#mcu literature

[copingchaos]

Something to consider when people call this a "conflict" or "war". Semantics matter.

This is a genocide

[meganslife]

Spelling Errors - P. P.

MCU!Peter Parker x Fem!reader

summary: the cute barista at your local coffee shop always spells your name wrong.

warnings: none!! pure fluff:)

a/n: ooohhh my god i am obsessed with mcu peter lately so i did something. it’s rushed and barely proofread so i’m very sorry if there’s mistakes xoxo 💋💋 enjoy lovelies

Being a regular at a coffee shop had its perks.

One, it felt safe and secure.

Two, you always knew what to order.

And three, the cute barista.

Peter Parker. He was charming, and probably the most gorgeous guy you’d ever seen. But there was one problem.

He always spelled your name wrong.

Sure, it’s okay if it happens once or twice. But every time you ordered, he spelled your name wrong. It was a good thing that he was cute, otherwise you would’ve been mad.

The adult thing to do would have been to correct him– but it has been a year of ordering the same couple of drinks. It would have been very awkward to correct him now, a year deep into flirting and being a regular.

You hadn’t been to the coffee shop in a few days. The flu was kicking your ass. You started to feel slightly better at the three-day mark of being sick, so you walked down to the coffee shop. Hopefully, your go-to drink will make you feel better.

You walk in through a secret back door, mostly because you want to sneak up on Peter. You could only pray that he was working today.

“Your girl hasn’t been here in a bit, Peter,” One of his coworkers says, and you hear a sigh from your hiding spot in the secret hallway.

Peter groans, “Don’t remind me, Ned!”

A mug drops on the floor, and that’s your cue to walk up to the counter.

Peter is cleaning up the mess when you walk over, and he practically senses that you’re there.

“Hey,” You smile, “Made a mess?”

He grins, “I’ll be with you in a second.”

You wait by the counter, making occasional eye contact with his coworker, who you assume is Ned.

Peter eventually comes to the counter, asking if you want your go-to order. You say yes, and he gets on making it.

When he hands you the to-go cup, your name is spelled right, and his phone number is on it.

“You spelled my name right!” You beam, before slapping a hand over your mouth.

Peter turns around. “I was spelling your name wrong?”

You sigh.

“I should’ve told you, I know, but it was too late! By the time I noticed, you’d been spelling it wrong for almost a year. I’m sorry,” You explain. Ned snorts behind the counter, causing you and Peter to shoot daggers at him.

Peter looks at you after a while of awkward silence, his gaze soft and hesitant.

“Call me, okay?” He says, smiling widely.

Your throat kind of goes dry as you say, “I will.”

“Okay,” Peter smiles, “Well, you need to leave. You’re distracting me.”

A laugh erupts from you as you walk out. “Am I banned?”

“Just for today.”

[stephen-stilwell]

Just need someone to match my nasty energy & be a freak who loves kisses.

[hannaxjo]

About Fanfiction

You know when you come across a fanfiction that is just so wonderful in every way, and once it's over you genuinely don't know what to do. There's just this static going on your brain and it's just like- I - I don't - like a genuine loss of words. Because you have read something so beautiful and unique, and thoughtful, something that has actually changed parts of you and the way you view things.

This is why its ridiculous how much shit fanfiction gets, because this feeling, is so incredibly rare, and let me tell you, not once have I read a published book that has had this effect on me.

Sure, there is bad fanfiction, but guess what. There are also bad books. And just like there are amazing books, there are amazing fanfictions. And I got to read one of those for free.

The skill, not only in the writing but the way the characters are told, the story, the emotions, everything. The time and research that writer has put on this work, and I got to read it for free.

Through fanfiction we get to read and tell stories that the mainstream media is too bigoted to publish.

It is really fucking stupid to shit on fanfiction because "some of it is bad". Some of us don't get represented in the media as much, some of us at all, and some of us only in negative light.

So yeah, say thanks to fanfiction writers, leave kudos, leave comments. Fanfiction can be really fucking amazing.

[literatureaesthetic]

14th nov 2023 — watched interstellar in the cinema (still feels unreal), and then i came home and watched the finale of loki (season 2)... safe to say LOTS of tears were shed. i love experiencing emotionally damaging media lmao.

[softestqueeen]

let me teach you pt.1

pairing: Steve Rogers x afab!reader x Bucky Barnes (can be read as gn!reader)

summary: You are a literature professor at university and your boyfriends decide to pay you a visit and listen to one of your lectures.

warnings: none, just fluff

wordcount: 1158 words

a/n: After some very shameless smut, I’m now back with some fluff, don’t worry you won’t have to miss the smut for long. And now: enjoy! <3

Since you were little it was always your dream to become a teacher. But it took very long for you to figure out what kind of teacher you wanted to become. Kindergarten? Pre school? Secondary School? Literary School? University? The options were endless, how would you ever be able to decide?

But when you grew older, the only logical option for you was to teach what you loved most and to pass on your passion to others. So, when you were 18, you decided to study English Literature in England. And even though you loved England you wanted to see more, so you moved to New York. For the last few years you have been working at Columbia in the English and Comparative Literature Department as a literature professor.

This semester you taught multiple classes but your favourite course was definitely feminist literature, as it was something you felt wasn’t represented enough in academia.

You’ve wanted to teach this specific course ever since you’ve started as a uni professor and now you finally got the chance to do it.

