i’ll tell you my sins | b.b. imagine

— Pairing: Priest!Bucky Barnes x Reader

— Summary: If religion was the safe haven where Bucky found reasons to be alive and see the good in this world again, loving you was where he found the freedom to be more than just expectations once again. Human emotion, connection and need more than anything else. Also, devotion. Bucky already understood that one, but with you, it reached heights he never dreamt of before.

— Word count: 7.5k

— Warning(s):This work is intended for 18+ audiences. Minors, DNI. Explicit depictions of sex. Religious theme. Smut. I do not allow for my work to be copied, translated, or reuploaded on any other platform.This whole monstrosity is @buckspumpkin ’s fault <3

ㅤㅤㅤMain Masterlist|Marvel Masterlist | | ko-fi ❥

Everything about her felt forbidden.

From the moment he met her to the moment they befriended.

Every step of the way, every interaction, smile, deep conversation outside the church, random encounters in the city—Bucky knew it. He was aware of it, and yet, he did it anyway. He fell for the power in your voice, for the mind behind those eyes, for the soft and electrifying touch of your hands. Bucky was presented with temptation and he fought it until he longer wanted to. Until all that was left inside of him was desire, longing, and need. Temptation won, but only because there was no game anymore: Bucky was presented with you in his life, and for the first time in many long years, his life expanded once again.

From the moment Laura brought you to the Church’s congregation party for the holidays and introduced you, he knew he should stay away.

It was the eyes.

Laura pointed at you, and said, “Father, this is Y/n, my best friend who I’m always talking about.”

He had been polite back then. Bit down on his usual winning smile when meeting new people because something about the glint in your eyes hooked a piece of his chest when they met his.

Bucky had given you the polite smile, and said. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you. Nice to meet you, I’m Father James.”

He extended his hand, which you shook without breaking eye contact.

Then, you said: “Nice to meet you, Father,” and Bucky’s insides burned despite the cold weather surrounding him.

That day, he couldn’t escape fast enough.

You were a friend of one of his congregates, so there was no way he could be rude, but every time he glanced in the direction where you were, talking and smiling with other people who frequented the church, your eyes met his and Bucky felt like a deer caught in the headlines.

An animal in the jungle, like one of his favorite documentaries—he suddenly understood the prey when they felt the eyes of tigers and lions on them.

Frozen.

Bucky’s throat felt dry every time you did it. You looked at him over the rim of your cup, and it was like your eyes searched for something, and they could see beyond his cassock and coat.

Whatever you were looking for, Bucky wanted no part in helping you find out.

She’ll be gone by the end of the day, he thought all night long. There’s no need to worry.

If only he knew.

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It was a fun discovery to learn that while you believed in nothing, you believed in everything at the same time.

It took Bucky three months of meeting you outside the Church when you picked up Laura from the masses and having brief, but sweet exchanges with you to accept the fact that you were a really nice person.

Funny, intelligent, sweet.

He stopped escaping whenever you were around. Stopped running away whenever Laura brought you by force to one of the fairs or events, and surrendered with ease to the reality of it all: apart from your non-belief, you seemed like someone he’d be close friends with.

Which is where you two ended up after he found you drunk at the city square and walked you home.

That was the first conversation ice-breaker. And from then on, Bucky simply accepted you.

Which meant you know popped up outside the church with good beer and the newest thing you were reading about regarding space to talk to him.

For those visits, you usually showed up at the end of the day, after your work hours. You stayed for a couple of hours talking to him about nonsensical things until a real topic was approached and you two shared things that Bucky forgot he thought about sometimes.

“You know, these are starting to feel like my own confessional,” he offered.

You chuckled, hiding behind your beer. He still saw the way your nose scrunched. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”

“It is!” He laughed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Why wouldn’t—Father. C'mon. Those things are creepy as hell.”

“First of all: blasphemy. Second of all—stop laughing, I’m serious. That was very blasphemous.” He adored listening to your silly laughter. “And second of all: they are not creepy. They’re just… methodic.”

“Yeah, the method being ‘scare people until they talk’. I’ll give it to the Church: clever, at least.”

He’s thinking about that day and the things you said about the hour of Twilight when he hears the doorbell.

Bucky halts everything he’s doing.

It couldn’t be you.

He looks at the clock—00:52.

Fuck.

What were you doing here?

This week had been hell, both figuratively and literally.

The tragedy that happened in the city and the heartache that followed everyone like a dark cloud ended up inside his church, as darkness usually does. It’s where it goes to be diluted, but being the tool of change as he is, Bucky’s the one who ends up feeling like a truck ran over his back.

Itcouldn’t be you.

Bucky heard from Laura about how pissed off you were about everything. 'Religious people and their ways of meddling in people’s lives and their bodies and their ways of handling life’, as you claimed, and everything wrong attached to it.

He hadn’t seen you around the city all week long.

“James Buchanan!”

That is definitely your voice.

Bucky swears under his breath, puts on the first hoodie he sees, and doesn’t even bother checking on his reflection to know he looks like shit.

He’s tipsy and tired, and there’s no need to bother putting out his tobacco before he goes downstairs to open the back door for you.

Out of all the people who could see him in this state, you’d be the last one to judge him.

When he opens the door, he sees you’re on the same boat as he is.

Tired, and trying to cope.

He sighs, opening the door wider. “Thought you had eloped town by now.”

“I unfortunately am stuck to this hell hole.”

Turning around, he sees you taking off your boots and placing them on the shoe rack.

“Put on a slipper, it’s still wet outside,” he tells you. “I was going to bed.”

Behind him, he hears the sound of you scoffing. “No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” he argues.

What follows is silence, and Bucky sighs. You know him too well.

He opens the door that leads to his small herbs garden outside where two chairs are already placed next to each other and waits for you to make yourself at home.

He wonders if it’s one of thosedays.

“You know… you’re really nice to talk to, Father James.”

He kind of hated when you called him that. It felt teasing. Laced in the taste of wine.

“Do you?”

“I do. You don’t shy away from answering questions. People nowadays don’t wanna have conversations. It’s exhausting. You, though—you… think about it. Answer me. I can talk without feeling like I’m being judged—”

“Oh, sometimes you definitely are.”

He likes your laughter. The more it sounds like this—free and caught off guard, the more delicious it is.

“I’ll take your word for it.That was just me wanting to thank you for being a nice ear, I guess.”

“The same goes for you.”

It’s becoming more and more common for Bucky to be stuck in a memory of you before reality calls him back to the moment.

