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shurisneakers · 1 month ago

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unsolved (viii)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the paranormal, the passage of time, panicking,

A/N: omg guys new banner reveal. i put a flower on that man because i felt like it. personally thrilled that we have made it this far because that means it's only 2 more chapters to 10 and then we're in double digits. also unsolved drabble requests are very welcome and encouraged please ily THANKS BYE

Previous part || Series masterlist

“I don’t get it,” Bucky says, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Inside the room, the air is thick with dust and the scent of aged metal. The walls are lined with dark wooden beams, their surfaces weathered by time, and the faint smell of oil and rust lingers in the air.

“It’s a haunted clock tower,” you reply, walking up the stairs, floorboards creaking generously under you.

“I got that,” he retorts, “but what the hell is it supposed to haunt? All the search results were just some kids' show.”

In the center of the room stands the massive, intricate clock mechanism, the gears and cogs slowly gathering rust as the years have passed without maintenance. Moonlight through the giant clock face casts a faint glow into the dimly lit room.

“I’m surprised you checked the internet,” you tell him, “I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was an undercover agent for 80 years. I know how to use technology.”

“You’re also older than the concept of time, so you can see how that may confuse some people,” you reply, taking a tour around the room. “Second, I’m surprised you checked the internet.”

“You already said that.”

You stop in your tracks, hand on your chest as you say, “Yes, but you’re researching things now? For our show? That’s real sweet, babygirl.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he continues to climb up. “It was one Google search.”

“It’s one more than what you’ve done in the last 3 months,” you say, eyelashes fluttering comically at him before your demeanor returns to normal. “Anyway, there’s no like, ghost sightings here, per se–”

Bucky comes to a halt only two steps away from his door. “Then why are we here?”

“It’s still haunted, Bucky,” you chastise. “That doesn’t always mean ghosts. Maybe it could mean orbs. Or shadow people, like from the hospital–”

“Not a thing.”

The clock creaked and groaned, the hands inching forward, their motion sluggish and uneven, as if the gears hadn't been properly oiled in years. With every tick, a loud whine echoed through the tower, vibrating the air in the otherwise silent room.

“Ooh, maybe we’ll find our doppelgangers.” Your eyes shine. “What would you do with yours?”

“Nothing.” Steve met another version of himself once and immediately beat the shit out of it, if that was anything to go by.

“Not even a date?”

His eyebrows knit together, eyes creasing. “Why would I date my doppelganger?”

“Who’s gonna know you better than yourself? But the more important question is, would you fu–”

The noise from the clock grows more intense—a final, desperate groan before it comes to a jarring halt.

The ticking stops abruptly, leaving an unnatural silence hanging in the air. The hands remain frozen at 9.

Both of you are left staring at a now defunct clock.

“Clock died ‘cause of your stupid question,” Bucky comments, voice dry.

“Just say you don’t like modern philosophy and go.”

“Oh I’m going alright. Two hours and all we’ve gotten footage of is stairs, trash and a washout Big Ben.”

“Don’t insult Kinley Clock Tower like that,” you scold. “You’re gonna piss it off and it’s gonna haunt us for the rest of our days.”

Bucky gives you a flat look. “By doing what.”

“Showing you the wrong time wherever you go.”

“Devastating,” Bucky responds, not sounding fazed in the slightest. “Right, so nothing haunted here?”

“Maybe it’s haunted by the failure of proper clock maintenance.”

Bucky’s eyes sweep across the largely empty room one last time. “Other than that toolbox, place’s empty. Chalk this one up to bullshit and let’s go.”

You let out a deep sigh at the thought of a wasted evening. “Fine, but that means we have to find another idea for a video.”

“Use one of the reserves.”

“We’re gonna have to, if we can’t find anything by tomorrow.”

Bucky’s heavy footsteps echo through the staircase. “That is a problem for tomorrow-you to deal with.”

You let out a scoff, following behind. “Tomorrow-us.”

“No,” he replies thoughtfully. “Pretty sure I got it right.”

Whatever. You counted tonight as a win the second you managed to get Bucky out of the compound without having to lie out of your ass. He even threw in a Google search worth of research. And he even told you the batteries on the cameras were all charged. Small steps for a regular co-host, big step for Buckykind everywhere.

The elevator stops at his floor and he gets out, sending you a two finger wave on his way out.

Should I walk you to your door?” you throw in at the last minute, the makings of a smile on your face.

Bucky casts you an indignant look. “Why?”

“Chivalry, baby.” You grin, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “Didn't they literally invent it in your era?”

Bucky flips you the finger instead, not bothering to dignify you with a response. Your laughter subsides as the elevator closes on you with a ding.

Bucky sees a faint light in the hallway, and figures Steve’s slightly ajar door is its source. In between trudging back to his bedroom, he drops a quick knock on it.

“Come in,” Steve calls, voice deep from the sleepiness starting to set in. “Oh, you’re back.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies from the doorway. “Shoot got done early.”

“Where’d you go?” he asks, laying down his book beside him.

“Kinley Tower,” Buck stands with his arms pulled over his chest, leaning against the doorway. “Place was a dud. Nothing to see.”

“What about other things?” Steve asks, curious but still casually indirect. “How was it?”

Bucky shrugs. “The same. Bounced right back, like nothing ever happened.”

“You still don’t know what Nat was talking about?”

“No,” Bucky replies, scratching the back of his neck, before hesitantly saying, “Should I be asking? I don’t know if we’re— y’know.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re friends by now, Buck.” Steve smiles briefly. “Wouldn’t hurt to check in.”

Well, Steve may be sure, but Bucky wasn’t. Then again Steve only had 1 best friend for over a hundred years until he met Sam, so how the fuck would he know.

Still, Bucky gives a curt nod, glancing around Steve’s room for any notable changed but coming up empty handed.

“You wanna tell me why there’s several charges on my card for tarot websites?” Steve picks up his book again, thumbing through the pages.

“Wasn’t me,” Bucky grunts.

“Seems a bit suspect after you did an episode on witchcraft,” Steve speaks without lifting an eye from his book. “Could just be me though.”

It catches him by surprise. “You watch our episodes?”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Yes? Every last one.”

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles, finding everything else in the room infinitely more interesting all of a sudden.

“Looks like it’s doing you some good,” Steve continues, turning back to his novel. “It’s nice to see you out and about.”

“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” Bucky gives him a look that could be seen as peeved if the blond hadn’t known him for as long has he had been alive.

Steve hides a smile. “Nothing. Left some apples on your nightstand. Eat it if you’re hungry.”

It forces Bucky to try to catch onto Steve's train of thought. Sure you hung out occasionally after work, but it wasn’t like you were hanging out on a friends basis. Bucky definitely would know if you were, because it would be a laborious task to even get him to consider leaving his bedroom. A thousand elephants would not be able to make him go do things that friends do.

So he stares at him for another whole minute waiting for a follow up, a clarification, but Steve makes no other comment, only turning the page of his novel.

Bucky finally leaves silently, shutting the door behind him.

Sure enough, there are apples and a fork on his nightstand. They were good too, crisp like Steve had gotten them from the market just today.

