#sambucky one shot

[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.

[crovoroh]

its okay, sam joined him on the couch, they had a sleepover in their shared living room

[nandanandada]

Well..

[skywritingrambles]

I've never really written for Marvel nor am I particularly invested in it (pretty sure the last movie I kept up with was like, the second doctor strange) but I do get in an occasional stucky kick, and sambucky is a ship I also enjoy.

Anyway thinking of a fic where Bucky does fall in love with Sam but feels like he's betraying Steve for doing so, like their love didn't mean anything if he goes for someone else. And Sam helps him recognize that loving someone else doesn't mean other love was any less, and he deserves to be happy again. He's not trying to "be another Steve" or even replace him he just wants to be a different person to make him happy.

Maybe even touch on it being kinda fucked up that Steve left after Endgame.

[evenwhenihadnothingihad-stucky]

A microfiction I wrote a while ago about Bucky being sad about Steve in tfatws and Sam comforting him (they’re all gay btw)

“The thing is, I want him to be happy.” Bucky swirled his untouched drink around in his hand, watching how the soft bar lights reflected off the semi-melted ice of his whiskey, completely avoiding eye contact with Sam.

“I’m glad he’s happy; but he was the only person that really knows me—Y’know before… everything. All anybody sees when they look at me now is a cold blooded killer, and y’know maybe they’re right,“ He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“But not Steve. Steve knows me, the real me… or- well- he knew me… and I know I’m being selfish, I know… he deserves Peggy he deserves his happy ending. But I want him back so bad. I miss him so damn much.” He chuckled bitterly, struggling to hold back tears.

Sam looked into his eyes, urging him to keep going.

Bucky took a deep breath before beginning again, “He was the only reason I kept going after I got out y’know. Couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel but I kept pushing because I knew he woulda wanted me to. And now that he's gone…” He let out an uneven breath, struggling to keep his composure,

"I don't really see much of a reason to keep going…” He paused, “I think I loved him, Sam.” He said, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

Bucky’s stomach suddenly dropped in realization of the gravity of his words. “Y’know what, forget I said any of this.” Bucky mumbled immediately regretting the confession. He lowered his head to take another sip of whiskey to burn away the anxiety that had an iron tight grip on his sternum.

Sam reached towards Bucky’s shoulder and placed a warm hand on his tensed back, “Hey, look at me,”

Bucky looked up briefly into Sam’s dark brown eyes; his expression was sincere but Bucky couldn’t help feeling like he was staring directly into his soul—like he was tearing apart and analyzing every little thought. He quickly looked away, rubbing his sweaty palm on his pants.

“You’re not alone, Bucky. I might not be Steve, but I’ll always be here to listen to you, if you ever need a friend…even though you can be such a pain in my ass sometimes.” Sam smiled at him.

Bucky shot him a small smile back before looking away again and downing the rest of his whiskey. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and examined his hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Sam looked him up and down, unsure of what to say. “Um…do you want a hug or something?” He proposed awkwardly.

Bucky sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, “Y’know what… yeah. But I swear to God if you mention this again I’m gonna fuckin’ kick your ass, Wilson.”

Sam chuckled, “C’mere.”

I am open to constructive feedback btw just don’t be mean about it lol

I wrote this because I feel like they didn’t do Bucky’s grieving justice in tfatws 💔

[purple-grackle]

so long story short i had a huge breakdown (like, a real one, unrelated to fandom, that's just the coping mechanism like ever since i quit most vices) like fr and basically ive reached the spreadsheet stage of my fanfiction

(and im writing the samriley flashbacks haha is this going to hurt? probably!)

[livingincolorsagain]

Hi! Love your fandom ask #2

Hi! Thanks for the ask <3

a headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like!

It’s hard to believe now, but I wasn’t really big on pet names before getting into sambucky. I was won over after one (1) fic though. That’s all it took, me reading Bucky calling Sam sweetheart once. I was immediately convinced. Of course Bucky calls Sam sweetheart and darling and doll, and Sam calls Bucky baby and honey and sweet face. It’s literally true, I saw it with my own two eyes, thank you very much.

✨ love your fandom asks ✨ 

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[buckybabybaby]

always pretty

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (gender neutral)

(established relationship, fluff, slightly suggestive, Bucky being beautiful, bff Joaquín has 3 lines)

Word count: 1k

*** SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS UNDER THE CUT ***

Plot: you see Bucky with his new hairstyle for the first time

Warnings: none :)

A/N: a small piece inspired by Bucky's hair in the post credit scene because I think we all agree its one of his best looks <3 that and the bit where he took his jacket off were very much for me

I haven't posted a Bucky x reader fic for 4 years now. New content = more inspiration apparently!

I saw thunderbolts on Friday and started this yesterday, it may only be 1000 words but I've never finished a drabble so quickly.