The door clicks behind him and he looks over his shoulder to see you holding two beers, a cigarette in one hand, and the tiredness in your shoulders.

Dropping your body to the chair next to his, you hand him the beer and then light up your cigarette.

For a while, all you two do is sit there sharing sips of your drinks and looking at the brick wall ahead of you. Bucky’s hyper-aware of you and your movements, as always, and notices from the corner of his eyes when you start distracting yourself with the new flowers in his garden.

It’s when he sees a single tear running down your cheek that his body comes alive.

Bucky feels alert in a second.

Sick to his stomach.

He wants to reach out and clean the tear from your cheek, but it wouldn’t take away the pain that let it fall.

He waits, though, because he knows you wouldn’t be here unless you wanted to talk about it.

Then it hits him—she trusts me.

He has to swallow that pill down with large gulps because it would get stuck in his throat otherwise.

He remembers as clear as day hearing you say how hard it was for you to trust people. To let people in.

“Sometimes, I barely want most people in this town to know I’m a human being. The less they see of me the better, you know? They’re just—fucking vultures. Waiting for a sign of weakness to start roaming your body and getting to pick it apart.”

Through the sips of his beer, Bucky wonders how many people have seen you cry other than him.

You clear his throat next to him, and all thoughts are vacant from his mind.

He turns his head to you, attention solely focused.

“Did you do a mass?” You ask, voice rough as sandpaper.

You’re questioning whether the people who died got a mass this week. Bucky has to breathe through the ’why do you ask, why, but WHY’ and simply answers. “I did, yeah.”

You nod, sniffle and clear your face in your sleeve. “Cool. That’s good.”

Bucky feels he’ll puke if he doesn’t get a little more than that, so he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he can be brave. “There’ll be a lantern reunion at the lake.”

You turn to him, eyes red and vulnerable, and Bucky has to grip tighter on the can to stop himself from cleaning your tear-stained cheeks once again. “A what?”

“A lantern reunion. It was Laura’s idea, actually,” your friend was a blessing to his congregation, and it made Bucky smile a little to think so. “People from the congregation will go in a fortnight to the city lake a little further in the mountains and light up little candles in their names. Push it into the lake as sort of a goodbye and a desire for good passage.”

“Into heaven?” you ask, smiling sarcastically.

Bucky’s gotten so used to it that it doesn’t even rattle him anymore.

“Into anywhere,” he answers.

The sarcasm drops from your face like rain does out of nowhere from the sky, and you sigh. “That’s nice.”

“Is it?”

“It is.” You take a sip, and Bucky feels it in his chest the blow before it comes. “Naya would’ve loved it. Probably reminded her of Tangled or something like that.”

The name hits clear as day as part of the list Bucky read on Sunday.

“Was she a friend?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Goddaughter.”

Your jawline is sharper than ever before. Razor-sharp. Bucky realizes when he pays attention to more than just your eyes, the usual lovely, deep, and telling eyes, that the rest of your face lacks any of your kindness and softness—you’re angry. Properly raging, he imagines.

It’s the first time he’s seen the emotion on you, and it rattles something in the attics of Bucky’s brain.

Ghosts of his past, of guns, violence, and the range that humans could go to.

“Tell me about her,” the words fall from his lips, and Bucky feels like prey once more when your eyes snap back to him. “If you want to, of course. I—I’d like to hear it.”

For a moment, you only watch him, eyes searching all over his face.

“Why?” You ask.

Bucky shrugs his shoulder, sipping a little more. “Because… offering my condolences won’t do any good, although you do have them. And talking about the occurrence serves no purpose, either.” Both of those options are weak at best. “Hearing about who your goddaughter was, on the other hand, sounds nice.” He wonders how close you two were. Was she the daughter of a best friend? Bucky knew you had no sisters. “D'you have sisters?” He asks to confirm. “I thought you didn’t.”

The ghost of a real smile appears on your face. “I don’t.”

“Right.”

“She's—was… she was my best friend’s daughter. Hugh.” The smile turns more real than ghost-like. “He and I have been friends since middle school.”

Wow. That’s longer than Bucky’s been in this town. “That is a long time.”

“Notthat long, c'mon Father. Don’t call me old.”

Bucky laughs. “You’re not a sweet summer child, that’s for sure.”

“Wow!” You say, joining him in laughter.

“Your generation is a mystery to me, I’ll tell you that.”

“Ugh—there you go again with 'your generation’. You’re not that much older than me, Father,” you give him a pointed look.

Bucky hums. “I beg to differ. There’s more than a decade bridging this,” he gestures between you and him.

“Fine,old man. Whatever you say,” you chuckle, and sip the rest of your beer, crushing the can in your hands. “Anyway. Hugh’s not usually here—he works two towns over most of the time.”

“Is he married?” He asks out of curiosity.

You shake your head. “Nope. Naya’s mom was a fling.”

“Got it.” From that, he deduced you had a lot to do with the girl while growing up. “Was she a lot like you?”

You laugh. “A mix of Hugh and me, yeah. I spoiled her quite a lot.”

Bucky smiles. “Tell me more.”

And you do.

Bucky listens to you tell him about Naya, and she comes to life inside his mind.

He saw the picture of everyone involved, but now he can see the glint she had in her eyes, the quirks you mention, the passions in her heart.

He does his best to stay present in the conversation, letting go of any pain related to the tragedy in order to give you a good ear as you mentioned he has.

It hurts almost as much as if he was thinking about it all.

The oscillations in your smile between heartbroken and sad, and heartfelt. He feels the changes like shrapnel under his skin.

After a few more beers, the talk changes every now and then. From kids to raising them without parents, to the dangers surrounding newer generations—like always, talking to you is a rollercoaster of topics, and Bucky thinks he’s done a good job of taking your mind out of the dark places it was.

Until you stop, look at the wall in front of you again, and the tears start streaming down again.

Bucky’s heart breaks all over the wet ground, getting dirt all over the pieces.

He’s closing the distance between your bodies before he thinks better of it.

His arms wrap around your shoulders and you bury your face in his chest, letting go of your pain in the safe space of his arms.

Bucky lets you cry for as long as you need to, and when the quiet sobs diminish to only your sniffling, he still holds you close.

“I feel… like barbed wire. I don’t know.” Your voice is thick with emotion, and Bucky squeezes around you subconsciously. “There’s so much rage inside me, Buck.”

