honeeysagee

[honeeysagee]

𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯? - sambucky drabble

sam doesn't notice the recent changes in his life until he looks up one day and sees them all standing in front of me.

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬. 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐞!

Sam Wilson didn't notice the change around his house. Sure, it needed a little cleaning, and the floors squeaked a little more these days, but he paid no mind to that. However, he didn't notice the extra pair of boots or the new coat that hung on the coat rack by the door. No, he barely even noticed the extra toothpaste in the bathroom.

He didn’t question the way the fridge stayed full or how the coffee never ran out. He didn’t pause when dinner started showing up in warm containers instead of takeout bags. And when he woke up to the sound of someone fixing the leaky faucet he’d meant to deal with three months ago, he just grunted a sleepy thanks and went back to bed.

It wasn’t that Sam was oblivious. He just… wasn’t looking too closely.

Not until he tripped over a pair of boots that weren’t his size and swore loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“Jesus, Buck—”

Bucky poked his head out of the kitchen, dishtowel slung over his shoulder like he lived there.

“You okay?” he asked, like he belonged.

Sam blinked. Then stared.

At the boots. At the towel. At the man in his kitchen.

"Yeah." He muttered and then left the conversation before he could register what he was seeing.

For the next couple of days, he noticed everything.

The way Bucky always left the sponge on the wrong side of the sink. The faint smell of Bucky’s cologne lingering on the couch cushion. The sound of the shower running even though Sam hadn’t turned it on. The quiet hum of someone else moving through his space like they’d always belonged.

He noticed the folded laundry that wasn’t his. The way his playlist had mysteriously gained three old rock songs he didn’t remember adding. The jacket draped over the back of his favorite chair. The half-read book on the coffee table with a metal bookmark tucked in neatly.

Everywhere he looked, there was Bucky.

And the thing was—it wasn’t unwelcome. Just… unsettling. Like finding a familiar rhythm in a song you didn’t realize you were humming.

It wasn’t until Thursday night, when Bucky was halfway through chopping garlic and asking if Sam wanted rice or potatoes, that Sam finally said it.

"When did you move in?"

Bucky didn’t look up right away. He scraped the garlic into the sizzling pan, the scent filling the space between them. It gave him just enough time to decide how honest he wanted to be.

“Couple weeks ago,” he said casually, like it was nothing. Like it was normal. “Give or take.”

Sam blinked. “A couple weeks? You didn't say anything.”

“Mmhm.” Bucky stirred the pan. “I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it.”

Sam folded his arms. “You brought a coat rack.”

“It was on sale.”

“You reorganized my pantry.”

“You had cereal next to canned beans. That’s chaos.”

Sam tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You brought oat milk.”

Bucky shrugged. “You were out, and I bought whole milk for myself.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Sam stared at him—at the man who was comfortably barefoot in his kitchen, wearing a T-shirt Sam was pretty sure used to be his, acting like he hadn’t just casually confessed to squatting in his house for two weeks without permission.

The part that rattled him wasn’t the fact that Bucky had moved in.

It was the fact that Sam hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t minded. Still didn’t.

He exhaled slowly. “You gonna keep doing this?”

Bucky looked over, brow raised. “Doing what?”

“This. Showing up. Making dinner. Sleeping in my bed.”

Bucky set the spoon down. “Do you want me to stop?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched—thick, warm, familiar.

Finally, he shook his head once. “No. I'm getting free food and things fixed around here. Stay forever if you like.”

And Bucky, eyes soft and hopeful, smiled like he’d already known that. Like maybe he’d just been waiting for Sam to say it out loud.

[honeeysagee]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐱

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩, 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦/𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲 (𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥), 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 - 𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝! 𝐢𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞��𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐱 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞.

summary: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝—𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐡’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝, 𝐒𝐚𝐦’𝐬 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫.

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐇𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞—𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬.

Sarah Wilson had to beg her brother.

Not because he wanted to be home with her and his nephews during the storm, or because he was scared of them. Sam Wilson was Captain America - storms were the last thing he should be scared of..

No, she begged him because the favor was a terrible one.

"Just check on her, Sam," Sarah said, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her voice low and urgent, as if she was asking him to do something reckless. From Sam's view, she was.

The rain hammered against the windows, each drop like a drumbeat marking the passage of time. The storm was miles off, but it will get worse. The wind was already curling around the corners of the house, making the old wood creak. This fact weighed on Sarah's mind all evening until she gathered the courage to ask Sam the inevitable.

"She's up the road, alone. The power's been out since this morning, and I can't get a hold of her." Sarah's voice softened.

Sam stared at his sister like she had grown two heads, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You mean the same girl who made my life a living hell?"

Sarah's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "You called her a 'walking headache with too much lip and no brakes.'"

He rubbed his forehead. "And you want me around that?"

"I want someone to make sure she's okay," Sarah said, the edge creeping back into her tone. "She's alone in that big house. You and I know it wasn't built to last in Louisiana's storms. I would go check myself, but I can't leave the boys. You're the only one I trust."

Sam didn't answer right away. He turned to the window instead, watching as the rain slicked the street, bending the magnolia trees until they bowed low. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the Spanish moss that clung to the telephone wires like something half-alive.

Ten years. That's how long it's been since you left Delacroix without a goodbye to anyone. Well, you extended one to Sam, but at the time, he had been too selfish to accept it. You left with some boy on your arm and nothing else to call yours. And now, like some ghost washed in on the tide, you were back - living in the same old house up the road, alone and half a mystery.

"She hated me, Sarah."

"She didn't hate you," Sarah said gently. "She..." Sarah stopped before looking at the ceiling, "Check on her, please. If she's fine, you can leave."

Sam didn't want to admit how that made something twist in his chest. He didn't want to admit he'd thought about her - more than he should have. About her laugh, her sharp mouth, the fire in her eyes when she was pissed. He didn't want to admit he noticed the fire was gone when he saw her on the porch last week, talking to his sister and staring him down when he approached.

“She’s different now,” Sarah said. “And you are too.”

He let out a long breath, ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, and reached for the waterproof jacket hanging by the door.

“If she cusses me out, I’m coming back here and pretending this never happened.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “If she opens the door, that’s already more than I expected.”

He paused, looking at her over his shoulder. Something in his voice gave him pause - something fragile, worried. And despite everything, he stepped out into the storm.

The house rumbled again from the distant thunder, and under your third layer of clothing, you still shivered from the cold.

Damp air crept in through the window frames, no matter how many towels you'd stuffed beneath them. The power had been out since just after sunrise, and with no lights, no heat, and no familiar voices echoing off the walls, the house felt too big. Too hollow.

You paced the living room in thick socks and an old hoodie, a candle flickering weakly on the coffee table. Every creak of the floorboards or groan of the pipes sent your nerves flaring. It wasn't fear exactly—just that old feeling again. The kind that used to keep you up at night in this same town, in a different version of this same silence.

You hadn’t expected Sarah to call. You definitely hadn’t expected her to care enough to check in, even if it was through a half-hearted voicemail. But you’d ignored it, let it sit unanswered in your inbox along with everything else you’d been avoiding.

It was easier not to expect anything from this town. Easier not to want.

The storm cracked again—closer this time. The candle sputtered in the gust from a loose windowpane, and you moved to relight it just as a sharp knock cut through the wind.

You froze.

You wondered if Leo followed you back here. If maybe, somewhere deep down, some twisted sense of guilt made him book a flight to Louisiana, thinking he could catch a glimpse of what he left behind.

But then again, you knew better. Leo didn't care enough anymore.

Another knock. Firm. Familiar, even if you didn’t want it to be.

A shadow shifted behind the glass.

You hesitated, heartbeat slow and heavy in your chest.

No one came to see you out here. No one but her—and if Sarah had sent someone…

You already knew who it was. You could feel it - like the air changed. Like the house suddenly got smaller and hotter, and the silence between you pressed harder.

You swallowed, footsteps bringing you closer to the door until your hand was hovering above the knob. You could hear him breathing on the other side. Something barely snapped, but you remained intact.

It had been ten years since you left the town. Left him. Back then, you had one night. One night, when you and Sam had something quiet, reckless, and unforgettable. When you left, you buried it here.

But now, he was on your porch. In the middle of a storm. Knocking on your door like the past hadn't already come in and made itself at home.

You took a breath. You opened it.

Sam stood on the porch, water dropping from the hood of his jacket, his face shawdoed but unmistakable. The same sharp jaw, same steady eyes. Older now. Tired in a way that made you ache a little, even if you didn't want to.

He looked at you like he didn't know what to say. LIke he hadn't expected you to actually open the door. You didn't say anything either. You didn't expect to open the door.

The wind howled behind him, kicking up leaves and debris, but all you could hear was the thrum of your heart pounding in your ears. The candle behind you flickered in the draft, and in its light, you knew he could see how hollow your cheeks had become, how your eyes didn't shine the way they used to. And you saw it on his face.

He cleared his throat. "Sarah asked me to check on you."

You nodded once, a chill running up your body, "Figures."

Your voice barely carried over the wind, but he heard it. His eyes flickered to yours, looking for some insult or scolding response, but he was met with emptiness. Something unreadable passed through them. Not pity. No, that wasn't the Sam you remembered. This was something... different.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of the mess behind you. The half-melted candles. The blankets layered on the couch. The unopened mail and unpacked boxes that lined the hallway like ghosts of a life you were still trying to reclaim.

“I’m fine,” you added, softer this time. “You don’t have to stay.”

Sam didn’t move.

Rainwater dripped from his sleeves, pooling at his boots, but he didn’t so much as flinch. He looked past you for a moment, into the dimness of the house—into the quiet you’d been drowning in for days.

"You know this place has a generator, right?"

You blinked, the question catching you off guard.

Your hand gripped the edge of the door just a little tighter. “If it does, it died with the rest of the wiring. Or maybe Leo sold it before I got back.” You hadn’t bothered to look. You hadn’t wanted to find one more thing gone.

Sam’s jaw ticked. He glanced past you again, at the gloom inside, then back to your face. “You’ve been sitting in the dark all day?”

You shrugged, half defensive, half exhausted. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite anger—just that same quiet frustration he used to wear whenever you pushed one jab too far. The same look he gave you the night you kissed him.

He stepped forward, and for a second, you didn’t move.

“You gonna let me in, or should I start yelling storm safety tips from the porch?” he asked, voice low, almost teasing—but not unkind.

You rolled your eyes, stepping back from the door.

“Fine,” you muttered, stepping aside. “But only until the rain lets up.”

Sam didn’t say anything as he crossed the threshold, water dripping from his shoulders and boots. The air shifted when you closed the door behind him, sealing the two of you into the silence and the candlelight.

He didn’t wait for your permission—just started moving like he still knew the layout of the place, like the years hadn’t carved distance between what used to be familiar.

"If Leo didn't sell it," The name tasted like ash and salt on Sam's tongue, "It would be in the basement." He wasted no time exploring for the door. You're right on his heels.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, but your voice didn’t carry much weight.

Sam shot you a look over his shoulder. “You think I’m gonna let you freeze just to prove a point?”

You opened your mouth, closed it. Fair.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he disappeared into the dark, and after a second’s hesitation, you grabbed the flashlight off the counter—half-dead but still useful—and followed.

The basement smelled like damp concrete and old wood. Nothing had changed. It was still full of old boxes, warped from moisture, and tools rusting on forgotten hooks.

