wistericals

[wistericals]

“Patient zero over there.”

From Thunderbolts* deleted scene.

[wistericals]

Bucky: Stop talking.

Walker: You know I'm not good at that.

[wistericals]

The Uplifting of Psyche, 1905 by Henry John Stock (English, 1853--1930)

[wistericals]

Bucky's Favorite Person

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N - not dating... yet?)

Summary: Bucky dislikes how the team is taking advantage of you while your bosses are out and decides to take matters into his own hands to help you relax.

A/N: I'm supposed to be working on a lot of other things but my brain decided to do this instead... I've been kicking this idea around for a while and it won't leave me alone so I need to write it just to get it out of. I hope you all like it ❤️

Sitting at the end of the oval table in the conference room, you glance anxiously at your watch. If this meeting ends on time, I should have exactly fifteen minutes before my next one. I think that'll be enough time to head upstairs and make another cup of coffee. Your leg bounces under the desk restlessly while you listen to Agent Hill wrap up the meeting.

"Remember, if you need to order any new tech, equipment or weaponry, Y/N will be able to help," she says and you force a smile as you close your laptop.

Yay me, you think sarcastically when all of the Avengers look in your direction briefly before getting up.

You're not supposed to be the go-to person for requests of this type but for the last two weeks, you have been running the Supply Chain Subsection of the Logistics Division for SHIELD. Your manager is on maternity leave for the next few months and as luck would have it, the day after she left the section director was called away for jury duty. The decision was then made to place the most senior analyst in charge of the supply chain for the foreseeable future and that just so happened to be you.

You sigh deeply as you skim through the emails on your phone, nearly a dozen new requests have been submitted since you checked this morning. I should just deny all of them at once and close my inbox, you think when you begin to see duplicate forms and requests you've already refused to approve this week. You know you can't though. As acting head of supply chain, you need to formally respond to each with a detailed explanation of why it was denied. With your head down and your attention still on your phone, you enter the kitchen and walk straight to your favorite appliance in the Tower.

You let out a surprised yelp as you walk directly into what feels like a very muscular wall, causing you to drop your phone but thankfully not your laptop. "Oh crap, I'm really sorry," you apologize quickly when you realize you've bumped into a super soldier and not an immovable object. Taking a step back, you watch Bucky's metal fingers wrap gently around your phone before you even think to bend down and get it yourself.

"It's okay," he says when his eyes meet yours, your stress melting quickly when he smiles.

"Thanks," you can't stop the nervous giggle that escapes you when his vibranium hand brushes against your warm skin when you take your phone back. Between the unbroken eye contact and his unbearably cute smile, you briefly forget why you came into the kitchen in the first place. It's not until he talks again that you remember your mission to get coffee.

"Long day?" he asks with a lighthearted chuckle.

"Very long," you answer, walking past him towards the coffee maker.

Bucky walks away, taking a seat at the island with an open book and a drink from the fridge but you focus on the task at hand. You open the drawer that holds the coffee pods and quickly select your usual, happy to see there are plenty to get you through the rest of the week. Before you can put the pod in the machine, a familiar voice causes you to turn around.

"It's a little better now that you saw me though right?" Bucky jokes from behind you.

You smile and answer him in a sarcastic tone, "Of course, because you're my favorite person." You keep up your long standing joke with your crush, hoping he can't tell you're being honest or that just hearing him laugh made your day ten times better.

"Hey Y/N, the request Peter and I submitted for new lab equipment got denied," Bruce complains. "Again. It's like the third time. Can you see what's going on?"

"Sure, have him send in another one and I'll see what I can do," you offer even though you are the one who keeps refusing to sign off on it when the form crosses your desk. The new equipment he is asking for is almost twice his department's budget for the quarter, there's no way my bosses would ever approve it if they were here, you think. I'm pretty sure that's why he waited until they were out to request it in the first place. This also confirms my theory that no one reads the rejection emails I send cause I already told him why I denied it.

"Great, thanks," he smiles as he leaves. "You're the best."

"Yep," you mumble and turn back to the coffee maker, pushing the button but nothing happens.

You groan and push it again as you begin to get frustrated when Bucky says, "You didn't put the coffee in."

A blush spreads across your cheeks at the realization that he's watching you struggle from the island instead of reading. "Right, thanks," you look at him briefly over your shoulder to see him smiling then open the top to add the coffee. "That's why you're my favorite, always keeping an eye on me," you joke as you push the button for a third time then look up when someone calls your name from the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you here but I know you have a ton of meetings this afternoon," your intern bites her lip anxiously, holding her tablet tightly to her chest.

"It's fine," you offer her a smile knowing she's probably just as stressed as you are since her first day was also your managers last day. "What do you need?"