By eleven Bucky’s already in bed, eyes straining as he watches this woodworking guy on YouTube teach him how to make a dovetailed box. For no reason. And just because he heard Sam mention offhand that he needed a place for all his keys doesn’t mean Bucky was making it for him.

From: co-host

how about we take a road trip down to washington to go meet my dear friend

From: co-host

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

what friend

mr quatch himself

From: co-host

first name ‘sas’

From: co-host

i’m talking about bigfoot

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

yeah i got it

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

when

From: co-host

well we’d have to start at 4am

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)

fuck no

From: bucky (avengers) (guy with the hair)how about something within a 5 mile radius

From: co-host

How about Sunday

Bucky switches his phone all the way off and tosses it onto the bed beside him, smothering his face into the pillow.

From: co-host

How about your mom

He’d deal with your nonsense tomorrow.

And probably fill the gas tank for a trip to Washington.

Bucky’s eyes snap open when the cold air hits his face. He keeps his window shut all the way,every single night.

He blinks several times before his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings.

“Bucky?” a disembodied voice comes from beside him.

His head whips to the side, making him realise that one, he was standing, and two, he had no idea how long he’d been standing for.

Only, he finds you next to him, looking disoriented like you’d just been shaken awake from a nap.

“Where the hell–” your voice trails off as you take note of where you’d landed up.

In front of him, mechanical gears whine as they scrape against each other in a desperate attempt to move.

He peers down at his clothes; the same black t-shirt, jacket and cargo pants he distinctly remembers changed out of nearly an hour ago.

“What the fuck,” Bucky snaps. “Did you bring us back here?”

“No,” you say, face rigid, solemn. “I swear I didn’t. I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

Bucky’s shoulders loosen. “No, I was asleep.”

The wind rustles by, and everything looks exactly the same as when you left it nearly 3 hours ago.

“We’re back at Kinley,” he tests it, taking a step forward. “What just happened?”

“This is weird, right?” you put forth, clearing your throat. “I definitely was going to send you a text about the next video idea, and the next thing I know you’re in front of me. I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Bucky pinches the inside of his arm. The skin comes back red and stinging.

“No, it’s real,” he murmurs. “Unless this is a weird fuckin’ dream that I’m having.”

It wouldn’t be the first time you showed up in his dreams either. He just doesn’t remember any of them being so… vivid.

“I’m in the physical realm, I can feel that,” you talk so quietly it’s like you’re speaking to yourself. “It’s not your dream. I’m here too.”

He checks his phone.

9:05.

Bucky opens up his messages, finding none from you tonight. His YouTube history similarly didn’t have the video he was watching earlier today.

Bucky clenches his fists and releases them, before taking a deep inhale. “Okay. We just had a strange fuckin’ flash forward into the future because of… I don’t know what. But we never left, and now we’re going home.”

“Yep.” You nod in confirmation, but the camera levitating behind you wobbles with uncertainty. “So– do we recreate what happened or…?”

“No, let's just leave,” Bucky debates, running a hand through his hair.

You take a step towards the stairs, holding onto the bannister as you make your way down.

Bucky holds up the flashlight of his phone as he follows, throwing another look behind him.

“Having a shared flashforward… could say it’s soulmate shit,” you give him a quick glance, but the grin on your face is unsure, and he knows you’re trying to shake it off.

“It’s a carbon monoxide shit.”

“You can be carbon mine-oxide.”

Bucky wordlessly shoves past you as he walks down the stairs, leaving you to follow with another stupid laugh.

The car ride back brings with it some air of normalcy, so does the elevator ride.

Bucky once again gives you a two finger wave as he gets down at his floor.

“Offer’s still there if you want me to walk you to your room,” you call. “I may be delirious, but I’m still chivalrous.”

“Go to sleep,” Bucky carps, shaking his head, banishing the slight lift in the corner of his mouth.

The faint light in the hallway makes him falter.

He sticks his head in anyway. “Hey.”

“Oh, hey,” Steve smiles from his bed, book in hand. “You’re back.”

Bucky glances around the room. “Did we talk earlier today?”

“Only when you texted me for my Netflix password.”

“Nothing after that?” Bucky hesitates from asking him outright.

“No. You okay?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“Just had a weird dream,” Bucky dismisses, forcing his face to relax. “See you around.”

“Left you some apples if you’re hungry,” Steve calls, as Bucky shuts the door.

He crawls back into bed, eyeing the clock suspiciously. 10:30.

He closes his eyes, wills himself to sleep, knowing that this glitch in the matrix was only temporary and tomorrow, you’d be at his damn door, forcing him to go to Washington with you.

Bucky’s eyes fly open when a draft of wind blows past his cheek.

“You’re fucking shitting me,” he growls, taking in the stupid tower again.

“Well, fuck,” you exhale from beside him, in the same clothes from that evening. “I think we’re stuck in a timeloop.”

Of all the things to happen to him. Has he not suffered enough.

“Fine. Alright,” Bucky recalibrates, voice short, running a hand through his hair. “What now? How do we get out?”

“I don’t know, let me just consult with my vast experience in timeloops.”

He throws you a look so dry it would have crops withering. You don’t seem to care at all.

“If I had to guess from the movies I’ve seen, we either gotta solve a puzzle or one of us has to reach self-actualisation and turn into a good human,” you postulate, arms on your hips as you survey the room. “We both know it’s not me, so is there anything you want to share with the class?”

If your release was contingent on Bucky working through his issues, you’d be here for a century at least.

“We keep coming back here at midnight,” Bucky elects to focus on other things, tilting his head towards the clock. “Is it because we left at 9 instead of 12?”

“Maybe,” you consider it. “We can stick around, I guess.”

It wasn’t a bad place to start. You’d have to trial-and-error your way out of this one.

“We’ve got…” he pulls his sleeve back to look at his watch “...two hours and fifty five minutes.”

You shrug. “We can check out the rest of the tower to see if we missed anything.”

“Fine,” he relents slowly as if still weighing his options, only to come up with nothing better.

The next level is at least a few flights of stairs below and if you thought the room with the clock in it was barren, there was nothing here for you except spiders and dust bunnies.

“Maybe we have to clean it up,” you suggest, nose scrunching. “Maybe the tower’s super mad that everyone’s disrespecting it.”

“That's a stupid reason.”

You spin around, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Take that back. We just said maybe it doesn't like being disrespected.”

Bucky grumbles a few choice words under his breath, none of which reach your ears.

There's nothing along the walls of the tower, nor on the ceilings. The intermediary floor and the ground floor come up empty as well.

By the time you've confirmed that you’ve exhausted all possible leads with nothing to show for it, Bucky’s memorised the layout of the place.

11:58.

“2 more minutes,” he tells you.

“All right,” you say, rubbing your palms together. “Experiment one. Let's go.”

Bucky keeps his eyes peeled.

11:59.

He doesn't even fucking blink, and neither do you as the seconds count down on his phone.

12:00.

He exhales, looking up.

A cold wind blows past his face.

When he hastily looks back at his phone, it reads 9pm once more.

