honeeysagee

[honeeysagee]

the art of unraveling - sambucky college au

| all parts | masterlist |

summary: Sam signs up for an art class just to fill his credit hours. Hasn’t seen Bucky since that party months ago - walks in first day and guess who’s there, sitting like he owns the place, sleeves rolled up, tattoos out, smirk ready to ruin sam’s week? Yeah.

Over 3.3k words

The art building smelled faintly of clay and turpentine, a sharp contrast to the crisp winter air Sam had just walked through. He tugged his beanie lower over his ears, clutching the schedule printout like it might change if he blinked too hard.

Intro to Painting. Tuesday/Thursday. 9 a.m.

It wasn’t exactly on his academic bingo card, but he needed the credits, and the class had been one of the few open slots left. He figured he’d sit in the back, keep quiet, and let the semester slip by unnoticed.

He needed this credit hour, or else he could kiss the radio show goodbye. And that? That wasn’t an option.

The booth was the only place where he felt untouchable. Behind that mic, he wasn’t the kid scrambling for scholarships or the guy barely making his parents proud. He was just Sam. Or rather, the voice people tuned into when the world felt too loud.

Lose that, and he wasn’t sure who he’d be.

So yeah, an intro-level art course felt like a small price to pay. Draw a bowl of fruit, get a passing grade, keep the show. Easy.

The studio was already half full when he stepped in—students setting out brushes, stretching canvas, chatting like they’d all known each other for years. Sam kept his eyes on the nearest empty easel, weaving through the room until he found one at the far end.

Sarah would have puked her guts from all the laughing she would do if she saw him now. She knew her little brother was no good with his hands. Knew that the only good thing about him was his brain (or maybe that's what he thought of himself).

Sam made himslef smaller in the desk, shriveling up behind the easel as more students began to pile into empty chairs and couches that sat around the room.

He tugged his hoodie sleeves down over his wrists, pretending to busy himself with the battered sketchpad the supply list had demanded. The room had that mix of sharp paint fumes and something warm—maybe the constant hum of conversation, maybe the way sunlight stretched across the wood floors in long golden stripes.

He kept his head low, flipping blank pages, letting the sound of new voices wash over him. If he didn’t make eye contact, maybe no one would try to talk to him. That was the plan.

Until a shadow slid across his easel.

Sam glanced up.

And froze.

Bucky Barnes, leaning against the stool two seats over like he owned the place. Hair tied back today, loose strands falling into his face. A faint paint smudge already on his wrist like he’d been doing this all his life.

"Hello, stranger." Bucky said, the words curling into a smirk. The faintest trace of cigarette smoke clung to him—sharp, bitter, and somehow warmer than it should be. It curled around Sam’s thoughts, pulling him backward to that balcony, to the smirk that had kept him up on more than one late night since.

Sam didn't say anything, eyes staring up at Bucky like he shouldn't exist. Well, any in case, he shouldn't. Not here. This was supposed to be Sam's easy class.

Sam didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on Bucky like he was an optical illusion—if he blinked, maybe he’d vanish. Because Bucky shouldn’t be here. Not in this classroom. Not in the quiet little corner of Sam’s life that was supposed to be untouched.

This was supposed to be his easy class. A credit-filler. A chance to coast.

Bucky slid into the stool two seats away, his movements unhurried, like he belonged here more than anyone else in the room. He tossed a folded denim jacket onto the back of the seat, rolled up his sleeves, and reached for a charcoal stick. The smudge on his wrist was darker now, more deliberate, and it made something low in Sam’s chest tighten.

“You gonna say hi back, or just keep staring?” Bucky asked, voice low enough that the words felt like they were meant only for Sam’s ears.

Sam forced his gaze down to the blank sheet in front of him, muttering, “Hi.”

“Better,” Bucky said, leaning forward onto his elbows. “Kinda missed that voice.”

Sam’s pencil rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor.

Sam bent to grab the pencil, silently praying his ears weren’t as red as they felt. By the time he straightened, the instructor had walked in—a tall woman with streaks of paint on her jeans and the energy of someone who’d downed three espressos before noon.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get started,” she said, clapping her hands. “Today, we’re diving straight in. No warmups, no overthinking. I want you to draw the person sitting across from you.”

A collective groan rippled through the room.

Sam glanced at the empty stool across from him, relief flooding in. Maybe he’d get to sketch a pile of supplies or a coat someone left behind—anything but a real person.

And then Bucky moved.

He slid out from his seat, crossing the small space with that same unhurried swagger, and dropped into the stool across from Sam. He leaned back slightly, arms draped over his knees, smirk returning like it had never left.

“Guess we’re partners,” Bucky said.

Sam’s mouth went dry. “You could’ve picked anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, tilting his head like he was sizing Sam up. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The instructor passed by, nodding approvingly at their setup. “Good—eye contact is key. Really see the person in front of you.”

Bucky’s gaze locked on his, steady and unreadable. “You heard her,” he murmured. “Really see me, Sam.”

And just like that, the noise of the room faded. It was the balcony all over again—just the two of them, and nowhere to hide.

Bucky, in the light of the morning, had the softest blue eyes Sam had ever seen.

No— they weren’t even really blue. They were green and gray, flecks of something that almost looked blue, shifting with every subtle movement. Sam couldn’t help the way his gaze lingered, how the angles of Bucky’s jaw and the curve of his neck drew attention like gravity. Every stray lock of hair falling into his face made him look effortless, dangerous, magnetic.

And Sam hated himself for noticing. For feeling the pull he knew he shouldn’t. His stomach twisted—not with hunger or nerves, but with the sharp, unfamiliar ache of wanting.

What would his parents think if they knew? Or Sarah? They’d mock him, tease him, call him soft, call him ridiculous. And yet, even imagining their teasing didn’t undo the way Bucky’s presence rooted him to the chair, made his chest tighten and palms sweat.

And then the guilt hit. His parents. They had spent years drilling into him what was “proper,” what was “acceptable.” Straight-A student, responsible, dependable—never reckless, never distracted by… this.

What would they think if they knew he was sitting here, staring at someone like Bucky and feeling something that wasn’t logical, something he couldn’t name without judgment shadowing it? His chest tightened even more at the thought. They’d call it foolish, a distraction from the path he’d carefully laid out.

"Where did you go?" Bucky asked.

He was already working on his drawing, shading what he wanted. No guidelines to follow.

Sam’s pencil hovered over the paper, hesitant, like touching it too soon would shatter something fragile. He glanced at Bucky, who was calm, unbothered, as if the chaos of the classroom and Sam’s internal storm didn’t exist.

“I… got distracted,” Sam muttered, finally letting the words slip. "I hate drawing. I don't know what I'm doing here." He confessed. And it was the truth about a lot of things. With this class. With college. With himself.

Bucky’s eyes met his, calm and steady. “Yeah. Who does?” he said with a soft shrug, like it was no big deal to admit confusion.

Sam let out a quiet laugh, nervous and self-conscious. “Guess I’m just not good at this… drawing.”

Bucky leaned back, smirk tugging at his lips. “Really? That’s your excuse?” His tone was teasing, light, but not cruel. “You hate art, you hate drawing, yet here you are. Care to explain your existence, Sam Wilson?”

Sam groaned, pressing the pencil harder into the page. “Credits. That’s it. Purely practical.”

“Practical,” Bucky repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Right. Because everyone knows the only reason to pick up a pencil is for bureaucracy.”

Sam’s cheeks warmed, but he tried to hide it behind a shrug. “You’d be surprised how boring college can be when you stick to what you’re good at.”

Bucky tilted his head, smirk softening, but still mischievous. “Yeah, well… maybe getting out of your comfort zone isn’t so bad. You might even enjoy it.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but a small, reluctant smile slipped through.

"So," Bucky posed in his chair - head titled back and eyes closed. A smirk laid bare across his face. "Are you going to draw me, or are we going to keep talking?"

Sam didn't know which was better.