Also a little fix it for the Sambucky plot line </3 I didn't go in to detail as I don't know how they would resolve it, but after bnw I can't have them end like that :(

Masterlist

AO3

***

You sit outside the photography studio, nervous energy preventing you from even being able to scroll through your phone, eyes darting from the door, to the view out the window, to the many posters of previous work on the wall, and back to the door on repeat. It's been hours, but you are determined to wait.

Bucky's first time in his new avengers suit? Yeah, you weren't missing this.

He'd been so anxious this morning and your heart had melted. You understand though. Not only was he having his final fitting of his suit, they were also doing promotional shoots for the many magazines and websites that wanted an interview, so hair, makeup and endless poses were all on the schedule today.

Every time the door opens you look up expectantly, until eventually you see what you've been waiting for.

The new avengers file out, some acknowledging you, others clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible. Joaquín bounds up to you, ever enthusiastic, showing off his slightly altered falcon suit.

"You like?"

"I love." You grin at him. "Did it go okay?"

He nods, glancing back. "And Bucky did well, managed to tone down the grumpy old man vibes for once."

You make an offended noise, pushing at his chest lightly. "Don't be mean."

His teasing smile is infectious as he guides you towards the studio. "Go find him. He's probably exhausted after having to smile for more than five minutes."

You go to push him again but he's too fast, bidding you goodbye as you enter the doorway. Inside the screens and lighting supports are already being disassembled, staff streaming around you to get the place cleared quickly and making it a struggle to spot Bucky. Eventually you do, facing away from you talking to Sam on the far side of the room. You hesitate to approach, knowing how their friendship has been rocky recently, but then Sam laughs loudly at something Bucky's said, a natural laugh that has you relaxing as you make your way over. Their disagreement was almost as difficult for you as it was for Bucky, a horrible tense episode you don't want to return to anytime soon.

Sam notices you first, leaving Bucky with a final hand shake before pausing next to you on his way out.

"Who knew your man could look so good, huh?"

"And you. I'm sure your solo shots will be the cover photos."

He snorts. "Me and Bucky are cool now, no need to butter me up."

"Oh, I wasn't! I wouldn't-" You splutter before Sam takes pity on you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, I'm joking." He squeezes you gently, smile softer now. "See you soon, yeah?"

You nod, watching him go. Turning back to Bucky, you walk over slowly, waiting for him to detect your presence. It takes him longer than usual, you're almost beside him by the time he does, like Joaquín said he must be worn out by all the attention and not quite his usual sharp self.

"Hey doll." He says, tilting his head towards you without getting up.

Moving in front of him, you step into his space to kiss him like always, until you get a good look at his outfit.

And his arm.

And his hair.

You stare. The 'a' on his chest has your own chest tight, knowing how much it means for him to be seen as a hero officially. It doesn't hurt that the top fits perfectly, that both his arms are defined in different ways, that the way they've styled his hair makes him look even more prince-like than ever.

"Is it bad?" He asks when you don't say anything.

"No, no! It's great-lovely-so nice." You rush to reassure him. "Did they blow dry you?"

"I think so? I just sat here and let them work." He shrugs.

"Okay, so you know I love your hair however you do it. But this," You reach out to brush the wave falling over his forehead. "This is my new favourite. You're always so pretty, I'm happy they managed to enhance it like this."

His smiles shyly at the floor, an unusual look for the former winter soldier. You're so endeared to him. This man is well over one hundred years old and a real life super hero, but you can still reduce him to a blushing mess with the right choice of words.

Tilting his head back up, you do kiss him now, only quickly as you need to take the whole look in again. He pouts as you pull away, only adding to his charm. One day you may get used to just how pretty he is, may find a way to not be left breathless just by his existence, not get distracted every time he looks your way.

Today, though, is not that day.

Climbing onto his lap, you bring him into a deeper kiss, feeling his body tense for a second before he relaxes, one arm snaking around your waist to hold you tight. Pressing yourself as close as possible, you can feel every firm edge of his uniform through your clothes, thoughts turning filthy in record time.

You break the kiss with a gasp to ask, "Are you allowed to take the suit home?"

"Oh?" He seems surprised but not displeased by the shift in mood. "It's like that is it?"

You whine in answer, not caring that the room is still very busy. Bucky cups your face to get a clear look at you, smirking as he sees how far gone you are just from a few kisses.

"I can take the suit home," He tells you, making you giggle in excitement. "Probably shouldn't mess it up too much too early, though. I know how you get"

You frown. "I can control myself."

"No you can't, sweetheart," Bucky argues correctly.

"Well, at least don't brush your hair through," You demand, delicately repositioning the loose strands around his face. "That is the best part."