You didn’t have a lot of students in that specific course, but they were the perfect group. Always attentive, asking deep questions but still being able to fool around sometimes. Classes like this remind you, why you started teaching and why you loved it so much.

You were currently standing in said class, talking about the next book you are going to discuss, when suddenly the door to the lecture hall opened.

It was strange really. It didn’t happen often that students accidentally mistake your lecture hall for theirs, especially since it was the middle of the semester AND the middle of the lecture. But, as you can see, it still happened occasionally.

The class turned their attention to the door and suddenly two familiar men entered. Your boyfriends. You couldn’t hold in the little surprised gasp that left your lips.

You knew that they voiced the desire to visit you at work and listen to one of your lectures and you told them that they were always welcome. You just didn’t think that they would visit so soon.

Especially since you thought they were on a mission until tomorrow evening.

The jaws of your students dropped, but you only started to smile at seeing the super soldiers.

 Yup, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, Captain America and the former Winter Soldier, are your boyfriends. You still can’t believe it either but you were very happy about it. They entered with a apologetic smile.

“Sorry, we couldn’t find the right room, but it seems we’ve found it now.”, Bucky said with a teasing grin.

“Yea, Sorry, please just carry on, sweetheart.”, Steve told you after they both said down in one of free seats at the very front.

At the term off endearment, the jaws of you students dropped even wider, but you just carried on with your lecture.

“Where were we? Close your mouths or you’ll catch a fly! So as I was telling you,…”, you went on with your lecture and after a moment your student snapped put of it and started taking notes again.

You still had a good hour of your lesson left and Steve and Bucky were almost as attentive as your students. Taking notes, raising their hands and asking questions. The only difference was that your students don’t look at you with heart shaped eyes and loopy smiles, getting distracted from the lectures.

But you were not complaining about their attention. You always loved it when they looked at you like you were their world. They almost made you blush multiple times.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and you dismissed your class for today, giving them new assignments to work on.

The boys still sat patiently and waited for you to finish up. They even offered to help and you let them clean your blackboard. When you packed up, Bucky insisted on carrying your bag and they escorted you to your office.

On your way there, you saw a lot of baffled and shocked expressions from people seeing your partners. You’ve gotten over the initial shock of seeing them, but it still amused you to no end to see that shock on others.

You entered your office and showed Bucky where to put you bag. You loved the way your office looked. Big dark bookshelves, overflowing with books, a worn out leather couch between them, a little coffee table in front of it, your Mahogony desk in the middle of the room, two leather chairs that matched the couch in front of it, your chair behind it and a lot of lamps that made the space even more cozy and even more you.

Your boyfriends started to explore your space, your books, your little trinkets and knickknacks that you had displayed in the room, while you sat down in your desk and pulled out the essays that you had to correct.

“You can sit down wherever you want, just be prepared, during my office hours, students often come in with questions and stuff. I thought you had a mission until tomorrow?”, you looked at them with a pointed look, they knew you were always worried when they were away and wanted to know when they would come back, “Anyways, you could have said something, then I would have prepared something more interesting than me talking about a book for one and a half hours.”

Steven was the first to speak up. “I loved hearing you talk about something you’re so passionate about. An we’re really sorry, we didn’t know that we would get home earlier either, but when we found out we thought we’d surprise you. Was that not okay?”, he asked, worry etched into his face.

“No, no, of course that’s okay. You know, you’re always welcome in my lessons, both of you.”, you immediately assured him, smiling.

They smiled back and settled into the couch, both with one of your books in their hands, as you got started with correcting the essays of your students. It took a bit longer, because you preferred to do it by hand, always annoying your students by asking them to write it on paper or at least print it out.

They were quiet and when students came in with problems even left the room to give you space to concentrate.

When your office hours were over, you were done with correcting and decided to join the boys on the couch. You sat down in-between them, and cuddled into them.

For a while you stayed like this, Steve with his arms around your shoulder, you leaning your head against Bucky’s shoulder, going further down until your laying half on top of him, your head on his chest while he had his flesh hand on your thigh.

You bathed in the comfort of your men, a comfortable silence settling over you.

To be continued…

Part 2!

a/n: I will definitely post a part 2 with smut! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving some notes, likes, reposts and comments with feedback are always very appreciated! <3

[nerdby]

Completely forgot Sebastian Stan was in this show.

The Mad Hatter❣️

[kekkuda]