Bucky lingered, deliberately slow, dragging his hand along the edge of the table as the other students filed out around him. He didn’t know why he wanted to stick around, not really. Maybe it was Sam—his steady, awkward, golden‑boy energy that made him feel… something. Something he couldn’t quite name. He shook his head. Didn’t matter. Just be near him. That was enough.

Sam was packing up too, pencil tucked behind his ear, still fumbling with his sketchbook. Bucky caught the faintest blush creeping across his cheeks and smirked to himself. Yeah, he liked it—liked seeing Sam flustered, liked the quiet hesitation that lingered in his movements. Even if he didn’t fully understand why.

“So…” Bucky started, sliding his sketchpad under his arm. “WGHR, huh? Your little late-night empire?” His tone was teasing, but curious. “Been listening for a while, but… I gotta say, no one plays any good music.”

Sam froze mid-zip of his backpack. “Uh… well, it’s… it’s not exactly for—”

“Don’t tell me,” Bucky interrupted, grinning. “It’s for the lonely engineers and philosophy majors, right?” He fell into step beside Sam as they left the studio, the hallway buzzing faintly behind them.

Sam’s hands fidgeted with the straps of his bag. Bucky noticed, of course. Every little twitch, every careful avoidance of eye contact—it all fascinated him. And he knew exactly why Sam did it, even if Sam didn’t. That little edge of nerves, that awareness… Bucky thrived on it, just a little.

“So,” Bucky said casually, voice low as they headed toward the cafeteria, “how long have you been doing this thing? WGHR?” He let the silence hang just long enough to draw Sam out. “I mean, you don’t strike me as the type to do… well, anything anonymously.”

Sam hesitated, then mumbled a few words about starting it freshman year, about Joaquin, about keeping it low-key. Bucky listened, nodding, not because he cared about the details—but because Sam was talking, and that was enough.

And the truth was… Bucky already knew him. He knew him better than Sam suspected. Every late-night dedication, every soft voice on the air—it had been him, all along. Icarus. And Sam had no idea.

Bucky glanced at him, catching the faint curve of a nervous smile, and thought: yeah. That was exactly why he was here. Not the cafeteria. Not the class. Sam. Just Sam.

"Is Joaquin your boyfriend?" Bucky asked, just to see how Sam would react to such a question.

Sam’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “No! Joaquin’s like… like a brother to me. I’d never—never think about dating him.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Hmm. Not even a little?”

Sam shook his head quickly, cheeks heating. “Not even a little. I mean… it’s just not that way.”

Bucky chuckled, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the cafeteria. “Alright then,” he said smoothly, tone curious, deliberate. “So who do you see yourself dating, huh? If it’s not your so-called brother.”

Sam swallowed, fumbling with his bag strap, blinking at Bucky like he’d just been caught in a spotlight. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted softly, voice tight with hesitation. “I haven’t really thought about it. Or… maybe I have, but…” He trailed off, unsure how much to give away.

Bucky smirked, sensing the nervous tension radiating off him. "What about Natasha?" Bucky pointed to one of his friends that was making her way into study hall.

Sam’s eyes flicked to Natasha, who was walking past with her sister and friends, her laughter carrying across the room. He glanced back at Bucky, cheeks flushed, eyes darting away like he was trying to shrink into himself. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag, betraying the calm he usually tried to project.

Bucky noticed everything—the subtle bite of Sam’s lip, the nervous shift in his weight—and couldn’t help but smirk. “She your type or…?” he asked, casual but teasing. He knew Natasha; she’d been in his art workshops last semester, a hookup whenever they both grew too bored to do anything else.

Sam shook his head quickly, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “She's pretty." he muttered, voice tight. “But, no. Not my type”

Bucky chuckled softly, enjoying the way Sam’s nervous energy radiated in waves. “Ah, so she’s out. Good to know,” he said, walking a step closer. “Then… what is your type?”

Sam’s throat tightened. He fumbled with the strap of his bag, eyes flicking anywhere but Bucky’s. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low and hesitant. “I haven’t really thought about it… seriously.”

Bucky tilted his head, the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Huh. So you’re saying you’ve got no one in mind… or you’re just scared to say?”

Sam’s cheeks burned hotter. “Maybe a little of both,” he muttered, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Bucky chuckled, catching the twitch of a smile that betrayed Sam’s nerves. “Alright, I’ll take that as a challenge,” he said, stepping just a little closer, letting the teasing weight of his presence settle around Sam. “Guess we’ll see who makes the cut, huh?”

Right now, Bucky was deliberately skipping his next class, letting the empty hallway echo with his footsteps just to keep Sam in his orbit a little longer—curious, teasing, enjoying the way Sam fidgeted under his gaze.

Sam topped short of the entrance to the cafeteria, eyeing the stairs that lead down to the basement where WGHR was recorded.

“You heading down there?” Bucky asked casually, nodding toward the stairs. “Radio time?”

Sam’s cheeks warmed, and he shifted his weight awkwardly. “Yeah… just for a bit.” His voice was quiet, almost defensive, like he wasn’t used to someone noticing so much.

"Can I put a request in now?" Bucky asked.

Sam blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… sure, I guess.” His fingers twitched at his bag strap, and he quickly added, “Just… don’t expect anything fancy. It’s just a request board.”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, leaning a little closer as if the small space between them made the world shrink. “That’s fine. I like simple.”

Sam felt his chest tighten, a mix of nerves and something else he didn’t want to name. “Okay… go ahead.”

Bucky pulled out his phone, typing casually, but Sam couldn’t stop noticing the way his fingers moved, the faint crease between his brows, the way he didn’t look at Sam while doing it—and yet somehow, Sam felt every ounce of attention on him.

Then, the quietness filled the gap between them. Finally, Bucky looked up, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “Done,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Don’t make me wait to hear if you actually play it.”

Sam smiled and headed downstairs.

Sam padded down the stairs to the basement, the muffled hum of the campus building fading behind him. The familiar scent of old vinyl, electronics, and a hint of coffee filled the small WGHR booth, instantly grounding him.

He flicked on the equipment, a few songs from his morning playlist still looping softly in the background. Fingers dancing over the controls, he queued up the next track, letting the low bass settle into the room like a heartbeat.

Once the music hummed steadily, he pulled up the request board, expecting the usual flood of student notes and late-night jokes. Two new messages blinked at him.

First, the usual:

morning sunshine, anything exciting happen in class today? (song request : im on fire) - icarus

Then, the newst one that made Sam smile:

back to the old house - the smiths. see you in class wednesday, golden boy - smokingart

Sam’s stomach knotted at the coincidence—or maybe it wasn’t a coincidence at all. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard, aware of the familiar tug of excitement and nerves. The past two months had been quiet, controlled… until now.

His fingers hesitated over the play button, thumb hovering, then finally pressing it with a reluctant click. The opening chords filled the booth, warm and familiar, but Sam’s smile faltered almost immediately.

In that moment, he made a decision. Swear off Bucky Barnes. Not out of anger or dislike—he’d never truly hated him—but because Bucky was a complication he didn’t need. A distraction in the form of smirks and easy confidence, a presence that made his chest tighten without reason.

He hated how, even in the empty basement of the station, he found himself smiling to himself at thoughts of Bucky. Hated how he knew he would scan the hallway for Bucky’s familiar figure, anticipating those long walks from class like a fool.

He didn’t want Bucky. Not the free, careless Bucky who drifted through life without a care, smiling at everyone and breaking hearts with ease. He wanted this Bucky—the one who made his chest tighten, whose smirk haunted his thoughts, who had somehow wormed his way into the quiet corners of his mind.

The realization made his stomach twist with frustration. How could he crave someone so infuriating? Someone he’d sworn he’d avoid? His hands tightened around the edge of the console, nails pressing into the plastic. Anger flared, sharp and unexpected.

Without thinking, he paused the music and switched the track mid-song, replacing it with the glowing message from Icarus:

morning sunshine, anything exciting happen in class today? (song request : im on fire) - icarus

The new music cut through the tension, but Sam’s chest still burned. He scowled at the screen, telling himself it wasn’t about Bucky—it was about keeping control. Keeping himself sane. But deep down, he knew the lie wouldn’t last long.