“That’s okay. It’s the normal thing to fill you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew all the things I’m thinking. I—I’m not the best person ever, but the things I’d do right now…”

Bucky shakes his head. You’re human, he thinks. “You’re a good person even with those thoughts.”

“You don’t know that,” you argued.

“I do, though,” Bucky counters. “All the things you want are a response, not an initiative. That’s how I know.”

At that, you stay in silence. Bucky feels you moving your head—before, you had your forehead resting against his chest, but now you move your head to the side and lay your cheeks against him, making yourself comfortable.

“You’d judge me, though,” your voice is barely above a whisper. “They’re horrible things.”

Bucky scoffs. “I’ve done my fair share of horrible things in life, Y/n. I’ll never be in any position to truly judge someone else,” he tells you.

Then it hits him—I trust her too.

“I don’t believe that,” you whisper.

“It’s the truth.” Bucky’s past is his own, but he allows you to have this. “I was a tool for a long time, one that did many wrong things. I hardly think that you wanting to kill the people who did this with your bare hands is something so atrocious.”

“I’d think you’d judge upon murder, Father.”

“Not my place to do so,” and if he was being honest with himself, never would be. The things he believed in were symbolic.

“Is this what a confessional feels like?” you ask with a chuckle.

Bucky rests his head on top of yours. “It’s the idea.”

“I like it. It’s not so bad.” You take a deep breath, and Bucky feels it.

I like it too, he thinks. Why does it feel mutual?

“D'you want some food?” he asks. He needs something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve holding you.

It takes you a moment to answer. “Sure.” You pull your head back a few inches to look up at him, and the smile he sees in your eyes takes his breath away. “Thanks, Father.”

This feels as holy as any of my prayers.

Bucky feels dizzy.

“Thanks for trusting me,” he answers, and then lets you go. His arms feel empty and cold the minute they leave your frame. “C'mon. I’ll make us sandwiches.”

“That’s not food,” you argue behind him.

“It is in this house,” he rolls his eyes, knowing you’re just doing it to tease him. “Ungrateful youth, I swear.”

“I’m not being ungrateful, I’m being factual. You know, back during the Roman Empire in Grece, they…”

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The night of grief changes nothing and everything at the same time.

Bucky knew you were a person beneath all the exterior of perfection, but it takes seeing you cry for him to realize why he deemed everything he saw to be that way—he saw beauty even in your imperfections. He met you by chance, befriended you by fate, and because the Universe wrote you and him to be this way, something about your existence read as beautiful from top to bottom. Breathtaking. It never occurred to him that he’d find something else to look at and see unadulterated and raw light, but there you were. Whether it was talking to friends, working, running past him at eight in the morning, or crying in his arms, the aura around you glowed in holy light, and Bucky had only one night of absolute existential crisis before acceptance washed over him.

He might have found his peace in god, but the god he believed in never excluded the Nirvana existing in love.

Accepting things as they were hurt much less.

Everything about him felt holy.

The whole month you stayed away from him, that’s all you could think about.

Bucky felt holy. His blue eyes on you, the gentleness in his words, and the shy cocking of his neck whenever he was under the light of a compliment—holy, holy, holy.

That’s why you hated how much you desired to corrupt all the purity within every thought permeated by him.

It made you a little sick at first. Desiring him and still talking to him normally as if you didn’t touch yourself to thoughts of Bucky fucking you and stretching you around his cock while filth dripping from his lips was a hard task, but no one could say you were one to shy away from a challenge.

All of that goes away when he cooks for you.

Theshame in wanting him.

From that day on, you allow your mind to drift wherever it pleases.

To his words, his eyes, his lips, the feeling of how strong his arms were — how did I miss that, what is that damn black thing hiding, why does it feel so warm and firm, oh my god — and anything in between. His voice. The way he curses under his breath as if Jesus is not listening if he talks low enough. How much lower his voice can go.

Letting all those thoughts roam free is both a blessing and a curse.

When you see him the day following a dream where Bucky did all the things your mind wanted him to and a bit more, you realize where the curse part walks in.

It’shard looking him in the eye when you have vivid images of his hand gripping your neck. It’s sad that all you have is images, but they’re more than enough to make you take a step back every now and then.

You can’t get wet if you don’t get a whiff of his perfume.

Can’t feel embarrassed and hot all over if he doesn’t make one of his silly jokes under his breath.

It takes you a few weeks of escaping him here and there before you receive it, at 11:50 pm on a Monday night:

What would you say if I told you I need my confessional bubble?

The message stares at you, and you stare back.

The feeling of his hug around you comes to you like the scent of someone being dragged by the wind.

Where are you?

The church. I was organizing some stuff. Come over?

Not one to say no to him, you drive there with your heart beating in your palms and the familiar knot on your throat of someone haunted by their own thoughts.

At the church, you find Bucky with a glass in his hands and all the pictures and remains of the shrines packed in one corner.

“Evening, Father.”

Bucky turns around sharply, and you see that he’s not drunk nor tipsy yet. His look is sober, and his eyes lighten in color when they see you.

“Hey.” He points to the stuff on the floor. “I’m gonna put this in the back. I’ll be back in a minute—you’re very fast. How fast did you drive?”

Probablytoo fast because I was anxious. “Maybe you’re just slow, Father James.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, and your mind goes oh-oh. He looks at you with narrowing eyes, but then the mirth is back on his face. “Ha ha.” He picks up the boxes. “I’ll be back.”

“Won’t I burn in your absence?” You call after him, trying to contain your smile.

Bucky looks over his shoulder just so you can see him rolling his eyes.

You chuckle. Was there even a need to be nervous?

This is Bucky.

James.Father James. He’s a good guy, and a great friend, and a pretty funny person for someone who is so mysterious.

In his absence, you start walking aimlessly through the church.

You’re here very rarely. Paying attention to the details of it is not the first thing in your mind but, with nothing to do, you notice all the beauty in the place: the colorful glasses, how polished and shiny the wood benches and every other wood surface looks, and then it catches your eyes.

On the far right corner, close to the altar, there it is.

The confessional.

You’re walking to it before you notice what you’re doing.

It’s bigger than you expected.

Your hand comes up to touch the wood and its patterns—the velvet drape which closes one of the sides is blood red, and you raise both eyebrows at it.

Gorgeous.

The other side is closed with a wooden door, though. You imagine it’s where the priest enters, and because you’re friends with the one who runs this church, you let yourself in.

The space is big enough to fit two adults if they’re squeezed close together.

You take a seat, looking over the side where you can see very little from the open spots in the wood.