She let's out a breath of relief then walks closer to you quickly. "I have a question about this form Thor sent, he marked it urgent but I don't know why. Would you be able to help me?"

"Of course," you take the tablet from her and read it over quickly, shaking your head then you give it back to her. "Forward this to me and I'll take care of it."

"Thanks!" she smiles and types on the tablet while exiting the kitchen.

You can't help but look towards the island and notice Bucky's eyes on you instead of his book. "It's the second time this week Thor has ordered pop tarts and claimed they were necessary equipment for a mission," you explain, shaking your head lightly.

He chuckles, "If you've been around Thor when he's hungry you know they absolutely are."

"He's still not getting them," you laugh then pick up your coffee mug and take a sip. Scrunching your nose, you set the mug down and open the drawer to find the sugar you forgot to add.

"Hey, just who I was looking for," the newest member of the Avengers says as he walks over to you.

"Hi Scott," you try not to seem annoyed by yet another interruption during your very short break. "What can I do for you?" You stir your coffee after adding the sugar, blowing on it lightly before taking a sip and setting it back down.

"I tried filling out that form to request a new suit but I can't figure it how to submit it," he shrugs. "All the little code boxes turn red but I don't know where to get any of that information. Clint said to just send it to you and you'd fill it out for me."

You force yourself not to roll your eyes then tell him, "I'm really not supposed to fill out the request forms for you guys. That kind of defeats the purpose." He frowns as you begin to explain the reasoning behind the process but your phone beeps, alerting you that your next meeting is starting in five minutes. "Just send it over and I'll take a look. I gotta go."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," he calls after you as you leave quickly and head down the hall.

It's not until you push the button for the elevator that you realize you're holding your laptop in one hand and your phone in your other hand. "Crap," you mumble when the doors open, knowing you don't have enough time to go back for your coffee.

Staring at your computer screen, you pinch the bridge of your nose when you hear a knock on the door. Oh come on, it's almost 5. Can't I get out of here on time just once, you wonder as you tell the mystery person to come in.

"Hey Y/N," Bucky's friendly voice fills your office and you relax for a moment until you see he's holding two coffee mugs.

"Hi," you sink into your chair a little as he comes closer to your desk. "What do you need help with?"

"Nothing," he answers, setting one cup down in front of you.

"Come on Bucky, you only bring me things when you need something," you slide the mug closer while he sits across from you.

"Oh, I didn't realize that," he responds a little hesitantly.

"Don't worry about it, it's why you're my favorite person here," you say with your typical sarcastic tone and the smile reappears on Bucky's face. "But it's only cause you bring me snacks when you have questions," you remind him playfully.

Last week he came to your office with a strawberry donut, telling you they were leftover from a morning briefing. While in your office, he just so happened to mention that he needed a replacement part for his bike and couldn't figure out how to fill out the forms. The super soldier has brought you cookies, coffee, pastries and a few other treats over the last couple of months and it's where you're joke about him being your favorite began. You truthfully never mind when Bucky has questions or issues, even if he didn't bring you a little treat in return for your help. He is the only person you work with who seems to value your time and apologizes for not being able to keep up with the newer systems.

"Well I don't have any questions this time I promise. I just dropped by to make sure you got your coffee fix," he explains and you hide your widening smile behind your mug. "I know it's late but every time I checked, you were in a meeting."

Taking a sip, you sigh happily when you realize he made it exactly the way you like it. "This is perfect, thanks Bucky," you smile and he grins proudly. A loud knock on your door pulls your attention away from the super soldier and you miss how quickly his smile fades. "Come in," you call hoping whoever it is doesn't need anything important.

"Hey Y/N, oh... and Bucky," Tony greets you both as he walks in.

You take another sip of your coffee, not wanting it to get cold since Bucky went through the trouble of hand delivering it to you. "Hi, what's up Tony?"

"I just sent in a handful of requests for some tech upgrades and your intern said you aren't going to get to them until tomorrow," he says in a disappointed tone.

"Oh yeah," you agree with your intern's response to him. "You sent..." you turn to open a few windows on your screen, "...twelve requests. A little more than a handful, it's gonna take me a while to go through all of them."

"I really need an answer on them tonight," Tony stands right behind Bucky who is holding his mug tightly in his metal hand.

"Tonight?" you check the clock on your desktop and sigh then look back at him. "Sure, yeah I guess I could work late again-"

"You've worked late every night for the last two weeks," Bucky interrupts your response. While you wonder if you complained to him about that and forgot he adds, "Whatever you need can wait until tomorrow."

"It'll only take a few hours and it's not like she doesn't get paid overtime," Tony counters and instead of Bucky letting you agree like you were going to do, he stands up to face Tony.