[honeeysagee]

rainy days and you - steve rogers x reader!

summary: Your flower shop is your sanctuary. Steve finds it by accident on a rainy day. You offer him tea while he waits out the storm, and he stays.

masterlist!

You hear the bell before you see him. As always.

The low rumbles and heavy skies is normal. The storm outside had been building for the last two days, and it finally hit your small town. Yet, it was the crack of thunder that makes him duck into your shop as usual.

Steve Rogers. Tall, soaked through the shoulder of his blue hooder, eyes kind and searching like they always are when he sees you. You dodn't say anything at first - just watch the way he exhales like stepping inside your little flower shop lets him finally breathe.

The way he’s looking at you reminds you of the first day the two of you met—rain pelting the window, cold seeping into his bones, and you offering shelter without hesitation. You had barely locked the door behind the last customer when he showed up, shivering, with no umbrella and nowhere else to go.

"Sorry. It's getting bad out there."

Steve shivered underneath the heat of your shop, and you stared.

There he was—Captain America himself—soaked through his blue hoodie, the weight of everything he carried still visible behind those steady, kind eyes. You’d seen him on the news, in history books, a symbol everyone looked up to, but here he was, standing quietly in your little flower shop, like any other man caught in the rain.

“You’re…” You stammered, trying to play it cool even though your heart was pounding like crazy.

"Soaked." Steve smiles to himself as if that's how you meant to finish the sentence. He wiped his hand on his sweatshirt and finally looks up you. "Do you have a towel?"

He glanced around your shop, droplets tracing lines down his sleeves and pooling on the wooden floor. You moved quickly, grabbing a thick towel and pressing it into his hands.

“Here,” you said, voice steady though your heart raced. "Sorry, it's all I had."

He accepted the towel with a grateful nod, patting his hair and shoulders dry as best he could. The storm outside raged on, but inside, the warm light and soft scent of jasmine and roses made the world feel miles away.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low, like he was settling into a rare moment of peace. “I didn’t expect to find refuge… or such a nice shop.”

Steve blinked, genuinely surprised. His eyes widened as they swept across the shop, taking in the vibrant colors—the soft blush of peonies, the fiery reds of roses, the delicate whites of baby’s breath, and the wild greenery spilling from every vase like a quiet celebration of life. He turned his gaze back to you, and for a moment, it felt like he was seeing you as part of the bloom—like you yourself were blossoming right there amid the petals, radiant and alive.

“You make all these… every morning?” His voice was soft, tinged with awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe the quiet dedication behind such beauty.

You nodded, cheeks warming slightly. “Yeah. It’s my thing. Every day starts with fresh blooms and quiet hours arranging them just right.”

Steve’s face lit up like the first rays of dawn. “That takes so much patience. And care. I can see it in everything here.” His eyes shone with admiration, not just for the flowers, but for you—for the way you poured yourself into your work, how it seemed to give you life.

“It does,” you admitted, a small smile curling your lips. “But it’s worth it. It helps me slow down—keeps me grounded.”

Steve’s gaze lingered, thoughtful and tender. He reached out slowly to touch the edge of a petal, then looked back at you. “I could use a bit of that.”

Steve blinked, genuinely surprised. His eyes widened as they swept across the shop, taking in the vibrant colors—the soft blush of peonies, the fiery reds of roses, the delicate whites of baby’s breath, and the wild greenery spilling from every vase like a quiet celebration of life. He turned his gaze back to you, and for a moment, it felt like he was seeing you as part of the bloom—like you yourself were blossoming right there amid the petals, radiant and alive.

“You make all these… every morning?” His voice was soft, tinged with awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe the quiet dedication behind such beauty.

You nodded, cheeks warming slightly. “Yeah. It’s my thing. Every day starts with fresh blooms and quiet hours arranging them just right.”

Steve’s face lit up like the first rays of dawn. “That takes so much patience. And care. I can see it in everything here.” His eyes shone with admiration, not just for the flowers, but for you—for the way you poured yourself into your work, how it seemed to give you life.

“It does,” you admitted, a small smile curling your lips. “But it’s worth it. It helps me slow down—keeps me grounded.”

Steve’s gaze lingered, thoughtful and tender. He reached out slowly to touch the edge of a petal, then looked back at you. “I could use a bit of that.”

“Well, I am closing soon,” You said with a playful smile, “but I can make an exception for Captain America.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed a soft pink as he glanced down at the vases, then back up at you. “Oh, that’s not me anymore,” he murmured, voice gentle but tinged with something like humility. “Just a guy who got caught in the rain.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter what you call yourself. You’re still welcome here.”

He looked at you, eyes warm and a little vulnerable, as if he wasn’t used to kindness without expectation. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That means more than you know.”

The rain pattered against the windows as you moved behind the counter, preparing a small cup of tea. “Sit down. I’ll make us something warm while you dry off.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, then nodded, settling into a chair by the window. You watched him—this man who’d carried the weight of the world—and felt something fragile and hopeful bloom between you both, like the flowers surrounding you.

Steve pushes off the frame of the doorway, a familiar smile tugging at his lips as he steps inside your shop. The scent of fresh blooms wraps around him like a welcome home.

"It rains too much." Steve mumbles, settling into the chair that he bought last winter.

You smirk, wiping your hands on your apron before nodding toward the window. “April showers.”

Steve leans back, rain dripping from the hem of his jacket, but he doesn't seem to mind. He watches you for a moment, like he's still in awe that this is where he ended up—your shop, your flowers, you.

“You could’ve stayed dry at home,” You tease gently, reaching for the kettle behind the counter.

“Yeah, but home doesn’t smell like freesia and lemon balm.” His voice is soft, familiar. “And home doesn’t laugh when I track mud on the floor.”

You smile deeply, "I didn't laugh."

Steve chuckles, shrugging out of his damp jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. “You did. Right before you threatened to hose me down.”

You pour the hot water over the tea leaves, the scent mingling with the flowers until the whole shop feels warm and alive. “Still might, if you ruin my floors again.”

He watches you move—like it’s a comfort, like he’s memorized every gesture and is still hungry for more. “Worth it.”

You glance up, and he’s already looking—eyes soft, like he’s not just seeing you, but choosing you again and again in all the quiet ways that matter.

Like the way he always shows up when the clouds get too heavy. Like the way he brings your favorite pastries and pretends they were on sale. Like how he remembers the names of your plants, even the finicky ones.

He doesn't rush to speak. Just sits there, soaking you in like you're the one keeping him grounded. Like the rest of the world quiets when you're near.

And maybe he doesn't say I love you in words— but he says it in the way his shoulders relax when you hand him tea. In the way he never looks at his phone when you’re talking. In the way he listens.

Really listens.

You hand him the tea—whatever you had left in the cabinet—and curl into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before. His arms come around you without a second thought, settling at your waist, warm and steady. The tea goes untouched on the table.

"One of these days, you're going to come in when the suns out," You whisper into his shoulders, "And you're going to finally buy some flowers."

Steve rolls his eyes," Why? So, I can give them back to you. No one else is worth your beautiful creations."

You huff a quiet laugh against his collarbone, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jacket. “You’re ridiculous.”

Steve just shrugs, smug and unapologetic, his breath warming your temple. “It’s not ridiculous if it’s true.”

You pull back slightly to look at him, your nose nearly brushing his. “One day, someone’s going to walk in here and buy every bouquet I’ve got.”

“And I’ll be right behind them,” he murmurs, voice low and sure, “offering double.”

Your lips twitch, but you don’t smile—not yet. “You really think you can outbid a stranger for flowers?”

Steve leans in, brushing a kiss against your cheek, then your jaw. “Not just flowers,” he says, barely a whisper now. “You.”

[honeeysagee]

by @sambuckyfan

[honeeysagee]

the art of unraveling - sambucky college au

summary: Sam is just doing his usual college radio shift when a familiar name pops up—icarus, the mysterious listener who only ever sends flirty messages. Joaquin convinces him to hit a campus party after his shift, and that’s where Sam meets James “Bucky” Barnes, the tattooed art major with a reputation. Different worlds, same pull. Maybe icarus isn’t such a mystery after all.