“Damn it,” you curse softly.

Bucky’s growing anger resonates in a rumble in chest. “What kind of twisted shit is this?”

“It's fine,” you hold your hand up, breathing out. “I have a few more ideas.”

Bucky carelessly gestures for you to go on, and you point at the big clock.

“That thing stopped working at 9,” you hint. “We'll have to fix it. Get it working again and then we go back.”

“You know anything about fixing clocks?”

“I worked at a toy shop near a watchmaker once,” you offer. “That's gotta count for something.”

“What the hell, sure,” Bucky gives up, throwing his arms up.

He only had experience taking apart the old leather strapped wrist watch his parents got him for his 11th birthday, and Steve’s pocket watch that he inherited from his asshole dad. He’d dismantle it carefully, methodically piece by piece, learning the insides and out of each device, so that if and when they stopped running, he'd know exactly what was wrong just by holding it up to his ear.

That didn't necessarily transfer here, but it couldn't be all that different.

Turns out it's very different and you both had to resort to watching several videos before you even began to attempt to fix it.

He retreats the toolbox from the corner, grateful that at least you didn't have to waste a good half hour going looking for tools to fix a fuckin’ clock.

“There's no signs of life in the mechanism,” you say, reading from the phone. “So I guess we start with the most basic shit.”

He only lets out a noise in acknowledgement, before you both spend time dusting away at gears and checking for broken parts. When nothing seems bent or misaligned, you move onto the next step.

And that's when the fun actually starts.

“That’s not how you oil a gear.”

“Sure it fuckin’ is,” Bucky comments, careful making sure the grease reaches every nook and cranny.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Bucky doesn't take his eyes off the machine, and instead raises his left hand up, clenching it into fist and releasing it, leaving the soft shifting of all the plates to prove his point.

You scoff. “What, just ‘cause you have a metal arm you're the world’s leading expert in oiling mechanics?”

“It means I’ve got some experience in taking care of them.”

“I’ve seen you put that thing in the dishwasher, don’t even try with me,” you warn.

Busted. He usually got away with lying flagrantly about his arm, but apparently you pay attention to him and the fact that the Wakandan tech only required a wipedown every once and a while.

“I do woodwork, I know how to oil things,” he switches seamlessly over to the next lie.

The tools rarely needed any maintenance and he really didn't have to do much with them yet, considering how high quality they were. But he has an idea of what he could be doing, and that's what counts.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How come you’ve never made anything for me?”

“I don’t like you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bucky continues squeezing oil into axles without sparing you a glance. “What do you want?”

“What can you make?”

“Boxes.”

“Make me a box then.”

“No.”

“Bitch.”

Bucky smiles to himself, turning the gears to see them move smoothly.

You dust off cobwebs from the pendulums to get it swinging again, you use your powers to stare at the crank until it rotates on its own to wind up, and to the best of your estimation, make sure the weights are raised to the right heights.

The whole affair takes nearly 3 hours and towards the end, the both of you are hurriedly rushing through the motions, placing aside the need to argue to just get the damn thing done in time. At some point, telekinesis keeps the pendulum swinging.

“Did you check everything?”

“Yes.”

“Everything.”

“Yes, Bucky.” you sigh. “All major pieces are working. The clock should move.”

Proof of your word, the clock starts ticking again. It goes from 9:00 to 9:05 without any hitches, and then continues on without interference.

“Hell yeah,” you cheer and Bucky heaves a sigh of relief.

“Come on,” he urges under his breath, checking his phone again.

2 minutes to go.

“I love the passage of time,” you state unnaturally loudly. “I've never been more grateful for the passage of time.”

“Don't jinx this.”

1 more minute.

“That's not jinxing, it's good lu-”

Bucky feels a cold breeze swipe across his cheek.

He inhales sharply.

“Fuck.” Your stomach drops to the ground.

In the blink of an eye, everything you'd managed to get done in the last 3 hours had gone right back to the way it had been. Dusty, unmoving and dull.

Bucky robotically checks the time on his phone.

9pm.

His fingers rub his temples. “What's the next plan?”

“We must have not done it right,” you reason quietly, taking a step towards it. “Something's wrong.”

“The thing was moving, I think we got it,” Bucky sighs irritatedly.

“Well, we gotta try again,” you turn to him sharply. “You don't have to be here but I'm gonna do it.”

Bucky raises both his eyebrows at you, and you stare back with equal determination.

“Fine,” he forgoes. “I'll look downstairs.”

It takes less time this time around. It gives you half an hour to check if it is moving again, and you watch the hands move from 9 to 9:05 to 9:20 with no problem.

Meanwhile, Bucky spends his time turning the intermediate room inside out in search for other clues.

When he finds nothing there, he trudges back to the clock, finding you fingers crossed but confident that you'd done it.

“This is it, baby,” you say, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “We're getting out of this.”

“Here's to hoping,” he says in a tone that lets you know he isn’t convinced, watching his timer countdown from 30 seconds.

“No hoping. There's nothing to do. We're leaving,” you declare. “I've never seen a clock work more beautifully in my life.”

Three.

Two.

One.

Bucky holds his breath.

And a wind blows past his face.

The machine resets to the way it was.

“All fuckin’ right,” Bucky mumbles, expiring a breath deeply.

“It's fine,” you say, forcing a smile. “I've got a few more ideas.”

Cleaning the floors doesn't work.

Reading up about the clock tower in detail and honouring its legacy in an earnest ceremony doesn't work.

Fixing it for a third time doesn't work either.

“I'm takin’ a nap,” he informs, back against the wall. “I'll deal with this shit again when I wake up.”

“How can you even think about sleeping right now?” you ask, using your powers to pull the damn clock out of the wall. It changes nothing.

“I've thought about sleeping through much worse,” he grumbles, eyes closed.

“I'm beginning to think you have an iron deficiency.”

“Literally a supersoldier.”

“Vitamin D deficiency,” you revise. “Can you step into the sun or do you just like, start hissing and burning?”

“We’ve never gonna find out, ‘cause we’re never making it out of tonight,” he hums, eyes closed.

You go still, clock hovering mid air.

“You don't think we're getting out?”

“I think we're fucked,” Bucky mumbles, yawning as he makes himself as comfortable as old wooden floors would allow him to be. “Y’told me yourself, we tried all the big plans. There's no puzzle. We're trapped.”

The clock lands on the ground with a heavy thud.

“Careful,” he warns, wondering how cozy the floor would be if he just slid down and laid there. “Wouldn't wanna break the fuckin’ thing that put us in this mess to begin with.”

“Fuck,” you breathe out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bucky opens one eye to peer at you. “What?”

“What do you think, Bucky?” you fire back. “We’re stuck in a timeloop for eternity because we’ve tried the most obvious options and we’re still here.”

“Could be a lot cleaner, but this ain’t the worst place to get stuck for the rest of your life,” he tempts, arms crossed behind his head, feeling a dull strain in his neck.

“We’re gonna be stuck here forever,” you say, dawning horror in your inflection. “I’m gonna be stuck with you for the rest of eternity.”

“So much for chivalry,” he says wryly.