"I can do that." His mouth meets yours again, briefly letting you get a taste of him before he releases you. Standing up, he drags you with him towards the exit, smiling cheekily over his shoulder. "Let's go prove how much you really like it."

***

Thank you for reading!

***

Masterlist

AO3

[logicheartsoul]

So I've been seeing a bunch of people reblogging some of my old gifs which made me want to go and work on them but didn't have enough energy for that so instead you get cropped screencap grabs and some edits.

These are from TFATWS gag reel:

These are from the deleted scenes, most of these are edited except the first one:

Of course you know I can't resist some Sambucky shots:

Now this next one is definitely a scene that's been on my wips for ages but I figured the screenshots were good too. It's a discussion between Sam and Rhodey about what happened to Rhodey during Civil War and we ALL have read fic addressing it, and while I hated this was in a deleted scene, the fact it's actually a canon thing is kind of nice.

Also, I had to take this shot because clearly a WHOLE lot of people (mostly the kids) wanted that (ice cream) cake lmao

[bottlesandcats]

Ok, we need to talk about Sam’s shelf of photographs (spoils ahead).

Please bear with me while I put my tin hat on and pull some total bullshit out of my ass. (My qualifications are next to nothing, unless you count 15+ yrs of interpreting destiel subtext and four years of studying Sam and Bucky’s relationship.)

Check out @f-misc’s post here, which has the most detailed shots of the photo display I’ve seen. Props to them for putting this together.

The framed items we can actually identify are a snap of Sam and Riley, an older black air force pilot (I’m going to assume a family member, likely the person who inspired Sam to go into the Air Force), a pic of Sam and Bucky, drawings of Sam as Captain America (I’m going to guess these were made by Sam’s nephews), a photo of Sarah on the boat and one of Sam with Torres.

From my experience, men aren’t often portrayed as being sentimental over photos/keepsakes so the fact that Sam is shown as having photos on display, and the camera takes the time to linger on them, is meaningful. Also, they’re at his office, which to me, is even more indicative of their importance. Sam probably spends most of his time there, when not on missions, so it would make sense that he’d want to keep such reminders of those he values most in a place where he will see them the most often.

Here’s where the sambucky of it all comes into play. Interestingly we don’t see a picture of Steve or Natasha, both of whom we know Sam was quite close with. They were essentially the ones who brought him into the avengers and he spent two years being on the run with them; I’m sure at some point, pictures were taken. This tells me that this display shelf is reserved for those that Sam cherishes the most: his family, his closest friend and partner who died, his current partner and mentee, and Bucky. What’s more, is that the photo of Sam and Bucky is front and center on the middle shelf, which is literally at Sam’s eye level. It’s a spot where Sam’s gaze will naturally come to rest, which tells me this photo is one Sam likes to look at a lot. Why does he look at it so much? What could POSSIBLY be the REASON????

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[risrambles]

I’ve seen Thunderbolts*! Here’s my full, SPOILER review!

STOP READING THIS IF YOU DONT WANT SPOILERS FOR MARVEL STUDIOS’ THUNDERBOLTS*

LIKE NOW.

OKAY.

Buckle up, i’ve got a lot of thoughts and a lot of word space.

Well, that was a pretty great movie! If you’ve seen my non spoiler review you’ll know I gave it an 8/10, and rightfully so. The first hour, hour and a half of the movie eats the rest of the movie up and if the ending had been as good as the first acts I would give it a 10/10. it kind of felt underwhelming and almost like it was a “power of friendship” moment—though none of these people are really friends, so maybe that’s the point.

First of all—Yelena and Bob. God, they were amazing, I loved the dynamic between them and it was really interesting to see the whole void thing come into play with how they felt about life. It was great.

The first scene when Taskmaster, Yelena, Walker, and Ghost all meet—that was amazing. my jaw DROPPED when Taskmaster got shot in the head, I wasn’t expecting her to get taken out so soon or by one of the Thunderbolts. I mean, we all knew she was a goner but I really wanted to see a little more of her. I liked her suit a lot!

Obviously, I have to talk about Bucky. I have two small complaints—one, I wish we saw a little more of him. Considering he was listed second in the credits I think he was a little underused and slightly nerfed but honestly not by much. to go off that, I WANTED TO SEE HIM IN THE VOID! the only thing we got was a nod to the fact that while he was in his void searching for yelena and bob (“i have a great past, so I’m fine” that whole thing) he obviously saw something to do with the winter soldier. call me crazy but i saw blue lights in the room behind him that he crashed through from and it gave very much cacw winter soldier flashback vibes. and i WANTED TO SEE THAT! i wished we could have seen more than yelena, bob, valentina, and walkers voids.

Oh, valentina. she was so horribly great, i was so ready for the thunderbolts to rock her shit but then she turned it around and called them the new avengers. oh i hate her so much they did so good. her assistant was kinda slay too but eh!