Sam crouched near the far wall, brushing aside a stack of paint cans, muttering to himself.

You hovered behind him, arms crossed over your chest. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He looked up, that same familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Still don’t trust me?”

You scoffed, but your cheeks warmed. “Didn’t say that.”

“No,” he murmured, turning back to the wall, “but you didn’t have to.”

Then he found the generator, half-covered by a tarp. His hands stilled.

“Damn,” he muttered. “It’s still here.”

Your breath caught for a second. You weren’t sure why.

Sam glanced up at you again, flashlight casting warm light across his face. “Might take a minute to get it running. You good to wait down here?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

But what you didn’t say—what you couldn’t say—was that part of you didn’t want to go back upstairs alone.

Not yet.

The years had treated him kindly. You noticed the way he carried his shoulders. On his forehead and the crease of his eyebrows. A little bit older, a little rougher around the edges, but still Sam. Still, the man you kissed like it meant something and left like it didn't.

He hadn't changed in the ways that mattered. Still focus on the big picture, stubborn enough not to call out you staring at him. Yeah, he noticed.

"Do you know what you're doing? I would hate to call Sarah to babysit you right now."

That earned you a quiet laugh. Low, short, but real. It rumbled out of him and filled the basement in a way that made it feel less dark.

"I've saved the world a few times, Darling. Think I can handle a generator." Sam didn't realize the nickname left his lips until he processed the sentence. He regretted it almost instantly when he looked over at you. Half ashamed that he still held a space for it in his mind. Your stomach flipped at it - more memory than malice. It should be different, back when it whispered against your neck instead of being thrown across the room in some act of mockery.

You didn't say anything.

He fiddled with the generator, checking lines and fuel, hands working like muscle memory hadn't failed him. You watched from a few feet away, leaning against an old support beam, the flashlight casting long, twitching shadows across the basement.

"So," he stared, too casually, "This place still has the mice problem."

When you didn't answer, he continued, "Remember that night you screamed and jumped up on the counter? Thought Leo was gonna have to fight a rat with a broom just to get you down. And when he was unsuccessful, you called on me."

The quiet filled the room. "Whenever he fell short, I was there."

Sam glanced at you, his smile fading when he saw the tears in your eyes. You pushed off the beam, stumbling a little, "Just couldn't help yourself."

Sam went to protest, but you didn't wait for his reply. The stairs creaked under your heavy footsteps. The air upstairs felt heavier, warmer, more suffocating somehow. But you moved through it like habit, grabbing the thin throw blanket from the couch before pushing open the front door.

The rain had softened into a steady drizzle now, but the wind still curled sharp around the porch columns. You sat down on the steps, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, and let the cold bite your skin. The storm hadn't passed.

Not outside. Not inside either.

And behind you, somewhere below, Sam Wilson was still trying to fix what was broken.

It takes a while before you hear the door creak open behind you.

You don't turn. Just keep your eyes on the soaked horizon, where the trees bowed low under the weight of the weather. Boots scuffed softly against the wood, slow and hesitant. Then silence.

Sam didn't say anything at first. Just stood behind you, watching the way your shoulders curled forward, how your fingers gripped the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing that kept you from coming undone in that moment.

He eased down beside you and spoke, "I did my best. Generator's busted." You nodded once, not looking at him. More silence.

You can feel him debating on whether to leave, the way he used to when you fought and left things heavy and unspoken. But he's grown now. So, he offers, "I wasn't trying to bring him up. I just - didn't know where to start."

You exhaled sharply through your nose. The salt in the air finds you, "I didn't always call you when he fell short. You were just always there.

Behind you, Sam didn’t move.

You could still remember those nights—Leo working late, forgetting plans, brushing off your silence with a kiss to the forehead and a promise to do better. And then, somehow, Sam would show up. Dropping off tools, checking your tires, and making sure the porch light worked. Pretending it was about Sarah. Pretending you didn’t see him watching the way Leo never did.

You hear his boots shuffle away back into the house, a part of you saddened that he has left. Maybe to mess with the generator again? You think you don't deserve the conversation; you're not even ready to have it. Yet, he returns. This time with a blanket that he drapes around your shoulders.

The blanket smells like him - warm with hints of cedar and faintly like something metallic. Old comfort, maybe. You don't fall away, but you don't lean in either. His hand lingers for half a second before he lets the edges fall, settling the fabric around you like a peace offering.

Sam breathes out as he settles down beside you. The porch creaks under his weight, but it feels steady. Like the house is holding its breath for both of you. He continues the conversation, "I wasn't trying to be that guy. I wanted you to hate me less."

A confession so real and too deep for Sam - he feels like he may throw up what he ate this morning. You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of him in your peripheral vision. The rain had soaked through his jacket, leaving his curls damp at the edges. His eyes met yours—steady, a little tired, but still that same dark, patient gaze that always saw too much.

"I didn't hate you." You whispered into the night.

The words left you like a secret you hadn’t meant to share. Small, soft, but heavy with everything that had sat between you for years.

Sam didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe.

“I thought you did,” he said finally. His voice was rough now. Quieter. “After that night… you left, and I just figured…”

“That night wasn’t why I left,” you cut in gently.

He looked at you then, fully—like he was trying to find the truth written in your face.

You met his gaze, your heart beating against your ribs like it was trying to crawl free. “I left because I...I thought Leo was what I wanted.”

Sam exhaled hard through his nose. “And I wasn’t?”

You didn’t answer right away. Not because you didn’t know, but because the truth hurt too much to say quickly.

“You were… safe,” you said, and it came out like an ache. “And I didn’t think I deserved safe.”

His expression crumbled just a little—brows furrowed, mouth parted like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the words. So, you continued, "And you pushed me away so many times. I put myself through years of torment just to be a thought in your head - no matter how minor."

"You were never a minor thought. Trust me."

A beat passed. Neither of you spoke.

"Why did you let me leave that night, then? I kissed you, Sam Wilson, and you acted like I shot you. I know that's not how you acted with the girls that used to brag about kissing you."

“I didn’t know how to be what you needed,” he admitted. “And if I kissed you back, I wasn’t sure I’d stop. I wasn’t sure you’d stay.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“I would’ve,” you whispered.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, staring out into the dark like it could explain what he never could. “But I wasn’t ready. And I hated myself for that.”

You watched him, his profile shadowed in candlelight spilling from the window. So much time wasted on fear. On pride. On silence.

“You broke my heart that night,” you said quietly. “And the worst part? You didn’t even know you had it.”

Somewhere, thunder clapped, low and long like it was bearing witness. The wind picked up, rattling the porch beams and shaking loose droplets from the roof. But none of it could touch the storm unraveling between you and Sam.

His shoulders tensed at your words. Like they physically hit him. Like he hadn’t prepared to be held accountable for the version of you he left behind.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice raw. “Not then.”

You tilted your head, gaze sharp. “But you knew I was yours to lose.”

Sam looked at you then—really looked. No mask. No bravado. Just a man realizing the weight of what he’d thrown away.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. “Letting you go.”

You scoffed, low and bitter. “That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? ‘I was doing the right thing.’ Funny how the right thing always hurts the people it’s supposed to protect.”

Silence followed, thick and hot between you.

“I didn't think I could be what you needed,” he said again, like repeating it would soften the blow.

You leaned forward now, voice quiet but cutting. “You didn’t even give me the choice to decide.”

That made him flinch.

He followed suit, rising to his feet like he was being pulled forward by something older than both of you. Something that had been waiting in the walls of this house, this porch, this town.

Sam was there.

Right where he always was when you were running.

“Doesn't matter anyway. I think we're too broken to pick each other now.”

Your hand gripped the doorknob, knuckles white, your pulse roaring in your ears. But then—he reached out. Not to stop you. Not to plead. Just to be near. Close enough for his breath to warm the space between your faces.

“I was picking you every day ten years ago. What's the difference?” he asked. Soft. Steady.

Your eyes lifted to meet his. And just like that, all the time between you shrank.

His hand hovered near your cheek, unsure. You didn’t pull away.

He leaned in—slow, careful, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast. And you tilted your face up, breath hitching.

The space between your mouths narrowed until only memory and hesitation lived there.

And then—

Click.

The lights blinked on.

The porch flooded with golden light from the windows. The house sighed back to life behind you—refrigerator humming, heater clicking, the soft mechanical whirr of the generator settling into rhythm.

And then you saw him.

Not softened by candlelight. Not half-shadowed by memory.

Just him.

Sam Wilson.

He hadn’t changed—not really. The lines on his face were a little deeper, the weight on his shoulders a little heavier, but the way he looked at you? That was the same.

Still steady. Still guarded.

Still the boy you left behind.

For a moment, that realization burned hotter than any storm wind. Because you’d told yourself you left a man behind—a version of him that didn’t need you. But now, standing inches away, you saw the truth:

He hadn’t outgrown you.

Later, you’ll fold this moment up and tuck it away. Try to distract yourself with half-unpacked boxes and creaky floorboards. Pretend the light didn’t flick on at the exact second you almost let yourself want again.

But a part of you will always know—Sam will be there. In the storm. In the quiet. In the space just between goodbye and what if.

You won’t know whether to smile or cry.

So now, you offer the only thing you can give him tonight.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you say, soft and certain.

His lips part, like he wants to answer with more than that. But he doesn’t. Just nods once, eyes still on you, and steps back into the glow spilling from the door.

And you stay there, watching the shape of him disappear into the night. Still not sure if your heart is breaking… or finally starting to beat again.

"Goodnight, Darling." He opens his truck door and slides in. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on you."

Promise? You almost ask, but you don’t have to. The engine stays quiet, his truck untouched, and his hand drags down his face like he’s trying to breathe through something heavy, eyes still fixed on you. If there was ever a promise, it’s written in that look. Clear as anything.

[honeeysagee]

me writing my first bucky smut

[honeeysagee]

𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓐𝓯𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓼: 𝓑𝓮𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮

quick little dabble about congressman!Bucky, because that's all that's on my mind right now. i need him like air! 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓿𝓮!𝓫𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂, 𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓫𝓫𝔂!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻, 𝓭𝓲𝓻𝓽𝔂 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴! 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝔁𝓱𝓲𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓶 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓴, 𝓫𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

──────┐┌────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────┐┌──────

You wore the dress on purpose.

That slate blue one that he loved so much. It hugged your curves, left nothing for the imagination - though Bucky never had to use his imagination much. He already knew how your body was shape. How it hit in his heads. How you moved when it was too much, not enough. How your lips formed the perfect 'o' whenever he hit the perfect spot.

He watched you from across the room like a man straved. Eyes dark with something you've seen before - tasted before. You caught the edge of a smirk as you returned your attention to a reporter who's question you barely heard.

Your smile and nod was automatic, but your heart beat just a little bharder under the weight of his gaze. Bucky knew what he was doing, just like you. His sleeves rolled up, the metal of his arm gleaming faintly under the overhead lights. His tie was loose, collar open just enough to reveal the strong line of his throat, and the mess of his hair was a calculated sort of chaos. Like he'd just barely managed to hold himself together all night.

And now? Now, he was unraveling you from across the room without laying a single hand on you. You didn't dare look at him. Not again. Because if you did, you might not make it out of this fundraiser without doing something reckless.

But that didn't stop you from knowing exactly where he was in the room. Every shift of his weight. Every calculated step closer. He was coming for you - and you were going to let him.