"I'm taking Y/N to dinner. She can deny whatever ridiculous requests for equipment you don't need in the morning because we both know you and everyone else keeps asking for things her bosses would never approve of," his words take you by complete surprise but thankfully it doesn't seem like he's expecting a response from either of you. "Grab your coat," he turns to you with that cute smile you can't get enough of and you nod, closing your laptop as you blush.

"I- uh... yeah, tomorrow is fine," Tony takes a step towards the door but Bucky's already forgotten he's in your office.

"So, where would you like to go?" he asks and you barely notice the door closing when he moves next to you behind your desk.

Giggling at his sudden closeness, you look up at him, "Honestly, I'm just excited to eat a meal that's not at my desk. You can pick since it was your idea to go out for a date." Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you shake your head, "Dinner, I mean dinner, sorry."

He smiles and cups your cheek gently with his metal fingers, "It's a date Y/N and don't worry, I think I know just where I want to take you."

"Oh really?" you ask, trying to sound calmer than you really are when his other hand settles on your lower back and he pulls you closer.

"Yep," he leans closer to you and just when you think he's going to kiss you he pulls back with a smirk, "But it's a secret. Come on, if we stay here any longer someone else might have a question for you."

You agree quickly and giggle when he takes your hand and leads you out of your office. While you wait for the elevator, Bucky let's go of your hand to wrap his arm around you and pull you closer. Smiling, you look up at him and joke, "Is this cause I said you were my favorite person?"

He chuckles, "It's because you're my favorite person."

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[wistericals]

"He's just a baby" Honey, he just killed a thousand of people and he's wanted for murder and a bunch of other crimes

[wistericals]

We love professional hater Damien!!

back and forth from gotham ₊˚⊹

or, it's not like damian cares about what jason todd does, but who could say no to blackmail material?

⟢ fem nurse reader, patching injuries, damian lowk shipping but in a hater way yk

SLOW NIGHTS ARE THE BANE of Damian's existence, but don't let Pennyworth hear that. The old butler would just sigh and make some quiet comment to Father about how 'the young master should learn patience.'

Damian is...patient. He puts up with the low-level math sheets at school, and spends hours trying to teach Titus to do a flip. Hell, he even lets Jon take his time with his uniform buttons so Mrs. Lane doesn't get mad again.

And so what if that little thrill of excitement runs up his spine when he sees a flash of crimson darting suspiciously through the shadows? That just means he can finally put his skills to good use instead of brooding down at the city from a rooftop like Father does.

The warning comes right as he starts inching away from the roof's edge.

"Robin."

Damian drops his shoulders, eyes flicking upward in exasperation.

"Just looking around," he huffs, nose wrinkled. Grayson calls it the hoity-toity voice, much to Damian's annoyance and Drake's amusement. "Thought I saw something."

Batman frowns, clearly skeptical, but doesn't say anything else. Just turns back to the winking lights of Gotham, dark cape billowing behind him in a snapping cloud of shadows.

Finally, he has something to do.

Leaping from one building to the next, Damian dogs behind the scrap of red as it veers around corners and slips into grimy alleyways like the silverfish in the darkest nooks of the Bat Cave. Is that...?

He chases beyond the territory of their current patrol, down from Coventry to the Upper East Side, a clusterfuck of old rowhouses, shiny condominiums, and everything in between.

Father won't be very happy about Damian running far, but they have earpieces and the Batmobile for reason, so.

"Got you," he whispers to himself, grinning as the Red Hood steps into the soft, diffused circle of a suburban streetlight. Todd is favoring a side, right hand pressed to his left oblique as he darts down the alleyway.

This is interesting. No guns, no bike. Just the man who's name is whispered like a mournful prayer in the Manor, limping through the backstreets like a lost puppy.

Damian scoffs, finding another reason why he's the better Robin.

Silently, like he's been trained to since birth, Damian creeps down to the next rooftop, landing with little more than a crunch of grit-gravel. Anyone listening would mistake it for a stray cat.

He watches as Todd yanks down the fire escape ladder to a stout, refurbished tenement, a heavy, rusted groan ripping into the night air. That should be considered a safety hazard in itself.

Todd scales the escape, quieter than Damian expected him to be. He can't be blamed, having spent years hearing the same old stories about the crazy guy who shot up half of Gotham.

It's like the entire block holds its breath as Todd works the latch to a dark window on the third floor. Across the back-alley, Damian shifts to lay flat on the roof, disregarding the dirt and pigeon-crap under him.

He has like, twenty of the same costume already, so Pennyworth not being able to dry-clean a stain out shouldn't be a problem.

The latch pops, a pin-drop click that's barely discernable from a rustle in a trash can or a pebble skittering in dense foliage.