Part of the process of recovering from my first psychotic episode has involved revisiting all of the famous gothic horror literature i read and was fascinated by as a preteen and reading Poe has been a constant experience of yeah I’ve been there before buddy and it really does feel like he was ahead of his time in terms of presenting reality as inherently absurd in a way his peers didn’t often touch upon. People often stop their analysis at “Edgar Allan Poe utilizes unreliable narrators a lot” instead of going a bit further to put themselves in the shoes of the characters and asking what it feels like to live in an unreliable reality. Reading Poe stories feels so very melancholic at a moment in my life when I don’t know how to get care for these issues, whether or not I’m actually sound of mind or just convincing myself I’m losing touch with reality-- in other words “faking it.” Ever since the incident moments of joy and curious hobbies have gone from being seen by those around me as quirky hyperfixations to something more sinister and unwell. Others who I thought really cared for my health and safety seem to treat the revelation that I am “losing my mind, no literally. . . please let me tell you what happened” with the if i’m retelling the story of what flavor of soda i picked at the vending machine. It’s so alienating as if being terrified of your own mind and it’s capability to break apart the rules of reality isn’t alienating enough. I think Poe really captures that feeling I get when things are just a bit off until they crescendo into an event that seems massive and tiny and inconsequential all the same. I really can’t describe it because the fear I feel is unlike any other fear I’ve felt and you don’t know it until you’ve felt it and it clicks. Out of curiosity I wanted to see how well H.P. Lovecraft held up or if my distaste for his work was strictly from the knowledge of who the man was in life. The answer is no, it does not. Frankly I find it insulting that H.P. Lovecraft is put at the same level as Poe, far above the tens of Gothic writers that preceded him by decades to nearly a century. . . of whom Lovecraft would openly take influence from just to water down down everything that makes those works interesting. The “indescribable” horrors that Lovecraft describes are paradoxically comprehensible. I’ve had many discussions with my partner about why more grounded surrealist art feels far more surreal and uneasy than art that is comprised of endless “weird” imagery. To keep this topic brief, think something like David Lynch. His films are utterly bizarre compared to your average hollywood blockbuster, sure, but as far as surrealist media goes? His films are very grounded in reality, but that reality feels off and strange in a way that genuinely is indescribable. When I read Lovecraft on the other hand, it feels like he read a lot of gothic literature about the sublime, indescribably transcendent nature of the universe and replaced that with essentially. . . a big scary monster. When Lovecraft writes “indescribable” or other similar words as a descriptor for what his characters see, it feels akin to when 14 year olds discover the SCP wiki and think that the more you write REDACTED or [DATA EXPUNGED] the scarier the object of horror is. It feels lazy when you’re not given any other reason to feel afraid. When I read Dagon it feels like I’m reading an early 2010s creepypasta written by someone who hasn’t been writing long enough to analyze what makes something scary. It genuinely feels like someone trying to write what they think psychosis might be like. His stories are so inhuman (and not in the way he’s trying to achieve) and detached, and I never get the is it real or not feeling I get from older gothic stories dealing with notions of sanity and humanity’s role in the universe. I know the big spooky space creatures are real in the universe of the text, so I don’t really connect the Lovecraftian hero’s lapses of sanity. You don’t see the same tragic decay of mind and body and ill-fated social dynamics that permeate so many of Poe’s stories. I genuinely don’t know what purpose there is to be gained from the oft-quoted declaration that the core of Lovecraft is about uncovering knowledge you aren’t supposed to know. I frankly don’t know how you can separate the art from the artist for HPL when so much of his work seems to pretty clearly match up with antisemitic “secret global society” conspiracy theories that go back centuries upon centuries. Think about it for two seconds: the “terrible knowledge” that gets discovered is typically the existence of some all-powerful cosmic race that seems to hide itself at all costs and could possibly end humanity’s pitiful existence should they so choose to do so. So much of his work involves this utterly unsympathetic view of otherness as an “indescribable threat” in society whereas I think a lot of Poe’s writing really captures the terror of being othered at a time when the treatment of mentally ill and disabled people was at one of its all-time peaks. I might revisit this idea again when I’m not tired as shit but I think in all, Lovecraft feels almost boring. Nothing feels really impressive despite the scale of its horror. In some ways, Poe really feels almost shockingly similar to a lot of postmodern man-vs-reality narratives, whereas Lovecraft feels like he takes a lot of the same aesthetics of gothic literature and uses it to craft a narrative that is far more simplistic than it seems at first glance. It hardly even qualifies as a man-vs-god narrative prevalent in the time of the Illiad, but given HPL’s track record when it comes to respecting human beings it’s all just a bare bones black and white us-versus-them man-vs-man narrative. Now, art doesn’t have to be thematically complex to be good, but I find it a bit insulting when the man with the copy-paste self insert characters with the personality of soggy paper wants to profess understanding of profoundly existentialist, indescribable terror. . . and the vast majority of his work is just an allegory with a metaphor writing-hand heavier than CS Lewis’s own that gives me no insights about the world other than that he literally couldn’t get over the “indescribable” fear of “grug look different from ogg, grug bad!” dog you didn’t make a cosmic discovery you are literally the fuckin meme “men will smoke weed once and think they’re enlightened for discovering empathy” or whatever. i have more transcendental experiences railing twinks and cuddling with pretty girls talk about smth really indescribable!!!!! it’s fucking caveman shit. mf really would be writing shitty fanfic of shadow puppets if you locked him in the cave fr fr. prolly wouldn’t notice he’s in an allegory fr fr life is indescribable and that’s what makes it beautiful and tragic and precious just eat a cock like the rest of us instead ur scarin the hoes with your shitty octopus fursona!

[sapchats]

my whole dash is dan and phil rn im crying ive got like a dozen mutuals from each fandom im in all talking about the revival like i didnt even know you LIKED them i didnt even know you knew who they were

[trans-cuchulainn]

i do think it's kind of funny that ao3 seems to have made a blanket change to all the "mythology" tags to make them "religion and lore" (not a good change) EXCEPT the "arthurian mythology" tag, which remains intact despite a Number of people trying to get that one reworked or at least different wrangled for ages. they're like "we're taking mythology away from all the contexts where it might be applicable. and leaving it in the context where it's dubious. this is a sensible change"

[copingchaos]

[meganslife]

Pen pals - p. parker

TASM! Peter Parker x Fem! reader

summary: peter parker is your pen pal.

warnings: none so far!!!

hello helloooo!!! i had this idea because i myself have a pen pal, and it’s honestly really fun and reminds me of peter. this will be multiple parts!! anyhoo, happy reading!