NOW ONTO MY COMPLAINT AS A SAMBUCKY ENTHUSIAST—WHY TF DID WE ONLY GET A MENTION OF SAM? AND IN THE POST CREDITS? Honestly, i find it crazier that sam and bucky talked off screen and they didn’t even show us. and that APPARENTLY the conversation didn’t go over well, and now sam is suing them… guys we might actually be in the sambucky divorce era im gonna crash out. can they just kiss hug it out and get over it. and considering how close they got in tfatws and we saw them talking the cabnw i just really liked their dynamic and how happy they seemed as friends and now that’s just gone (but it is funny that sam is suing bucky and co). although, it will make for an interesting dynamic come doomsday, which makes me nervous considering that bucky’s time in the mcu is coming ever so closer to an end… (someone start recommending me bucky fics NYOW)

honestly, i kind of don’t like the whole new avengers thing. i kind of wanted them to stay as the thunderbolts, as dumb as it might be. I don’t like valentina though and I really wanted them to kick her ass. it was a funny credits sequence tho, with the “new avengers? nope!” love that they’re still universally hated i guess.

BUT OH MY GOD I WAS GONNA GO FERAL FOR BUCKY IN THE POST CREDITS. GOOD LORD HE LOOKED FINE. OH EM GEE, HIS HAIR? OH THE WAVES. SOMEONE TAUGHT OUR BOY ABOUT CONDITIONER AGAIN AND HE LOOKED INCREDIBLE. PLEASE LET HIM HAVE THAT HAIR IN DOOMSDAY AND PLEASE DONT LET HIM DIE.

okay, i’ve gotten past how much i love bucky and must move on to the Other Things that happened.

now, about the INSANE DROP IN THE CREDITS? the second i saw the “fantastic four: first steps theme” in the music credits i was like oh it’s so over. AND THE SHIP? oh dude their world is so cooked, doomsday is gonna be fire AND ARE WE GONNA SEE THE THUNDERBOLTS (new avengers) AT THE END OF FFFS? ARE WE GONNA SEE THE AVENGERS AND THE NEW AVENGERS WITH THE FANTASTIC FOUR? see, that’s why thunderbolts* was a good movie! it’s got me actually planning to see Fantastic Four: First Steps because i NEED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS!!! i’m hooked!!!

Walkers one liners were great and even though i hate him i kinda feel for him. Yelena and Bob and Red Guardian were stand-outs; I LOVE BOB! and red guardians entrance was incredible as well, along with the car chase scene up to bucky rocking everyone’s shit.

Like i said, the first half of the movie was a 10/10; the last maybe 45 minutes was more of a 7/10. i did love the thunderbolts getting applause in the street which valentina definitely liked once she got the idea to market them as the new avengers. also the fact that they operate out of the old avengers tower? the fact that yelena and bucky are lowkey leading? the outfits that kinda ate down? i kinda vibe with it, but like i said i would hav really liked it if they weren’t considered the new avengers. maybe it would have been better if sam had shown up in the end to rally them for his cause as the avengers or if they just stayed the thunderbolts and did missions more akin to what steve and nat did in the beginning of catws. obviously not with them unknowingly working for hydra, but them as undercover ops would be cool.

idk! i just got out of the movie like an hour ago and i can’t remember it all right now bc it was so much good content.

tldr: the characters were great, the movie was solid/great, the post credits were worth it/insane and the story was good. if i missed anything that anyone wants me to cover (as if im some prime news source lmao, i am not, im just a mcu blogger who has been waiting for years for this movie) then lmk!

I HAVE TAGGED THIS POST AS SPOILERS AND INCLUDED A CUT!!! IF YOU SEE THIS AND DONT WANT TO, I TAGGED IT AND MADE SURE TO PUT A WARNING AND A CUT!!! IF YOU DONT WANT SPOILERS FILTER OUT THE TAG!!!

[whtactch-dawnie]

so me and my partner were having this discussion abt sambucky at a pride parade.

obviously, bucky has never experienced this. and at first he kinda has to be dragged out to the event. it’s not that he doesn’t want to go, he just doesn’t really like being in crowded public spaces, yknow? but once he’s there, he flourishes. and there’s about a five second point where people think it’s some sort of political campaign— senator barnes for the lgbt youth and all that— but that conspiracy is shot down by the fact that oh my god he just kissed CAPTAIN AMERICA unprompted on the LIPS!!!

sam is, surprisingly, more hesitant than bucky overall. because bucky is so happy— he’s getting bracelets and some kid slapped a sticker on his arm when he said he was bisexual— and he’s kind of having the time of his life. he never thought he’d have the freedom to express himself like this, and now suddenly he is. and he loves learning about the flags and niche concepts because these are things that could’ve got you thrown in jail or accused of treason back in his day, and you’re telling him it’s okay now? he can kiss his boyfriend now? it’s okay?