Then the lights in the apartment flick on, and the red-helmed burglar flinches like he's just been flash-bombed.

Damian almost laughs with entertained glee. Take that, Todd.

But he doesn't run away, and the sharp grin on Damian's face is wiped clean off. A pair of bare legs and bunny slippers shuffles into view, then loose, cotton shorts and a soft camisole.

Oh.

That's you.

Damian remembers you, even though you're soft with sleep and aren't wearing the dull scrubs from Mercy Hospital. It was a couple weeks ago, when he and Father rushed a bleeding-out informant to the ER.

He didn't really know why Father cared so much, but he supposed the information was good, and it'd be a bad thing if the hero of Gotham let someone—scum or not—die on the street.

You were the nurse who told them that everything would be okay, all with a smile on your face. It matched the ID card hanging from your hip, plastic picture inserted into a Superman case.

You removed your gloves with a snap to offer a lollipop from the nurse's counter to Damian. He turned his nose up and stomped back to the Batmobile.

Father had only offered a sympathetic tilt to his mouth when Damian discovered the same lollipop in his toolbelt ten minutes later, to much of his horror.

Damian grits his teeth when you slide your window open for Todd instead of turning him away. Or the smarter choice, calling the cops.

He digs around his toolbelt once Todd scrapes the shit off his boots on the grate of your fire escape. Somehow, he manages to squeeze his huge body through your window frame.

Wingdings? No. Weeks old lollipop that looks suspiciously like the ones from Mercy Hospital? Damian hurls it toward the nearest open dumpster and makes the twenty-foot shot, as expected.

Ah, here it is. Brand new Wayne tech from the R&D department—he's been waiting to try this one out.

The gadget is a capsule meant to be loaded into an air-pumped launcher. Well, launcher implies too much. It's no more than an air gun, really.

The really special thing about this is what's inside the capsule. Drake had dubbed it the spyder-bot, a six-legged thing barely the width of Damian's thumb, outfitted with a cutting edge microphone and camera.

It connects by Bluetooth to a holographic screen, which he props in front of him. The capsule is shot at your escape landing with a quiet puff, and three spyders pop out of the little ball and crawl into the crack you left in the window.

Triangulation. R&D has really one-upped themselves this time.

Damian tunes into your conversation, watching the feed on his holo.

"You've really outdone yourself, Red," you're saying. Todd has shed his jacket and shirt, leaving the battered expanse of his upper body exposed.

He's bruised all over, hydrangeas of purple and black blooming on his chest. Damian clicks his tongue—not even he looks that bad after a week of patrolling.

You start peeling back a thick patch of dressing on Todd's side, the one Damian spotted him clutching on the way to your apartment. The gauze comes away with a sick sound, revealing an oozing wound underneath.

"Ripped your stitches again," you mutter, shaking your head. Todd groans, and one of the spyders zooms in.

Damian has to screw his mouth shut before he starts laughing. That damn idiot took off his domino but left the modulator mask on. He looks so fucking dumb, laying on your carpet in a stupor like a concussed Magic Mike dancer who only got the job done halfway.

"Yeah, well," Todd starts, head tilting up to look at the damage. His head thuds back to the floor, apparently seeing enough. "Ditched the bike in Coventry and ran the rest of the way."

You frown, gloved hands gently swiping a damp towel over the wound. "You didn't have to do that."

"The bike's loud, Doc. What, you want to attract attention here?"

Aw, coos a voice in Damian's head. He wrinkles his nose; it sounds suspiciously like Grayson. He wants to protect her.

"No," you say, quieter. You twist the towel over a bowl, watery red droplets wringing out of it. "But I also don't want you hurting more."

Todd laughs, breathy and rough under his modulator. "'S fine. I get hurt all the time, and you always patch me up good."

"I thought you don't do trust." You rip open a surgical kit and fiddle around with the curved needle and a pair of forceps.

He shakes his head like it's something funny, eyes flicking upward. His fingers twitch when you sink the needle into his skin and drag the thread through.

Todd grits out his words like they're hard to say, "Never said I did, 'cause you already know I can kill you if you say anything."

All bark and no bite. For the guy who dicked around while taking down half of Gotham's criminal empire, Todd's not really all that threatening when he's around you.

You probably know it too, with the way you raise a brow at him. "Alright, Mr. Big, Bad Red Hood. I can turn you over to the cops at any time, too, and someone in prison'll do the job for me."

You don't mean it either.

Still, Todd lets his head roll to the side you're on, gazing up at you with something wounded and soft and animal-in-the-bushes in his eyes. You don't notice, too tangled up in stitching the oozing gash in his left oblique.

Damian catches his own reflection in the holo, halfway through a disgusted gag.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, Todd turns away and you start studying him like he's some sort of wondrous miracle. All these missed chances, playing right in front of his eyes.