Having a pen pal was fun. It gave you something to look forward to whenever you needed to open the mailbox. It was nice, although your lovely pen pal, Peter, was on the other side of the country. You were in Seattle. He was in Queens, New York. It was a nice arrangement that you two had. No phone numbers, just handwritten letters, and cute little pictures.

When you opened your apartment mailbox and saw that you had a letter from Peter, your heart felt warm. It was the warmest you’ve felt in a while.

Y/N,

My apologies for not writing you back sooner. School is kicking my butt recently, and I moved back in with May (hence why a new address is on the envelope). My old roommate went BALLISTIC on me for little things, so I decided I needed to leave. May is a better person to have around, anyway.

The fall semester ended last week, and I wish I could say that I passed my finals. My professors are just mean, I think. I’ve been super stressed out lately, and writing this letter is helping me. You’re my savior. Also, the pictures you sent me of you in Tennessee are amazing. You should be a model! I’m sure you hear that a lot because of how pretty you are;)

I hope it’s not too cold in Seattle. I took some pictures of random things I thought you’d like, maybe that’ll distract you from how cold it is. I know how much you hate the cold. (You chose the wrong place to live!)

Anyhoo, I’m sorry this letter is short. My wrist is cramping up and May needs help with dinner. Write back as soon as you can.

Much love,

Peter ♥

Photo one: Peter in an obnoxiously large New Year’s Eve hat, grinning from ear to ear with his friend(?)

Photo two: A Polaroid of stray cats bonding in what you assume is Peter’s front yard.

Photo three: A Polaroid of Peter that was clearly taken by May. Peter is holding a tray of muffins, and he looks really stupid in his apron.

You get to writing him a letter right away.

Dear Peter,

I love the pictures. I’ll add them to my growing collection on my wall:)

My day has been so shitty. I wish you were here. It gets lonely, sometimes. I have friends, I’ve told you very little about them. They’re great, don’t get me wrong, but living alone is just lonely. Maybe I should get a cat or something. I need something to come home to. (Sorry for making this portion of the letter sad. I just needed someone to talk to.)

The weather in Queens looks nice. You’re awfully lucky, Peter. It’s cold and slushy here. I’m cold to the bone. Like, nothing will warm me up. It’s annoying. I just want it to be summer again. I hate being pale and cold.

I don’t have any pictures as of right now, so I’m sorry about that. I have some drawings I could give you.

My letter is short too, so I guess we’re even. I need to nap the sadness away.

Cold and loving,

Y/N ♥

~

The next letter you receive from Peter is about a week later.

My dearest Y/N,

I’m so sorry you aren’t feeling well.

I know we said we wouldn’t exchange phone numbers, and I respect that, but I just need to give you mine. I need to. Just in case. I don’t want you to be sad and lonely and have to wait for my letters to come. I like you. I like you A LOT– And I honestly want to meet you in person but that’s a conversation for another day. I’ve been saving up for it. Maybe you should come during the spring? You’d love it here, I know it. Or I could come to you? Whatever, we can talk about it more over the phone.

My phone number:

(718)-XXX-XXXX

Call me;)

Love always,

Peter ♥

You immediately spring up to your feet and grab your phone. Your hands were shaking as you dialed the number and called it, praying he wouldn’t think it was a spam call.

“Pete?” You ask, voice higher than you meant it to be.

Boyish laughter erupts on the other end of the line, and you already know that it’s Peter. Of course, his laugh would sound so sweet.

“Hi, lovie.”

[stephen-stilwell]

Because I hate ignoring you, but I know its for the best. Need to rest my head & heal my heart before we love again.

[tau1tvec]

Was listening to a podcast the other day, about how there’s less and less sex scenes in TV and Movies, and one person mentioned how MCU characters feel sexless/sensualess, even when they’re in a romantic relationship, and that a lot of the problem isn’t that there’s less sex scenes, there’s just less “healthy” sex scenes, bc ones violent in nature are still very much there, and that someone said a lot of it is the way society ( and Hollywood ) assigns romance/sex/sensuality to femininity, and violence to masculinity, and that’s why we see more violent movies get green lit and pull in big numbers, than romantic ones… and anyway, my mind’s just been unpacking that whole conversation for a while now. 🫣

[unwaivering]

When you are in love, and you get hurt, it's like a cut — it will heal, but there will always be a scar.

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 & 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐒 - 𝐅𝐎𝐗

CANON DIVERGENT / ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSES. Highly Selective & Private Multimuse for the Arthurian Legends, Merlin BBC, Red White And Royal Blue, Star Wars, & more. (high to low activity) ⤷ Remembered by Emrys, 30+ They / Them

[honeeysagee]

this means goodbye pt.2

★5,008 words★ summary: Bucky has to go, and Sam lets him, which cause them both to question whether their love deserves to be fought for. ★★★

The first time Sam Wilson saw him again he had prayed that morning - actually got down on his knees and prayed for a sign that he was moving in the right direction. And when his prayers seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his loneliness, he rose, wiping away the remnants of his plea, and faced the day with a heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. His knees weak with uncertainty as he moved throughout his day and life, craving. He still had this hunger that could not be fed.