Then, you hear his footsteps coming back out there.

“Y/n?” He calls out, sounding confused.

You think about coming out, but then…

Confessional bubble.

You open the door minimally, put only your hand outside, and wave. “Here,” you singsong.

There’s a second of silence in which you wonder if Bucky is genuinely offended for the first time about something you’re doing, but then you hear his laughter approaching.

You hear his body passing through the drapes and sitting next to you.

“Not where I’d expect to find you,” he says from the other side.

It’s with the first sentence that you realize what a terrible, miscalculated, poor idea this was.

Your senses go from 0 to 100 in a second. They’re all tunneled to his voice, and you can smell his perfume permeating the small space.

“Y/n?”

“I was curious,” you answer. Your voice is low, and you swallow down the nervousness. It should be fine. What could go wrong? “Plus… this seems like a cool bubble.”

“I told you it was, you never trusted me in that,” he answers.

You chuckle. “I didn’t know about all the velvet.” And the stripping of your senses. God, I feel dizzy.

“It’s charming, isn’t it?”

You are, your traitorous mind replies. “Yup.” You take a deep through your mouth and let it out slowly. “What was in your mind, young padawan?”

Bucky laughs. “Wrong religion.”

“Right, my bad—what’s in your mind, my sheep?”

“You’re not so bad at this.”

“And you’re great at deflecting,” you bite back, smiling already. Your body relaxes on its seat, and you start picking on your t-shirt. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

“I did.” Bucky hums. “Didn’t think you wanted to, though.”

What?“What?”

“I was gonna ask you to go grab a bite with me so I could hear how you’ve been doing these past couple of weeks. I haven’t seen much of you,” his voice sounds a little small, and you hate yourself for a second. “I imagine you’re busy.”

Does trying to get rid of thoughts of you naked count as busy?

You bite your bottom lip nervously. “Not that busy,” you reply. “Just… processing.”

“Right. I thought about that too,” he says. Bucky takes a deep breath and you can hear that too. “I just… missed your company.”

You smile at that. “Awn. Thanks, Buck. I missed you too.”

“Did you?”

“Of course,” you say. “You know I like company better than most. More than, like, 99% of this town, for sure.”

“I’m flattered,” he chuckles. “I thought I did something wrong, that’s all. I—you’d tell me if I had, right?”

That ties knots inside your brain. Your neurons seem to clash with each other, and you look from side to side trying to find out if that was a joke.

“What could you possibly have done to me?” You ask with laughter.

“Dunno.” Bucky seems to be thinking, so you wait. “I can be annoying sometimes.”

“Have you met me?”

He laughs again. “You’re peculiar.”

“Most people go for 'annoying’.”

“Most people are pussies,” he replies back so quickly that you burst out laughing.

“Father James!” You tell him in a reprehending tone. “This is not the place for such language.”

“I think you’ll find out that we’re in the only place of holy grounds where you can say whatever the fuck you want,” he chuckles.

“Is that so?”

You can almost see him shrugging his shoulders. “It’s how I always felt.”

“Cool. This is the blind spot, then?”

“Exactly.” Bucky seems to be tapping on the wood, and you recognize his nervous tick. “Maybe you can use the blind spot to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me, then.”

Shit.

The silence is as much of a confession as you trying to play it dumb would be.

“Y/n…”

You hate how he makes your name sounds like a plea.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you tell him. “I swear.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and Bucky seems to believe you. “Okay.” The sound of a thud tells you he rested his head against the wall at the back, and you do the same. “So… did something happen? To you, I mean.”

Yeah, you did.

Thinking that’s not the reply he wants, you hum thoughtfully. “I’m… trying to work with life’s limitations.”

There’s another moment of quiet, and then Bucky snorts. “That was vague as shit, Y/n.”

“It’s the truth!” you laugh.

“I know it is, but it doesn’t explain anything,” he counters. “What limitations?”

How do I answer this? How do I tell him it’s him without putting him under the spotlight? I don’t wanna lose you, Bucky. I like what we have. I like this.

You like him.

“No judgments. Remember?” He asks.

Fuck. Fine, here goes nothing, you think. “I… have been thinking a lot. About someone. In ways that I’m not sure this person would want me to.”

Out of all the silences, this is the heaviest one.

You hear him breathing in deep, and it feels like his body has strings attached to yours.

“You’re insecure about having… feelings for this person?” His voice is rough. Carefully curated out of any emotions.

You realize you’re speaking to Father James rather than Bucky.

“Kinda,” you reply, surprised that you don’t care about the switch in roles.

“Why would they be bothered?”

The million-dollar questions.

Your palms are sweating. Your body has the low humming of when blood is pumping everywhere at a higher speed, and all the anxiety you had when you first saw his message rushes back.

“'Cause I’m pretty sure they’d view it as… something bad,” you reply.

“Feelings are never bad.”

“No?”

“No. They’re natural. The person might not want them, but if they view them as bad, that means they’re not worthy of it.”

“No—what I meant is—maybe they would feel bad about being on the receiving end of it.”

“Again, that makes no sense. Why would they be offended by it?”

“I don’t know. 'Cause they don’t want me?”

“That’s their loss. Still doesn’t mean your feelings are bad. They could be unreciprocated, but never bad.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m scared of,” you confess. Fuck, this thing works. “I don’t wanna face the fact that it could never be mutual.”

“Thatis scary,” he whispers. You still hear it.

“Yeah.”

“You’ll never know, though. Unless you tell them, you can’t know if it is or not.”

You laugh, humorlessly. “I don’t think I need to. Not for this.”

“Why not?” asks Bucky.

“Because the chances of him wanting me or anything are slim to none.”

“I find that hard to be true, Y/n.”

“What percentage of priests lead a personal life outside their calling, Father James?”

The question comes out breathless and it finishes the job of setting your body on fire.

On the other side, the silence is deafening. You can’t see him, but your mind paints the picture easily: Bucky standing there, frozen in his spot as the realization dawns on him.

Then, his reply comes and what was left of your body turns to dust.

“A low percentage. But some of us do.”

You have to bite your bottom lip to swallow a whine. His name still comes out. “Bucky.”

“You’ve been thinking about me all this time and you thought I would be upset about it?” He sounds breathless. Your body is not only alive now, but it’s also starting to respond to the drop in his voice.

“They’re not very holy thoughts,” you chuckle humorlessly.

“Tell me.”

Two words and your legs constrict against one another. Your core feels like a furnace, heating up more and more by the second.

