her, his hands on her waist, their mouths pressed together like they can’t get enough. The vodka bottle sits abandoned on the table, half-empty, but the sight of it feels full. Full of everything she thought she’d left behind.

Her chest tightens, her pulse hammering as the memories flood in of late nights, half-drunk laughter, strangers whose names she didn’t care to remember, kisses she didn’t want but went along with anyway because she was too out of it to care. The couch Sam’s on could’ve been in any one of those dressing rooms. It’s all too familiar. Too much.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” She chokes out, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.

Sam stumbles back, his eyes wild and unfocused as they lock on her.

“Lainey-”

“Don’t.” Her hand flies up, her voice cracking under the weight of the moment. “Just don’t. What the hell are you doing, Sam? What is this?”

The girl shifts awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable now, but Lainey’s not looking at her. Her gaze is locked on Sam, who looks every bit the deer in headlights.

“I-” He falters, his words slurring slightly, and Lainey lets out a bitter laugh.

“You’re drunk,” she spits. “Of course you are. Yoba, this is so-” She breaks off, her breath catching in her throat as the past and present blur together. “This is exactly what my life used to be like. The drinking, the making out with strangers on disgusting couches- this is why I left, Sam! This is what I was running from!”

Her voice cracks again, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she throws her hands up in frustration.

“And you’re supposed to be better than this. I thought you were better.” She says, her voice like poison. Sam’s face falls, his jaw tightening as her words hit him.

“Lainey, please, I-”

“Don’t follow me,” She snaps, already backing toward the door. “I can’t, I can’t do this. Not again.”

The cool night air slaps her in the face as she pushes through the venue gates, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The parking lot is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos in her mind. She presses a hand to her chest, trying to ground herself, but it doesn’t work.

Her whole body feels like it’s vibrating, the memories swirling in her head like a storm she can’t escape. The parties, the mistakes, the emptiness, all of it rushes back, suffocating her.

She thought she left this behind. She thought she was done with this. It’s all so familiar in a way that makes her mouth sour and her body shake.

Her legs give out, and she sinks onto the curb, her head in her hands as the tears finally spill over. She doesn’t even hear the footsteps behind her until Sam’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Lainey.”

Her head snaps up, and the sight of him only stokes the fire in her chest. He’s still flushed from the alcohol, his hair messy, his eyes filled with something that might be regret or maybe she’s just hoping it is.

“I told you not to follow me,” She says, her voice low and raw.

“I know,” He says, running a hand through his hair. “I know, but- I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”

“Why not?” She stands, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “So you could give me another excuse? Another ‘I’m sorry’? Because I’m so tired of hearing that, Sam. I’m tired of all of it.”

Sam’s mouth opens, then closes again, like he doesn’t know what to say. And for the first time, Lainey doesn’t wait for him to figure it out.

“You have no idea what it took for me to come back here,” She says, her voice rising. “To leave everything I worked for and try to start over. And I thought, you made me think, it was worth it. That you were worth it.”

The words hang in the air between them, and Sam looks like she just punched him in the gut.

“Lainey, I-”

“You’re drunk and making out with random girls while I’m out there cheering you on? That you’re turning into exactly the kind of person I thought you weren’t? This is all so familiar in the worst ways and my chest hurts, I feel like I can’t breathe. Seeing someone I love so much in that same position is too much, too much for all the healing I’ve been trying to do.” She shakes her head.

“Lainey, come on-“

“No,” She cuts him off, her voice trembling. “Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t keep doing this, Sam. I can’t keep pretending that you’re the same guy I grew up with if you’re not, if you’re-”

She breaks off, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

“That’s not fair! For those five years you were gone, you called me five times! Five!” Sam tells her but she stands up so quickly.

“It’s not fair? What’s not fair is me running around like an idiot all day for you! Going with your dad to the city to get you a stupid cake and running around all year, going out of my way to make you happy because you were the one person who never made me feel like shit about anything until now,” She says as her eyes gloss over and his heart pulls because she looks so heartbroken. It kills him. “You don’t think I’ve felt bad about that? I’ve felt horrible! I cry about it like all the time because you deserved better but I try to be gentle with myself because it’s not like you called me either.”

“Lainey, I’m sorry,” He says, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just-“

“I can’t even look at you, Sam,” She breathes out, the lump in her throat growing as tears finally spill. “I am…such an idiot.”

“Lain-“

“No, I am. Sam…I’ve been in love with you since middle school. Probably since before that too but I don’t remember clear enough before middle school,” She tells him and his ears immediately start ringing and his stomach falls to the floor. “I didn’t move back here for you specifically but you were a big reason because no one else has ever felt like home the way you do. And now…I am so dumb. I’ve never felt so stupid, I’m an idiot. And I don’t want to be around you right now when I feel so embarrassed and so fucking stupid- I’m gonna go home. Take the bus with everyone else.”

Lainey storms toward her car, her breaths shallow and uneven, her face wet with tears she can’t seem to stop. Every part of her aches, like her heart is breaking in real-time, and her hands tremble as she digs in her bag for her keys.

“Lainey, wait!” Sam’s voice calls out behind her, but she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t, Sam!” She shouts over her shoulder, finally yanking her keys free. “Just leave me alone!”

She throws herself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind her and jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and for a brief moment, she sits there gripping the steering wheel, her chest rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths.