Damian might just start ripping out his hair strand by strand.

"Hey," you murmur, soft, blinking slowly like you're trying to fight off sleep. You finish off the last stitch, a row of neat thread holding Todd's oblique together, and take off your gloves with a snap.

Putting your hand on Todd's bare shoulder, your thumb runs back and forth along the transition between clavicle and trapezius.

You lean a little closer, the corners of your mouth quirking. "You sleeping?"

"No," Todd grunts, rolling his head back to face you. He looks up at you through his eyelashes with some sick kind of emotion that Damian has seen when Father looks at Mother.

"Well, I'm going to sleep," you say. "I've got a twelve hour shift tomorrow, so don't do anything stupid."

"I'd never," Todd says, tone completely straight. Earnest, in a way that makes Damian's lip curl into a grimace.

You make a sound that's half laugh and half scoff, standing. Todd lifts himself up with a soft groan, one that leaves your eyes lingering on him.

He just sits there for a second, hand curled in the fibers of your carpet like he's trying to memorize the feel of it.

"See yourself out, hero," you breathe, resigned, padding over to the light switch. Todd's eyes chase you, stare miles-long and intense.

What is it that Arsenal guy used to say? Right—bunch'a pussies.

Father patches into the comms right as the spyders start skittering back to him.

"Damian." Uh oh. Legal name isn't a good omen. "Robbery in Old Gotham. En route to RV at Mercy Hospital."

"Fine," he grumbles, dusting himself off. Todd is standing like a damn statue on the landing of your fire escape, looking miserably at your dark, locked window.

"Why are you in the Upper East Side, anyway?"

Damian fishes his grapnel out, shooting it at the top of your apartment building. Todd's head snaps up, and he grumbles to himself as Damian swings past; the wind howls in his ears, so he can't hear what the former Robin is saying.

"Funny story, Father..."

(He is so leaking this at the next family meeting.)

— dami is actually so me like yes shipping out of spite is a way of life.. ++ daily reminder that if u enjoyed and have time, pls leave a comment/reblog/ any feedback to support fic writers 💗

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

x reader fanfic writers i just wanted to tell that i love you guys, please keep making fics 🙏🙏 love yall, thanks and have a good day

[wistericals]

Three Roommates and a Loft

Summary: Three superheroes, one spare room, zero normal applicants until you showed up. They just want someone normal and you just want to avoid sleeping on the streets.

Warnings: none, this is something lighthearted and silly. A little break from my other fic which I’m still writing and got distracted so I wrote this instead. Dont look into the timeline or the plot too closely, you’ll get a headache.

A/N: This could totally be a multi-part mini series if you guys want! I just wanted to write something silly for once since my other pre-written fics are a little too………… heavy. Eventual Bucky x reader too bc we love slow burns around here!!!!! Sorry if the format is weird, I’m posting from my phone instead of my laptop. Definitely inspired by New Girl bc I was watching it the other day and was like ‘Mr krabsssss I have an ideaaaaaa.’ I’m posting this at 2 am so sorry for the errors

Word count: 2.4K

You were royally and abysmally fucked.

Your now-ex-boyfriend, a lying, cheating bastard who crawled out of hell itself, had not only obliterated your heart but also had the audacity to demand you move out of the apartment. The icing on top of this hellish cake? He had given you a week to move. A whole seven days to pack up your life and start all over again in a city that was too expensive for drastic lifestyle changes.

So now, in your last-ditch attempt to make sure you didn’t end up on the streets, you’d joined every roommate-hunting Facebook group known to mankind. Twenty-five groups, to be exact. Some of them were sketchy, some of them full of sex bots, and one required a $10 CashApp payment to someone with a cashtag of ‘$trishywablicky’ for “exclusive access to verified, scam-free listings”. You didn’t even care at this point, you paid the ten dollars.

As you scrolled through a new and very expensive Facebook group one evening, you saw a post from someone named Sammy W.

Room available in sunny Brooklyn loft! Shared with two other roommates. Big space, open floor plan, private room, good vibes. Open to both men and women. DM if interested.

The post had one blurry photo of the said loft: a sensibly furnished living room with exposed brick (a win), a bike mounted on the wall (very hipster), and in the corner of the living room, partially cut off from the photo was what looked like Captain America’s shield (what the hell?).

You squinted at the photo and zoomed in.

Could’ve been a replica. Maybe they liked cosplay. Or maybe they were part of that weird half of New York who liked the Avengers instead of finding them to be a living insurance nightmare.

Still, the post was intriguing enough to warrant a deep dive into Sammy W. Immediately, you channeled your inner FBI agent and began examining the profile.