Over 2.7k words

The soft glow of the 'ON AIR' sign drenched the tiny room in the perfect red. Sam Wilson leaned back in his chair, headphones on, fingers drumming lightly against the desk as he queued up the next track. A request from some engineer major trying to make it through the first week of midterms.

His voice, warm and smooth, filled the airwaves.

"And that was 'Electric Feel' for Naomi over at Hale Hall. Keep those requests coming, y'all - let's make it through another long night of midterms together."

He clicked over to the station’s request page, half-expecting the usual: song dedications he never quite made it through, stressed-out rants, or the occasional inside joke that only his most dedicated listeners would understand.

And there is was, right at the top of the queue.

you sound tired tonight. should be getting some sleep. don't let them run you ragged, sunshine. - icarus

Sam, huffing a quiet laugh, reread the message four times before he unfolded the song request. It's always the usual: 'I'm On Fire' by Bruce Springsteen.

"Before I call it a night, I have one more request," Sam smiled. "We have one more request from from a dear old friend of mine. Stay out of the sun, Icarus."

Sam leaned back in his chair as the opening chords vibrated through the small room. He wondered who Icarus really was. From this tiny booth, they were just another name on a screen—flirting from behind a keyboard, allowing Sam to be himself without the big smiles or polished answers expected of him.

Sam let the music fill the silence, feeling a strange comfort in the distance between him and Icarus—the freedom to drop the act, even if just for a little while. But the screen’s glow couldn’t replace real life, and as the last notes faded, reality crept back in.

The booth door creaked open and Joaquin popped his head inside, grinning wide. “We're done. Unless you want to go for another two hours?” he teased.

Sam and Joaquin started the campus radio station—WGHR, Wilson Golden Hour Radio—freshman year as a side project, and it quickly became their favorite late-night escape from classes and the chaos of college life. They both grew in popularity, but it was Joaquin who took to the social scene. Sam stayed the voice—the steady presence behind the mic that students tuned in to hear when everything else felt overwhelming. The contrast between them was clear: Joaquin chasing parties, connections, and late-night chaos, while Sam held the calm center, the familiar voice that grounded the campus through its highs and lows.

“WGHR can’t run itself, man.” Sam yawned, the Louisiana drawl slipping into his speech as the minutes ticked by.

Joaquin laughed, shaking his head. “Man, you sound like you need a break from all this. Come on, there’s a party at Sigma tonight. You should come.”

The lie in Sam's mind was forming quickly, but his wingman was even quicker. "No, Sammy," He wrapped his arm around Sam's neck, "If you stay in this room any longer, you're gonna turn red from the neon signs."

Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I got class tomorrow."

Not a lie.

Joaquin smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “All the more reason to loosen up tonight. One night won’t kill you. Besides, you’ve been cooped up in that booth for hours, running everyone else’s lives through a mic but never living your own.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, the weight of textbooks and assignments pressing down on him. The thought of stepping out into the chaos of a crowded party made his chest tighten—but Joaquin’s words stirred something else beneath the surface.

A flicker of rebellion. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, he deserved a night away from the pressure.

“Fine,” he said finally. “One night.”

Joaquin’s grin widened. “Hay un Dios.”

Joaquin had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sam with a plastic cup sweating in his hand and a rapidly beating heart. The music thumped around him, bass reverberating through the floor, and the flashing lights made it hard to focus.

He tried to imagine how his sister, Sarah, would react—how she’d laugh louder, dance without hesitation, and make friends in every corner. She was so much more at ease in these moments, the spark in her eyes always brighter than his own.

Sam took a slow breath, reminding himself he didn’t have to be like her. He just had to be here—present, open, willing.

But his chest tightened, a knot of nerves and anticipation twisting inside him. It was one thing to show up, another entirely to let himself be seen.

He scanned the room again, feeling the weight of the noise pressing in, when his eyes landed on someone leaning casually against the kitchen counter—tattoos trailing down one arm, dark hair tousled just right, and a smirk that seemed to challenge the chaos around him.

James “Bucky” Barnes sat only miles—or maybe inches—from Sam. He couldn’t tell. Their worlds had always seemed far apart. Sam, the golden boy, and Bucky, the… everything else.

Sam didn’t despise him. Didn’t like him either. The opinion he’d formed of Bucky from the one time they’d met was just… bland.

They first crossed paths during freshman orientation week, at the campus coffee shop that doubled as a popular hangout.

Sam was hunched over a mountain of textbooks, headphones in, trying to drown out the noise and focus on his reading. Bucky burst in late, drenched from a sudden rainstorm, shaking off water droplets and muttering under his breath.

In his rush, Bucky accidentally bumped into Sam’s table, sending a half-full coffee cup teetering dangerously close to Sam’s open notebook. Without missing a beat, Sam reached out and steadied the cup, saving his notes.

Now, Sam stared at the mess that was Bucky at the party.

Same careless charm. Same presence that drew attention without trying. But this time, he wasn’t soaked in rain—just the soft glow of party lights, leaning into the noise like he belonged there.

Bucky glanced up from his spot at the counter, catching Sam’s stare. That same smirk curved his lips, a silent acknowledgment.

Sam’s chest tightened again. Maybe bland hadn’t been the right word. Maybe he’d just wanted it to be.

He took a sip of his drink—immediately regretting it. Too sweet, too strong, too everything. With a sharp inhale, he forced it down, the burn lingering in his throat.

And before he could think twice, his brain overrode his body. His legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the back door, out of the crush of voices and heat.

The cool air hit him like a reset button.

Sam was a sophomore in college. Straight‑A student. Reliable. Predictable. The kind of guy professors trusted and classmates turned to when they needed notes. He was the golden boy everyone expected him to be.

A picture of his parents sat on his dorm room desk, a constant reminder of everything he was proving himself for. They wanted him to be better than them, to rise higher, go further—but they never gave him the instructions on how.

On his senior night of high school, he’d broken down in tears at the thought. How do you become better than the people you already put on a pedestal? How do you carry that weight without it breaking you?

He exhaled sharply, the party noise muffled behind him. For a fleeting moment, he let himself breathe, unshaped by expectation.

And then—

"Got a light?"

Sam turned, and there was Bucky, stepping into the night with that same easy smirk he always seemed to carry. A cigarette hung from his lips in the most careless manner possible, like it was just another accessory to his effortless cool.

Sam felt a flicker of jealousy—of how Bucky moved through the world like it belonged to him, no weight, no hesitation.

“I don’t smoke,” Sam whispered softly.

Bucky shrugged, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers. “Didn’t ask if you did. Just figured you might have a light.”

Sam shook his head. “Sorry. No.”

Bucky tilted his head backwards, then dipped it forward again, patting down his pockets in search of a lighter. When he came up short, he slipped the cigarette back into its box with an easy motion and leaned against the railing beside Sam.

The quiet felt eerily comforting compared to the music that vibrated the deck beneath their feet. For a moment, they just stood there, two very different worlds sharing the same pause.

Bucky glanced sideways, his smirk softening just slightly. “You don’t look like you wanna be here.”

Sam let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “What gave it away?”

“The way you’re holding that cup like it’s a shield,” Bucky said, nodding toward Sam’s hand. “And the fact that you’re out here instead of in there.”

Sam looked down at the cup, realizing he was gripping it too tight. “Yeah, well… parties aren’t really my thing.”

"Mine neither."

Sam turned to study him, surprised by the hint of honesty in Bucky’s tone.

“I know you,” Bucky said after a beat. “You’re the voice on WGHR, right? The one who plays Springsteen for that Icarus guy.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard. “You listen to the station?”

Bucky looked genuinely offended, his brows pulling together. “Who doesn’t?”

Sam blinked, a small laugh slipping out despite himself. “Didn’t exactly have you pegged as a late-night radio guy.”

Bucky tilted his head, smirk softening just a little. “Guess you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I knew you at all.”

“Fair,” Bucky said, glancing back toward the party before returning his gaze to Sam. “But yeah, I listen. Your voice makes the night feel… quieter. Easier.”