But then she sees Sam out of the corner of her eye, standing in the middle of the parking lot, looking lost and broken and so much like the boy she used to know that it physically hurts. She tears her gaze away, putting the car into drive and pulling out before she can change her mind.

As she turns out onto the main road, the tears spill faster. She feels so dumb, she’s never felt so idiotic before. She should’ve known better than thinking Sam was too good to be true because when has anything ever worked out for her like that? Behind her, Sam is already running.

“Wait!” He yells, his voice hoarse and desperate. He stumbles onto the street, waving his arms at the first car he sees, a bright yellow taxi idling near the venue entrance.

Thankfully, it stops and Sam quickly climbs in. He’s already pulling his wallet out and shoving a wad of cash toward the man.

“Take me to Pelican Town. All of this, just- please. Don’t ask questions, just drive and all the cash in this wallet is yours.” Sam tells him.

“Pelican Town, huh?” The driver mutters as he pulls onto the road. “That’s a bit of a drive.”

“I have more than enough,” Sam says, leaning forward, his voice urgent. “Just go. Please.”

The car speeds off into the night, the city lights fading into the background as they head toward the valley. Sam’s mind races, his chest tightening with every mile that separates him from Lainey.

Her words replay in his head, over and over, until they’re all he can hear: “I’ve been in love with you since middle school. No one else has ever felt like home the way you do.” He knows now without a doubt that he loves this girl because seeing her like that has broken his heart into pieces. He loves her, fuck, he’s so in love with her.

It could only ever be Lainey. He couldn’t even enjoy kissing that girl because she wasn’t Lainey. She didn’t run her hands through his hair the way Lainey did, her lips didn’t cause him to spiral in the way Lainey’s did. Sinking into her didn’t feel like coming home the way Lainey did.

He presses his hands to his face, groaning softly. He’s messed everything up. He’s ruined the one thing that’s ever really mattered to him, and the only thought keeping him sane is the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can fix it.

[simpforpeterp]

[simpforpeterp]

stanford pines x reader

I Believe in a Thing Called Love

summary: on the road trip to bring the kids back to california, you have to keep ford awake!

warnings: none!

word count: 749

After deciding to drive the kids back to California this year for a road trip, Ford was unlucky enough to be picked to drive overnight. Stan, Mabel, and Dipper are asleep in the backseat despite the music you were blaring to keep you awake so you can keep Ford awake.

After all, if you had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, it’d only make Ford more tired. So, you’re night driving buddies. He has a lot of catching up to do music-wise so you’ve been playing your favorite songs going up from each year.

He, to be honest, doesn’t give a shit about the music. He’s not a music person, it takes up too much time and can be distracting. He especially hates when songs are over three minutes because he thinks the singers are being selfish by taking so many minutes of his life.

But watching you while it plays? Singing and having such a great time? His heart could explode any minute now. This thing between you two hasn’t been spoken about yet. It’s only been stolen glances and a silent yearning. Neither of you believe that the other would be interested because of the slight age difference.

Nonetheless, you can flirt with him in very small ways through the songs you play.

“Can't explain all the feelings that you're making me feel. My heart's in overdrive and you're behind the steering wheel,” You place a hand on his arm that gets a smile out of him before you jokingly snake it up to his shoulder. “Touching you, touching me

Touching you, God, you're touching me.”

You sit up straighter for the chorus so happily and in shock that the people asleep in the back are still asleep.

“I believe in a thing called love. Just listen to the rhythm of my heart. There's a chance we could make it now. We'll be rocking 'til the sun goes down. I believe in a thing called love, hoo, ooh-hoo.” You tap along the windows as you sing, the wind moving your hair perfectly.

“He’s not singing, he’s yelling.” Ford tells you through laughter, speaking over the music.

“You totally suck. You’re no fun.” You laugh with him as he slightly turns the volume down.

“You totally suck.” He jokingly mocks your voice and then realizes what just happened. He just acted childish for the first time in decades.

“And what do you listen to?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not THAT boring.” You laugh and the sound is music to his ears as you slightly turn your body to face him even more. He desperately tries to keep his eyes on the road but it’s so hard when it comes to you.

“You really don’t listen to anything?” You ask, glancing over at him, curiosity in your eyes and he shrugs, trying to play it off.

“I…never made much time for it,” He admits, his voice soft. “Always had too much on my mind. Music felt like…well, like a distraction.”

“You’re allowed to be distracted every now and then, you know. Life isn’t just about… equations and discoveries and whatever else goes on in that brain of yours,” You shake your head, amused. “I’m distracted ninety percent of the time. Music is rarely the cause. It actually helps me focus sometimes. It drowns out the noises that drive me crazy like if I’m in a library, it feels like my senses are amplified. I hate hearing every push in and out of everyone’s chairs and pens writing, I need my headphones.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t think I’d ever be good at it the way you are.” He hums.

“Good at music?” You laugh, incredulous. “Ford, it’s not about being good at it. It’s about feeling it.”

Ford watches you, captivated. The way you let yourself be so free, so uninhibited—it’s something he envies, a part of life he’s never quite understood but longs to experience.

“I’m not the type of guy to ‘feel’ the sound of a bunch of different instruments.” He chuckles.

“Maybe you’re just lame then.” You gently nudge him.

“Lame? How many degrees do I need to get to not be lame?” He asks.

“Negative ten. You need to loosen up.” You tell him.

“And how do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Listen to some music.” You tell him with a small smile pulling at your lips as you lean on the window and look away.