He knew it was there but couldn’t identify what it was. It ate at the inside of him. In his mind, he imagined it to be the hunger of yearning. A hunger born from his inability to have something and call it home again. The need to feel something close to his heart and hear it again, even if it was just in words. To touch again, and taste another flavor. So, Sam decided to walk the streets of New York. He would look in store windows for inspiration and hope that one of them might give it to him. But when his feet found themselves in the doorways and window displays of the stores in Manhattan, he felt no inspiration. Just emptiness. And maybe a little bit of fear because he didn’t know how long it would take him to find some kind of fulfillment again.

For the last two years, he was a husk of himself. A shell. It was as though someone had sucked out all his emotion and left nothing but a hollowed vessel behind. He felt empty, broken, and useless. That was when the hunger set in. He craved something real and substantial to hold onto, and he wanted to feel that again.

He sighed as he settled into a cafe just north of his apartment. The sun hung low in the sky and the breeze carried with it fresh scents of coffee and baking bread. Sam closed his eyes as the cool air brushed his face, and breathed deeply. Something was calming here. The smells were rich, enticing, and familiar.

Then, and only then, he heard it.

A laugh.

A loud, throaty laugh. Like laughter that is forced through too much tension and has lost its sense of humor. Sam knows who it belongs to. He was once the person - the only person - to bring it out of him. It was a rare occurrence for Bucky to truly laugh, especially around other people. He was always so stoic - cold and distant - but Sam knew him better than most.

Sometimes, Sam had caught him laughing - sometimes, Sam could make him smile. Sam was the only person who had ever made him really laugh. Not just a small chuckle, but actual full-out laughter. Sam remembered it well, he’d never forget it.

Bucky's back was towards Sam, but he was sure it was him. He could recognize Bucky anywhere, especially after these many years. The way he walked, held his body and spoke. This was Bucky Barnes, and he was in the cafe, laughing freely with a woman at a table near the window.

His smile was wide and genuine - his cheeks slightly pink from the heat of the day, his eyes crinkled in laughter. Sam had seen this expression a thousand times before but, now it was different. Different than the usual frown, the downturn of his lips, or the tight line across his forehead that was always there, even in a smiling situation. His laugh was light and free. As though there wasn’t anything in the world to worry about.

Sam couldn't stop staring. He didn't want to. It was the first glance he had of Bucky since that night in New Orleans. Seeing him was like finding a piece of himself that he misplaced. He hadn't been looking for it, but its absence was noticeable. Sam wondered how Buck could smile so easily - wasn't the world caving in on him too? Wasn't it harder to get out of bed? Didn't he, too, reach for emptiness and sigh when that's all he received? Didn't all his emotions writhe within him and a hunger he couldn't feed replace them?

The more Sam watched Bucky's body light up with joy, the more he grew envious. He grew angry. Envied how much this mystery woman was baking Bucky smiled and laughed. Angry because he hadn't so many months trying to figure out how to be better - if that was possible - so Bucky would choose him for once. Envied the man he was before Bucky left. Angry that he had to change to so much.

But beneath the anger, beneath the envy, there was something else—a longing so profound it threatened to consume him whole. A longing for something he couldn't name, couldn't quantify, couldn't even begin to understand.

Sam couldn't take it anymore. His feet were already moving him through the cafe. Through the tables, chairs, and people between him and everything he thought he didn't want anymore. Towards Bucky, who was so far away now and so completely unaware of his approach. Sam took another step. Another. Then another. Two more. One.

One step from him and Bucky. Just one, but he couldn't move. Couldn't bring himself to confront him. What would he say? 'You took my heart. I want it back’? His mouth went dry at the thought of speaking to him. His tongue felt heavy as a rock and he feared he might just lose it. His palms grew sweaty and slick. Sam felt sick at the pit of his stomach as if he was about to throw up. He squeezed his fists. Squeezed. Until the skin turned white with pressure.

The laughter bubbled around him, filling the air with a sense of warmth and camaraderie that felt like a cruel mockery of his own shattered existence. Sam's chest tightened with each peal of laughter, each joyful sound a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had been unable to hold onto.

He tried to breathe, tried to force air into his lungs, but it felt like he was suffocating like the walls were closing in around him, trapping him in a prison of his own making. Panic surged through him, a tidal wave of fear and desperation that threatened to consume him whole.

He staggered backward, his heart pounding in his chest, his vision swimming with black spots. The café spun around him, a dizzying blur of colors and shapes that seemed to warp and distort with each passing moment.

And then, without warning, he was stumbling towards the door, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him, could hear their murmurs of concern, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could think about was escaping, escaping the suffocating weight of his own despair, escaping the laughter that echoed in his ears like a cruel taunt.

And so, he fled.

In his wake, Bucky caught a glimpse of a familiar, brown-stained leather jacket. He waited for it again. Waited for those dark lashes and those beautiful brown eyes. He didn't get the chance to.

★★

The second time Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was in his own home and in his own front yard.

Winter had settled in. He had spent the past three days trapped in his Brooklyn flat, trying desperately to make sense of his life. Trying to see how this new reality - the reality where he was the one everyone depended on now, had a team to care for as well as a family, and he was finally someone he could be proud of - worked for him. He had done so much of the work for the cause, but Brooklyn wasn't home. His sisters and his nephews were.

So, he packed a couple of bags and headed home for the winter. He would spend his days caring for them and his nights working to make his place homely. He would cook and clean play games and read stories until he fell asleep under the comforting blankets of his warm bed, and he didn't miss anyone. He missed nothing and no one.