His hand was on your arm first. Turning his back toward the crowd of reporters who were continuing to ask questions to your colleagues and quickly taking photos of this exchange between you. You wondered if they could see how charged this interaction was.

"That dress," he whispered into your ear, low and barely audible over the soft hum of conversation around you. "You look so fucking good in it." You didn't deny it. You couldn't. Not when he was looking at you like that.

You smiled to the crowd, and turned to face Bucky, "Can we have this conversation after the fundraiser is over?" You replied with a cool tone. Teasing. Dangerous.

Bucky's smirk deepened. "Why wait?" He leaned in slightly, his mouth brushing your ear like a secret, "Why don't we give these people a show? Show them how much of a good girl you are for me."

You felt it then - the slow thrum of heat pooling in your stomach. The tension between you wound tight, stretch then beneath polite smiles and polished exteriors. You let a small moan fall from your lips.

"You would like that, huh," Bucky smiled, "You want me to bend you over this podium and fuck you dumb? Let them know who you wore this dress for? Who you belong to?" You almost nod, but you know how serious he was. He little he cared for this job. "Or do you want me to slid my fingers on your dress? Bring out those heavenly sounds you give me every night. Make them jealous."

You let his words was over you. They soaked your skin, low and possessive, curling around your ribs like smoke. You glance up at him - his tie slightly loosened, eyes still dark, jaw flexing like he was already holding back. You could tell. He was straving.

"Behave," you whispered, but your voice shook, just a little. Bucky smirked, "I been behaving all day. You have no idea what it's costing me."

The clink of a glass, a burst of laughter, a flash of a camera - and yet all you felt was him. Every word like a touch, every touch, every look like a promise. He leaned back finally, eyes dragging over your body one last time like a man cataloging everything he was about to claim.

Later, you know, this tension would snap. He'd make good on every promise whispered between silent glances and shallow breaths. But for now, all you could do was stand there, heart pounding, skin buzzing, and try not to give yourself away completely.

You already had.

…………………………………………………………………………

read the original!

[honeeysagee]

What if Bucky is super insecure because he has gotten a lot more grey in his beard so the reader shows him how much she loves it by riding his beard/face :pp

ੈ✩‧₊˚ told you so! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

He has a headache, this is seriously giving him a headache. He fresh from the shower, towel wrapped around his hips, hair dripping water onto his skin, he slicks it back and sighs. The grays in his hair he can handle, except it’s two hairs that have gone gray. That’s whats so annoying, his fucking beard is graying before his hair is! He leans away from the mirror when he hears a knock on the door. “Come in baby, ‘s not locked.” He grumbles.

You poke your head inside, it’s steamy inside the bathroom, and smells like his soap. Piney, sorta woody, minty—all Bucky. Water drips down his the cleft of his chest down his abdomen, he’s gotten squishier, the abs are still there, less defined, but still there. “Sorry, I needed to brush.” You chirp sweetly, padding over to the sink. He pats your ass as he moves past you to your guys’ bedroom to get dressed. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the dresser and sighs again, rubbing the side of his jaw. He dresses himself, just in time for when you walk in minty fresh.

“Hi, sorry—I wasn’t trying to be pervy, walking in on you.” You say sheepish and it makes him smile. “I wasn’t naked, and you’re not pervy, I also don’t care if you see me naked.” He says grasping your hips when you clamber onto his lap. “Hi gorgeous.” He hums, “Hi handsome.” You croon back, rubbing under his jaw, he winces slightly which makes you confused. “Sorry, did I scratch you?” You ask softly, pulling your hand away quickly. “No, sorry, no, you didn’t nick me.” Bucky reassures quick to soothe you. “Something wrong?” You murmur, looping your arms around his shoulders. He sighs, he should just tell you. “I have grays.” He grumbles, it makes you laugh. “Bucky, so what? You’ve have ‘em for like…years.” You say incredulously. “I didn’t have as many though! I’ve gotta ton now.” He pouts, for most people it’d be jarring to see the winter soldier pouting, you kiss it away. “It’s sexy, very…silverfox!” You hum, running your knuckles against the salt and pepper hairs. “You’re just sayin’ that.” He grumbles once more, “Am not.” You deny, “Are too.” He says with an airy laugh. “Lie down.” You croon, “Why?” He murmurs suspiciously, going down easy when you push down on his chest.

You crawl over him, hovering over his stomach. “It’s sexy, hot, attractive, whatever adjective.” You mumble. “What’re you doing?” He asks, squinting at you, placing his calloused hands on your hips, pushing your shirt up. He’s not surprised to see pink panties with polka dots, but it’s still incredibly pleasant. “Nothin’ just showin’ you how much I like the salt and pepper.” You say cheeky, climbing higher till your cunt is level with his mouth. He smiles feeling hot, if he realized being a little whiny would result in getting to see your cute drooly pussy he would’ve started bitching way earlier. “Oh honey.” He croons, tugging your panties till they bunch up, tickling your folds softly through the fabric, he can feel the patch of wetness seeping through the gusset. “Bucky!” You whine, trying to push your hips forward for something more. “Need somethin’?” He asks teasingly, thumbing your clit as he presses his nose against you clothed folds. You’re stuck between wanting to push forward to keep his thumb circling your sensitive clit, or pulling away so he quits sniffing. “Bucky! Stop! That’s so gross!” You blubber and he rolls his eyes. He pulls away, pulling your panties to the side, kissing the inside of your thigh, gently scraping the skin with his teeth. “I can’t have any fun without you squealing.” He says, cupping the back of your thighs up to your ass, squeezing your cheeks in his large palms, making sure your panties are kept to the side. “Shut up!” You hiccup, leaning forward and bracing your hands on the headboard. He noses through your slit, his facial hair grazes against your skin, it makes you throb, rolling your hips down. “Mhm.” He hums, forcing you down, slurping up all your sticky pre, it makes you feel hot, how lewd. He kisses your outer lips, practically making out with your pussy. His hand trails from your behind to your front, pulling your hood back, giving him full access to your clit. He kisses it softly, bobbing his mouth lightly rolling it between his lips, drawing slow circles with his tongue. You fold forward, “Fuck!” You shiver your thighs shaking around his head. He dips his pointer finger between your lips, getting it sticky and wet, pushing it inside, massaging your gooey insides, adding a second finger when you’ve barely adjusted to the first. “Already?” He croons, feeling you start to get all jittery, rolling your hips onto his fingers, curling your toes when he slips his tongue out to flick your clit. “Shut up! ‘M sensitive” You sputter, “Keeping going—Oh!” You hiccup, going taut, he keeps you upright, rolling his tongue around your clit, keeping his fingers curled inside you as you cum all over his mouth. Pulling away only when you get all twitchy.

“Told you I liked it.” You murmur afterwards, sleepy, yet blissed out. “Yeah.” He scoffs, drunk off your syrupy cunt, wiping the aftermath of your orgasm off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So I shouldn’t buy beard dye?” he hums “I’d kill you.” You murmur. “Noted.”

credit to @diviniyae for dividers

a/n: not proofread lol

[honeeysagee]

𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓐𝓯𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓼

𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: 𝓜𝓓𝓝𝓘, 𝓹𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 (𝓫𝓸𝓼𝓼/𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓭𝔂𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓬), 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓪𝓵 𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓼 (𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓫𝓫𝔂!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻), 𝓶𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓪/𝓹𝓾𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓬 𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓷𝔂, 𝓹 𝓲𝓷 𝓿 𝓼𝓮𝔁, 𝓾𝓷𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓮𝔁, 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝔁, 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓴, 𝓭𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 (𝓑𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂), 𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓹, 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓽 𝓼𝓮𝔁𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽 (18+)

summary: Bucky Barnes is gunning for a second term, and you're the overworked assistant keeping his campaign on track. The two of you argue like rivals, flirt like it’s a game, and swear it means nothing. But when one late night turns physical, it’s no longer just policy on the table—and suddenly, he’s got more than just constituent affairs to worry about.

┌──────┐┌──────┐┌──────┐┌──────┐┌──────┐

The speech went well. You had absolutely no doubt it wouldn't.

James's voice hit every mark; his delivery was sharp and practiced, but not too polished. He needed to seem human. He looked like a man who had finally given a damn, not a career politician parroting talking possible ints. No, that was him months ago. You wrote him perfectly. Crafted him in a way that every word comes from his gut with enough grit to feel authentic. Just polished enough for it to make headlines by morning.

And he delivered it flawlessly, even if he did skip your favorite pause for dramatic effect.

The second his foot left the podium, chaos developed around you. Reporters swarmed the corridor like vultures in ill-fitted suits, cameras flashing, mics thrust forward like weapons. Instictly, you pull the hem of your skirt down and sucked in your gut for a moment after to race to be by James's side. A bad habit, but a habit nonetheless.

You caught up with James just as a voice barked his name, already throwing questions like punches.

"Congressman Barnes! What's your response to the education reform backlash?" a reporter shouted, her voice cracking with urgency.

"Are the rumors about your ties to the lobbyist true?" another pressed, pressing a microphone so close it nearly brushed Bucky's lapel. "Can you confirm you met with Captain America about the government's control of superheroes?"

Your heart thumped against your chest, not from fear, but from the rush of control. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight, voice clipped, and even as you stepped forward like a gatekeeper, slicing through the storm of questions.

"No comment."

"No comment."

"No comment."

James's steady stride matched yours, though you knew he was known to walk faster. He remained silent, letting you steer the narrative without missing a beat. His dark eyes flickered with something you haven't put your finger on. Neither did you want. You were in his head enough these days. A stray flash caught your eye, and you blinked against the sudden glare, the faint scent of his aftershave-woody, clean-washing over you like a grounding tether in the chaos. Faster now, you weaved through the last of the reporters, the hum of their voices fading behind the heavy oak door you pushed open with a practiced shove. The sudden quiet was a balm.

"You're not even letting me get a word in anymore," James glanced over his shoulder at you, throwing back one of those half-smiles he did so often. It had no effect on you. You think.

You didn't look away. "Not my job to let you speak," you shot back, voice steady. "I do everything. Just stand there and be pretty."

He looked... different this close - his dark hair tousled just enough to seem effortless, a few strands falling over his forehead. The sharp lines of his jaw were softened by the late-night shadow of stubble. His crisp white shirt was slightly too broad-shouldered, shoulder damp with sweat from the speech, the top button undone, revealing a hint of collarbone that somehow made him look less uptight. Less put-together. More real.

That's throwing you off your game.

"Okay, give me the rundown before we leave for the night," James commanded, running a hand through his hair as he moved to his desk. "Skip the boring news."

You rolled your eyes, flipping through notes on your iPad while the soft click of your heels echoed off the polished floor. You followed him deeper into the office, but you didn't bother sitting. You never did.

"McKenna's finalizing your press stops for this week. You're expected in Albany Monday, then in Brooklyn Tuesday. The education committee rescheduled again, and someone on the Hill wants to speak with you about Val."

That got his attention. He turned to you fully, brow ticking up. "Valentina?" You nodded, tapping the screen. "She's playing nice, though. Wants a meeting before anything hits the floor. Wants you to look like a team player."

He scoffed. "So, she wants a photo op." You didn't answer that. You just kept reading.

"Oh," you added with a smile, "and Sam called like three times. He said, and I quote, 'Tell Bucky he's not that important. Give me a call back.'"