That admission sat between them for a beat, heavier than the casual tone Bucky tried to carry.

"You sure you don't have a light?" Bucky asked again.

"Still no."

Bucky shrugged and flicked his cigarette back inside his mouth with a casual flick of his wrist. “Then I better head back to the party. Don’t want to miss all the fun.”

He started to turn away, but then paused, the corner of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes locking onto Sam’s with a sharp, deliberate gaze.

“By the way,” he said, voice low enough to pull Sam closer despite the space between them, “I’m Bucky.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the moment. The name hit him like a quiet thunder—unexpected, electric. Without thinking, Sam blurted out, “I know.”

Immediately, regret flickered across his face. Why’d he say it so plainly? Was he overstepping?

But Bucky’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, it softened, warmth flooding his gaze. There was something genuine there—an unspoken understanding that made the air between them pulse with possibility.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Bucky said, stepping just a fraction closer. His voice was smooth, confident, but carried a softness that unsettled and intrigued all at once. Sam’s heart hammered, a strange mix of nervous excitement and something deeper stirring in his chest.

He never said his name on the radio. No one cared to ask—it was just the soft voice behind the speakers. So to hear Bucky say it aloud made Sam’s chest tighten, as if it held the weight of every secret he’d never spoken.

That’s completely normal, right?

Bucky turned and melted back into the chaotic glow of the party, but the weight of his words lingered—wrapping around Sam like both a promise and a question.

“And that was ‘Iris’ by The Goo Goo Dolls,” Sam said, playing a hand-clapping sound effect. He adjusted the microphone with such ease you’d never guess he was shaking from anticipation.

Sam took a deep breath, the familiar buzz of the station calming his nerves just enough. Tonight was different, though. The memory of Bucky’s smirk lingered in his mind, making the usual late-night routine feel charged with possibility.

It had been two days. Yet, the affect stayed on him. He hated it. Enjoyed it. Wanted to understand why he couldn't get that damn smile out of his brain.

“Before I start the next track up, I want to go ahead and read some of you guys’ notes.”

Sam’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, then slowly began scrolling through the messages.

“Bob from Willmore Hall says consider joining the Thunderbolts—a small but mighty soccer team. They just need one more player.”

He chuckled, voice softening. “With a small p.s. saying, ‘please, we’re desperate.’”

Another message popped up: “From Steve R. on the debate team — hear it for our hometown heroes, the Avengers! Last night’s football game was our best yet.”

Sam winced, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, Steve, we’re still 1-4. But hey, there’s always room for a comeback.”

The chat lit up with jokes and encouragement, but Sam’s mind wandered, the buzz of the station mixing with a persistent thought of Bucky’s smirk.

Then, a small alert that seem to light up the whole room.

Sam read it out loud -

how was your party? - icarus

A genuine smile spread across Sam’s face. He’d mentioned earlier that he’d been to a party, but he’d never expected anyone to actually care. For a moment, the distance between the mystery of Icarus and the real world felt a little smaller—like maybe someone was paying attention.

Sam hesitated, then smiled softly. “Party was… chaotic,” he said into the mic, voice quieter than usual. “Not really my scene, but I survived.”

He glanced around the empty booth, the silence feeling less heavy somehow.

Almost immediately, his screen lit up with a new message:

don't tell me you nursed your drink all night - icarus

Sam chuckled quietly, the warmth in his voice coming through the mic.

“Guilty,” he admitted. “It was mostly me holding onto that cup like a lifeline.”

Almost instantly, the screen lit up with a new message from Icarus:

funny. I don't think I know you well enough to assume you were just standing on the balcony clutching your drink - icarus

Sam smirked, shaking his head. “Maybe not,” he said softly, voice steady. “But you’ve been around since the beginning of the show. You know me more than I know you.”

He let the moment hang there, brushing off the flirty undertone. Another message didn't come through.

Sam queued up another song.

Sam clicked play on the next track, the soft notes filling the booth as he leaned back in his chair. The silence from the chat felt heavier now, the usual stream of messages paused, leaving a quiet space that made his thoughts louder.

His eyes flicked to the glowing screen, half expecting another message from Icarus, but none came. Instead, he found himself tracing the faint outline of a smile lingering in his mind—the one Bucky had worn that night.

He laid his head againts the computer desk, not worrying about whatever played next. He had selected the perfect nighttime playlist. He slowly drifted off until a well-deserved sleep.

On the screen, just above his head and out of sight, another message popped up.

still don't have a light huh? - icarus

Then, just as fast as it was made, the message was deleted.

masterlist!

[honeeysagee]

​the art of unraveling- sambucky college au

Sam Wilson has always played it safe—top grades, college radio shifts, and keeping his family proud. He’s heard the whispers about James “Bucky” Barnes, the tattooed art major who’s as reckless as he is talented, but their worlds never collided. That changes when Sam’s best friend Joaquin drags him to a campus party, where the music is loud, the air is hazy, and Bucky is impossible to ignore.

One night turns into late-night conversations, art class critiques, and an unexpected pull Sam can’t explain. Bucky challenges everything Sam thought he knew about himself—about what he wants, about who he’s allowed to be. And as their lives start to intertwine, Sam realizes that sometimes the only way to hold it together… is to unravel.

Part One

Part Two

[honeeysagee]

tease me, baby - sam x reader

summary: someone flirts with you at a gala and sam tries to play it cool… until he can’t. jealousy, tension, and a very public reminder of who you belong to.

masterlist!

warnings: sam being hella possessive, mild language, light manhandling (in a hot way), public tension, soft dominance, suggestive undertones, lingering touches, soft but territorial vibes, explicit language, reader like getting sam jealous, so plainly flirting back

Sam Wilson bought the dress.

Not just any dress—the kind that made the whole room stop for a half second when you walked in. He picked the color, the cut, even hired a team to help with your hair and makeup, though he secretly loved the way you looked when it was just you, a mirror, and a little lip gloss.

But tonight wasn’t just any night. Tonight he wanted you to look like you stepped straight out of a dream. Like the angel you were—his angel.

The dress, the makeup, the smile - all that belonged to him.

He even fucked you twice in the dress so make sure you knew it too.

So, why was he staring at you and some strange man like he was two seconds away from forgetting the suit, the title, the setting—everything—and crossing the room?

You were barely listening to the conversation, nodding at the right moments, smiling just enough to keep it polite. The man’s voice was all static—background noise against the heavy, steady beat of something else entirely.

Because you could feel it.

Across the room, you felt Sam’s gaze like heat on your skin. You didn’t have to look to know his eyes were locked on you, dark and sharp, watching every inch of the scene unfold.

Your plan was working perfectly.

You shifted your weight slightly, your hand brushing the delicate fabric of the dress—his choice. His gift. His claim.

And still, the stranger kept talking. Kept leaning closer. Kept smiling like he didn’t realize he was already standing on dangerous ground.

Sam moved.

Slow at first, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like he wasn’t a second away from staking his territory in front of the whole damn gala.

The stranger smiled, tilting his glass toward you.

“So, what’s your secret?” he asked smoothly. “You’ve got every eye in this place on you. I’m starting to think you planned it.”

You definetly planned something. You almost felt guilty for getting him involved in you and Sam's game, but then again, he willing came up to you. There was no invite.

You gave him a polite smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “No secret. Just showing up.” You slipped your wine glass, glancing upward at Sam, who was stopped by some congressman. Perfect.

He chuckled, clearly taking that as an invitation to linger. “Well, showing up looks damn good on you. Let me guess—you’re not from around here? You’ve got that… unattainable thing going on.”

His hand brushed your elbow again, casual but deliberate. He was close enough now that you caught a faint whiff of his cologne, sharp and unfamiliar.

“I’m local enough,” you said, voice even, though your mind was elsewhere—on the prickle at the back of your neck, the familiar burn of a stare that never really let you go. You placed a hand on his arm and giggled. Just enough, so when you looked up again, you could see the steam leave Sam's ears.