“I… are you serious?”

“Very.” Bucky sounds as affected as you. “Tell me what thoughts were so bad they drove you away from me.”

“I… I had dreams.” You want to touch yourself so badly that you start squirming in your seat. “About you.”

All he does is hum in reply.

“You kissed me. And then… you told me I was going to accept all that you wanted to give me. And I said yes. So you started to get… more—of me. You took off my clothes. And said you needed to let out some… steam. To let out some things that have been inside of you.”

There, your words were cut short.

The images of Bucky kneeling in front of you and eating you out like he never had a meal before in his life.

“Go on,” his voice breaks through the smoke.

It sounds like an order.

Your body shudders, and you try to grip on reality before the dreams take over. “You ate me out.” The whisper sounds louder than any of his sermons you had the pleasure of hearing. “And…” I can’t say it. I can’t. You can feel the wetness dripping to your panties, and you have to sit on top of your hands to stop them from starting to roam your body.

“Finish it.”

Where did he learn to command people like that?

“I asked to do the same.” How could you not? All you wanted was to choke on the weight of Bucky on your tongue. “And then you fucked me. Slowly. And… kept telling me about how long it had been. How good it felt to stretch me out.” Why am I going into details? You whimper. “Bucky.”

“Is that why you were away? You dreamt about me being inside of you and that’s it—your brain stopped working around me?”

“I got off to those dreams too many times to not think about them when I saw you.”

“Fuck.” Bucky must move next to you because you hear the sound of his clothes ruffling. “You touched yourself thinking about them?”

“Yeah.”

You hear his breath intake, and the next sound drops your heart to your feet.

Bucky gets up, the drapes ruffle and then, the door of the confessional is opening.

The sight of Bucky standing tall over you with his black t-shirt tucked inside his pants and the tent of his dick straining against his slacks makes your mouth dry before it starts to water.

“Show me,” says Bucky. Then he drops to his knees in front of you, reaches both hands to your knees, and places them there. He looks up into your eyes to ask, “Can I?” and you nod, dumbly and shaking, as Bucky spreads your knees open. You’re wearing loose pants, and his hands go further up to their hem so he can pull them down.

Allowing him to leave you in nothing but your panties feels like a fever dream.

With your pants pooling in your ankles, Bucky lets hands drag on the skin of your legs and thighs.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s been years.” His hands reach your waist, and your shaking comes to a halt with the firmness that they touch your pelvis bones. “And yet, I think I’ve thought more about pleasure and connection these past months than I did my whole life.” Bucky moves his body closer until he’s nestled between your legs, and when his head inches closer to your cunt you realize what he’s about to do, whining at the thought. “I dreamt about this, too.”

He presses his nose on the hood of your pussy, inhaling deeply and making your legs turn from solid to liquid.

Bucky runs his nose there, and when he hums against your core, you feel it inside of you. “You smell so fucking good, dove.”

“Oh,god.”

Bucky gropes your ass and shakes his head. “No. Forgot my name already?”

“James, please. Please,” you whine, your legs coming up to his shoulders.

He lets you, helping your legs to secure around his neck, and when you look down and see he’s smiling, you know you’re fucked.

“It’s been a while, so let me take my time. I think I still remember how to do this,” Bucky says.

Then, he pushes your panties to the side and groans out loud.

“So fucking wet for me. Shit.” He pushes his nose again, getting it wet with your slick. “Fuck,” he dives in.

Bucky’s tongue gives gentle licks against your clit, as if savoring it first.

When he feels your legs spreading wider and he has more room to work with, he truly starts his job. His tongue licks on your folds, then dips from the bottom all the way up, licking a stripe across your cunt before his mouth attaches itself to your clit.

Bucky sucks on the hard nub with his tongue, alternating between slow and hard-pressured jabs to quick flicks of his tongue from side to side.

Your hands are covering your mouth to stop the screams from coming out.

He slurps on the slick and the more the works his tongue on your clit and then pushes down to your open cunt, the wetter you get.

Time ceases to exist with Bucky knelt between your legs.

He goes slow, then fast, then very slow just to hear your whines getting louder. He laughs in your pussy, and the vibrations crawl up inside of you.

At one point he looks up and with a hard grope on the back of your thighs gets your attention on him again.

His beard is glistening, wet. He’s smiling like he’s seeing something funny for the first time in ages, and when he asks, “Do you like penetration?” as if he doesn’t know the answer, you feel like crying.

“Please.”

He takes pity on you. “It’s okay, dove.” Bucky’s right hand leaves your legs and his fingers join his mouth between your legs. He coats his fingers in your slick before he pushes the middle one all the way in, slowly at first, then he removes it all the way and pushes back in with his tongue.

“Bucky!”

“Hmhm,” he hums against your pussy. “Is this what you dreamt of, dove?” He asks before latching onto you again and sucking on your clit like it’s a lollipop.

The coil in your lower stomach seems like a rubber band ready to snap, but you need more.

“Bucky. Bucky,” you call.

“Hm?”

“I wanna cum with you inside me. Please?”

Bucky’s hand squeezes involuntarily on your leg. He looks up and kisses your inner thigh. “You do?”

“Please.”

“Will you let me take you for a bite afterward since I couldn’t help myself and I’m doing everything backward?” He asks, already getting up.

You nod a bit desperately. “I’ll let you bite anything, just—please.”

He laughs. “Get up.”

You do, and it’s a tight squeeze to switch places with him, but you two manage. Bucky sits on the place you sat and unbuttons his pants, pulling out his cock from the confine of his briefs.

You step out of your pants and sit on his lap, trying to keep all the feelings daring to pool out inside while you feel like everything about you is already stripped bare in front of him.

“You sure you want this, yeah?” I asked.

At that moment, Bucky pulls you close by his waist. It’s almost easy (keyword being almost) to ignore the outline of his hard cock between your legs when he’s holding your face like this.

There’s barely any light illuminating the inside of the confessional, but there is enough for you to see him glowing. Glistening. Smiling like he’s watching something unfold.

He holds your face in his hand and pulls you in for a kiss.

I hadn’t kissed him yet.

Bucky kisses you with slow, soft tenderness at first.

It’s almost his way of saying he means everything—he means this, and he means what he said about being a part of the cleric who still allows themselves to have a life outside their work.

When his tongue opens up your mouth sinfully, that’s when you feel him twitch underneath you.

His arm around your waist pulls you even closer, and you get him. You’d want to merge with him right now if you could.