The banner photo? An off-center shot of the Washington Monument. The profile picture? The classic, faceless Facebook default that seemed to say, ‘I don’t use this often.’ There were no tagged photos, no friends list visible, but there was one curious detail. You found a single reposted music video of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’. The caption?

I know that’s right 💅🏾.

You let out a small chuckle at your screen. That somehow told you everything and nothing about who Sammy W. was.

Combining all the facts, you figured that it was worth the shot. Beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point, you were desperate. The listing seemed normal, besides the cryptic profile of Sammy W, the rent was shockingly reasonable, and on top of that, the loft looked clean.

So you sent a message.

Hi Sammy! I’m super interested in this room. Is it still available by any chance?

You tried not to sound eager, but to no avail.

Within ten minutes, they answered.

Hey! We’re wrapping up interviews actually, but I can squeeze you in tomorrow. Think you can come by?

You stared at your screen and waited a few minutes so you didn’t look desperate.

Yeah, I can come by tomorrow! What time?

A minute later, Sammy W. replied with the time and a pinned location of the Brooklyn loft.

Then it hit you.

You were really about to meet three random people from the internet in an unfamiliar loft in Brooklyn. Totally safe and definitely not the beginning of a true crime documentary.

But, it could be worse.

You could be sleeping on the streets come next Monday.

—

The following day, you made your way to the address Sammy W. had sent you armed with your tote bag, a vague sense of optimism, and the kind of nerves usually reserved for first dates or tax season. You were trying to stay calm, but truthfully, you were about to meet three complete strangers from the internet with the very real possibility of living with them. If that didn’t earn a little justified anxiety, what did?

You’d dressed up like you were headed for a job interview at some startup. You went for a polished but approachable look with a crisp white button-down shirt and straight-leg jeans that fit you just right. You even brought a copy of your resume in case they wanted to verify that you were, in fact, a functioning adult with a good credit score.

The neighborhood was… quiet. Suspiciously quiet for Brooklyn. There was no honking, no wailing police sirens, and not even the distant tune of a saxophone busker. It was just tree-lined streets, brownstones with flower boxes, and the faint smell of baked goods from a bakery nearby. You wondered if you were being pranked or if you somehow ended up in The Truman Show.

There were no immediate red flags. The building even matched the photo Sammy W. had sent. It was a tall, industrial-style building with big steel-framed windows and ivy creeping up the brick. It looked like the kind of place millennials fantasized about living in: artsy, slightly weathered, and just hip enough to feel kind of cool. And of course, the loft was on the top floor because nothing says fresh start like a four-story walk-up with no elevator.

By the time you reached the top floor, you were regretting every life choice that led you to this moment. You paused outside the door of unit 4D, trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like someone who couldn’t climb up four flights of stairs without dying.

You raised your fist to knock. Then you lowered it, then raised it again.

Maybe you should leave. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe you—

Fuck it.

You knocked. Three sharp raps that sounded more confident than you actually were.

There was a pause, followed by the sound of footsteps and what had to be at least four different locks being unlatched in slow, dramatic succession.

The door creaked open just a few inches, revealing a man with permanently furrowed brows and the kind of deadpan stare that suggested he didn’t enjoy surprises… or joy in general.

“Yes?” he grumbled like you were inconveniencing him for knocking on the door.

“Hi!” you greeted in your friendliest tone. “I’m looking for Sammy? I’m here for the interview, you know, for the spare room.”

The man blinked at you, clearly unimpressed by your enthusiasm, then let out a long, exhausted sigh. “...One second,” he muttered, and promptly shut the door in your face.

You stood there awkwardly, debating whether or not you should make a run for it. The man’s stare had unnerved you even more, and you felt a weird sense of deja vu, like you’d seen him somewhere before.

This is fine, everything is fine.

From the hallway, you could hear three muffled voices erupt into a not-so-muffled argument behind the door.

“Sam, you said you took the ad down!”

“Ok… so I was going to, but tenth time’s the charm. I mean, she seems normal, did she look normal?”

“I hate you.”

“It’s third time’s the charm, and we passed that nine applicants ago.”

“Okay, you know what, Steve—”

The door flew open again, cutting the argument short.

The broody man was back with the same frown and slouch, but now with the resigned energy of someone who knew he was about to regret everything.

“...Come in.”

The door swung open wider this time, and you took an involuntary step back as three incredibly familiar faces came into view. You had to blink several times and let your brain process what was in front of you to make sure you weren’t hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation.

Standing before you, in the flesh, were three of the most recognizable faces on the planet.

Sammy W., who was actually Sam Wilson, was grinning at you like this whole thing was completely normal. Steve Rogers, the actual Captain America, stood beside him, tall, broad, and somehow even more handsome in person. And then there was the door opener himself: Bucky Barnes, the literal Winter Soldier, looking like he hadn’t smiled since the beginning of time.