“We need a new plan,” you digress hectically from the other side of the room.

“Here's one. I get some sleep, order some pizza in the next loop or two and–”

“No.”

“Fine, Thai works too. Whatever. Then we-”

“You don’t get it,” you snap abruptly. “Jesus Christ, this is literally my worst fucking nightmare. Either help or leave.”

He pries both eyes open at the sudden shift in your tone. He’s used to you snapping at him for his bullshit, and the favour was usually reciprocated, but not like this.

Your back is turned to him, but he can tell you’re breathing heavily as you check out the new gap you've created in the wall where the clock was, before turning around and lifting the entire machine in the center of the room.

“Hey,” he calls, voice gruff, slowly pushing himself off the floor.

You throw him a look, continuing to move pieces of newspaper and tools and check under it.

He watches you curse under your breath, lifting things too high and dropping them down a little too hard without flinching even once.

“Look,” he tries again, a little louder.

You flip the machine upside down, fully intending on taking it apart and putting it back together as if it was going to make a big difference.

“Grab the wrench. Or don't, I don't give a–”

Bucky grips your shoulder with a call of your name. It’s enough to get you to pause from sheer surprise at how close he suddenly positioned himself, considering it was a well known fact that Bucky hated people in his space.

“Listen to me. We’re going to get out of here,” he instructs, voice much more muted than you were used to. “But you have to calm down.”

You take in a deep breath, before it leaves in a shaky exhale. Whatever you’ve got levitating gently drops onto the ground.

“You’re panicking. I would be too if I wasn’t dead inside,” he notes, hands still on your shoulder firmly. “Do whatever you need to to get it out of your system. It’ll be easier to focus after that. We'll be out of here soon enough.”

“You seem awfully sure.” Your mouth curls into a half smile, but it drops as quickly as it came up.

“We’ll figure something out.” His shoulders rise and fall. “Got all the time in the world.”

You swallow the thickness in your throat, giving him a small nod.

“‘M sorry,” he says, eyes intense, and you know he’s talking about the nonchalance he showed earlier. “I was bein’ a prick.”

“Honestly, you being a prick is, like, the most normal part about this.”

“...thanks.”

“It’s fine, I could use some normal.” You brush it off with a slight smile. “You’re right. We should get some food. I’m hungry.”

“Alright,” he says, eyeing your features for a second more. “But you’re buying. Payback for making me clean up every floor twice.”

“Prick.”

His conversation with Steve from earlier that night comes back to him, the same time you take another breath to shake off the antsiness.

Bucky lifts a eyebrow to look more natural. “You still sure it’s me who needs self-actualisation? ‘Cause it sure seems that you’ve got a whole lot to talk about.”

You half-scoff, half-laugh. “Is that your way of saying I’ve got issues?”

“Just using your words.”

You watch him for a second, like you’re thinking about saying something. He tilts his head at how contemplative you look, only for you to open your mouth and ask,

“Say, do you think emotional baggage is hot?” you wiggle your brows. “‘Cause if you do, I’ve got a whole lot of it.”

He groans out loud, neck craning as his head drops back.

“Also,” you pose a bit more curiously, “you gonna let go of me any time soon or are we about to slow dance?”

Bucky’s hands immediately drop from your shoulder, taking a step back. “Fuck off.”

“I could, but I’d just respawn here in three hours.”

He rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but feel a bit relieved that you looked a lot less in distress.

You'd spent two loops doing a deep dive into timeloops, coming up with more possibilities to try out.

Leaving the building at each hour did nothing.

You spent 1 loop eating dinner and reaching out to scientists you knew on how to break out. Those who replied either said they weren't real, told you stuff you'd already figured out, or blocked you.

You even spent half a loop painstakingly combing through footage from earlier in the night to figure out if you'd fucked with anything by mistake that you were yet to correct, not noticing it so far because it had been so minor or mundane.

“Oh shit, I just noticed something,” you gape, pointing at the screen

Bucky pulls the little monitor closer to his face. “What?”

“You’re looking at me so much in these,” you remark, voice relaxing immediately. “What's up with that?”

“Maybe because you’re the only one talking,” Bucky fires back, irritatedly putting the camera back down, “and it’s not like there’s anything else to look at here.”

“So defensive,” you comment. “Just say you think I’m cute and move on.”

“Shut up.”

“Shut me up yourself, coward.”

To be clear, Bucky didn't realise he was looking at you that much. And now that you’ve pointed it out, he can’t really argue because he is doing it a lot more than he realised he was, even unconsciously sometimes.

“How many more timeloops till you run out of these lines?” he questions instead.

“How many more timeloops till you stop being a handsome son of a bitch?”

The clock tower may be cold, but he feels too warm all of a sudden.

“I swear, if this doesn’t work, I’m throwing the clock out the window,” you say, powers forcing the hands to speed through every hour and second at 2x speed.

Bucky doesn’t even look up at you from over his phone. “You throw it, you’re fixing it again.”

You stop trying to spin the hands when one of them creaks.

A few loops in and the growing frustration from the both of you manifests into tension that is palpable.

You'd spent a loop or two outside the tower so you didn't drive yourself insane. Without fail, you'd end up right back up watching the clock every single time the world outside struck 12.

Bucky’s done his fair share of attempts. Jacket on, jacket off. Holding the camera, being the one who led into the room, the one who led out.

Mainstream movies, obscure movies, video essays, podcasts.

“I don’t fuckin’ get it. What are we missing?” you pour over the options again, frustrated. “We’ve done everything. We’ve done combinations of things.”

“There’s something we’re missing,” he says, staring at the moon through the face. “Some detail.”

It's not like you can physically keep track of every variable. Everything resets the second it strikes 12, no matter what you changed.

“I think–”

He sends you a glance.

“Maybe if we–” you try before you stop altogether.

Bucky just stays quiet because at this point you've exhausted every option you can think of, to no avail.

He knows you don't want to say it.

But it's time you start accepting that you're well and truly stuck.

“Should write Maya an email,” he tells you. “Tell her we quit.”

You give him a smile, knowing it would never even make its way to her.

Still, you pull out your phone and let Bucky peek over your shoulder as you start typing, helpfully suggesting curses as you went.

____

You absentmindedly tinker with the machine, able to take it apart, fix it and put it back together by heart and in no time now.

“What was the last mission you guys did?” you inquire, rotating a gear between your fingers.

“Something small,” Bucky replies, voice steady. “Think it was just a recon in Detroit.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No,” he says resolutely. “Everyone got tired of them a long time ago, but we stick around, just in case.”

You spare him a glance. “When was the last time you actually relaxed?”

Bucky considers it for a second. “Wakanda. Wasn't exactly a vacation though.”

“New question. When was the last time you went on vacation?”

He raises an eyebrow, head twisting to look at you.

You place the gear in its place before picking up the oil dropper. “Don’t answer if you don’t wanna.”

He turns his head back to the ceiling, and all the spider webs lining it.