That morning, Sam made breakfast for Sarah and the boys. He and his sister swapped childhood stories while the boys ate and listened. This was slowly becoming one of Sam's favorite pastimes. He liked seeing the happiness on his sister's face when he recounted stories to his nephews - the things that brought a tiny, content smile to their faces. And, for a short time, he forgot what had happened. Forgot about the screaming that night. Forgot that he had to run to Brooklyn because the silence afterward was killing him.

Yet, he was better now. He was.

A car horn blared from outside.

Sarah stopped mid-story; her gaze drawn towards the kitchen window. She looked out in surprise and then suddenly at Sam. He looked back at her questioningly. AJ and Cass raced to the window to see it was the one person they'd been waiting in silence for Uncle Bucky. They raced to the front door, each boy trying to be the first one to reach him.

Sarah stood.

Sam stayed in his seat - he looked straight ahead like he was being interrogated. He didn't look at her; he stared at his cup of coffee. He didn't know what to say. His hands were pressed tightly together, knuckles turning white. He swallowed the hunger down.

"I'll go talk to him. Just stay here, okay?" Sarah pleaded because she knew, deep down, that her brother was hurting. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, tell him everything was going to be fine, and that he shouldn't beat himself up over losing someone. But she couldn't do that. That wouldn't help. She knew Sam needed to do this at his own pace.

Bucky stood in the yard, hopeful.

Sam watched from the safety of the kitchen as Sarah stepped out to greet Bucky, her silhouette framed against the winter light streaming in through the window. He could feel the weight of her concern, her unspoken worry for him, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud.

As they exchanged words, their voices muffled by the distance between them, Sam felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart. He knew he should be out there too, facing Bucky head-on, confronting the ghosts of their shared past. But the thought of it made his stomach churn with unease, his mind clouded with uncertainty.

He wanted to be strong, to show Bucky that he had moved on, that he was okay without him. But deep down, beneath the facade of composure, he tried so desperately to maintain, Sam was anything but okay. He was drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions—regret, longing, and an overwhelming sense of loss that threatened to consume him whole.

And as he sat there, alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder if Bucky felt the same. If he, too, wrestled with the demons of their past, haunted by memories of a time when they were more than just strangers passing in the night.

But before Sam could dwell on it any longer, Sarah returned, her expression a mix of concern and compassion. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of support that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

"He wanted you something," she said softly, her voice tinged with understanding. "He said it explained everything."

Sam nodded, his resolve wavering but not broken. With a steadying breath, he pushed himself up from the table, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his uncertainty. As he made his way to the door, he couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter would change everything—that the second time he saw Bucky Barnes would be the beginning of something new, something uncertain, but perhaps, something beautiful in its own right.

Sam hesitated before opening the door, his fingers trembling as he gripped the knob. As he lifted his arm and twisted the handle, a rush of adrenaline filled his body. It was almost too much. Almost all too much, especially since he hadn't seen him since…since he had left that morning.

It felt like years ago.

It was.

"I thought you wouldn't want to see me."

Those were the first words that came out of Bucky's mouth after Sam had stood completely still in front of him and made sure he wasn't looking at him but through. His words sounded hoarse to Sam's ears. Something desperate, broken, and full of regret. Like the pain that lay behind it. And for some reason, it stung even more to hear it coming from the man who caused it.

"I don't."

A small envelope rested between the two of them. Bucky's hand was outstretched, bridging the gap of years between them, but Sam wasn't moving. Bucky wasn't giving up.

His eyes darted to the paper in his grip, scanning it quickly before returning his attention to Sam, a hint of a frown wrinkling his brow. He dropped his hand and tucked it into his pocket, his expression twisting with sadness. His lips pursed slowly, and his shoulders tensed like they were preparing to snap. Confusion flashed behind his blue eyes.

"Sammie, I want to apolo-"

"I can't take personal documents from people like you with a government witness present." Sam was formal - his persona working overtime while he was cracking behind it. His voice held none of its usual warmth, and he was careful to keep his expression blank.

"People like me?" Bucky asked, taken back but the sudden use of formalities. This wasn't his Sam. He was too guarded now. Too closed off. Too distant. Not Sam at all. He didn't nod or try to correct himself, but instead, he continued looking out. Bucky swallowed his pride and nodded finally.

"I'll see you around then."

"You won't," Sam answered simply. Then, before another word could simply between and fix this mess they made, Sam slammed the door.

★★★

The third Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was the evening he decided to put on his best suit. The blue silk shirt fit perfectly across his broad chest and tailored trousers hugged his hips and ass with enough grace to make anybody swoon. The cuffs of his sleeves reached well above his wrists. A pair of dark, fitted sunglasses completed the picture. Even without his hair gelled to perfection, even though his face was clean-shaven, and his skin freshly washed. He was the image of perfection.

Everything from his shoes to his posture to his smile screamed power and authority. It seemed ridiculous to Sam, considering how he'd spent his life running away from that image, but he supposed he was used to the fact by now.

The Hero's Gala had invited him, and he was expected to attend as an honored guest. So naturally he had agreed - even spent all night and morning writing a speech he wasn't sure of. He imagined Steve in his place, and when that familiar voice in his mind told him it wasn't enough, he called it a night and got dressed.

By the time Sam had arrived, the hall was filled with hundreds of people mingling and talking. He had hoped the noise would drown out the sound of his heart drumming against his rib cage. After a quick hello with a few of his acquaintances and an apology to a few other guests he had been avoiding, he made his way to Carol Danvers - his second in command when it came to in-field battles.