“Put me inside you,” he pulls back his face only a few inches to say those words, then dives in for another kiss.

Your mind is too dizzy with everything that is James to do anything but obey.

You reach beneath you to hold his cock in your hands and guide it to your entrance.

Perhaps you should care that none of you discussed the important things you should have before you let him inside you, raw and deep like this, but all you want is this:

Feeling him stretch you out.

When his tips fit and you can let go, both of you groan at the same time. He’s big.

He’s thick, and he’s leaking, and when the tip pushes in, gliding easy with how wet you are, you have to pull back from his kiss so you can breathe.

Bucky groans louder and hides his face in the crook of your shoulder.

“You’re big,” you whisper, sliding down further until he’s bottomed out. “Oh my…” can’t call out for Jesus, but you’re still shaking and finding a new reason to worship right there and then. You might be drunk on desire, or drunk on how high Bucky made you by eating you out, or how close you were to cumming before he made you get up. Maybe all of the above. “Father James—feels so good.”

The slap comes as a surprise, but the sting and your scream are both pleasurable.

“Don’t call me that again,” he growls. He bites your neck, and moves his hip for the first time.

“Why not,” you whine. It feels so good. You feel so full. “Feel so full, Bucky.”

“I know, dove.” He bucks his hip upwards, thrusting deep and slow. “You’re so fucking tight,” his voice is strained, and you pull his face back to yours, cupping his neck. With his eyes on yours, Bucky’s face softens. “Feels good?” He asks with another pointed thurst.

You nod, riding him in the same rhythm as his thrusts. “Hmhm.”

“You look beautiful on top of me,” he mutters, kissing your chin, you cheeks, and your eyelids, each kiss pointed with another deep thrust.

“We’re gonna do this again, right?”

Bucky hums, and thrusts harder. FUCK.

“Ah, there it is,” he mutters, as if talking to himself. “Was looking for that.” He thrusts again, confirming to see if he’s found your g spot. The way you clench and moan his name are enough of an answer. “We’ll do this many more times. I just—need—fuck, need to do this proper.” Bucky pins your hips in place and takes over the movements. “Shouldn’t be fucking you, dove. Not here, not like this.”

“I’mso fucking wet, Buck,” you cry. “You wouldn’t let me go home to get off thinkin'—oh—about you—fuck, right there;”

“I wouldn’t?”

“Bucky.” It’s louder than before. Both a moan and a prayer.

His thrusts become more erratic, and Bucky’s own moans and prayers start sounding much like yours.

So tight, dove. Fucking made for me. Stop clenching your pussy, Y/n, fuck. I’m gonna fill you up, d'you want that? Hm?

“Don’t pull out,” you whine.

“No?”

“No.” You shake your head. He should, your mind says. I don’t care, your body responds, hips going harder to meet his harsh thrusts.

“Want to feel me leaking out of you?”

Fucking hell. Where was this holy mouth hidden? “Yes!”

“Say it,” Bucky’s grunting, and his forehead is sparkling with sweat, and you feel the sweat dripping down your back.

“Wanna feel you dripping out of me, Buck.”

“Fucking—Y/n, I’m gonna cum. Are you close, dove?” He holds you by the neck, and brings your mouth to his. “Tell me how to make you cum. Tell me.”

“Hard. Deep.”

Bucky’s a good listener anywhere. He pins your hip in one place, buries himself as deep as he can go inside of you and mutters about how good it is to feel your cunt stretching out around his cock, then pistons his hips in place just like that, hitting that spot inside of you so mercilessly that you’re excused to scream as much as you do.

When you yell that you’re gonna cum, all he says is, “Please. Please, dove. Show me. Cum for me. Cum only for me, Y/n.”

With another scream that leaves your throat aching, you feel your walls convulsing and your legs shaking as an orgasm knocks you out.

Bucky cums by muffling his own screams in your neck, and you feel the warmth of him spilling inside of you.

If there were any ways for you to not surrender and devote to him, they’re all burned and gone.

This feels like the beginning of all things holy for you.

b.b. tag list ☆ @undiadeestos;@keepingitlokiii;@hallecarey1;@mardema;@mollygetssherlockcoffee;@justlovelifeblog;@fallenoutofrose;@rvgrsbrns;@tripletstephaniescp;@mal-edictions-blog;@rippl3s;@barnesafterglow;@vintagepigeon;@dirtyweenerking;@couldabeenamermaid;@winter-soldier-sebstan;@leyannrae;@nerdwholikesword;@andreead;@ren-ni;@pastamomma;@fiftyshadesofokay;@peonyophelia;@murdermornings;@bvckysmoon;@buttybarnes1917;@rebekahdawkins;@tylard-blog1;@xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie;@carrotfantasimp;@teenagedreams-bucky;@buckspumpkin;@sltwins;@i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson;@mrsbarnesinmyimagination;@pineprincess;@cpag7;@iambeeee;@sstan-hoe;@weirdowithnobeardo;@hdbngsprnva;@itsdawnashlie;@sweetdreamsbuck;@slutforsteve;@maladaptivexxdaydreaming;@holl2712♡

A Touchable Dream

—Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Reader

—Summary:It’s his parents’ wedding day, and Peter thinks about many things from start to finish. What teachings they’ve passed him so far in life, what’s the point in all these ceremonies and special brandings society insists on—a bunch of things that dictate life and how happy everyone is. Ultimately, he thinks about how happy true love looks. How effortless, even in the struggles. Partnership. It’s all he wants for his own life, someday.

—Word count: 3k

ㅤSeries Masterlist//Main Masterlist

ㅤㅤㅤTHE ARTIST — Drabble

Getting tattooed was a lot like getting absolutely high. You either had one and got a taste for the thing, coming back to it whenever possible, or you had the experience and thought ‘yeah, that’s not for me, thank you very much’. For Peter, it was more of the first. His first tattoo was not the first of that year alone – the only perk of working when you still live with parents, he thinks – and was far from the last if the drawings on his notebook were any indicator.

The second tattoo he got, two months after the first one, meant the most to him so far (out of his six).

The Balance that laid on the inside of his arm was supposed to represent the duality of life and, most importantly, the two most important lessons he ever got in life from each of his parents.

It was all he could think about during their wedding day.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ/**\

Lesson number one came from dad.

Bucky taught him most thinks. He liked to joke at home that it’s because “I got a twelve year head start, as you all know” and maybe the reality in it is what made it so funny.

The learning that Peter carried thought, the one that inspired the drawing on one of the sides of the balance, came from something his father said ever since Peter has any memories.