“Couple of years before I got drafted, my family took a day trip to Convey Island.” he reveals, voice low. “We were supposed to hit as many rides as we could but my sister was aboslutely fuckin’ taken by this damn steam engine they had running. Everyoe got sick of it after the second time so I stuck around with her. Must’a ridden that thing 5 times before she finally let up.”

You have half a smile on your face. “Did you like it?”

He can't really remember. He can't even remember if the rest of his family was actually there, or whether it was just him and Steve and Becca, or it was just him and Becca.

“I liked that she liked it,” he decides.

You nod, wiping a gear before putting it back, snickering lightly. “Was the last vacation you took really in the 1930s?”

He exhales a laugh. “Steve and I went to the Canyon once. It was near a mission location. He told me I'd been dyin’ to go there as a kid. I don't remember that, but he fuckin’ dragged me there by the collar. Not sure if that really counts– we were both bleeding pretty heavy for it to be a real holiday.”

“Steve would say it counts.”

“Steven’s never taken a vacation in his life.” Bucky snorts. “I don't think he physically knows how to relax.”

“I don't think I've ever seen that man sit still for more than a few minutes.”

“Fuckin' rich coming from you. How many jobs have you had? A million?”

You exhale a laugh. “Something like that.”

You push the pendulum with your finger, watching it swing back and forth.

“Where’d you stick the longest?” Bucky asks, hands supporting his head as he lies on the ground.

You take a second to think, picking up a gear you’d already cleaned, wiping it down again.

“When I just got out of Leviathan, I used to wait tables for this elderly lady who ran a bakery. Mrs. Mullens,” you say finally. “She was kinder than anyone else I'd met till then; gave me leftovers that didn’t get sold that day, and enough money to get on my feet. I must've been there, what, a year? Year and a half? I think that’s the longest I’ve stayed.”

“Why’d you quit?” He does his best to not sound too intrusive.

“One evening she slipped keys into my pocket and told me I could stay in the room above the cafe if I wanted. Realised I’d been there too long, so I left the state the next morning.”

Bucky’s eye twitches as he turns to look at you. “She gave you a place to stay and you skipped town?”

“Yeah.” You half-shrug. “Staying in a place too long feels– suffocating. I don’t know. Just knew it was time to leave.”

Bucky looks at you strangely, mind inadvertently trying to piece together a bunch of information.

Working on a hunch, he tests, “You got family out there somewhere?”

“I was literally created in a lab,” you deadpan. “I don’t have a family. Unless you count test tubes.”

“It doesn't have to be mean literally.” He arches an eyebrow. “What about Nat?”

“Nat’s a friend.” you disclose, holding a cog up to check for any stains, “The Avengers aren’t my family the same way they are for you. They’re great, but it’s just another job.”

Oh.

“Right,” he says, settling back into his position, feeling a frown on his face.

“I haven’t really found what you’re asking me about,” you add, and he knows you're trying to be kind.

He isn't sure what he thought the team was to you. He isn't sure what he feels about the new information either.

“What’s it feel like?”

“What?” he asks distractedly.

“Having people like that,” you clarify. “Maybe if I know what it feels like I’ll know when it happens.”

You’ve all but asked the most emotionally constipated man on earth what family feels like to him.

So reasonaly, Bucky blanks.

Literally every single interaction with the dead and the living exits his mind.

And so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind,

“Silent blenders.”

And then he cringes.

“Is that the name of a movie or…” you trail off.

“No. They got me blenders that don’t make a sound. It was a nice gift,” he mumbles.

You wait for him to provide even a little more context. He instead shifts uncomfortably.

“Okay,” you allow, looking back down. “Silent blenders. Got it.”

Bucky thinks about it for a second more, and his head starts throbbing.

Instead, he dodges. “Guess you’re not gonna stick around for too long then, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” you answer, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I was always going to just bounce after this was done. I thought you knew that.”

“Right,” he repeats. “Where you headed next?”

“Who knows?” you mull over. “I could go anywhere. You got any reccs?”

He doesn’t really have an answer for you. Bucky can’t imagine packing up and leaving again. Living life never knowing when he can finally take a seat. He’s spent so long wrestling with the turbulence of having multiple identities that he clings to what little semblance of stability he can find.

But a tiny voice in the recess of his mind whispers to him that maybe the reason he's stayed at the same place for so long is the same reason you can’t.

He has a half formed hypothesis. And then soon comes to the conclusion that he really has no business deriving theories about you like that… but he’d be lying if he said he didnt store it in his head for later.

He also doesn't know why there's a strange churning in his stomach, a deeply uncomfortable feeling that he hasn't really felt in years. It makes him want to get up and leave.

“Y’know, just ‘cause I’m gonna leave eventually doesn’t mean we’re not friends.” You snap him out of his first great attempt to understand human emotions other than annoyance.

He hums. “I wouldn't call us that.”

“You’re right, we’re star crossed lovers.”

“I feel bad for the next person who has to deal with you.”

You laugh, swinging the pendulum into motion and wiping your hands down.

You’d taken turns sleeping in two of the time loops, keeping watch while the other rested for a while.

Only when you're asleep does Bucky fully comprehend how quiet it is in there.

The clouds cover the moon. The floorboards don't make much noise even as he walks around.

He's lost track of how many 9pms it's been.

He doesn't know why it’s lingering in his mind like this. Probably because he had only thought of her a couple of hours ago.

He knows you suggested it as a joke but he can't help but wonder.

What if it was actually him keeping the both of you here?

He really thought he'd made amends. He'd been living as peacefully as he was able to. And yeah, he's a dick, but he wasn't outright evil.

Or so he thought.

Maybe he hadn’t repented as hard as he’d needed to.

“Becks,” he calls quietly. “If you can hear me– I'm sorry.”

No one responds. You don't stir.

He forces himself to exhale and continue, “I know you'd hate what I turned into, but I'm tryin’ here. I promise.”

He wishes a damn piece of paper would give him a sign on what to do, or at least tell him there was no coming back. That he should probably resign himself to his fate.

“You should've had someone who coulda shielded you. Given you a chance to be a kid.” He swallows down the stone in his throat. “I know you're mad, Peanut. I'm really fuckin’ sorry. You deserved a whole lot better.”

And then he waits, and waits some more, ears straining for anything– a giggle, a scrape. He doesn't know what he expected, but he gets nothing.

Only a draft blows through the window.

A shiver runs through you, and you curl into yourself, but thankfully you still don't wake. Bucky has no idea how he’d explain this to you anyway.

Still, he quietly makes his way towards you, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across you carefully, watching as you relax again.

He blows out an exhale, watching the minutes tick by.

“Do you think we’re gonna get old here or do we reset every time the loop resets?” you ask aloud.

“Our clothes kept regenerating with us, so I guess we keep resetting too.”

You hum. “Damn, we can’t even grow old together.”

Bucky adds nothing, only turning to you with a deadpan expression.

“What?” you ask.

“What?” he counters. “No old person jokes this time?”

“There’s no fun if you're expecting it,” you sigh.

“Incredible,” he replies, monotonous.

There’s silence. He hears wind rustle through the room.

You sit up, and he can feel your eyes boring into him.

“What?” he asks again.