"You look pretty, Cap," She whispered to her glass as she raised it to her lips. That brought a chuckle out of him. Nice and warm.

"You don't look bad yourself, Danvers." Carol smiled brightly at him, her blue orbs softening, a small smile playing on her lips. Sam was happy with himself for not breaking eye contact with her, the tension between them long gone and replaced by mere familiarity. Friends.

The evening was beginning to pass by quicker than he would like. The count was slowly winding down, and New Year was coming closer by the second. He was about to excuse himself, to excuse himself and leave as fast as he could when he spotted him. Bucky. In a corner booth, hunched in a shadow, the man in question staring down at his drink and seemingly lost in thought.

He wore a completely black suit. His clothes were sleek and elegant. His hair was styled up, falling in neat waves over his forehead. His jawline was sharp, his cheeks smooth, and his cheekbones defined by the subtle curve of his lips. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, and the corners were crinkled in an attempt to conceal the pain that had settled into his features. Sam found himself taking a tentative step forward.

Sam, however, found himself and walked to the door. He whispered suddenly, 'Come to me' and 'Come home' in his mind. In a far, far corner of it. Even if there was a moment where Bucky could hear him, Sam was sure he wouldn't come. Not after he offended him.

The light of New York and the cold air rushed to Sam. He breathed deeply, allowing the fresh scent of crisp winter air and snow to fill his lungs. The balcony was quiet beside the sudden hum of music that was happening on the inside. He let go of a breath and inhaled it back in deeply.

He didn't even hear the door open behind him.

"It's nice to see you again, Sammie." Bucky's voice was quiet yet firm, carrying some trace of its former sweetness and gentleness. Sam's whispered yearns had paid off, but to what extent?

He was unsure.

Sam turned around to face him; his arms crossed as he looked Bucky straight in the eyes. He didn't know why his body betrayed him by reacting in such an unfriendly manner; he knew it was irrational, but he couldn't stop it. It felt as if a fire burned deep within his chest.

"It's Captain, now," Sam was more than elated to say that. "Is it still James?" The name tasted like ashes in his mouth, but somehow, Sam knew that if he let them linger for too long, he wouldn't be able to say it anymore.

Bucky nodded. "You've never called me that before," he whispered, his eyes never leaving Sam's. There was an unspoken plea there, begging for forgiveness, begging for understanding, begging for friendship. For all of that, Sam gave nothing. I shouldn't have to, he thought.

"How's the Lightening Squad or whatever you call yourselves?" Sam questioned, turning his gaze from Bucky to the lights of the city. They were a vibrant red, their colors shining so beautifully beneath the night sky.

Bucky shrugged lightly, following Sam's gaze. They both knew that Sam knew who the Thunderbolts were. They had caused enough trouble between the two of them. It's hard to figure out a name like that.

"Thunderbolts, and we're good." He grinned softly.

"That's great," Sam said with forced enthusiasm. He could feel the disappointment seeping into his tone. Bucky didn't seem to notice it, though, because he was busy taking in his surroundings once again. Sam could tell. His fingers wrapped tightly around his glass, his knuckles white, his breathing shallow. His lips parted slightly, revealing pearly whites that shone in the bright lights of the city. Sam seemed just as affected by it as he was by everything else. "It's uh-" Buck hesitated for a moment, "-Nice out tonight, isn't it?"

It was.

But Sam seemed distracted. "Cap…"

Finally, Sam smiled and nodded towards the city before him, "I sold the apartment here," His eyes twinkled from something unsaid yet, "And I moved back home."

He waited for Bucky to say something, anything, but the only sound he heard was his own calm breathing. Bucky nodded slightly, his eyes glazed with a sort of wonderment that Sam hadn't seen on his face since he first met him.

There were a million things Sam wanted to say, to ask. His mind buzzed with unspoken words, with the longing he felt deep down but couldn't voice. The tension between them hung heavy in the cold night air, each of them waiting for the other to break the silence, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

"You should told me," Bucky joked, but there was truth in there, "I would have come and helped you move boxes, Old Man."

Sam's jaw tightened. "You weren't exactly around to tell," he replied, a bitter edge to his words. "James."

He hated himself for saying it, hated the way that name rolled off his tongue so easily, so seamlessly. He tried to swallow the lump of bitterness forming in his throat. But it remained. And it kept growing, pushing its way past his teeth, past the tightness in his chest, and making the edges of his vision blur.

The silence was tense.

Bucky leaned his back against the railing and pushed his hands in the suit's pockets - he wouldn't control his hands if they found their way to his. If his body somehow winds up on his and pleads with Sam to take him and take him back. Nor could he stop himself if Sam planted a rejection to his ears, and his body decided to swan dive over the balcony. So, he placed his hands in his pockets.

"You know, I didn't know have to face you," Bucky confessed. "I wasn't - I'm not the same person."

Sam's eyes softened slightly, the anger within him dimming. "You didn't have to face me," he said quietly. "You just had to be there."

Silence hung heavy in the air. Neither one of them dared to speak. They couldn't bring themselves to, no matter how much they wished they could. The cold wind blew harshly through their faces, bringing goosebumps to their arms. They both pulled their coats tighter over their shoulders and sighed in relief as they saw one another.

Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them electric. "I'm here now," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I want to be here, with you, if you'll let me."

Sam opened his mouth to answer but stopped short when a voice interrupted him, "Captain." He turned towards it and looked towards Carol, who was leaning out the door. Her eyes shifted between Sam and Bucky.