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before muttering, “I’ll call him when I’m drunk.”

You smirked and moved on. “Your polling numbers are steady. Better with working-class women and men. Worse with your younger audience. They think you're too old to care.”

“I am old.”

“And yet,” you said, finally looking up, “you’re here. Running again. Losing sleep. Pretending like you don’t give a shit when we both know you do.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The air between you thinned, stretching tight. He stood there in his half-unbuttoned shirt and undone tie, watching you like he was seeing something he hadn’t decided on yet.

Then he said, softer, “You done?”

“Almost,” you replied, tapping to the final note. “Tomorrow’s donor brunch starts at nine sharp. I already picked your suit because I don’t trust your taste. Try not to look like you’ve been losing arguments to your own reflection.”

He laughed—just once, but it was real.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

"Goodnight, James."

You turned on your heel, the click of your shoes crisp against the tile as you made for the door.

But before your hand could close around the knob, his voice cut through the quiet behind you.

“You forgot something.”

You didn’t turn around. “Oh? What’s that?”

A pause. Then, slower—measured.

“You didn’t tell me what you think.”

You hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the doorframe. “About what?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“About how I did tonight.”

You exhaled through your nose, steady and silent, before glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“You hit every note. Came off polished but not robotic. Connected without pandering. Stayed on message. Skipped the best pause, but I’m trying to forgive you for that.”

A beat.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He watched you, something unreadable tightening in his expression.

“Too late,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer. Just opened the door and stepped into the dim, empty hallway—heart beating a little louder than it had moments ago.

┌────┐┌────┐┌────┐

The office looked different at night. Quieter. Softer. The overheads were off, replaced by the warm glow of the desk lamp and the dim city lights bleeding through the blinds. The only sound was the occasional rustle of paper, a chair creaking, and the quiet hum of your phone screen lighting up again and again.

James sat at the desk, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar loosened. His hair was tied back in a low, careless bun, a few strands falling loose around his temple. The metal of his left arm caught the light as he flipped through a manila folder, ink staining the side of his hand from a busted pen earlier. He looked undone in a way you weren’t used to seeing—like he was shedding the campaign layer by layer, and you were seeing the bones beneath.

You, meanwhile, were curled into the corner of his couch, legs tucked under you, tablet balanced on your thighs. The brunch earlier had been fine. Great, even. But then the pictures hit.

They always did.

You weren’t even tagged, but you didn’t need to be. The camera found you over his shoulder, at his side, a step behind—just close enough to be visible. You in your slate blue dress, hair slicked back, smiling that practiced smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The comments weren't new. They pointed out every flaw. The way your dress hugged your waist was too tight. The back rolls the fabric didn't hide.

The way your arms looked when you reached to adjust James’s mic, caught in the edge of the frame. One post even screenshotted your side profile mid-laugh, adding a vomiting emoji for good measure.

You hadn’t laughed since.

The tablet rested heavy against your thighs now, your thumb hovering over the screen like maybe, if you scrolled one more time, you’d find something different. Something kind.

You didn’t.

The office felt colder now. Your knees pulled in tighter, arms wrapped around them like a shield, but it didn’t keep the heat of shame from crawling up your chest. You weren’t crying—wouldn’t give the night that—but your jaw ached from how long you'd been clenching it.

Across the room, James shifted in his chair, the metal arm reflecting gold under the desk lamp. You felt his eyes on you again. "James, you're supposed to be writing your speech for tomorrow. Now is the time to prove to me you can do things on your own, and you're wasting that chance."

He leaned back in his chair slowly, arms dropping to the rests, fingers tapping lightly against the metal. Calm. Too calm.

“You think I’m worried about the speech right now?” he asked.

“I think you should be,” you snapped, curling your legs tighter underneath you, keeping your eyes on the tablet even though you weren’t reading anymore. “Because if you want a second term, you need to start acting like it.”

He didn’t move. Just watched you, expression unreadable. And then—quietly, low enough you almost missed it—he said, “You think that’s what I’m worried about?”

You finally looked up.

He was still in his chair, but something in him had shifted. He looked... grounded. Serious. Like the weight of the moment had clicked into place inside him. "You've been too quiet, Moon."

A nickname that often fell from his lips when he started drinking.

The nickname landed softer than it should have. No teasing edge, no bourbon haze lacing his tone. Just low and certain. Sincere in a way that made your stomach tighten. He only ever used it after hours, when the day had wrung him dry and all that was left was the man behind the title.

But tonight, he was sober. Focused. And calling you that like he meant it.

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“James,” you said, not looking at him, not daring to. “Work.”

It came out steadier than you felt.

You heard the slow scrape of his chair legs against the floor before you saw him move. He stood, quietly, walking toward the couch with a deliberate calm that made the space between each step feel longer than it was. When he stopped in front of you, you didn’t look up.

Not until he crouched—down to your level—his knees brushing the edge of the cushion, hands resting loosely on them. Metal and flesh.

You looked at him then. He was too close. Not close enough.

“I’ll write the damn speech,” he said softly, gaze holding yours. “But you haven’t said a word to me all day since we left that brunch.”

He wasn’t accusing you. He wasn’t even frustrated. If anything, he sounded… tired. Like he’d spent the entire day walking around the silence, waiting for you to meet him somewhere in it.

You blinked down at the tablet again, screen dim now. You hadn’t said a word because you didn’t trust what would come out if you did.

Because if you did, it might sound like:

I hated the way I looked next to you.

I hate that it matters.

I hate that you didn’t notice it killed me.

You swallowed hard. Tried again to deflect.

You scoffed, adjusting the tablet on your lap like it had suddenly become urgent. “That’s because I’ve been working, which is more than I can say for you. You were supposed to review the labor policy brief an hour ago. And don’t think I didn’t see you ignore every question about infrastructure today. Again.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just… stayed there, annoyingly calm.

“I’m serious, James,” you continued, pushing. “You need to stop hovering and start acting like someone who wants to get re-elected. That means speeches, that means handshakes, and that means not giving the press a reason to ask why your assistant looks like she’s carrying all the weight—figuratively and literally.”

Your voice cracked—barely. You hoped he didn’t catch it.

He did.

His gaze sharpened just a touch. “There it is.”

“There what?” you snapped.

“That thing you do. Deflect, command, hide behind work like it makes you bulletproof. You’ve been biting your tongue all day, and now you’re barking orders like that’s going to shut me up.”

You glared. “If I don’t bark, you forget to tie your shoes and call a senator by the wrong name.”

“And if I don’t say something right now,” he said, his voice dropping, “you’re going to keep pretending you’re fine while tearing yourself apart over something none of those assholes in the comments would say to your face.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but he held up a hand. Just one.

“And don’t forget,” he added, a flicker of authority tightening his jaw, “I’m still your boss.”

That landed harder than you expected. Not because he was pulling rank, but because he almost never did.

You blinked. “Then act like it. Go write the damn speech.”

He stood slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “I would. But I’ve got more important things to deal with right now.”

And he meant you.

“No.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.” He stood up slowly, arms crossed—one flesh, one metal—jaw tight, expression unreadable. “I’m not going to sit there and let you treat me like some mouthpiece you can hide behind when it’s you who needs to stop and actually feel something for once.”

“Oh, so now you’re my therapist?” you fired back, folding your arms too, matching his stance even if you felt like you might cave any second. “That part of the job description too, Senator?”

“No. But being your boss is.”

He stepped closer—not aggressive, but definite. Certain.

“And as your boss, I’m telling you to stop using work as a shield and tell me what’s really going on.”

You hated the way your throat clenched at that. Hated the way your vision blurred for just a second.

So you looked away. “I told you. I’m fine.”

“And I told you,” he said, voice lower now—gentler—“you’re not. And I care too much to pretend otherwise.”

You could still hear the distant echo of those comments, the way they’d pointed out every part of you they thought didn’t belong beside someone like him.

But then he said—soft, certain:

“You looked perfect. I’ve been waiting for you to realize that from the day you wanted into the room like you owned it. Owned me.”

Your breath caught.

Owned him?

That wasn’t the bourbon talking—there was no bourbon tonight. No low lighting to blur the edges, no late-night haze to excuse words said too easily.

This was clear. Undeniable.

You felt it in the way he looked at you now—nothing tentative, nothing hesitant. Just him. Steady. Unshaken. Like he meant every word and had been meaning them for longer than you wanted to admit.

You swallowed hard. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he asked, cutting you off gently. “Don’t say it because you don’t believe me? Or don’t say it because you do and it scares the hell out of you?”

You held his gaze, chest tight. “This is inappropriate.”

“We’ve been inappropriate,” he said, stepping just close enough that his voice dropped into something private, something meant only for you. “Every late night, every look across a table, every fight that turned into something else under the surface—we’ve been doing this dance for months, Moon.”

You hated how your body responded to that name now, like it belonged to a softer version of you, one that didn’t brace for impact every time someone reached in too far.

“Work, James.” You whispered into the room, hoping this moment would pass and you could breathe again.

There was a silence conversation happening between the two of you as you stared into his eyes, and James read your soul.

He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just let the silence settle like a weight across the room, heavy and humming and full of everything neither of you had said.

“Work,” you said again, weaker this time. Less conviction. More habit.

And still—he waited. Let the moment stretch until it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

Then, softly, like he was offering a lifeline instead of a challenge:

“Then tell me it’s only work.”

You opened your mouth, but the lie wouldn’t come. It stuck in your throat, bitter and impossible.

Because you could handle pretending in front of the press, at brunches, in back-to-back meetings with men who talked over you and voters who smiled too long.

But you couldn’t pretend here. Not with him.

Not when he looked at you like this.

Like you weren’t just his assistant. Like you weren’t just smart, capable, trusted.

Like you were wanted.

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him—and for once, let him see all of it.

The cracks. The need. The fear.

And still, he didn’t flinch.

James Barnes, the one man who never needed your armor—reached for you anyway.

The distance between you closed instantly—his mouth crashing onto yours with an urgent, possessive hunger that took your breath away. You hadn’t thought about what he might taste like before, but now—hot, sharp with a flicker of something smoky—it consumed you.

His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him, no space left between. Your fingers tangled in the back of his shirt, desperate for more, needing to feel him completely. He guided you with a steady, commanding pressure, his movements sure and unyielding, leaving no doubt who held the reins.

You wanted to pull away, to catch your breath—but you didn’t. You couldn’t. You wanted him to keep claiming you like this, to remind you, without a word, that he was in control.

His breath was warm, steady, and slow against your skin, each kiss an imprint of possession, a reminder that every inch of you belonged to him tonight. You trembled under his touch, every nerve alive and aching.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with need and something more—worship. His metal hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, anchoring you as if to say, I’m here. You’re mine.

You gasped when his fingers finally brushed where you wanted him most, teasing just enough to drive you wild. Your hands tangled in the sheets, desperate, helpless to stop the fire he was igniting.

“Look at me,” he demanded again, lifting your face so your eyes met his. “I want you to remember this—the way I see you. The way you move me.”

You nodded, breathless, heart pounding. The power had shifted completely—he was in control, and you were his willing surrender. And you’d never wanted it more.

His breath was warm, steady, and slow against your skin, each kiss an imprint of possession, a reminder that every inch of you belonged to him tonight. You trembled under his touch, every nerve alive and aching.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with need and something more—worship. His metal hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, anchoring you as if to say, I’m here. You’re mine.