“Does it upset you?” you ask somberly. “When I make those jokes?”

“No,” he replies. “They’re fine.”

“And when I keep using pickup lines on you– does that make you uncomfortable?” you continue, however, much to his surprise.

He turns to you with his eyebrows lowered. “Since when does that matter?”

“It matters,” you say quietly. “I knew it annoyed you, I didn’t know they made you uncomfortable.”

He stares at you for a long while, before settling on, “They don’t.”

“Sure?”

“I don’t care.” He looks ahead. “I’ll tell you if they do.”

“Okay,” you relent. “If you say so.”

He shakes his head, feeling a strange sort of feeling settle in his chest. He can’t say he hates it, but he would rather not deal with it.

“Bein’ in here’s making you weird.”

You narrow your eyes. “The fuck does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” he asserts.

“I’m being totally normal, you’ve just refused to hang out with me so you wouldn’t know what that is.”

“I see you every week.”

“For video shoots.”

“We hang out otherwise,” he scoffs, suddenly feeling very offended. “We literally went to the store the other day.”

“To buy batteries,” you emphasize. “For the video shoots.”

“We’ve gone to the park,” he exclaims, sitting up. “And we eat lunch together sometimes. And we watched that stupid fuckin’ movie in theatres at midnight twice because you lied the second time and told me it was another one – what was it called? Metropolis?”

“Megalopolis,” you say, amused at his outburst.

“That. Garbage fuckshit. And we’ve taken the cat–”

“Alpine.”

“I know her name,” he hisses. “To the vet. And that’s all in the last month.”

“Jeez, you keep a journal every time we hang out? What are you, obsessed with me?” you ask, trying to bite back a shit-eating grin.

“Point is,” he grits. “We hang out.”

Fuck. Turns out, maybe Steve was right.

“Tomato, tomahto,” you dismiss. “You’re so obsessed with details. You could’ve just said you’re in love with me and moved on instead of bringing out the whole Excel sheet of every minute we spent together.”

“I hate you,” he groans, dropping back down.

You laugh. It makes the corner of his mouth curl up, just a little.

“What’s the time?” he asks, blowing out an exhale from his nose.

“Like 11:30?,” you sigh.

“That’s all?” He wants to groan again.

“Does it matter? We’re stuck here forever. We can get more takeout in the next loop.”

“You’re paying.”

“I paid last time, asshole.”

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“Touché.”

You spin a gear in the air, waiting for the hour to pass.

It suddenly hits him. Something that you'd shown across episodes of witchcraft and haunted hospitals.

Something you showed literally three minutes ago.

If this worked, he’d probably hug you and your stupid, chaos incarnate self.

“Come on, let’s get this clock fixed,” he grumbles, getting back up on his feet.

“What?”

“I think you’re right,” he says, sticking his arm out to help you up.

“Huh?” you blink at him. “I know the footage is gonna get erased again, but I need you to say that into the camera once for me. And state that you’re of sound mind and body while you’re at it.”

He sends you a look. “Come on.”

“I fixed it already, Bucky.”

“What’s the time?” He ignores you.

“Nearly 12,” you tell him, checking your phone.

“Need you to be precise.”

“Why?”

“Humour me,” he says calmly. “Details are for losers, remember?”

“11:57 and 32 seconds.”

He manually winds the big arm up, the short hand still following. Until the seconds ticker matches the time you were calling out, down to the last second.

“What are you doing?” you enquire curiously, peeking over his shoulder.

“Making it match real time,” he tells you. “Properly.”

He checkes gears and pushes pendulums and everything works like it’s brand new. You’d gotten real good at this.

“11:59 and 43 seconds,” you call.

Bucky closes his eyes, forcing his breath to remain steady. It’s the first time that evening he’s had more than a sliver of hope.

“57 seconds,” you say quietly, voice tired.

And then there's silence.

He doesn't have the energy to open his eyes and find the machinery back to scraps.

But eventually he does. And when he opens it again, you’re still standing there, near the machine. Not the entrance of the room.

The clock reads 12:02.

He turns to you, calmly saying, “Let’s get out of here.”

The drive back home is silent, apprehensive with tension tight as a stretched rubber band. Like if you breathed too hard, you'd find yourself back in the dark room.

You step in the elevator together, pressing the buttons for your floor and his.

He doesn’t know whether it’s the fear or the fact that you've now spent several hours together when time didn’t make sense, but the ride up is slower than usual.

Bucky stands with his back pressed to the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“It never occured to me,” your voice is quiet. “It’s the one thing I didn’t think of because I was so focused on getting out.”

“Didn't think of it either.” Bucky’s shoulders shrug, eyes closed. “Not your fault.”

“Kinda is.”

“I would've realised earlier if I paid attention,” he counters.

You stare at him.

“Are you done or should I keep going?”

You blow out an exhale. “This game sucks.”

“Don't play this shit with me. It's the one thing I'm good at.”

The elevator dings, creeping open on his floor.

He stays right where, back pressed against the wall, unmoving.

“It's your floor,” you inform.

“I know.”

The door waits a few seconds before it closes.

It finally reaches your floor, opening with a bright ding.

He watches you step out, casting an unsure look towards him.

You gesture awkwardly, “Do you need anything?”

“Nah,” he says, eyes still closed.

“What are– oh,” you stop all of a sudden. “Is this your way of walking me to my door?”

Bucky’s face doesn’t betray any expression. “See you later.”

You fight a smile, raising two fingers to give him a wave.

He gives you a small nod as the door closes on him, reaching forward to press the button to his floor again.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you

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stargazedwinchester · 1 month ago

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Last Night's Mascara ♡ Dean

Summary: You lose your boyfriend, Dean, to a demonic possession that has replaced his soul.

Word Count: 1,433

Warnings: Physical abuse, some counts of swearing

If that's not something you want to read, please keep scrolling!

This one took a little longer, I had just under 2 weeks off of work and enjoyed it a bit too much and I procrastinated a bit too much, therefore I'm posting this late bc I wanted to stay on schedule xoxox

Inspo by last night's mascara - Griff

Sunday morning. You lay your head on your pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Thirteen nights you had slept alone.

Thirteen nights without Dean.

Thirteen nights you had prayed to God by your bedside, begging him to bring Dean back. Nothing worked.

You force yourself up and out of bed, padding down toward the bathroom. Flicking the light on, you glance at yourself in the mirror whilst reaching over to turn the shower on. You peel off your pyjamas, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. While the shower was warming up, you squeeze some toothpaste onto your toothbrush and brush your teeth. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you notice your usually bright, youthful features are now dull and lifeless.

Dean was your happiness. His silly, guileless demeanour was what made him your perfect match. You had faced challenges together before and believed you could overcome this one, too.

How naïve you were!

Spitting the toothpaste out, you rinse your mouth out and run the water so the remnants go down the drain. You turn the tap off and hop into the shower.