Across the room, Sam was still nodding politely at the congressman, but his jaw had locked tight. One twitch in the corner of his mouth. One subtle shift in his stance. That was all it took for you to know—

You had him.

The stranger, oblivious, leaned in closer. “If you’re local, then maybe you could show me around sometime. I’ve got a hotel not far from here. We could keep the tour… private.”

You laughed again, softer this time. Sweet and dangerous.

Sam moved.

No more small talk, no more waiting. He excused himself without a glance back, steps slow but heavy with intent—like the floor should be grateful he wasn’t running.

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle hush in the air, the way people unconsciously moved aside. Sam was coming. Not rushed, not frantic. Just deliberate. Heavy. Like a storm rolling in slow enough for everyone to feel it but too strong to stop.

The congressman who’d cornered him earlier stammered to a halt as Sam stepped away without a word, his eyes locked on one thing.

You.

And the man touching you.

The man still hadn’t noticed. Too busy basking in the illusion of your attention, his hand now resting just a little too confidently on your waist.

“Think I’d need a reservation for that tour?” he asked, all teeth and charm and absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

You tilted your head, eyes locking on Sam over the man’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling like sin. “You’re about to lose your spot.”

You held his gaze for a beat too long, let your fingers trail lightly down his sleeve as you took another sip of wine—drawing out the moment, giving Sam time to watch. To feel it.

By the time you set your glass down, Sam was there.

Close.

“Move,” he said quietly, the word smooth but carrying a weight that made the stranger finally blink, finally glance up—right into Sam’s stare.

The man froze, the easy smile faltering. He glanced at you. The perfect smile that seemed to grow wider as you stared Sam up and down.

Sam still didn’t spare the man more than a glance. His attention was all on you—on the tilt of your head, the amused glint in your eyes, the way you were clearly enjoying yourself a little too much.

“Baby,” Sam murmured, voice low, slow, a warning wrapped in velvet. “You havin’ fun?”

You let the question hang there for a moment, savoring the way it curled around the edges of the room. Then, with the faintest shrug, you leaned back just enough to look at the stranger again.

“Yes,” you said sweetly, though your gaze slid right back to Sam like it was pulled by gravity. "With my friend..."

You didn't even look the strangers way. The man shifted awkwardly, finally catching on, but Sam didn’t give him the chance to retreat gracefully. His hand slid fully around your waist now, fingers splaying across the silk of the dress he bought, the message clear.

"Max," He smiled and offered his hand to shake, but Sam put himself on a pedastal - just underneath the one he put you on and worshipped - so he didn't shake Max's hand.

“Max,” the man repeated, his hand hovering awkwardly in the space between them. He hesitated, then let it drop when Sam didn’t move.

Sam’s smile was calm. Polite. But it didn’t reach his eyes. Not even close.

“Good for you,” Sam said evenly, his tone holding just enough weight to make Max shift back half a step. Then, just as smoothly, Sam’s attention returned to you—like Max didn’t exist, like he was already a forgotten blip in the room.

His thumb brushed your waist, slow and deliberate, a silent reminder. “We’re leavin’ soon,” he murmured to you, low enough that Max couldn’t hear.

You tilted your head, a little smirk teasing your lips. “We just got here.”

Sam’s gaze darkened, heat and patience burning in the same look. “And you’ve made your point.”

Max cleared his throat, finally realizing he was standing in the middle of something he didn’t want any part of. “Well… it was nice meeting you.” He gave you one last glance before slipping away into the crowd, disappearing like he’d never been there.

Sam watched him go for a half-second, then leaned down to your ear, his voice a quiet, controlled promise.

“You really want to test me tonight, huh? Talking to Mack and touching him?”

"His name is Max, and he was really sweet." You've already forgotten every detail that he half whispered-half yelled into your ear.

Sam huffed out a humorless laugh, low and sharp, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Sweet,” he repeated, the word tasting bitter and foreign, like it didn’t belong anywhere near you. His hand slid lower on your waist, firm and possessive, the pressure grounding you as if anchoring you to a claim no one else could challenge. “I’m going to make sure you forget that fucking name.”

You shifted just enough to catch that glint in his eyes—sharp, dark, like a warning wrapped in silk. Your voice dropped to a soft tease, smooth and deliberate. “You’re overreacting.”

Sam tilted his head, the slow curve of a dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes narrowing with quiet confidence. “Am I?”

His fingers flexed against the delicate silk of your dress, tracing invisible patterns as he pulled you flush against him. The heat of his body pressed into yours, deliberate and unyielding, like a silent promise that whatever game was being played, he always held the winning hand.

You imagine him dragging you into the bathroom, his hands immediately fisting in your hair, lips crashing hard against yours. The heat of his body pressing you against cold tile, fingers sliding beneath your dress to claim your skin. Or the back seat of his truck—dark, cramped, but perfect—where he’s all teeth and breath, pushing you into the seat, hips grinding, hands everywhere, needing to feel you tight and ready. The air thick with desire, every touch sparking fire, every gasp stolen between heated kisses. You can almost feel him—hungry, relentless, wanting you like he always does.

Sam saw it in your eyes— that sharp, calculating gleam. The way you traced the night’s possibilities like a map only you could read, planning every move, every glance, every touch to tilt the game in your favor.

His smirk deepened, knowing you weren’t just playing— you were owning the whole damn board. And he was ready to be your most dangerous piece.

Without a word, Sam’s hand found yours, fingers curling tight around yours like a claim. The air between you shifted, thick and electric.

He pulled you toward the exit with a purposeful grip, his pace quick but controlled—no room for hesitation, no time for distractions. Guests blurred past, music and chatter fading behind you as the cold night air hit your skin.

Sam didn’t look back. He only focused on you—on the way your body responded to being pulled close, the way your breath hitched just from his touch.

“No more games,” he murmured against your ear as he practically dragged you out of the party, “Tonight’s mine.”

[honeeysagee]

sneaking off at a gala but make it yuri

[honeeysagee]

ᴛɪᴍᴇᴏᴜᴛ!

summary: working on seperate teams, but crossing paths, breathing the same oxygen - sam and bucky just can't seem to escape each other. suddenly, it blows up in their face.

warnings: divorced!sambucky, spoliers to thunderbolts, petty sam - pettier bucky, yelena, bob, joaquin, and carol watching these idiots fight, bucky throwing sam's tramua in his face, sam throwing hands, and then it gets eally angsty towards the end - sorry!

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

Sam Wilson didn’t notice the temperature shift. Didn’t notice the silent questions Joaquin threw his way with just a look. Didn’t notice the way Carol smirked and cleared her throat like she’d just walked into something she wasn’t supposed to see.

Well, Sam did notice.

He just didn't want to admit it.

Because admitting it meant acknowledging the distance that he placed between the two of them or how the weight of a single stare ran chills up and down his back until he shivered from the mere thought of what flesh and metal felt like on his skin again.

A deep sigh pulled from his nostils, breathing the exact smell of something lost.

"Barnes," Carol tested the waters, as if she was waiting for Sam to suddenly combust to the name. She had joked that their reunion would be known as Sam's Finest Hour, but she had no idea in that moment how right she would be. Because even though Sam kept his face straight—no crack in his armor, no flicker of anything but calm—his mind was sprinting. Every question, every possibility, every why now? clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Bucky Barnes did notice the temperature shift. How every eye in the room seem to dance between him and Sam. Yelena's smirk. Bob's raised brow. The silence that stretched between all of them just a second too long.

He stole a glance at his -

No.

At Sam.

Sam, who was standing arms crossed with an unreadable expression as if nothing in the world could shake him. Like Bucky hadn't just walked in and cracked something open both had been tiptoeing around for months.

Bucky forced his gaze away, jaw tightening. He'd told himself that when the time came, he would explain why he left. How he got caught up in this mess of New Avengers, but there he was, thinking Sam didn't deserve his explanation.

"Danvers." He finally answered back.

“Now that we’re all together,” Yelena said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk, “we can talk about Avengers and New Avengers.”

Her tone was too casual, too knowing.

Sam’s jaw flexed. Bucky didn’t look at him.

"It's a stupid name, in my opinion," Joaquin said, plainly, "Anything else would have been better."