You gasped when his fingers finally brushed where you wanted him most, teasing just enough to drive you wild. Your hands tangled in the sheets, desperate, helpless to stop the fire he was igniting.

“Look at me,” he demanded again, lifting your face so your eyes met his. “I want you to remember this—the way I see you. The way you move me.”

You nodded, breathless, heart pounding. The power had shifted completely—he was in control, and you were his willing surrender. And you’d never wanted it more.

His metal fingers traced slow, deliberate circles up your inner thigh, steadying you as his mouth explored every sensitive curve. You could feel the slick heat gathering, your skin flush and slick beneath his touch.

Bucky’s tongue flicked with expert precision, swirling around your clit through the fabric, then slipping beneath it, tongue pressing and teasing, drawing soft moans from you. The heat of his breath mingled with the wet warmth of his mouth, making your whole body tremble.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, as he deepened his ministrations, tongue darting and swirling, lips pressing firm kisses against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, voice low and commanding, every movement a promise that you were his, completely and utterly.

His mouth left your skin just long enough to trail hot, messy kisses up your inner thigh, like he was tasting you, memorizing every inch. His eyes locked on yours—dark, hungry, completely focused—like you were the only thing that mattered.

Then he went back down, lips and tongue desperate, hungry. He flicked and swirled over you like he was starving, like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in gently, owning you without saying a word.

You felt everything—his breath growing heavier, the way his mouth worked you over, how every little sound you made pulled him deeper. Bucky wasn’t just eating you out—he was worshipping you, like you were his whole damn world.

“What do you need?” His voice was rough, barely above a growl, eyes dark and intense as he searched your face like he was looking for an answer only you could give. He didn’t just want to hear it—he needed to know, like your answer was the only thing that could keep him grounded right now.

“I… want you,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “Can you do that?”

Bucky looked a challenge.

His eyes darkened, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Watch me.”

Without another word, he captured your lips again, fierce and claiming, pulling you deeper into the heat between you — making it clear who was in control, and that he wasn’t about to let go.

Bucky’s hands never left your body as he shifted, fingers trailing down your sides to grip the hem of his trousers. With a slow, deliberate motion, he peeled them off, revealing skin flushed with heat and the hard length already aching for you.

He paused for a heartbeat, just enough to let you catch your breath, then settled himself at your entrance. The warmth of him pressed against you sent a shiver racing down your spine—raw, real, and utterly consuming.

His eyes locked on yours—dark, steady—and without a word, he began to push inside, slow and sure, every inch a claim, every movement a promise you were his. He pushed in slow at first, the warmth of you tightening around him like a velvet glove. Every inch slipping deeper was a slow burn, his breath hitching as he savored the slick, hot squeeze. Your hips lifted instinctively, pressing up against him, skin sliding over skin, the soft, wet sound of your bodies joining filling the quiet room.

He growled low, breath hot against your ear, “You’re so fucking tight around me, damn, you take me like you’ve been waiting for this all day.”

Your breath hitched, then came the softest, most vulnerable moan—“James”—right into his ear. That sound ripped through him like electricity, setting fire to every nerve ending. His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he began to pick up the pace, thrusting harder, deeper, the slick wetness of your arousal slickening the space between you both.

His hand slid up your side, fingers tracing fire trails as he leaned down, lips brushing your neck. “Say my name again. Let me hear how much you want me.”

His chest pressed against yours, sweat pearling at his hairline as his rhythm turned rougher, primal. The slick slap of skin meeting skin echoed around the room with every movement, your nails raking down his back, clutching onto him like a lifeline. You trembled beneath him, breath ragged, voice breaking with every desperate, needy whisper of his name. The way you clenched around him, tight and wanting, pushed him over the edge, driving his thrusts faster, more demanding—like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment.

Every thrust came with a rougher edge, and he hissed, “You’re mine tonight, every inch. You don’t get to hide, not from me.”

His voice dropped darker, thicker with need, “Look at me while I fuck you, want you. You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Taking me so fucking well.”

You could feel the possessiveness wrapping around you, his words like chains and silk—messy, raw, and utterly intoxicating.

His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark, holding you steady as he slammed into you harder, faster. The slick sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mixing with your ragged breaths and desperate moans.

“You’re mine,” he growled again, voice rough like gravel. “Mine to fuck, mine to praise, mine to ruin.” His lips found yours in a bruising kiss, tongue demanding, possessive, tasting every inch of you.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, hot and low, “Beg for it, Moon. Tell me how bad you want me.” His hips didn’t stop, every thrust driving deeper, setting fire to every nerve ending.

You trembled beneath him, lost in the need and the power, the raw edge of his control making you feel more alive than ever.

And you begged. Begged like you were gasping for air, voice trembling and raw. “Please, James… don’t stop. I need you—need to feel you inside me, harder, deeper.”

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he smirked against your neck. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, relentless, his thrusts relentless and brutal. Every movement drove you closer to the edge, burning away every doubt, every insecurity.

You were his—completely and utterly. And he was showing you exactly how much you belonged to him.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave—wild, overwhelming, and all-consuming. Heat exploded from your core, radiating out in sharp, rhythmic pulses that made your muscles clench uncontrollably. Your breath hitched, voice breaking into gasps and desperate moans that filled the room.

Every nerve ending seemed to ignite, sending sparks of pleasure rippling through your body like wildfire. Your legs trembled beneath him, hips bucking instinctively with each pulse, riding the waves of bliss that left you breathless and trembling.

Time slowed, your mind spinning in a dizzying haze of sensation, utterly lost in the fierce, consuming release.

Bucky didn’t ease up. If anything, his movements grew more urgent, his metal fingers digging into your skin as if to anchor both of you in this fierce, dizzying moment. His mouth found your neck again, lips brushing and biting softly, a dark promise in every touch.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice thick with need.

You opened your eyes, still trembling, meeting his burning gaze. The heat between you both was electric, a silent agreement passing between you—no more hiding, no more pretending.

He pulled you closer, every inch of his body pressed against yours, and you felt it all—power, desire, control, and surrender—woven together in the quiet chaos of the room.

The two of you breathe each other’s air. Too tired to move. Stuck together in this moment.

“I’m not writing that speech tonight.”

The words landed between you like a thunderclap, unexpected and impossible to ignore. For a moment, all the noise—the deadlines, the stress, the endless to-do lists—faded into a dull hum. The world shrank down to just the two of you, tangled together on the couch, breath mingling, hearts pounding.

You blinked, caught in the haze of everything Bucky had just done, and for a brief second, you forgot about the speech. Forgot about the endless responsibilities waiting for you outside this room.

But then reality hit like a cold wave crashing against the shore. The speech. The donor brunch. Tomorrow morning. The weight of it all pressed down on your chest, sharp and urgent.

You scrambled to sit up, panic flooding your limbs. “Shit—I need to—”

Before you could move, his hand was on your side, strong and commanding, pulling you back down with a firm but gentle pressure.

“Not yet,” Bucky said, voice low and steady, thick with something that made your skin flush. His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering, impossible to argue with. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until I’m done showing you exactly how perfect you are.”

The heat of his touch, the power behind his words, rooted you to the spot. Your mind raced but your body knew—this moment was his to hold, and you were ready to surrender.

[honeeysagee]

𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓮𝔂'𝓼 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

➤ a03 ➤ twitter

𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓸𝓷𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓮'𝓼 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽. 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓾𝓹𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓷𝓮𝔀 𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭! 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓴 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓸 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰!

𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓼

smut - ⚝

triggering topics - ꩜

fluff - ♡

angst - ₊⊹

dabbles - ʚɞ

more to come!

──────────────────────୨ৎ────────────────────

SAMBUCKY

this means goodbye - ₊⊹

this means goodbye pt.2 - ₊⊹

come in with the rain - ♡

too hot to think - ♡

never came back - ꩜

invisible thread - ₊⊹

when summer comes knocking - ♡

when summer comes knocking: SN - ♡

when fall comes rushing in - ʚɞ♡

when fall comes rusing in: family dinner - ♡

page 142 - ₊⊹♡

──────────────────────୨ৎ────────────────────

SAM WILSON

sam wilson! x reader

supernova chronicles: stargirl - ⚝

supernova chronicles: games - ⚝

──────────────────────୨ৎ────────────────────

BUCKY BARNES

bucky barnes! x reader

constituent affairs - ⚝꩜

constituent affairs: behave - ʚɞ

[honeeysagee]

[honeeysagee]

I'm mourning the 10 episodes of them just being happy that I'll never get

[honeeysagee]

Hozier’s Talk ft. Sambucky 🙏

Suggestive panels

[honeeysagee]

sambucky god tier ship cuz they're so constantly "In another life, I would've really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you" and "you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid" at the same time. often in the same breath

[honeeysagee]

Page 142

boy sees a face in a history book, spends years sketching it, then meets the man in real life—turns out, some crushes time can’t kill. (SAMBUCKY)

FRESHMAN YEAR - 1991

Sam Wilson bit his fingertips.

Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to feel something—anything—other than the slow crawl of boredom inching across his history classroom. The textbook in front of him smelled like mildew and old hands, its spine cracked and pages soft at the edges like they’d been thumbed through by generations of teenagers just as disinterested as he was.

He rubbed his fingers on a worn ‘hi’ on the page. His clumsy handwriting was beside it as if he was speaking to the person in the past. A stupid impulse, sure, but it made history feel less like a lecture and more like a conversation - one only he knew he was having.

His dad would tell him to get out more. Get more friends.

Mr. Denton droned on about the Allies, the Axis, and victory gardens. Sam was barely listening - his eyes dancing against the ceiling tiles as the sound of the clock trailed on into the background. Someone in the back tapped a pen against their desk. A girl chewed gum too loud. The air was thick with dust and spring humidity, and Sam felt like he was sinking into it.

“Our last topic before the bell,” Mr. Benton pulled back his sleeve and looked down at his watch. A second passed. “The Howling Commandos.”

Something about the name made Sam sit up a little. Not much. Just enough for his eyes to drift back to the book in front of him. Mr. Denton clicked to the next slide on the overhead projector, but Sam was already there.

He knew where he was.

Page 142.

The grainy photo was there waiting for him - just like it always was. Six soldiers. One on a tank, one holding a gun, one barely in the photo at all, and him - James Buchanan Barnes. His name was displayed beneath the image with the rest of them like it was normal. Like he was just another bullet point in history.

But Sam knew better.

There was something about the way Bucky stood, slightly apart from the others. Like the war hadn’t dulled him yet. Like he knew something no one else did, and it was worth holding onto. That smile wasn’t for the camera. No. This was his to keep. His secret.

Sam traced his thumb along the corner of the page, careful not to smudge the fading ‘hi’ in the margin.

JUNIOR YEAR - 1993

Sam fell into a habit that year. Checking the book out every few months, look for the picture. Return it with a sharp feeling in his chest. Different copies, same photo. Sometimes, the order would be torn. Sometimes, someone else had crossed out parts of the caption - a close friend of Captain America, Winter campaign, presumed dead. But the photo never changed. Bucky never stopped smiling.

He searched for him on the web. Came across the basics: Bucky Barnes. Born 1917. Died 1945. Medal of Honor. A close friend of Captain America.

Sam didn’t care much about Captain America.