sam, on the other hand, is scared. he’s constantly terrified of messing up his status as captain america, and he has this fear that if the general population find out that he’s queer it could put people he cares about in possible danger. but when he sees these people looking up to him, beaming at him, he remembers why he’s doing all this. sam hadn’t came out to close family until recently either, and bucky had sort of been the reason. bucky saw how progressive things were and was, with some hesitation, ready to admit things, but sam? he’s never understood himself. he’d bury himself in work or life and ignore his feelings, he told himself none of it was important. bucky changes that, but that’s a post for later.

and yeah, there’s negative publicity. of course there is. ex-winter soldier senator james barnes AND captain america? it’s a scandal! there’s harsh articles about how sam is “ruining” the title of cap, but there’s meaner ones, there’s ones saying bucky’s been “brainwashed by the left.”

bucky does not take that well at all.

in the end, the new senator ends up making a speech. he’s been queer since the last century and he’s not planning on changing. steve was queer, and he doesn’t say this to out him, but mostly because he refuses for these idiots to ruin steve’s legacy. sam is a little embrassed when his partner is gushing about how brave he is on national television, but he’s also a bit thankful, and bucky lets it be known to never call him brainwashed again, or anything of the sort.

[magnificent-buckless-butt]

I'm crying because this is a pic of Seb and Anthony, not Sam and Bucky. And like. Obviously, in a movie, when you want pics, especially with characters that won't appear (say, you want a 'childhood picture' but the parents are not in the movie), you ask the actors for a random real pic.

But.

This is Sambucky. They had a whole show together. If no shot from the series could would have been clean enough or casual enough, they could have asked both Anthony and Seb: these two litteraly spent their times taking pictures on set. And it would have reminded viewers of Tfatws (you know, if they get curious about Joaquin or Isaiah).

So why that pic? Why take a real one, absolutely out of context? Seb's hair here is nothing like we've seen on Bucky yet. Especially since we get to see Bucky later in the movie. You'd think it would be wise, narratively speaking, to make sure the man on the pic is the same character you see later, right?

So whyyyyy?

[samuelwilsonbarnes]

Close Quarters

Pairing: Sambucky Rating: M Words: 2.3k

Sam and Bucky get stuck in a box on a mission and they're sooooo normal about it.

Also on AO3. Inspired by @deadstarvk's incredible sambucky art

♡♡♡♡

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Why would I joke about this? Do I ever sound like I’m joking?”

“You sound like you’re not pushing hard enough, is what you sound like.” 

Bucky huffs in reply. If there were any time to catch their breaths, it might as well be now. The job was done, all that was left was, well…

“Just give me a minute.”

“Do I have a choice? Trapped in here, hot breath on my goddamn neck,” Sam complains, also gulping what he could only hope wasn’t limited oxygen, and he can feel Bucky’s chest press against his every time the two breathe in unison. “Is this gonna be what happens every time we follow through on one of your plans?” 

“This wasn’t my plan. You nearly getting shot out of the sky five minutes in wasn’t the plan. Everything after that was just–” Bucky shifts, and for the first time since the two of them hurtled into– whatever box the men were currently stuck in, Sam became keenly aware of their positioning. Specifically Bucky's position, sat between his thighs. Shit. “This thing worked as cover, didn’t it?” Bucky continues, “We didn’t get blown up.” 

It takes Sam a second to remember what they were talking about, the dive they’d just made, the heavy lid Bucky had managed to slide over the two of them just in time. 

“Shut up, didn’t even know you carry that many explosives on you in the first place. Do you always have that much? How the hell do they fit under that tight ass jacket?” 

Bucky ignores the questions. “Can you feel anything under you?” 

“Only more concrete.” 

“Then I just can’t get a good angle.” Bucky grunts lowly, right against Sam’s ear, but the voice is nothing compared to the slow roll of their hips as Bucky adjusts his spine, attempting to wedge his arm firmly between the top and bottom of the box and force it upwards. No dice. 

“Woah, dude–”

“Hold still.”

“Bucky.” Sam bites out. 

“Hm?”

“Just. Just–”

Bucky pushes one more time, then and relents, slumping slightly closer.

"What?" 

“There could be debris on top of us.” Focus, Sam. Just focus. 

“Can you use the wings to launch us up?”

“Not without smashing us to the top of this thing, and maybe slicing your head off.” 

“They can do that?” 

Sam flicks his goggles to night vision with a retinal gesture, ready to tease the trepidation he expects to see on Bucky’s face, but he falters. Instead, Bucky is just staring at him, gaze bouncing over his features in the dark, damn superhuman eyesight, with something in his expression that Sam can’t read. Bucky only looks away when he realizes Sam can now see him in turn.