“You’re never around anymore, Dean! How do you think that makes me feel?” You spat, an amused look forms on his face. He runs his hand through his gelled hair, looking at you with dead eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck you find funny-”

“Don’t speak to me like that.” He hushes, and your eyebrows furrow in rage. “Don’t speak to you like that? Like what? Like I don’t want to try and sort things out between us? Like none of this actually matters?” you row, throwing your hands up in defeat. Dean sighs. Every second he wasted not talking to you made you more irate. At this point, you assumed it would be impossible to feel this upset with the man you’re supposed to love.

You knew Dean hadn’t been right within himself for quite a while; he had been out a lot more, belligerent in helping you and his brother on hunts, coming across way less affectionate than usual. This left you bewildered and lost. It wasn’t like Dean to be so… cold. He abandoned everything he loved for… nothing. You always felt like it wasn’t completely his fault, but seeing the way he is, it’s hard to think otherwise.

“Talk to me, Dean! Say fucking something!” You walk toward him, who’s facing away from you. Confidence runs through your blood as you stride across the cold floorboards. “Please, Dean,” you exasperate, your throat closing in. You place your hand on his shoulder. He aggressively shoves your hand off, he twists around and fires you across the room. You yelp as your back whips around the bottom of the metal staircase. You’re winded, but that didn’t stop you from getting right back up. “I told you,” Dean snaps, keeping his stalwart, defunct stare on you. He takes a deep breath.

“I told you,” he repeats. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that.” He raises his voice, booming across the bunker. It feels like the walls vibrated with fear. You storm up to him and he pushes you away, knocking you back onto the floor. “I don’t love you!” He bellows, and you scurry toward the closest wall to stick yourself too. You’re terrified, terrified of what Dean is capable of doing. You’re frozen in place watching him bluster toward you.

He pulls you up so you’re practically glued to the wall behind you, your glare never left his as his pupils dilate. The perfect shade of green that once resides was no longer there.

“I don’t fucking love you, Y/N. I never have. The fact that you feel like you have to try and fix everything? It doesn’t work. It’ll never work. You will never, ever find someone that’ll love you. Purely and effortlessly. This,” he pauses and motions between you both. “This was nothing but for show. You’re a beautiful girl, but I fucking hate you. Quite frankly, you’re worthless. Pathetic.” He smiles intentionally, and those words puncture at your heart like a million shards of glass. You’re unsure of what to do as his awfully strong grasp lets go of you. Your feet touch the ground and you’re still staring at him. He presses his lips together and clenches his jaw.

“Get out of my face.” He brushes you off, turning away from you. Dean pauses. He turns and slaps you across the face. You inhale sharply, your bottom lip wobbling but holding in tears. Even though you’re hurting right now, your body and heart have a rush of adrenaline. As Dean turns away, you force him to turn back around to you. You punch him in the cheekbone, causing him to stagger. He attempts to alter himself and reach for you, but you shove him backwards. “Don’t you fucking DARE do that again, Winchester! Who the fuck do you think you are?!” you scream, and he just looks at you. He looks at you as if you’re crazy. “Put your fucking hands on me again and watch what happens, you stupid bastard! Get the fuck out of here! Now!” You shriek, now your voice echoes throughout the bunker. Dean looks surprised as he steps away from you. That same, sinister smirk appears on his face again as he walks toward the stairway.

“I’m not done with you.” He voices just above a whisper. He leaves the bunker and you in silence. You take a shaky breath as you evaluate what has just happened.

Tears roll down your face. A weird comfort from the light, but scorching taps from the waterfall cascading down your back. The water trickles down the drain, mocking you by telling you that you can wash your worries away. A bubble arises in your throat that you can’t control. Your bottled up emotions have finally decided to spill out. You let out a sob, your hands reaching up to your mouth. You don’t want Sam to hear you. Your whole body shakes. You turn around and face the water, letting it fall down your face, hoping that it drowns out the sound of your cries. Desperate and vulnerable cries.

As you step out of the shower, you reach for a towel to wrap around yourself and walk out the door. You make your way to your bedroom and get dressed.

The bright Texan sun beams down, and you pull your sunglasses down over your eyes. You have finally arrived at the church, 46 miles out from the bunker. Despite deserted roads, the entire trip still took almost two hours. Walking down the broken cobblestone path, you push the wooden door open. It squeaks weakly as you step inside onto the floorboards.

There’s no one here, and the door slams behind you. You flinch. You walk toward the altar that’s standing in the centre of the church. Warm colors from the stained glass windows behind the altar reflect onto the rickety floorboards, showing images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. You kneel down in front of the altar, fixating on the floor. For days, you prayed for the return of the old Dean. You’re stuck on what to say, so you sit for a minute. You assumed Cas would be able to hear your prayers every night, but it felt as if no one could help you. Cas was MIA and Sam’s out of town. You’re completely and utterly alone.

You concentrate as you pray to the shrine in front of you.

“God, if you can hear me, I pray for your divine intervention. To free Dean from the demon’s control and bring back the man we all miss dearly. Please bring my Dean home. I’m begging for something, anything. Please. Amen.”

You sit there for a little while, hoping that the message had actually been heard. You reminisce on how you and Dean used to be, how joyous life felt before he decided to practically give his own life away for the Mark of Cain. You take a deep breath before standing up. You turn around and you’re met with a tall man in a beige trench coat.

“I heard your prayer, Y/N.” He says, gazing down at you with care. Your eyes meet Cas’ and you can’t help but burst into tears. He pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you attentively and he allows you to feel every emotion you’ve needed to let out. You feel very grateful for Cas’s help, even if it is as minimal as a hug. God knows you've needed it.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #dean winchester #dean winchester imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean x y/n #supernatural x reader #supernatural x y/n #spn x reader #spn x y/n

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screams-in-writing · 4 months ago

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Since it takes me longer to draw, you get two more fluff snippets first.

11- Switching roles of big and little spoon (2nd pov)

You’re home and your roommates aren’t, which means that it’s quiet and there was nothing to distract you from (reluctantly) get some things taken care of around the house that you’d otherwise been avoiding.

Once you finish, you let put a slow breath and turn, stepping directly into Mr. Puzzles chest as his arms wrapped around you.

“Hello, my dear.” The man’s voice said lowly as his metal tv head craned alongside your own.

“You can’t just phase into the house whenever you want.” You sighed, even as you returned the embrace, much to Puzzles’ delight.

“…then you shouldn’t have old, defunct televisions at the end of their lives plugged into the basement.” Mr. Puzzles countered with amusement tinging his tone, before offense colored it. “The same television that you and your roommates only use for get togethers once or twice a month?” The man gave an over the top theatrical shudder as he continued to gripe. “Either invest in another one, or let me host the little event of yours. Why, I could present the best of the best without anyone telling me otherwise and getting pushback on my brilliantly made art!”

“You need a break.” You stated, patting Mr. Puzzles gently on the back. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Mr. Puzzles admitted, with feeling, and surprised you as he easily lifted you from the hug into his arms as he carried you back down the stairs into the basement where he’d come from.

Ah, yes.

The giant beanbag.

You could see where this was going, and you were honestly ready for a moment to rest after the chores you’d done around the house. As gently as could be, Mr. Puzzles lowered you down to the floor alongside the beanbag. “Puzzles?” When you turned to look up at him, you could see him staring in return with a screen reflecting weariness, the digital eyes appearing to be fixed on yours. “What is it?”