"Danvers," Sam gained her attention again. "You need something."

Her eyes widened a bit. "Right. Sorry," her eyes darted from Sam to the man standing beside him. "They're asking for you to come make the speech." Carol had a suggestive look on her face, and Sam knew if he could read minds she was making every dirty joke in the book. He ignored it.

"Or I can just improvise," Carol offered - her eyes matching the lights of the party, "So, you can… catch up." She smirked knowingly, nodding towards Bucky before she closed the door gently. Both men watched her disappear into the party. Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, his mind spinning with thoughts and feelings that were threatening to consume him. The atmosphere was suddenly stifling and thick, and Sam couldn't stand to hold it any longer.

Sam leaned over the balcony, watching the city lights. He hated them. They blocked the view of the stars. Maybe, that's why he decided to move him. It had nothing to do with the possibility of running into Bucky Barnes

"I thought 3 years apart would be enough time. I thought I could just rip you from me," Sam was confessing, laying his cards on the table, "And I would somehow feel whole. Yet, we're still connected." He shook his head with a small smile. Something Bucky had never seen from him. His heart ached.

"Of course, we are." He added. "I ripped out so much of myself, and I'm left with nothing. This big. gaping hole and the only thing I can think to fill it with is more you. I don't want to."

Sam stopped and finally looked at Bucky. His Bucky. The one that was broken and bruised, but still beautiful. Bucky took a tentative step forward. Sam didn't stop him. "I'm sorry," Bucky's pleading expression was painful to watch. "You know that I am."

Sam felt his resolve crumbling, the walls he'd built around his heart beginning to fall. He took a deep breath, the weight of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He fought to keep himself steady. "I know." He managed. The pain that was evident in Bucky's features tore through his heart like knives, but he continued anyway. "I know, but I also know it's going to take me a while to just exist outside of you. I've been living my life always following behind. First, Steve, and now, you. I need to be alone right now."

He was struggling to even utter those last few sentences. "After you left three years ago and never came back, never utter a word, I felt like someone had just carved me open and left me there to bleed out. I don't want to feel that ever again. So, I need to protect myself first and figure out how to fix it. Fix me."

A torrent of emotions surged within him, a mixture of guilt, regret, and a deep, abiding sorrow for the pain he'd caused.

He felt his chest tighten as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart, making it hard to breathe. Sam's words cut through him like a knife, each one a reminder of the times he'd turned away, the moments he'd let slip through his fingers. The memories of their friendship, the laughter, the camaraderie, all of it now tinged with a sense of loss and missed opportunities.

Bucky's mind raced, filled with the haunting image of Sam's eyes, once so full of life and determination, now clouded with a weariness that seemed to seep into his very soul. He could see the cracks in Sam's armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface, and it tore at him to know that he was partly responsible for that.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. How could he have been so blind? How could he have let things get this bad? The weight of his mistakes pressed down on him, almost suffocating in its intensity. But beneath the guilt, there was also a flicker of something else—a glimmer of hope. Sam had said it was going to take time, but he hadn't shut the door completely.

The tear that had escaped was soon joined by others, cascading down his face as he struggled to find the right words. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. "Sam… I'm so sorry," he choked out, his throat tight with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted this."

He took a tentative step forward, his hand reaching out as if to bridge the gap between them, to offer some form of comfort, but he hesitated, afraid that his touch might be unwelcome. Bucky's eyes searched Sam's, looking for any sign of forgiveness, any indication that his words were getting through. He could feel the desperation in his own heart, the burning need to mend what was broken, to heal the wounds he'd inflicted.

He felt exposed, raw, as if his soul had been laid bare. The vulnerability was terrifying, but it was also liberating. For the first time in a long while, he was letting go of the mask he'd worn for so long, allowing himself to feel, to truly connect. And in that moment, despite the pain and the uncertainty, there was a spark of something precious—a chance for redemption, for renewal.

He spoke again, "I'll wait," He promised. "Wait until you want me again. Wait until you think I fit back into your life, and we'll pick up right where we left off." He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts. "I'll wait for you. For us."

He waited for a beat. His heart dropped. And then it skipped a beat. And then a beat…

He exhaled slowly, staring into Sam's eyes, hoping for something - anything. A response. An acknowledgment. Anything to show that he wasn't alone. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't letting go of Sam. Not yet.

The countdown to midnight began in the distance, voices chanting in unison as the seconds ticked away. The final seconds of the countdown echoed around them, and as the clock struck midnight, the sky above erupted in a blaze of color. Fireworks lit up the night, their vibrant bursts painting the darkness with streaks of red, gold, and blue. The sounds of celebration from the party behind them faded into a distant murmur as both men turned their gazes upward, watching the spectacle unfold.

For a moment, they stood side by side, their differences and distances seeming to fade in the glow of the fireworks. Bucky had never been one for making wishes, but as he watched the sky light up with a kaleidoscope of colors, he found himself wishing for something with all his heart. He wished that Sam would come back to him, that they could find a way to heal together, even though Sam was standing right beside him.

As the final fireworks faded, leaving trails of smoke and the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air, Bucky smiled, "Happy New Year, Sam."

A hand was placed on Bucky's back. Sam was closing the distance with a warm embrace the both of them needed. A hug. They melted into it. Welcoming the feeling and neither wanting to pull away. This was the closeness they'd craved. Sam's hunger was nowhere to be seen.

"Happy New Year, Bucky."