He traced the pages with his eyes, so much so that he could make out his face in his sleep. He was scared to be so interested in a photo - a man, but he filled sketchbooks of his face. What he thought he looked like when he threw his head back in laughter, how his eyes would catch the sun if Sam had complimented him. He was losing his mind.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not Riley, not his sister, definitely not his dad. It wasn’t about the photo anymore. It was about how that face stayed with him long after the page was closed.

It made Sam realize things about himself. Quiet, sharp things.

SENIOR YEAR - 1995

Sam had his first kiss at a party that spring. It was fine. She was nice. But he felt nothing.

There were too many people around them - laughing too loud, tripping over beer cans, music pulsing through the walls like his heartbeat. The girl - Molly? Maya? - smelled like rum-flavored lip gloss and cheap perfume, and smiled like she already knew he wasn’t into her.

Afterward, they found a quiet spot outside, looking into the distance of the universe. She patted his shoulder, “You’re sweet, Sam.”

He smiled back because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

“I’m sure some guy out there is going to enjoy how sweet you are.”

He goes to disagree with her claim, but she is already turning on her heels to go back into the party. He stood up straight, calling after her, “I’ll write you. Tell you all my war stories.”

“I won’t wait forever for you, Wilson.” She was gone.

He didn’t write her at all.

Later that night, while his friends stayed behind to finish drinks and swap dares, he walked home alone to pack for the army. The cold air hit his face, sharp and honest in a way that the party hadn’t been.

His boots crunched against gravel and broken glass, and the night smelled like wet asphalt and woodsmoke. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed. But the silence between those sounds felt full—like something just out of reach.

His leaving wasn’t an act of patriotism. It wasn’t even about a future. It was him getting out. Out of the neighborhood he was made to love, out of his head, out of the damn photograph he was never in.

He told the recruiter he wanted to fly.

And he will.

That night, when his bag was half packed and his mother had spent her tears, he lulled the sketchbook out from under his bed. Flip to the last page. His most recent drawing. Bucky, drawn softer. Older.

“I’ll write you,” He whispered, voice catching the edge of nothing short of hope and pain.

WASHINGTON D.C. - 2014

Sam stared.

He could have said something. Could’ve moved, reacted, breathed. Yet, his body disagreed with all those actions.

Not a half-imagined softness buried in graphite and nostalgia.

Not the blurry black-and-white photograph pressed between textbook pages or the one Sam had secretly printed out and folded into the back of his sketchbook—creased from years of handling, hidden in a shoebox buried deep in his closet back in Louisiana.

Real.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Bruised.

His hair is longer now, darker too. Face leaner, jaw sharper, eyes blown wide with something Sam didn’t have the language for—fear, maybe. Disorientation. Guilt. None of that mattered. Because the moment felt still like the world had folded inward like everything else had quieted down just so this could happen.

Sam’s hands twitched at his sides. He had to clench them into fists before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch the man. Just to feel the heat of him. To know he wasn’t made of ink and paper and dream.

“You okay?” Steve eyed him, sensing something underneath the surface.

Sam didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Sharp. A lie.

Steve turned, stepped closer to Bucky, and said one thing Sam couldn’t hear. Bucky didn’t answer, just a twitch of his jaw, and looked past him like the room was too loud.

Sam’s throat tightened. He wasn’t owed anything, but there was something he craved at this moment. An introduction? A handshake? A moment where Bucky looked at him and knew something? That this wasn’t the first time Sam had met him?

“So, this is him,” Sam muttered, his voice low, a little bitter. His eyes traced the angles of Bucky’s face—the same face he’d drawn a hundred different ways.

Steve turned, watching him. “Yeah. Bucky.”

“Huh,” Sam replied like the name meant nothing. Like it hadn’t been haunting him for a decade. You were my first sketch. My first secret. My first maybe.

But he said nothing.

Bucky didn’t look at him at all.

DELACROIX - 2026

The years, though terrible in their own right, had been kind to Sam.

To Bucky too.

Kind, not in the way of soft days or easy nights - it is in the way scars fade and breath returns. In this way, silence between people becomes comforting instead of loaded.

Sam carried the shield now. Not a burden, but like a truth. It fit against his back like it belonged there. Because it does. Bucky - well, Bucky didn’t flinch as much anymore. He didn’t wake up swinging. He didn’t leave in the middle of the night. He didn’t run. Ate full meals. Let sunlight hit his face.

In those moments, Sam gladly picked up a phone, promising to sketch the photo later, yet he never did.

Tonight was different.

“How was Brooklyn?” Bucky asked from the living room. Sam was barely in the house before Bucky’s voice invaded him. He had no problem with this. It filled the space like music.

Then, he heard it - pages flipping.

Soft.

Measured.

Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he stepped in and found Bucky there, seated on the edge of the couch, elbow on his knees. The light from the lamp beside him cast long shadows, turning the edges of his metal arm to gold. In his lap, one of Sam’s older sketchbooks was cracked open. Three others lay beside him in a neat stack, the old leather covers worn at the corners. He had not seen them in years. Buried them away with everything else.

Bucky didn’t look up, “Brooklyn? How was it?”

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s voice came out sharper than he meant.

Bucky blinked, head snapping up. “I was cleaning…” He straightened, closing the sketchbook gently like it was something sacred. “Came across them in your closet. I didn’t know…” He trailed.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.

“They’re private.”

“I know.” Bucky’s voice went low. Honest. “I’m sorry, Sammie.”

That nickname, usually thrown with a smirk or a nudge, landed softer this time—tentative, almost apologetic. Sam swallowed.

He looked at the books like they were open wounds. Fragile things, stitched together with pencil smudges and secrets he’d never planned to share. They were full of moments he’d never spoken aloud. Quiet hours spent alone in his bedroom, sketching a man he thought he’d never meet, chasing shadows of a long-dead soldier in the curves of graphite.

He’d never even let his sister see them. Riley had asked once, curious about the way Sam disappeared into his notebooks after school, but Sam brushed it off with a shrug and a joke. He could handle teasing. What he couldn’t handle was someone knowing. Knowing.

But Bucky wasn’t rifling through them like a thief. He wasn’t smirking or teasing. He held them like they meant something—like they were delicate, sacred. Like they were glimpses into something he didn’t want to damage.

“Some of these are dated, Sam,” Bucky said after a moment, glancing back down at the closed sketchbook in his hands. “The earliest one says 2009.”

Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He could feel the blood in his ears.

“You drew me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky looked up, eyes searching Sam’s face like he was trying to read the years between the lines. And there was no judgment in them. Just a deep, aching curiosity. The kind that tugged at the edge of something fragile.

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it again.

He didn’t know how to explain it. He used to sit up late at night trying to figure out how someone could look both tragic and full of life in the same black-and-white photo. That he sketched Bucky’s face so many times it felt like muscle memory. That there were nights he pressed pencil to paper and imagined what it might be like if that face turned toward him, smiled, and said his name.

Instead, he said, quietly, “You weren’t supposed to be real.”

“But I am,” Bucky half smiled, “At least, you believed so.” He gestured to the books. The silence between them stretched - not heavy, but thick. Full of the weight of history, time, and all things they’d both buried in pages of memories.

Sam walked to the couch, settling beside him. His head rolled back and he let his eyes fall to the ceiling. Suddenly, he was back in Mr. Benton’s room, seeing Bucky for the first time. “I had the fattest crush on you. A little obsessed if you couldn’t tell.”

Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh, something disbelieving and almost shy. He looked down at the books in his lap, fingers brushing the edge of a page like it might burn him. “Yeah,” He said, “I figured that part out.”

Sam turned his head, eyeing him completely, “I don’t know why. I just fell for your…everything.”

Bucky didn’t speak at first. His thumb paused at the edge of a sketch—one where Sam had drawn him laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, alive in a way Bucky had been with Sam.

“I wasn’t real,” Bucky murmured, eyes still on the paper. “Not to me. Not for a long time.”

“You were to me,” Sam said, voice low. “You were… comfort. You were a possibility. Back when I didn’t have words for any of it. I was just falling to fall.”

Bucky looked at him then, really looked—like he was seeing something fragile and sacred at the same time. “You ever tell anyone?”

Sam gave a small, bitter smile. “Nah. Just you. Just now.”

The quiet stretched between them again, but it held more truth than tension this time. Bucky’s hand moved carefully, closing the book and setting it aside, like he knew this moment wasn’t about what was on the pages—but what had finally been spoken aloud.

He leaned back, letting his shoulder press against Sam’s. Not by accident.

“You still fallin’?” he asked, gently.

Sam’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

Bucky nodded once, gazing back on the ceiling like he was holding it all in place. “Okay,” he said. “Then I won’t move.” Bucky’s words hung in the air like a promise. “Then I won’t move.”

Sam let the silence breathe. He thought about what it meant to fall for someone who was never supposed to exist, to live with that quiet yearning tucked into the corner of his ribs for years, pressed between the pages of old sketchbooks and buried under the weight of duty and doubt.

He let his head tilt, resting lightly against Bucky’s.

“You were always on page 142, you know?” Sam asked suddenly, voice like a whisper across a memory.

Bucky turned just enough to glance at him. “The one in the history book?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. That’s where it started. You were standing with the Commandos. Dirty, cocky smirk. Thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Bucky smiled, soft and wrecked at the edges. “That’s the one where I’ve got a cut above my eye. Steve said I looked like I got hit by a train.”

“You looked like you belonged to time,” Sam said. “Like history hadn’t swallowed you whole yet.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “And you gave that version of me a second life.”

“I guess I did,” Sam said, voice almost breaking into a laugh. “And now you’re here. Sitting on my couch. Breathing my air.”

“Not moving,” Bucky added.

Bucky sat in the quiet with Sam’s shoulder still resting lightly against his own. The weight of what had just been said lingered in the room like smoke—thick with memory, fragile with truth.

His eyes drifted down again to the sketchbook nearest him, fingers brushing over the edge like it might dissolve. These pages were holy in a way—worn with time, heavy with feeling. A boy’s past. A man’s quiet becoming.

Bucky reached for the pen on the coffee table. It was cheap, half-chewed, the kind Sam always left lying around. Without asking, he flipped to the last page in the sketchbook. The only blank one.

Sam watched him, brows slightly drawn. “What are you doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand moved in slow strokes, quick flicks of the wrist. Nothing grand. Nothing perfect.

Just a stick figure.

Sloppy curls on the head.

A lopsided smile.

A circular shield—cartoonishly big—strapped to the figure’s back.

Bucky leaned back and turned the book slightly toward Sam with a small, crooked grin. “There. Now, you’re in your sketchbook too.”

Sam blinked at the page, a surprised laugh catching in his throat. “That’s supposed to be me?”

“Obviously. The shield gives it away.” Bucky pointed at the squiggly lines like it was indisputable evidence. “Strong stance. Confident tilt of the head. Artistic accuracy.”

Sam shook his head, still smiling. “You can’t draw for shit.”

“Neither can you,” Bucky said, quieter now, the grin fading into something steadier. “Sam.”

Sam looked down at the page, then over at Bucky. The history they carried—the weight of it—suddenly didn’t feel so heavy. Not with this between them. Not with a badly drawn stick figure sealing something in ink that neither of them had ever really said aloud.

“You know,” Sam said after a beat, “That’s going on the fridge.”

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.”