You stared at them, and they stared back.

Life couldn’t get any fucking weirder.

—

They led you into the living room with the awkward formality of people trying to act like this was totally normal. You were gently directed toward a cozy armchair while the three of them squeezed onto the couch across from you. It was clearly not built to host two super soldiers and an equally buff guy.

Sam sat in the middle, grinning like this was already going well. Steve looked like he was conducting a mental background check. And Bucky looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You clasped your hands in your lap and tried to keep your voice steady.

“So… this isn’t a joke, right?” you blurted out, cutting through the silence before your anxiety could spiral any further. You subtly scanned the room for cameras to make sure you weren’t in some prank show. When you didn’t find any, you wearily settled into the plush seat.

Sam chuckled, holding his arms up in mock surrender. “Nope, not a joke. We just really need a roommate.” His voice was calm and diplomatic, as if he was used to defusing tense situations.

Your brows knit together. “Don’t you all live in that compound upstate? The one with the private gates and robots or… whatever?”

Your knowledge of superhero logistics was limited at best. You hardly kept up with the group, or hadn’t, really, since the Hulk threw your car at an alien and missed back in 2012. You harbored some sort of grudge ever since, but you weren’t going to say that out loud. This was definitely not the right crowd to mention that little tidbit.

“Oh, I’m actually not an Avenger,” Sam replied casually. “Never signed the papers, so no compound for me.”

“I’m not involved in that mess,” Bucky muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his eyes narrowed like the very idea offended him personally.

“I like to keep my work and personal life separate,” Steve added, offering a polite, PR-ready smile that seemed to indicate that he’d answered that same question before.

You sighed and slowly shook your head. “Right… this is turning out to be a really weird episode of Friends,” you muttered, your brows furrowing harder than ever.

Steve perked up immediately. “Oh, I like that show,” he said with a pleased nod as if he’d just passed some kind of modern pop culture test.

Sam gave Steve a look before clasping his hands together and leaning forward like some sort of talk show host.

“So, tell us about yourself!” he said brightly. “And sorry for the, uh, awkward introduction. We’re just surprised that you’re… normal. That’s not something we get a lot around here.”

“Assuming she is normal,” Bucky muttered under his breath, eyes flicking sideways toward Sam without bothering to hide his skepticism.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You couldn’t even be mad, he was understandably a deeply distrusting person. Bucky had the right to be a little paranoid given his very public and very traumatic history. You respected it and kind of understood it, too.

So, choosing grace over sarcasm, you let the jab slide and gave your name instead.

“I’m twenty-nine,” you began as you eased into the speech you’d rehearsed in front of your bathroom mirror. “I’m a kindergarten teacher, which means I have the patience of a saint, can function with little to no sleep, and have an unholy collection of stickers.”

Sam laughed softly, nodding like he was already impressed. Steve looked intrigued, the kind of polite interest that said he would probably ask follow-up questions later. Even Bucky’s expression softened just a fraction, though it might’ve just been a twitch.

“I work early, so I’m usually in bed by ten,” you continued. “So, no parties, no loud music, and I won’t be stomping around at two in the morning in heels. I’m clean, I’m quiet, and I always replace the toilet paper roll.”

That earned you a barely-there smirk from Bucky, and you considered that a small victory.

“Oh, and my credit score is a 760, if that’s relevant,” you added with a shrug. “Also, I mind my own business, so if any of you accidentally say something classified, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything.”

Sam’s mouth hung open slightly, clearly impressed, before he turned to Steve and Bucky with an exaggerated sense of ceremony.

“Gentlemen… in the kitchen please,” Sam said, solemn as a judge, then gestured for the men to join him in the kitchen.

Without waiting for a response, he stood and headed toward the kitchen like this was an official government matter. Steve followed, casting you a small smile as he passed. Bucky got up last, glancing at you one more time with that suspicious glare of his before disappearing around the corner with the others.

You sat frozen in your seat, perched on the edge stiffly like you were afraid it might suddenly eject you if you moved even the smallest muscle. You tried very hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation happening in the kitchen, but in your defense, they weren’t exactly being subtle. For a trio of highly trained operatives, they sucked at being quiet.

“Come on, see? I told you this was gonna be good,” Sam’s voice drifted into the living room, his tone smug and triumphant.

There was a small pause, then Steve replied, reluctant but honest. “Okay, fine. She’s… she’s a saint compared to the others.”

You weren’t sure who the others were, but based on their tone, you could deduce that they’d previously interviewed absolute disasters.

Then, Bucky chimed in, his voice low and deadpan. “As long as she doesn’t set anything on fire or talk to me before seven a.m, I don’t care.”