“Would you…” The tv headed man waved at the beanbag, awkwardly avoiding your gaze now. “…hold me?”

“Of course.” You replied, going over to the giant beanbag to settle onto it, before holding a hand out.

Mr. Puzzles swiftly moved forward to settle on the beanbag alongside you, turning so that his back was to you. The man even scrunched up so that you could snuggle in behind him so that he could feel like you were surrounding him with your own body.

As you wrapped an arm over his ridiculously thin waist, Mr. Puzzles wrapped a hand around yours. Lying there, you could feel the man begin to relax bit by bit.

A comfortable silence fell, the two of you falling asleep cuddled together, and not waking up to the sound of your roommate Derek snickering over the way Rose was very solemnly (if contrasted got a great big grin) taking pictures of you and Puzzles as you slept obliviously on.

When you received the picture of Mr. Puzzles scrunched up with a content smile and closed digital eyes on his screen with your arms wrapped around him from behind with your face to his shoulder?

It ended up as your phone background to later be discovered by Mr. Puzzles when you were showing something led to him.

The tv headed man ended up with a blushing face and a crackling speaker sputtering nonsense as he pressed his screen into your shoulder. Yet Mr. Puzzles appeared pleased by your decision to have the photo be used.

It led to an amusing set of messages that began with a simple message.

“In case you’d like to see my devilishly handsome face while we’re apart.”

This was followed by a whole lot of photos of Mr. Puzzles himself. Then came further messages that were photos of the both of you, and even some sneak peek photos of his newest project.

The kicker that made you laugh was a thick envelope coming in the mail with even more pictures of Mr. Puzzles. But then, emotion suddenly choked you at several tattered, older photos with a handwritten note it had been hidden within another envelope with care.

“I hope you are well, my dear. Please safeguard these photograph. These are but only a few I have left of myself before my ambitions and obsessions changed me.”

What could only be a young Puzzles was on two photos. A young adult in another. Then, the last photo, the one closest in stature to the Mr. Puzzles you knew. The light in his eyes was no longer there like it had been in the kid Puzzles photos, instead a manic light in the photo.

You kept the photos safe, only realizing hours later that this was the first time you’d ever seen Mr. Puzzles when he was a human.

And he’d given you the photos for safekeeping; a piece of himself that he’d likely never shown anyone else before (apart from Meggy, who’d presumably gotten a look at a younger Puzzles during that Puzzlepark incident).

If Mr. Puzzles clung to you tighter when he saw you again, you didn’t point it out, and merely held him just as snug in return.

12- cuddles accompanied by little kisses (1st pov)

(Note-in which this took a turn to less cuddling and more Mr. Puzzles discovering he likes something; oops, but not really)

Despite absolutely being against a ‘beach episode’, so to speak, I couldn’t help but accept your offer to go to the beach with you, your roommates and a few coworkers who were desperate for sunshine on a nice day.

I’d have rather been all alone with you; however, since we were in your world and nit mine, I couldn’t ensure that my beautiful metal head didn’t go anywhere near the sea. I’d rather appreciated the sight of you reading those going along to the beach that they were not to get water anywhere near my head, and that it was hit a joke, as it could cause me irreparable harm.

I may have swooned a little dramatically at the forcefulness before I’d swept you up into an embrace to show you my appreciation (and allowing me to decide in that moment that I would, in fact, come along to the beach).

I despised this already.

I was appalled by the sight of all the people around, and did my best to keep in the shade beneath the umbrella in a quieter area. But I had insisted that you go have fun, with the others, despite being unable to enjoy the waters as easily any longer. I could submerge up to just below my neck, but preferably below the collarbones, to ensure I didn’t get any wiring exposed to the water.

Stretching out comfortably on a layer of beach towels to ward off the sand, wearing a tank top and a pair of khakis (ordinarily I wasn’t so comfortable showing off my limbs, but I couldn’t resist seeing those blushes on your face whenever I caught sight of your gaze lingering on me). It made me happy that you were happy, enjoying the beach and the water fight that caused quite a lot of splashing. I was confused over you suddenly vanishing but before I could become concerned, you reappeared in dry clothing. Your hair appeared to have been ruffled by a towel to get as much water out as possibly, the why quickly answered as you joined me under the large umbrella in the shade.

I perked up from where I’d been lounging with my back agaisnt a large rock behind me when you settle on my lap and pull me into a hug. I was quick to embrace you in return as I leaned over to kiss you with tiny static speaks from my screen, which made you hug me more tightly.

“I appreciate the offer to bring me along, despite being unable to participate in many of the activities here.” I said softly as I placed a few more kisses along your skin as my screen rested gently to your forehead to place a lingering kiss before drawing away to wear a softened expression, a little regret at being unable to properly be able to kiss you crossing the back of my mind.

“Hey, Puzzles?” Curiously, you ended up looking around at the others on the beach and in the water, before looking back at me. “I’d like to try something.”

I studied your expression, and found myself intrigued by the blush that was there.

Hmm.

Whatever could be in that mind of yours that would make you look like that? And what would it be, that you believed it was fine to try in public?

“Try…something.” I mused over it a moment, hands lightly tracing along your back, before I leaned back into the rock and flashed a technicolor grin of eagerness at you. “But of course. I would never say no to trying something with you, after all-“ I leaned in just as suddenly, nearly screen to nose with you, as a sly squint of digital eyes focused on you. “As my co-host in my new endeavor, I must say that I’m flattered there’s something you want to share with me.” I loosened my grasp around you to allow you to do as you would, which turned out to be leaning up in my lap and steadying yourself with gentle hands to either side of my metal head. I indulgently turned my head to the side at your touch, curious where this was headed and-

Warm breath trailed over and into my vent.

I shuddered, hands reaching up to grasp your wrists.

“Bad?” You asked, worry in your tone.

“Again.” I breathed through both the speakers in my head and a slight motion from my chest, my replaced mechanical lungs acting as though I’d breathed in that puff of breath. The next breath that rolled over the vent had me abruptly pinning you amid the beach towels, breathing unsteadily as false lungs and my facsimile breathing fought for control over one another.

“Maybe I’ll save that for when we’re not out in public.” You admitted after a moment, as you reached up to trace the underside of my television’s casing, to which I leaned heavily into with a happy sigh. “I haven’t seen that unhinged look of yours in months.” You tilt your head as static crackled. “There’s a more familiar one. The ‘I want to smother you in kisses but I’m too shy to-“

I growled low in my chest with traces of vocal cords that lingered, twined through wires and through my speakers as I closed the distance and proved that I was not, in fact, shy. I placed kisses all over your face, the zapping of the static audible while you laughed breathlessly and grabbed my shoulders in return to encourage me to get even closer.

So I did.

There was no world where I would ever say no to being able to shower you with affection every possible moment that I was allowed to.

#mr puzzles x reader fluff snippets #bites bites bites #mr puzzles is a sappy romantic #Hnnngh this man I want to climb him like a tree #Suggestive content #for second snippet

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