“Do your best when you, if you can, buddy. That’s all it takes.”

Whenandif were the key words of that saying.

Being an anxious, ADHD, not-straight and very non-conforming person might be easier than it was in past decades, but the state of the world made for living in peace a lot harder, and having peace of mind was the only real luxury Peter – or many others – could afford.

That being said, relieving himself of the constant pressure of ‘doing something’ or ‘outstanding’ in things because his father taught him early on that there were times when our mind was capable of such things, and moments where even if the mind was able, that didn’t mean the situation was.

Like today, for example.

Hecould be having a great time because it was one the happiest days of both his parents’ lives and he would be, if situations weren’t as they were.

If MJ was here.

“—has it, doesn’t he, Peter?” His father’s voice snaps his eyes up from his forearm’s art up.

Every guy and person in the room, dressed in fine suits with their hairs done, swaying and singing along to the horrible eighties playlist playing, turns around to look at him.

God,I hate eighties music.

Peter realizes he needs to answer something.

What was he saying? C’mon, don’t let your dad realize you’ve been on Cloud 9 one more fucking time. What could he be saying you have it?

Oh. There was only one thing.

Peter shoves his hand in his pants’ pockets, fishes the velvet box containing both wedding bands and shakes it in the hair.

Everyone’s semblance changes from worry to relief, and happiness.

Bucky smiles at Peter. “Told you.” He looks up to Sam’s colleague, who Peter now notices it’s who he was talking to. “He’ll give it to Ally when it’s time to walk the aisle.”

The colleague – Peter still sucks with names – nods, and looks at Uncle Steve when he asks. “How old is your girl again, Steve?”

“She’s five.” Steve has that adorable father-proud look he and Sam got ever since adopting Allison – who their family has taken to calling Ally – and he reaches to hold Sam’s hand. “She said this ‘honor’ is her greatest mission so far, so it’ll all be good. She takes her missions very seriously. If this is her highest one—after last month’s? Oh, she’ll nail that walk. You know what she did last month? She rescued a bee.”

“Oh, damn,” Peter wolf-whistles. “We all know how important bees are.”

“Specially to Ally,” his father joins, nodding with feign-seriousness.

“Very serious topic,” Sam nods. “I was surprised when she commented about this being a higher honor. I mean, I knew it’d make it the top three, but the bee.”

“She didn’t tell me about the bee,” Peter comments. He’s mostly egging his uncles on because Sam’s colleague looks truly lost now if they’re all speaking seriously or not and he’s loving the look on his face, but also because a little bit of him is curious now.

Ally likes to call him with big news.

Sam shakes his head. “You were busy with finals, we told Ally to leave it when you saw her, which would be soon, and then she’d tell.” He chuckles, sipping his wine. “That girl will call him to give any news if we let her,” Sam offers as an explanation to the man.

Peter’s 97% sure that’s not why he looks confused, but he’s not about to help the annoying old fart.

After the look he gave to his father’s head when Bucky answered a snorted “no” to his stupid question of “Y/n will be hiding all her tattoos with make-up today, won’t she?”, Peter wouldn’t help him to find the loo.

‘You’re so petty when you’re sad, pie. Be mindful of the bitchiness, you know it might come back to bite ya’. His mother’s voice makes him smile behind his cup.

It tugs at his chest, too. He wished he could go in her room right now and see how gorgeous she looks getting ready, but Y/n sees through Peter’s best well-fitted mask, and he’s not about to make her even slightly sad before walking to that altar.

He half-listens to the conversation around him as the other part of his brain thinks about how she’s right.

Heis a petty bitch.

God—Peter’s got a bunch of good qualities if he can say so for himself, but his bad ones can be nasty.

He gets up and goes to fetch some more coke for his rum and coke to hide the look on his face as he thinks about how petty he was those weeks ago.

‘I… genuinely think this will be best for the both of us, Peter.’

‘I’m finding trouble seeing how this can be good from any-fucking-angle, MJ, but you’re the genius between us, so what the hell do I know.’

He winces, deeps breath, and drinks.

Yeah, that wasn’t his best moment. Even after apologizing for it — and being forgiven, because MJ knows how to see pain and pettiness when it’s there — he still keeps hearing the words in his head.

“Hey, son.”

Ah, shit.

Peter grabs the poncho and walks back to his dad.

He looks good.

Peter sees how good he looks, and it goes beyond the immaculate suit, the trimmed bears, and the short, but not-too-short-‘cause-mama-hates-it hair.

It’s… around him.

Maybe Peter’s been spending too much time with his Aunt Viv, but it’s like a feeling. A palpable area around Bucky’s body vibrates with happiness, sipping from the seams of his smile, stored in the crinkle of his eyes and the glow of those few white hair strands in his head. If Peter were to put a paintbrush to it, he dared say it’d all come out glitter-ish, like a fairy.

The conversation around them becomes muffled when his dad zeroes him underneath his gaze.

Double shit. His father’s usually fooled by Peter’s doofus smile, but he’s squinting his eyes a little, as if he’s trying to peel underneath it.

Too much time with mom.

Peter puts on his best smile and promises himself, not because of him, but because of the man in front of him, that today there will be no more thinking of her.

(There’s plenty of time for that later. Today, it’s Bucky and Y/n’s day.)

“You good, buddy?” his dad asks, smile already growing back.

I am, dad.“Yeah.”It hurts in some bits, but overall… I’m blessed. “I’m happy.” You look so happy that it makes me happy. “I can’t wait to see mom.”

His father scoffs. “You can’t wait to see her? Buddy. Peter.”

Peter laughs. “I know.”

“God, she’s gonna look fucking breathtaking,” Bucky sighs. He even sounds in love. It’s been almost six years now, and his dad sounds the same as he did when he told Peter he met someone amazing in college. Bucky leans forward and starts fixing Peter’s bowtie. “You got a glimpse of her?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He was there for the dress shopping day, but he’s not about to tell his dad anything, and he knows that from the number of times he’s asked. “Dad, the answer’s still the same.”

Bucky whines. Whines. “I just want a little tip, c'mon. Is it white? Black? Long?”

“Surprisingly, there’s white in it,” that much Peter could say.

Bucky hums, surprised. “I amsurprised.”

“So was I.”

“I can almost see it…” Bucky’s eyes go a little distant, and Peter holds his laugh.

“You’ll get to in…” Peter checks his clock. “Twenty-three minutes.”