“...I’m okay, y’know?”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice sounds almost distant, hesitant. 

“I didn’t get hit. You had my back.” Sam wishes he could shrug, settles for scrunching his nose, “As far as terrible plans go–”

“Ugh, Sam-”

“It could’ve gone worse, is what I mean. The intel was shit, there was too many of ‘em. We made do. The job’s done. Just got tripped up at the end, it happens. I’m alright. You did good.” Sam’s voice is softer than ever, almost a murmur. “So, thank you.” 

In the utter silence and stillness of the box, Bucky’s shuddery little inhale isn’t lost on Sam. He can hear the slight whirring and small clicks as he moves almost imperceptibly. He looks speechless. Sam savors it. “So? How about you?” He nudges lightly, after a moment.

“What about me?”

“You okay?”

“...” 

Sam frowns, the hand he’d had pressed all this time to the roof of their enclosure drops, to settle on the back of Bucky’s shoulder, even though he’s quieted his breaths, Bucky’s still panting. 

“Hey, c’mon, you with me?” there's a pause before his response

“Always.” Bucky says breathlessly. Oh. 

“Then listen.” Sam’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, and he watches Bucky's eyes flutter closed. Drinks in the sight. Nearly forgets himself again. He has to take a minute to screw his own eyes closed before he speaks. “We’re gonna be fine. Gonna take a couple deep breaths, and then we’re gonna try again. Same time, we’ll push on three.” Bucky clenches his jaw, before sighing. 

“Yeah. Fine. Just–” 

“?”

“Could you–” 

“Oh. Sure.” Somehow, Sam knows what Bucky’s asking for. They’ve done it once or twice before.

“In.” Slow, deep breaths. The painful restraint on Bucky's features seems to soften, ever so gently.

“Out.” Bucky deflates slightly more, and what Sam first thinks is pressing in closer is actually Bucky just relaxing all the muscles he’d been holding still to not jostle Sam, considering he essentially sprawled across his lap. Sam leans back to give him room, letting his head hit the wall. which then exposes the length of his neck. 

“In.” This time Bucky did actually draw closer, hair falling in front of his face, hair tickling across Sam’s jaw as he leans into his shoulder, and if Sam didn’t know better, he would think Bucky was breathing him in.

Maybe Sam didn’t know better.

“Out.” Bucky adjusts his body again, he could just be bracing himself, that’s what Sam says to himself. Trying to really angle himself to push hard. Until a gentle hand starts to slide up Sam’s thigh to hold him in place, and Sam reflexively widens his legs to give Bucky room. Then it's hard to think of much of anything.

“In.” Sam barely keeps the word even as he speaks. The breath is a hiss from both of them. 

“Out.” And all that restraint is back on Bucky’s face. In fact, he looks worse than before. Damn. At least he doesn’t look angry with Sam, although Sam’s unsure if even that would be a turnoff at this point. Suddenly, the box feels ten degrees warmer, the material of their suits feels oh-so-thin, and he’s sure Bucky can hear as he thickly swallows. This was getting dangerous. “You– ah, you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice sounds rough, like he had to fight to get the word out. A fact that shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is. 

“On three. One, two, three!” 

Sam lifts his hand back to the roof of the box, grits his teeth and pushes with all his might. 

Bucky pushes hard. With his arms, first, he can’t get any leverage to push directly against the top of the box with his hands but he can shove them into the concrete below hard enough to pebble some of it and try to shove up with his back and shoulders. When the roof doesn’t even budge, he shifts to hinge up with his thighs, but only manages to lift his hips and further fold Sam’s body against him as he goes, pressing them together. Sam has to arch his back and shift onto his toes just in an attempt to keep himself still anchored to the floor of the box. He makes a noisy yelp of surprise at the sudden movement that draws out to almost a whine when he realizes his new position, and he nearly would’ve thought Bucky was politely ignoring if not for the night vision exposing the way Bucky’s eyes fly open to look at him again the second the sound leaves his lips. Still, they keep pushing, and the door doesn’t budge an inch.

"Come on!" Sam calls out to neither of them in particular.

"I am." Bucky grumbles into his neck, and Sam can feel the vibrations from Bucky’s voice across his entire body. 

Sam, as is his habit, switches to riling Bucky up instead of letting himself sit in the embarrassment of almost moaning from the manhandling, "Are you? Are you even pushing?"

Bucky, neck deep in several different agonizing kinds of frustration, gives up pushing, lets out a harsh breath, grabs onto Sam and yanks him closer, gritting out, “What the hell do you think?! ”

Sam, in pure shock, grabs onto Bucky’s wrists for stability, which only gives Bucky an easier time of pulling Sam to him. But now they’re frozen, rearranged in the box to be closer than ever, Sam on his back and entirely slotted against Bucky, who’s on him, over him, solidly wedged between his legs. And because of how well Bucky managed to also wedge himself against the top of the box, there’s nowhere for them to go from there. 