And for the first time since page 142, Sam didn’t feel like he was reaching back through time to find something lost. He was here. So was Bucky. And they were real.

[honeeysagee]

Housecleaning

by Nikki Giovanni

i always liked house cleaning even as a child i dug straightening the cabinets posting new paper on the shelves washing the refrigerator inside out and unfortunately this habit has carried over and i find i must remove you from my life

[honeeysagee]

[honeeysagee]

When Fall Comes Rushing In - Family Dinner

summary AU: Sam invites Bucky to a family dinner, but this time, everything feels different. As the warmth of family surrounds them, the unspoken tension between Sam and Bucky builds, making them question how their relationship is evolving and what it truly means to be a part of each other’s lives.

word count: 3,301 words

⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙ ⸙⸙⸙

Sarah Wilson, the younger Wilson sibling, stared at Sam like he had just grown two heads, her eyes wide with disbelief as her lips parted slightly. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she raised an eyebrow, the skepticism practically radiating off her. The soft clatter of dishes being set on the table didn’t break the tension, her stare laser-focused on Sam as if waiting for him to explain this sudden and shocking revelation. The playful chatter of her kids running in the background faded as she zeroed in on her older brother.

"So, you're telling me you and Bucky are… what, dating now?" Sarah asked, her tone sharp with disbelief.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she searched Sam's face for any sign that he was joking. The playful energy that usually flowed between them was gone, replaced by the weight of her question. The room seemed to pause, the clinking of silverware and the distant hum of the oven a soft backdrop to the tension hanging between them. Sam shifted his weight, his jaw tightening as he prepared to respond.

Sam didn’t know. He didn’t want to label it. How could he? Things with Bucky were complicated—comforting, but complicated. The lines between friendship and something more had blurred, but putting a name to it felt too final, too… real. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling slowly as he tried to find the right words. “I don’t know if it’s that simple,” he finally said, his voice low, almost uncertain. "We're just… figuring things out."

"Then, can we label you?" Sarah asked, sitting up straighter, her eyes narrowing as she studied her brother. There was no malice in her voice, just curiosity mixed with the usual protectiveness. Sam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling the weight of the question hang in the air. He shrugged, glancing down at his hands.

"Maybe... not yet," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "It’s not that simple for me either."

Sam had always been the guy girls followed around. Back in high school, he was popular—the one with the easy smile, the charm that seemed effortless. Every girl loved him, and he never had to try too hard. Dates came naturally, and attention was never in short supply. But this—this thing with Bucky—felt different. It wasn’t about easy charm or popularity. It was messy, uncharted territory, full of complicated feelings and vulnerabilities that he hadn’t faced before. For once, Sam wasn’t sure if he had the right words to explain it.

Sure, he found men attractive, but this was different. Bucky wasn't just a passing crush or a fling. This was something he wanted, something that pulled at him in a way he couldn’t ignore. Sam hadn’t admitted to anyone that he was…gay? Bisexual? He didn’t even know. The labels felt inadequate, and limiting, and he had spent years fitting into a mold that was expected of him. With Bucky, everything felt expansive, like discovering a part of himself he didn’t even know existed.

"I just want you to be happy, big brother," Sarah said, her voice softening as she leaned forward, earnestness shining in her eyes. "In whatever way that means."

"Thanks, Sar," he replied, his tone more vulnerable than he intended. "It just… it feels complicated, you know?" He searched her gaze for understanding, hoping she could grasp the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. "Bucky and I… it's different."

AJ came barreling through the dining room, holding a cake aloft like a trophy, while Cass was hot on his heels, trying to snatch it from him. Their laughter echoed through the house, filling the space with an infectious energy. Just as the chaos reached its peak, Uncle Bucky strolled in behind them, a grin plastered on his face. “I brought cake,” he announced, his voice booming with playful authority.

His eyes locked onto Sam's for a brief moment, a spark of mischief glimmering in his blue gaze. Sam felt his heart race, the familiar warmth spreading through him at the sight of Bucky—tousled hair, that worn leather jacket, and a look that made Sam forget all the complications of their situation, even if just for a second. The air between them crackled with unspoken words and shared memories, making Sam’s earlier uncertainties momentarily fade away.

"Did you bake it, Buck?" Sarah asked, her tone light but knowing, clearly sensing the tension hanging in the air. Sam couldn’t help but glance away from Bucky, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he stepped back into the kitchen, wanting to escape Bucky’s piercing gaze for a moment.

Bucky chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. “No, but I got it from a new bakery across the street from my apartment, so I picked something up,” he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. “Figured I’d let the professionals handle the baking for once.”

Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “You know, if you ever need a taste tester for your baking experiments, I’m available,” she teased, earning a light-hearted nudge from Bucky as he stepped further into the dining room.

Sam lingered in the kitchen, listening to the laughter and playful banter, a mix of comfort and longing swirling inside him. He could almost picture Bucky’s smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, and it made Sam’s heart race. But as he stood there, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the unspoken feelings still lingering in the air, a tension that was both exhilarating and daunting.

“Sam! Dinner’s ready!” Sarah called out, breaking the moment between them. Sam quickly plastered on a smile and turned to the table, where plates were filled with steaming food and laughter bubbled in the air.

As everyone settled down, the boys excitedly began to recount their first day of school, voices overlapping in a delightful cacophony. AJ waved his hands animatedly, trying to convey the epic tale of his new teacher, while Cass chimed in about the playground equipment he couldn’t wait to try out.

“Okay, okay, one at a time!” Sarah laughed, trying to moderate the conversation. Sam served himself a portion of food, his mind still partly in the conversation he’d just had with Sarah. But as he looked around the table, he was swept up in the warmth of the family gathering, the chaotic yet comforting familiarity that filled their home.

Bucky, seated across from Sam, found it hard to concentrate on the kids’ stories. He watched Sam lean forward, genuinely engaged in the conversation, his eyes lighting up with each laugh and smile exchanged between the siblings. The way Sam interacted with them—patient, attentive, and full of love—stirred something deep within Bucky. It reminded him of his own family back in Brooklyn, the warmth of shared meals and the laughter of his own siblings echoing through the halls.

He felt a pang of longing, a bittersweet ache for a time and place that felt so far away. Bucky missed those simple moments, the sense of belonging that had been stripped from him. Sam’s natural ability to connect with the kids made Bucky realize how much he yearned for that again, a family of his own to care for, to love.

“Uncle Bucky,” AJ tugged at his sleeve, spaghetti sauce smeared across his mouth, “where are you from?”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard by the question. It was so innocent, so full of curiosity. “Brooklyn,” he replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s a cool place, lots of character and cool people.”

“Is it nice? Do they have parks?” Cass leaned in, her eyes wide with interest.

“Yeah, plenty of parks,” Bucky said, feeling the weight of the memories pressing down. He cleared his throat, the words feeling heavier than he expected. "My sister and I used to love going there."

Sam’s ear perked up at the mention of Bucky's sister. He had never known Bucky had a sibling, and it sparked a flurry of questions in his mind. His heart raced with curiosity as he glanced over at Bucky, wanting to know more about the person who had been such a significant part of his life. The room felt a bit quieter, as if everyone sensed the weight of the moment.

“Really?” Sam asked, trying to keep his tone casual but unable to mask the genuine interest in his voice. “You had a sister? What was she like?” He leaned in, eager to draw Bucky out of his shell, hoping to peel back the layers of the man he was still trying to understand.

Bucky hesitated, and Sam could see the flicker of emotions cross his face—something that danced between fondness and a deep-seated ache. “Yeah, I did,” he replied, the smile fading slightly as he searched for the right words. “Her name was Rebecca. She was… great. Tough as nails, always looking out for me. Never let me get away with anything.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, but it was tinged with sadness. “We used to spend hours in the park, just hanging out. She’d make me race her on the swings or challenge me to climb the biggest trees. I can still hear her laughter echoing through the leaves. It was so infectious, you know? Just being around her made everything feel lighter.”

As he spoke, Bucky’s gaze drifted away, lost in the memories that seemed to wash over him like a wave. His expression was warm, but it quickly turned bittersweet, a longing for the simplicity of those moments. “She always knew how to make the best out of any situation, even when things got tough. I miss that. I miss her,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a softer tone, laden with unspoken grief.

“Well, why don’t you visit her when we go to Pennsylvania? You can ride the plane with me and AJ!” Cass suggested, her eyes bright with excitement.

Before Bucky could respond, Sarah shot her down immediately, her voice a mixture of concern and protectiveness. “We can’t ask Bucky to do that,” she said firmly.

Bucky looked confused for a moment, not entirely understanding the abrupt shift in the conversation. The mention of his sister sparked a blend of emotions within him—a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow that he hadn’t quite expected to feel in front of these kids.

“Why not?” AJ piped up, tilting his head in confusion.

Sarah sighed, the weight of unspoken history hanging in the air. “I send the boys to their dad through Thanksgiving break. He lives in Pennsylvania.”

Bucky’s heart sank at her words, understanding the implications without needing them spelled out. The mention of family and home had stirred something deep within him, a longing for a beautiful and painful connection. He wanted to share stories about Rebecca, but the ache of loss lingered just beneath the surface, leaving him hesitant.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, forcing a smile to mask the disappointment. “Maybe another time.”

Cass pouted, not fully grasping the gravity of the moment. “But I want you to meet her!” she insisted, her excitement unwavering.

Bucky exchanged a glance with Sam, whose expression reflected a mix of concern and empathy. In that fleeting moment, Bucky felt the warmth of family life envelop him, but the thought of being with them also reminded him of what he had lost.

Sam turned to the boys, a playful glint in his eye. “Enough with the questions, okay? How about you two go get the kitchen cleaned with your mom? Best cleaner gets the biggest piece of cake.”

“I’m gonna win!” AJ declared, jumping up from the table, his competitive spirit shining through the spaghetti sauce still clinging to his cheeks. He grabbed Cass's hand, pulling him up with an excited tug.

“No fair! I’m gonna get the biggest piece!” Cass shot back, his laughter echoing as they dashed toward the kitchen, the earlier conversation quickly forgotten in the thrill of the new challenge. Sarah stood from her chair, placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder, "I'm sorry about them. You know how they are."

He offered a smile to her before she walked into the kitchen behind them.

As the sounds of their playful bickering faded into the background, Sam leaned back in his chair, stealing a glance at Bucky. The tension had eased, replaced by the comfortable chaos of family life. Bucky, however, was still lost in thought, his expression a mix of longing and contemplation.

“You okay?” Sam asked softly, concern lacing his tone.

Bucky nodded slowly, but the uncertainty in his eyes lingered. “Yeah, just… reminded me of some things,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sam felt a pang of empathy at Bucky's words. He could see how the earlier conversation about Brooklyn had stirred something deep within him, memories that perhaps he wasn’t ready to confront. “You know, you can talk about it whenever you want,” Sam said gently, wanting to bridge the gap between them.

Bucky shifted in his seat, the warmth of Sam’s gaze grounding him. “It’s just… I miss my family,” he admitted, the weight of those words settling heavily between them. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I belonged anywhere.”

Sam's heart ached for him. “You belong here, Buck,” he reassured, his voice firm yet soft. “You’re part of this family now.” The sincerity in his words hung in the air, a promise that they could build something together amidst the chaos of their lives.