Bob chimed in, "We were the Thunderbolts. Named after Yelena's soccer team, but Val had other ideas."

Yelena shrugged like she couldn’t care less. “Thunderbolts was better. At least it didn’t sound like a bad sequel.”

Carol’s lips twitched, holding back a laugh. “Well, branding isn’t exactly our strongest suit.”

The room filled with the kind of easy banter that should’ve broken the tension. But it didn’t. Not for Sam. Not for Bucky.

Because every word, every offhand comment, was just noise against the weight of what neither of them was saying.

Bucky tried to ignore that he’d chosen to stand closer to Sam than anyone else in the room—so close that if he wanted to, he could reach out and touch him.

Just once.

Just to know what it felt like to be touched by something good.

Sam snapped, "There's only one Avengers team. Hate to be that person, but you guys aren't Avengers," He wanted to glance at Bucky, but he need better. "You're knock off anti-heroes, trying to finally do something good with all the bad you've done - with the government funding your little adventures."

The room went dead silent, the kind of silence that feels thick enough to swallow whole.

Everyone was watching. Waiting.

Yelena was the first to break it, her smirk widening as she leaned back in her chair, unbothered.

“Ouch,” she said, voice dripping with amused sarcasm. “That hurt, Sam.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp, like she was daring him to say more.

Bucky huffed. Every gaze landed on him. He stood tall and rolled his eyes, "Like Bob said, Val threw this on us. What were we to do?"

There was an edge to Bucky’s voice—rough around the edges, a brittle blend of defensiveness and challenge that wasn’t quite a dare but almost. Like he was standing on the thin line between frustration and something deeper, something raw and barely contained.

The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier. Every person caught in the space between them fell silent, their breaths nearly held as if waiting for a fuse to ignite. Time stretched, slow and suffocating, as Sam’s eyes locked with Bucky’s.

Sam’s gaze was steady but weighed down—like he was trying to hold back a storm that had been brewing for years. There was an entire history written in that look: betrayals, regrets, moments stolen and lost.

Finally, Sam spoke, "I don't know, James. Something other than agree to this shit. Maybe, run. That's what you're good at." The words hung between them, raw and unapologetic.

Bucky recoiled at his name - nostrils flaring. "Sorry, we can't all be Mr. Perfect, Samuel. Staying when the party's over because you don't know to let go."

Sam’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of irritation barely contained.

"Well, at least Mr. Perfect doesn't have the government playing puppet with him and his team." Sam smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes like normal.

Bucky smirked, the tiniest spark of mischief flashing in his eyes. “Oh, please. Like you’re some kind of saint. You think your little team’s any better than us? At least I don’t have to babysit a bunch of rookies.”

"Rookies?" Joaquin asked quietly. Carol rubbed his arm with a face saying - sorry, you had to hear thatm, but it's true.

Bucky took a slow step closer, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Shuri, Riri, Elijah - those are kids. You're not building the Avengers. You're making a daycare.”

Sam's jaw clenched, "You're the one to talk about age."

“Funny coming from someone who’s been acting like a kid since we met.” He took a slow step closer, voice dropping to a teasing drawl. “Still got a lot to learn, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes flashed, but he held his ground, voice steady. “Maybe. But at least I’m still here, trying.”

The room held its breath again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Bucky’s gaze flickered, sharp and calculating. “Trying doesn’t mean anything.”

"Oh, we know." Sam was closer to Bucky now. They were practically toe to toe. "You don't try at all, do you? You run when things are too hard. You give up and leave in the middle of the night without a call or text or whatever the fuck you think I didn't need." Sam's accent was starting to slip out.

This was getting personal now. Avengers and New Avengers were suddenly sidelines, and the group was watching a house being set on fire.

"I'm sorry I activated your abandoment issues. Grow up." Bucky’s jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides. His voice was low, but every word dripped with bitter resentment. He stepped closer. They were definetly toe to toe now.

"Okay, maybe we should take a step back and some deep breaths." Bob offered.

"Shut up!" Sam and Bucky shouted in unison while staring each other down.

"Or, we can not listen to me. I'm down for either." Bob eased back in his seat, hands raised in mock surrender, while the room sat frozen between the storm and the calm before it.

"What the hell did you say to me?" Sam whispered, yet he didn't need Bucky to repeat it. They both remember nights were Sam crawled into Bucky's bed, whispering his fears of being alone. Of waking up and finding the people he cared about gone. Of carrying the weight of that loneliness with no one to catch him.

How he clinged to this thing - whatevr it was - that him and Bucky shared. The need to have each other around no matter what.

Sam had to learn how to be alone - alone. He wanted Bucky, and he wasn't there.

"You heard me."

Bucky whispered back, voice low but heavy with something Sam hadn’t expected—raw, guarded vulnerability.

Inside, a storm raged. Shame twisted in his gut, clawing at him.

He hated how true Sam’s words felt. The nights he’d left, the silence he’d kept—all of it a defense, a way to protect himself from his own fears. But now, standing here, so close, all those walls felt fragile, cracking under the weight of years and regrets.

He wanted to say more, to reach out, to fix what had broken. But the words stuck, tangled in the space between them. Bucky’s eyes flickered—pain, guilt, and something like longing—all hiding behind that hard edge.

Yet, none of that mattered the moment Sam lunged at Bucky, fists flying with blind, burning anger.

Bucky dodged instinctively, moving with the grace and precision of years in the field, weaving away from Sam’s wild punches.

Sam wasn’t thinking—just furious, every hit a release of pain he’d been holding in too long.

He landed a couple of solid blows, gritting his teeth as Bucky staggered back briefly. Bucky didn’t hold back either. He returned fire with quick, controlled strikes, landing a few hits that made Sam wince.

The room erupted into chaos.

Yelena was the first to leap forward, voice sharp as she shouted, "Okay! What the hell?!”

Carol was right behind her, rushing in to grab Sam’s arm, her face tight with concern. “Sam, we promised no fighting!”

Joaquin and Bob hung back, watching the scene unfold, their expressions a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement.

Bob crossed his arms, nodding slightly. “They're pulling their punches.” Joaquin smirked, eyes following the flurry of jabs. “Still got some good moves, though. Sam’s got heart, but Bucky’s got the experience.”

Meanwhile, the girls worked together to physically pull the two apart, their strength and urgency forcing Sam and Bucky to slow, their anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Timeout for the both of you," Yelena's yells. Sam froze, meeting her sharp glare and—just for a fleeting second—he saw Natasha in her eyes. That same unwavering steel, that same don’t test me authority.

The heat of the moment was still in the room. Bucky meet Sam's eyes. For a moment, he almost apologized.

Almost.

Then his lips curled into the faintest, cruelest smirk. “Walker hit harder than you do.”

Sam’s face went blank for half a second—then fury lit behind his eyes as he lunged at Bucky again without hesitation.

Carol cursed under her breath. Yelena groaned. Bob muttered, “Should’ve seen that coming,” while Joaquin sighed, “Yeah, round two.”

And just like that, chaos erupted all over again.

The room was quiet now.

Sam and Bucky sat on opposite sides, bruised and scratched, each holding an ice pack against the damage they’d left on each other.

Outside the door, their teammates’ muffled voices drifted in—Carol, Yelena, Joaquin, and Bob debating in low tones about what to do with the two of them.

But inside, it was just silence.

Bucky stared at the floor, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was even breathing.

Sam leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, ice pack pressed to a swelling bruise on his cheek.

Neither spoke.

Bucky shifted slightly in his seat, wincing when the ice touched a tender spot on his ribs. His eyes flickered toward Sam for just a moment—quick enough to go unnoticed, or at least he hoped it would.

Sam sat still, arms crossed loosely over his chest, ice pack balanced against his cheekbone. He didn’t look at Bucky. Not yet.

Outside the door, the muffled voices rose for a moment—Yelena’s sharp tone cutting through, followed by Carol’s calm, measured response. Then, footsteps faded, leaving just the two of them with the quiet hum of the room.

Bucky exhaled slowly.