Sam’s goggles had slid up and off his head in the shuffle, so he couldn't even get a read on the other’s face, cloaked in shadow. Great.

It’s Sam’s turn to huff a frustrated breath in response and the two fall into a silence unlike any they’d quite experienced before. And charged silences were like a second home for these two at this point. 

Bucky was finding himself no better off though, unable to quite let go of where his hands rested on the small- god, tiny - waist of Sam Wilson. The one he was meant to protect. Whom he’d essentially trapped. Who he’d never had closer. Who felt so fucking good against him. Who–

“Bucky.” 

“What.”

“Stop thinking so loud.” It’d been minutes of silence at this point, Bucky just stewing, even as Sam had relaxed slightly under him. fingers thumb idly over the leather of his sleeve, over the ridges in the metal of his arm. A grounding thing, that little fidgeting, but did Sam know Bucky could feel every bit of it?

“I wasn’t– I was thinking how to fix it. This.” Bucky manages, just to say something that’s not, at all, what he’s thinking. Sam’s quiet, for a moment, and finally lets out a sigh of acceptance. 

“Gonna have to wait for extraction to get us out of here. That’s gonna be a minute.” 

“How long?” Bucky isn’t sure how much more of this he could take, but never wants the moment to end, Sam fits so perfectly against his body it’s dizzying, like he was made for it. 

“I don't know. Soon.” Sam responds, “I kept my tracker on so they’ll know where to get us. Your comms working though? Cuz I’m not getting anything.”

Bucky shakes his head and goes quiet again. Sam keeps up the idle touches, for his own sake, but he can feel Bucky working through something above him, so wants to offer comfort. And, maybe most importantly, he wants Bucky to keep his hands where they are. 

“Sam?” Bucky asks after what feels like an age of soft breaths and tiny shuffles and trying to pretend they aren’t flush together in more places than they’re apart. 

“Yeah, Buck?” and maybe Sam sounds more affected than he means to, maybe he can’t keep the painfully building want out of his voice, maybe it’s the way he says his name, but it makes Bucky freeze, whatever on the tip of his tongue swallowed down with what almost sounds like a whimper, hands tightening on Sam’s waist and pulling him impossibly closer. 

“You’re kinda killin’ me, here…” 

Finally.

“Am I?” Sam breathes, plausible deniability bleeding out with every passing second, the agonizing slow roll of their hips in unison seeming less and less like a consequence of their synchronized breaths. “Not doing much of anything yet.” 

“Yet.” Bucky lets that thought sit for just enough time to blink the shock into relief and then he’s on Sam like a damn breaking. Somehow even in the tight confines, Bucky’s hands are everywhere. 

Sam’s barely lets the delighted puff of a laugh leave his chest before Bucky’s nosed his way up from Sam’s jaw to brush a gentle swipe of their lips together, a touch that leaves Bucky nearly shaking, a low growl rumbling in his chest before he breathes out the quietest, “Please–” against his skin and Sam can’t take it anymore, rushing to meet him before any more thoughts or words can come take up the space between them. Each kiss is messy and more desperate than the last, lips and tongues and tasted feelings, Bucky’s got Sam moaning into his mouth, utterly unwound, in under a minute.

“You got any idea–” Bucky mutters, when he’s pulled away just enough to let Sam catch his breath, kissing down his jaw again to press lips then tongue to the long stretch of his neck, then Bucky sinks teeth in, earning him a gasp, “The kind of things I wanna do to you?” There’s not much room to maneuver each other any farther, but somehow Bucky’s even closer, and Sam would swear he’s dreaming if each kiss and bite and squeeze didn’t seem to be Bucky also confirming that the two of them were real, together, and not a figment of his own imagination, “The things you make me wanna do?” 

Not prepared for Bucky to be the vocal one between them, and frankly too overwhelmed to speak– not an easy feat– Sam twists his arm enough until he can lift it, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair and yanking him in for another searing kiss. Bucky purrs in approval, the yeah, you like that? So deeply implied in his pleased little hum it makes Sam shiver. All this, hiding behind long stares and grumpy one liners, oh, Sam wants to devour Bucky whole. As far as Bucky's concerned, though, Sam's been his for ages. To follow, protect, to annoy and admire. Yet to actually lay his claim in lasting marks across his skin, to hold Sam, to touch him, feel him shake and tense and moan against him, to feel a long the lines of his body and the heat pooling between them... nothing in the world could ever feel as right as this.   

“Fuck, Bucky–” Sam manages, voice wrecked in a way that makes Bucky feel like he’s shattering into millions of pieces.