Bucky's gaze flickered back to the kitchen, where Sarah was playfully chastising AJ and Cass about cleaning. The sight tugged at his heartstrings, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine a different life—a life filled with laughter and love, where he wouldn’t feel so alone.

Sam glanced out the window at the golden hues of the setting sun painting the sky. “Hey, you want to step outside for a minute?” he asked Bucky, a hint of adventure in his voice.

“Sure,” Bucky replied, a small smile flickering on his lips. They both stood up, leaving the laughter of the boys and the clatter of dishes behind as they made their way to the back door.

As they stepped outside, the brisk fall wind rushed at them like a playful child, sending a chill down Sam’s spine. He instinctively pulled his jacket tighter around him. “Whoa, it’s a little nippier than I expected,” he said, shivering slightly.

Bucky chuckled, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the wind. “Yeah, I think it’s trying to remind us that winter’s coming,” he replied, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

“Come here,” Sam said, without thinking. He stepped closer to Bucky, sharing his warmth. Bucky hesitated for a moment, but the biting wind prompted him to move in closer, their shoulders brushing against each other as they stood side by side. The closeness felt natural, like a piece of a puzzle falling into place.

“Better?” Sam asked, glancing sideways at Bucky.

“Much,” Bucky admitted, the corners of his mouth lifting into a genuine smile. He felt the heat radiating from Sam’s body, a comforting presence against the chilly air that surrounded them.

They both stood in silence for a moment, enjoying the simplicity of being close to each other, the world around them fading away. The wind howled through the trees, but it felt less intimidating now, softened by their shared warmth.

“You know,” Sam started, breaking the quiet, “I used to love this time of year when I was a kid. The leaves changing, the smell of bonfires… it always felt like a fresh start.”

Bucky nodded, glancing at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. “Yeah, I can see that,” he replied. “I didn’t appreciate it as much when I was younger. Too caught up in everything, I guess.”

“Sometimes it’s the simple things that ground us,” Sam replied, his tone sincere, a deeper understanding shimmering beneath the surface. He looked at Bucky, his gaze unwavering and sincere. “I’m really glad you’re here, Buck. You make this place feel… more like home.” His heart swelled as he spoke, each word filled with unfiltered emotion.

Bucky met his gaze, the warmth of Sam’s words wrapping around him like a cozy blanket. “Thanks, Sam. That means a lot,” he replied softly, feeling a rush of gratitude and something more profound bubbling within him.

As the wind picked up again, swirling around them like a gentle embrace, Sam instinctively leaned a little closer, their bodies almost touching, warmth mingling in the crisp air. Bucky felt a rush of heat flood his chest, the unspoken connection between them deepening, wrapping around them like a warm cocoon against the chill of the evening.

Bucky’s heart raced, each beat echoing the feelings he was learning to embrace. “Sam,” he started, the weight of his emotions pressing on him, but the words slipped away as he was drawn into the depths of Sam’s eyes.

“Can I—” Sam began, his breath hitching slightly, the vulnerability in his tone giving Bucky the courage he needed.

Before either of them could second-guess themselves, Sam closed the distance, their lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss that quickly deepened with longing. It felt electric, as if the world around them faded away, leaving only the warmth of their connection. The kiss was a blend of sweetness and urgency, a promise of everything that was still unspoken between them.

As they pulled away, their foreheads resting against each other, the cool night air felt warmer, filled with a newfound intensity.

“You should stay the night at my place,” Bucky suggested, a hint of hope coloring his voice. “Is that too forward?”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat, surprise flickering in his eyes. “I—” he stammered, the invitation hitting him like a warm wave. It was so simple yet held so much weight, stirring feelings he had tucked away for far too long. “No, I mean… I’d like that,” he replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

A smile broke across Bucky’s face, lighting up his features. “Really?” His heart raced with the prospect, the idea of Sam staying filling him with a sense of warmth and excitement.

“Yeah,” Sam said, a smile creeping onto his own lips. “I could use a break from the… chaos inside.” He gestured back toward the house, where the sounds of the kids’ laughter filled the air. The thought of spending more time with Bucky, of letting their connection grow, made his heart swell.

Sam’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and he stepped back just enough to pull open the door, the sounds of the inside spilling out into the cool night. “Come on, then,” he urged, his voice light, teasingly, “let’s see if we can survive the kitchen cleaning without too many casualties.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he followed Sam inside. “If they think they can win the biggest piece of cake, I doubt we’ll make it out unscathed,” he replied, feeling a sense of ease settle over him.

As they entered the kitchen, the chaos erupted around them, with AJ and Cass arguing over who would wash and who would dry, while Sarah tried to restore order. Sam and Bucky shared a glance, their unspoken connection hanging in the air between them like a promise, the warmth of the kiss still lingering on their lips.

[honeeysagee]

[honeeysagee]

When Fall Comes Rushing In - Decoration Dabble

summary: Sam is decorating his café-mechanic shop for fall with the help of his energetic nephews when Bucky unexpectedly arrives with flowers.

word count: 1,672 words

Sam wiped his hands on a rag, barely glancing at his nephews as they darted around the café-mechanic shop, their excited chatter filling the space. The scent of engine oil and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, mixing with fall's crisp, earthy smell. Fall had always been his favorite time of year, and the shop—his pride and joy—deserved to look the part. The windows were already draped in orange and gold leaf garlands, and small pumpkins were scattered across the counters and shelves. His nephews had way more energy than needed, arguing over where to put the scarecrow.

Sam glanced over at his nephews, who were still bickering about the scarecrow’s placement. “How about you put it near the door so it can greet customers?” Sam suggested, stepping over to help straighten the garlands they had tangled in their excitement.

Cass, grinning up at him, shrugged. “But what if it scares people away?”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Only if you two don’t make it look too creepy,” he teased, giving Cass a playful nudge. “Let’s try to keep the customers coming in, huh?”

AJ, not to be outdone, chimed in. “I think it should go by the window. That way, people can see it from outside.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You two are really overthinking this scarecrow thing,” he said, hands on his hips. “How about this—door for now, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll move it. Deal?”

Both boys nodded, and Sam couldn’t help but smile as they eagerly dragged the scarecrow toward the door. “Now, who’s in charge of the next project? We’ve still got a whole box of decorations to unpack.”

The boys, eager to please their uncle, looked up in excitement, teaching over the other to take the box.

The boys, eager to please their uncle, looked up in excitement, each reaching over the other to grab the box of decorations. “I’ll do it!” Cass declared, his hand barely grazing the lid before AJ swooped in. “No way, I’m faster!”

Sam shook his head with a grin, stepping back and letting them sort it out. “Tell you what, teamwork might get this done faster. You both take half.”

They exchanged glances before nodding in agreement, diving into the box with newfound focus. Sam watched them for a moment, feeling the warmth of the moment, when the sound of the door opening pulled his attention.

The door creaked open, and Sam’s head snapped up just as Bucky strolled in, his broad figure framed by the autumn sunlight streaming in from outside. His hair was a little tousled, and he wore a worn leather jacket that somehow made him look effortlessly put together. In his hands was a bouquet of fall flowers—rich reds, oranges, and golden yellows, tied together with twine. The scent of chrysanthemums and marigolds mixed with the earthy smell of the shop, grounding the space even more in the season.

“Thought I’d bring something for the place,” Bucky said, his voice casual as he held out the flowers. His blue eyes flickered with something soft, though his expression remained stoic.

Sam blinked, caught off guard for a second. Flowers? From Bucky? He quickly masked his surprise with a grin, taking the bouquet. “Flowers, huh? Never pegged you for the floral type.”

Bucky smirked, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it onto a chair. “Don’t get used to it. Just thought they’d go well with all this.” He nodded to the decorations scattered around, his gaze sweeping over the pumpkins, garlands, and the scarecrow now propped up by the door.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but his nephews beat him to it. Cass and AJ, eyes wide and full of excitement, had already crowded around Bucky. “Uncle Bucky!” they yelled in unison, practically bouncing on their feet. The boys had taken a quick liking to Bucky ever since he started dropping by the shop more often. And Sam could tell that, despite his rough edges, Bucky adored them right back.

Bucky knelt down to their level, ruffling Cass’s hair and giving AJ a grin. “You two causing trouble again?” he teased, his voice warm in a way that Sam had grown used to seeing when he was around the kids.

“No! We’re helping Uncle Sam decorate,” AJ defended, tugging at Bucky’s sleeve. “You’re gonna help too, right?”

Bucky glanced over at Sam, who gave a small shrug and a grin that said, looks like you’re stuck with us now.

“Alright,” Bucky finally said, standing up and rolling his shoulders like he was about to tackle a big job. “But, I need to talk to your uncle, okay? Give us a minute.”

The boys pouted but nodded, slowly retreating toward the box of decorations with exaggerated sighs. “Fine,” Cass muttered, already dragging AJ back to their task.

Once they were out of earshot, Bucky stepped closer to Sam, his expression softening. “I didn’t mean to crash your family time,” he said quietly, his voice a little more serious now. “I just…wanted to see you. Figured maybe I could help out, too.” He looked down, almost shy for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he’d overstepped.

Sam watched Bucky shift awkwardly, the tough exterior cracking just a little as he stood there, hands shoved into his pockets. The sight made something stir in Sam’s chest, something warm and unguarded. Without thinking too much, he stepped closer, his eyes flicking from Bucky’s downturned gaze to the flowers still sitting on the counter.

“You didn’t crash anything,” Sam murmured, his voice soft, almost teasing. “You're welcome here.”

Before Bucky could say anything, Sam reached out, gently grabbing his jacket sleeve, and in one swift, smooth motion, he stole a quick kiss—soft and fleeting, but enough to leave Bucky blinking in surprise. When Sam pulled back, a grin tugged at his lips, but his eyes held a quiet seriousness.

Bucky froze for a second, like he wasn’t sure what just happened, but then a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “We probably shouldn’t kiss at work. The boss could see us,” he muttered, his voice low but full of amusement.

Sam chuckled, his hand still resting on Bucky’s arm, feeling the warmth through the worn leather jacket. “Good thing I’m the boss,” he replied with a smirk, his eyes glinting playfully.

Bucky shook his head, the smile lingering as he glanced over toward the boys, still busy with the decorations. “Guess that means we’ve got the all-clear, huh?”

Sam squeezed Bucky’s arm gently, stepping back but not before letting his thumb brush along the edge of Bucky’s sleeve. “For now,” he said, his voice soft and teasing. “But we’ve got some work to do before we get too distracted.”

Sam took the flowers from Bucky, admiring the vibrant colors as he set them on the counter next to the freshly brewed coffee. “These are perfect,” he said, a genuine smile spreading. “They’ll brighten up the place.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, his eyes watching Sam with a warmth that made Sam's heart race just a little. “I figured a splash of color wouldn’t hurt,” he replied, his voice low and easy. “Besides, anything that will put a smile on your face.”

“Well, aren't you sweet?” Sam quipped, raising an eyebrow as he arranged the flowers in a nearby vase.

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Okay, whatever.” The moment lingered, charged with unspoken feelings and possibilities.

As Sam arranged the flowers, he glanced at Bucky, the tension between them palpable but comfortable. “So, are you ready to help out with these decorations or what?” he asked, gesturing toward the box filled with garlands and pumpkins.

Bucky pushed himself off the counter, an eager grin on his face. “Lead the way, boss.”