“Speaking of minutes!” Uncle Sam’s voice rings over the chaos. “We should be going, gentleman and others.”

Peter appreciates the 'and others’ and nods. “We should.” He smiles at his dad’s wide eyes. “Let’s go?”

His dad gives him one of the brightest smiles he’s ever seen. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Peter is happy, because how could he not be?

This is gonna be one of the best days ever.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ/**\

The second lesson came from mom.

Y/n Lensherr, or as she’s called now, Y/n Barnes-Lensherr.

“What’s meant to be in your path already is.Believe that with all your heart, always.”

Most people when they saw the Balance with a heart and a brain on each side of the scale thought it meant to balance between the mind and the heart, but while it was, it also wasn’t.

It meant the consciousness to know he did his best when he could if he could, and the heart to believe that his path was written by him.

Whatever he believed with all his soul was meant to be on his road in life, already was. His mother taught him that when his first rejection letter came and it destroyed what at the time felt like a life-long dream.

She’d explained that sometimes what we want and what we get look different, but are the same thing. What Peter wanted — to win that first contest — was not what he needed — to learn that he needs failure — and it’s not something bad, but something to learn from.

Peter’s able to enjoy the party when he looks down at the heart during the ceremony and, after a long, deep breath, reminds himself that it is what it is.

She was right. (He’s not thinking about it.)

Harvard and NYU were hours apart and while that might not be much, it was something (just a logical observation, still not thinking about it).

If things were meant to work out, they would.

He believed that.

When Peter hears his father’s vows, he can’t help but laugh and smile all the way through. He sees the tidbits where uncle Steve helped, the lines where grandpa Erik said in the kitchen while his father cracked his head about 'not being a damn Edgan Poe’ and, most importantly, he sees the look on his father’s face.

Bucky Barnes-Lenshnerr has been smiling since he saw the love of his life walking to meet him halfway at the altar.

“Y/n, I was fated to end up here, with my hands in yours, the very second I laid eyes on you. I saw you first, and for the first time in my life, I saw the Spark before I felt it. Over the months where I tried to befriend you, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be your friend for my entire life, and it took a few moments to realize that I could be. That I could earn that.

When others talk about love, it’s meant to be a conquest, most of the time. A journey. Perhaps even a lottery win. Today, I see that it’s a bit of every one of them, but most important, it’s about a current. Choosing the person you love is about swimming with the waters, and never against it. You taught me what it’s a partnership and all I strive for is to honor it for the rest of our lives.Having you be my person to face life with is a privilege, an honor, and as of today, my lawful, delightful duty. I hope to make you smile as much as you make me, every day to come.”

It’s cute.

It’sreal, too.

It reminds Peter of seeing that journey, of witnessing that partnership.

His mother’s vows are smaller, but they’re the ones who make him cry.

“I always believed that what’s meant to be in your path, already is, and for a long time, all I believed for myself was that I had a life meant for love. It took me eight years to stumble upon the love of my family, and as the Fates will have it, that’s where the love of my closest friends laid, too. My friends’ love came and went for the next years to come, and having found a home to learn what real love looks like, my heart rested easy knowing that if I’d one day have something like that, it’d be effortless as well. Six years ago, I saw one of the most beautiful pieces of art in a simple white bag, and that’s when the fun started: not seeking you out actively meant that I could stumble upon you one day at orientation day, and finding my love was one of the best surprises I could’ve never prepared for. As our song goes, you are all I long for, all I worship and I adore, and I’ll love and water that feeling for all our days to come.”

In other words… damn.

The celestial theme for the wedding makes Peter feel like he’s in a Disney movie, and watching those two make the whole room erupt in cheers as they kiss solidifies it: what it’s meant to be yours, is.

He dances all night long.

Peter pulls even Charles to the dance floor, even though the English man hates moving his hips.

He makes everyone dance, requests some dirty songs to shake up the floor, and make his grandmother gasp in horror, much to his mother’s delight.

At one point during the night when he’s fanning himself near the bar and grabbing another poncho, he smells her before she comes.

Y/n wraps her arms around his waist from behind and props her chin on his shoulder.

“Hey there, handsome.”

“Hi, mama.”

“You know—I didn’t think she’d come,” Y/n comments absent-mindedly.

Peter grabs the poncho delivered by the barman and passes it behind his shoulder to Y/n, then asks for another one.

Following the direction of her eyes, Peter sees aunt Peggy and her girlfriend—Natasha Romanoff.

“You wingmanned them together,” Peter chuckles.

Y/n gulps down half of the poncho and nods. “Half true. All I said was that they wanted similar things in life.”

“To their best friend.”

“Aha. So it was Steve who put them together.”

“Ma, we both know uncle Steve wouldn’t have dreamt of that pair,” Peter laughs. Peggy and Natasha are dancing to Coldplay together, looking every bit as happy as almost every other couple in there. Peter liked meeting Natasha—she was fun (in a very dry way), had a lot of knowledge under her sleeve and, best of all, a lot of stories about uncle Steve he never heard. “They’re cute together.”

“They are,” his mother smiles.

Peter looks at her, smiling to himself. Only she would invite her husband’s once… something, to their wedding day.

His mother was something else.

Grown, his brain supplies. Sure of herself, her worth. Her relationship.

Funnily enough, she and Natasha had gotten along well.

No one could say his father didn’t have taste.

“You know what I was thinking about, though?” Y/n asks, looking away from the dance floor.

“Hm?”

“When Bucko and I come back from our honeymoon, what d'you say all of us make a trip to Charles’ lakehouse in England? Just for a month. A family trip before you start college.” Her eyes give Pussyboot Cat energy, and Peter knows what this is about.

This is his mother’s way of making sure he’s happy before starting his next phase in life.

Adventures are the best remedy for the soul, Erik says.

Peter nods, and kisses the top of her head. “I’d love to.”

“Yayyyyy!”

“D'you think uncle Steve would let me teach Ally how to swing from the rope and fall in the lake?”

She scoffs. “Please. As if he could stop that girl.”

Peter nods because that is a damn good point.

The bartender brings him his poncho and he smiles in thank you, then turns to his mother.

“Care to dance with me?” Peter asks.

Her smile is beaming.

“Lead the way, Pete-pie.”

Peter leads her to the middle of the dancefloor where his father waits, and the three of them engage in their own, weird, specific Barnes-Lensherr type of dance. It might look like some mating call to the unfamiliar eyes, but there are many in the party who join in within seconds.

It’s a family thing.

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