“The bar is on the ground,” Sam tsked in mock exasperation, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Like, six feet under.”

Steve let out a quiet chuckle. “Really is.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “What? I get to keep my nine hundred dollar rent.” He said flatly, as if that settled everything.

From the living room, you sat perfectly still, heart thudding loudly in your chest as their footsteps drew closer. You quickly straightened your posture and offered a polite, practiced smile the moment they reappeared. You tried to look like you weren’t desperately hoping they’d say yes.

They piled back onto the couch, settling into the same spots as before. This time, Steve was the one who broke the silence. He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees and gave you an earnest smile.

“All right,” he said. “When can you move in?”

—————————————————————————————

End notes:

Hey girl! Whatcha doin? Hey girl! Where you goin?

Who’s that girl?

(Who’s that girl!)

Who’s that girl?

It’s Y/N.

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

Yesss, the 'meeting and caring in the spaces no one else sees' vibe HITS SO GOOD

Thin Walls - Part Three (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: You're on your way out. He's on his way in.

Word count: 700

🎧 “I do not understand,

what it is I’ve done wrong,

Full of holes, check for pulse,” 🎧

Keys, wallet, backpack, shoes- shit.

Shoes, keys, wallet.

Where the fuck is my backpack?

By the time you’re out the door and in the stairwell landing, you’ve lost and found all of the things you need for your trip. Some mandatory staff training out of state that no one wants to attend- least of all you who has to be up and out at 4:55 AM for a 6:00 AM bus ride from Brooklyn to Stamford. 

🎧 “I’ve no idea what I am talkin’ about,

I’m trapped in this body and can’t get out,” 🎧

That’s probably why you’re putting no effort into making yourself look or feel socially presentable; hoodie up- not to hide your unkempt hair, but to hide the world from you; backpack barely hanging on your arm as you sling it around to throw your keys into it; and earphones in, blasting something that lets you hate everything without any real reason. Thom Yorke is pretty good at that. The meloncholy rage you feel is the only thing you need to hear at the moment.

You know you’re probably making noise on your way down the stairs, but you can’t hear it- and everyone’s probably still asleep. 

If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, and all that.

You’re about halfway down the stairs to the second floor when you push off the right hand railing to tether yourself to the left for the inevitable turn down the second floor when you collide with brick. Or, it feels like brick. 

Your eyes shoot open and your left earbud falls out and bounces down the last of the steps until it hits the wall. It’s only then, when half of your hearing is brought to the present, that you feel the ‘brick wall’ latching onto your forearm. Sturdy like brick- not a wall.

🎧 “You killed the sound,

Removed backbone,” 🎧

You look up, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but wide with surprise; and meet his gaze- heavy with exhaustion, narrow with alertness. Strange dichotomy.

It takes you another moment to look down and realize it’s his hand gripping your forearm, firm and steady, but cold. Metallic. Strange… You look up at him and blink, then reattach yourself to the right hand side of the staircase railing.

“Shit- sorry,” you mutter, looking down before you cough softly to clear the sleep from your throat.

Before you’re even able to turn to face the earbud that has skittered down to the floor, he’s on his way up with it- still blasting your song, though, it holds a different meaning now.

“Thanks,” you say, soft, but more awake now, taking it clumsily from his two precise fingers and holding it in your fist. 

“Mm,” he nods once, looking down at you. “You headin’ out?”

You suck in a breath as you’re brought back to reality, looking down and away with a nod. “Staff thing out of town. Early bus.” 

There’s a silence that follows. No snarky comment to border on teasing, no complaint about how you’re stomping down the stairs and trying to bulldoze through him; nothing but a strange, steady presence. You look up at him after a moment of quiet that stretched too long for comfort, and see him. 

In a matter of miliseconds; your eyes dart from his own- grey under the dim stair lighting- to the tension in his shoulders that scream disciplined readiness, down to the duffel bag over his shoulder, the strap taut across his chest. He clearly notices you noticing him- the hand that held you up twitches as your eyes land on it and immediately gets stuffed into his left jacket pocket. Even the jacket is curious, not military or police- not civilian, either. Durable. Tactical.

“Safe trip,” his voice cuts through the silence and your eyes snap back up at him before you nod and manage a glimpse of a smile. Then, he watches as you step slower down the stairs, almost like he’s making sure you don’t almost fall again, and your eyes meet once- short- before you turn the corner down the next set of stairs.

You take your hood down and keep your earbud out.

🎧 “I've seen it coming,

I've seen it coming” 🎧

-

@kiba-uwuzuka & @wistericals <3

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

The Falcon and The Winter Soldier 1.03 — "Power Broker"

[wistericals]

[wistericals]

POV: Thunderbolts* (2025)