“Yeah, Sammy?” He says so sweetly, while never slowing his pace, stealing kisses and guiding Sam’s body, marveling every time at the ease in which he melts, oh-so-trustingly, into Bucky’s embrace and affections.

“It's- we only got a few minutes left, probably, extraction-”

Sam pauses, doesn't have to see Bucky to know he's grinning at him in the dark, the kind of look that'd make Sam's heart slam in his chest every time he sees it for the rest of his life, as Bucky leans in to kiss him again, and again, and again.

“Guess we better make them count.” 

[faerieroyal]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ children born of fairy stock, never need for shirt or frock…

🧚🏻‍♂️ what/who i write for … 🧚🏻‍♂️

➺ golden trio era: harry potter, ron weasley, hermione granger, luna lovegood, ginny weasley, neville longbottom, fred weasley, george weasley, oliver wood, percy weasley, dean thomas, draco malfoy, theodore nott, mattheo riddle.

➺ marauders era: james potter, remus lupin, sirius black, poly!marauders, regulus black, lily evans, marlene mckinnon, dorcas meadowes, mary macdonald, evan rosier, pandora lestrange, andromeda black, narcissa black, poly!valkyries, frank longbottom, alice fortescue, poly!starchaser, poly!wolfstar.

➺ gilmore girls: jess mariano, rory gilmore, paris geller, luke danes, lane kim, lorelai gilmore.

➺ dead poets society: neil perry, todd anderson, charlie dalton, steven meeks, gerard pitts.

➺ criminal minds: spencer reid, aaron hotchner, emily prentiss, elle greenaway.

➺ marvel: peter parker (tasm or mcu), bruce banner, kate bishop, yelena belova (platonic, familial, or qpr requests only), bucky barnes, sam wilson, poly!sambucky, ava starr, loki laufeyson, druig, makkari, poly!drukkari, natasha romanoff, pietro maximoff, wanda maximoff, eddie brock, marc spector/steven grant/jake lockley, layla el-faouly.

➺ x-men: scott summers, jean grey, logan howlett, wade wilson, poly!deadclaws, hank mccoy, kurt wagner, alex summers.

➺ bridgerton: anthony bridgerton, benedict bridgerton, colin bridgerton, penelope featherington, eloise bridgerton, simon basset, kate sharma, edwina sharma, poly!kanthony.

➺ dc: bruce wayne, harley quinn, jason todd, dick grayson, tim drake, damian wayne (platonic or familial requests only), barbara gordon, cassandra cain, stephanie brown, clark kent, wally west, barry allen, pamela isley.

➺ newsies: jack kelly, “crutchie” morris, davey jacobs, spot conlon, racetrack higgins.

➺ formula one: charles leclerc, carlos sainz, max verstappen, logan sargeant, oscar piastri, lewis hamilton, fernando alonso, lance stroll, mick schumacher, alex albon, george russell, esteban ocon, yuki tsunoda, zhou guanyu.

➺ nhl hockey: quinn hughes, jack hughes, luke hughes, nico hischier, william nylander, matthew knies, joseph woll, sidney crosby, leon draisaitl, jeremy swayman, brock faber, jake middleton, matt boldy, jamie drysdale, nick suzuki, cole caufield, arber xhekaj, juraj slafkovsky, matty beniers, shane wright, jared mccann, joey daccord, adam larsson.

➺ the hobbit (movies): thorin oakenshield, thranduil, kíli durin, fíli durin.

➺ horror: poly!ghostface (billy loomis & stu macher), jason voorhees, michael myers, daniel robitaille, carrie white, hannibal lecter, thomas hewitt, vincent sinclair.

➺ miscellaneous: phil wenneck (the hangover), goodnight robicheaux (the magnificent seven 2016), billy rocks (the magnificent seven 2016), tangerine (bullet train), roy kent (ted lasso), ted lasso (ted lasso), evan “buck” buckley (911), eddie diaz (911), poly!buddie (911), eggsy unwin (kingsman), joel miller (the last of us).

🧚🏻‍♂️ request guidelines … 🧚🏻‍♂️

reader preferences: any! i will write for male, female, gender-neutral readers. ♡

what i write: i will write one-shots, headcanons, little blurbs, and drabbles based on any of the prompt lists i have reblogged, for all the characters listed above! ♡

unique requests: please do not send me any requests you have also sent to other writers! i would like to keep requests sent to me as singular as possible. ♡

request types: there are a few characters listed above who have been marked for me only accepting platonic, familial, or queerplatonic requests for them. i ask that you respect this, please! ♡

content boundaries: anything that falls into darkfic territory (stalking, kidnapping, etc.), pregnancy, infidelity, i will write smut but nothing very kinky (no judgment, i just wouldn’t be any good at writing it). ♡

request manners: please be polite! i won’t ask for much, just a simple please or thank you! ♡

never want for food or fire, always get their heart’s desire. °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･