Sam’s jaw flexed, like he was chewing on words he couldn’t bring himself to spit out.

Finally, Bucky muttered, almost too low to hear, “Sorry about what I said.”

Sam didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just kept staring at the floor.

After a beat, he replied, voice low but steady. “About me punching like Walker, or running a daycare, or the Mr. Perfect thing, or the abandoment issues?”

His tone wasn’t angry anymore. It was quieter, flatter. Like the fight had burned out the fire and left only the hurt behind.

Bucky’s grip on the ice pack tightened.

Yeah… he’d been harsh. Too harsh. Every word meant to push Sam away had landed exactly where he didn’t want it to—straight in the places he knew would hurt the most.

For a second, Bucky wanted to defend himself. Say it was just the heat of the moment. Say Sam hit first.

But the excuses felt empty in his throat.

“…All of it,” Bucky muttered finally. His voice was rough, edged with something that sounded almost like regret.

Sam slowly lifted his gaze, finally meeting Bucky’s eyes. He expected anger to rise again, that familiar spark that always came with their arguments. But it didn’t.

What he felt was heavier.

It was that hollow ache he knew too well. The same ache from the nights he’d whispered his fears in the dark, hoping Bucky understood without him having to explain it. The same ache from the morning he woke up and Bucky was gone.

And now here he was—bruised, sore, and still wondering why he cared so damn much.

Sam pressed the ice pack harder to his cheek, like it could numb the sting that wasn’t physical.

Bucky shifted, looking uncomfortable, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. “I was—” He hesitated, then let out a short, tired breath. “I was being an ass. I know. I just… didn’t know what else to do.”

Sam stared at him, searching his face for anything real.

And what he found wasn’t anger. It was regret.

It almost made him feel worse.

“Yeah,” Sam finally said quietly. “And you still went for it.”

And the words hurt to say, because even after everything, part of him still wanted Bucky to choose better.

Sam shifted the ice pack, letting it rest in his lap. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor before lifting his eyes back to Bucky.

“Why’d you leave?”

Bucky froze.

Sam’s voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t demanding. It was quieter than that, steadier. And somehow that made it worse.

“Don’t give me some half-ass answer, either,” Sam continued, his tone calm but heavy. “Don’t say it was easier. Don’t say you didn’t owe me anything. You were there. You… were there, Buck.”

His chest felt tight, the words scraping against the knot in his throat.

“You don’t get to just disappear and then stand here acting like I’m the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Bucky’s hands tightened around the melting ice pack. He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching like he was holding something back.

Sam continued, "Dinners in Louisiana. Date nights in New York. That was us. I saw you on the news, parading around your political career, and I was happy for you. Then, you don't text. Don't show up anymore. You came and went. For 2 months, I watched you through a TV because you couldn't face me, and I was tired of being understanding. I finally thought I was someone's end goal. Not another phase to get through."

“You were always my end goal,” he said quietly, voice thick with something like regret. “No matter where I went, no matter how far I got roped into other shit… you were the person I wanted to come back to at the end of the day.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, tension visible in his shoulders.

“But then… The Void happened. Bob got involved. Val forced us to say we were the New Avengers. I didn’t want to join. Hell, I didn’t want any of it.”

His gaze dropped again, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was in my Shame Room, and I relived every mission. Every day and night I hurt someone. Then, I came out and realized how much I wanted to change. How much I still had to change. Then, I saved somebody. People clapped for me when I saved someone. You know what that’s like. I didn’t then, but now, I do.”

He paused, swallowing hard, struggling with the vulnerability in his own words. “I thought if I lost that feeling, I’d lose myself. And maybe… I was scared I’d lose you too.”

Sam listened, the fight draining out of him but the hurt still burning beneath his skin.

He understood. Hell, he really understood. Bucky’s fear, his struggle to hold onto something real in the chaos—it wasn’t easy.

But understanding didn’t erase the sting.

Sam’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering away as the weight of everything crashed down on him.

“I get it, Buck,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I get the fear. The guilt. The shame. The pride of being someone's hero. Saving a life. Feeling wanted.”

He ran a hand over his bruised cheek, fingers trembling just slightly.

“But I’m tired. Tired of being the one who always understands. The one who holds it all together when you walk away. I don’t know where to put this hurt anymore.”

His gaze snapped back to Bucky, sharp and raw. “I just wanted you.”

The silence that followed was thick—full of the kind of truth that wasn’t easy to say but had to be heard.

Bucky stood slowly, wincing when his back popped sharply. He stumbled a little but caught himself, then took a few careful steps over to Sam.

Without a word, he sat down beside him, shoulder nearly brushing Sam’s. He rested his head against the cold wall, eyes closing for a moment as if to steady himself.

Sam breathed in.

He didn’t move, but the warmth of Bucky’s shoulder so close was something his body remembered—something his heart had been aching for without admitting it.

Neither said a word. The silence between them shifted, no longer heavy with pain but fragile with a quiet understanding.

Sam’s hand twitched, hovering just inches from Bucky’s, but he didn’t reach out. Not yet.

This closness, whether Sam wanted to admit it or not, was Bucky's apology. Sam could feel the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s breath against the wall, the subtle warmth of his presence seeping through the space between them. He wasn't ready for the apology yet, but this was a start.

The two of them sat like that—silent, bruised, and broken—but together in the quiet.

[honeeysagee]

bucky in love headcannons

a/n: i'm so madly and completely in love with bucky, so this is what i think would be like to be loved by him. if you disagree with these, boohoo!

silent but deadly romantic

he's not going to say I love you constantly, but he shows it. "Do you need something, baby?" Even if you say no, he's going to bring you something. A favorite snack. Fixes the loose door you barely noticed. Eyeing the person that gives you trouble at work.

physical touch turns him into putty

He's so touch-straved, so once you inititiate affection, he clings. Arm wrapped aorund your waist. Kisses on the side of your neck. Fingers laced together under the table. Constantly pulling your back to his chest if you stray a little to far.

extremely territorial over chores

You try to do the dishes after cooking, but he's eyeing you so bad. "You cooked. Go rest." You try to vacuum, and he already beat you to it. Not that he thinks he can do it better - never. He just wants to feel useful in the home he shares with you.

you hung the moon

You could be doing something so mundane - folding towels, brushing your teeth, laughing at some stupid tiktok - and he'll stop whatever he's doing to watch you with this soft, stunned look. like he st can't believe you let him stay.

gaslighter

You wake up freezing and he’s cocooned like a burrito? “That’s weird,” he mumbles, clearly sweating. “Must be the draft.”

you don’t notice his haircut

It’s a half-centimeter trim. You blink and suddenly he's quiet, eating cereal angrily, whispering “new hair, new me, same neglect.”

gets jealous, but doesn’t know what to do about it

He’ll just stand there glaring at whoever’s making you laugh a little too hard, arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s trying to kill them with eye contact alone.

grumpy little observations

“That guy’s voice is annoying.” Translation: “Don’t talk to him, talk to me.” “You left your sweater again.” Translation: “It smells like you and I’m keeping it forever.”

overwhelmed by happiness sometimes

He’ll be brushing his teeth or tying his boots, and it’ll hit him—he’s loved. He’s safe.

never thinks he deserves you—but he protects you like he does

Doesn’t care if it’s something small or world-ending. If you’re stressed, he’s fixing it. If you’re in danger, he’s between you and the threat before anyone blinks.

[honeeysagee]

[honeeysagee]

she gets it from her dads

[honeeysagee]

bucky in love headcannons

a/n: i'm so madly and completely in love with bucky, so this is what i think would be like to be loved by him. if you disagree with these, boohoo!

silent but deadly romantic

he's not going to say I love you constantly, but he shows it. "Do you need something, baby?" Even if you say no, he's going to bring you something. A favorite snack. Fixes the loose door you barely noticed. Eyeing the person that gives you trouble at work.

physical touch turns him into putty

He's so touch-straved, so once you inititiate affection, he clings. Arm wrapped aorund your waist. Kisses on the side of your neck. Fingers laced together under the table. Constantly pulling your back to his chest if you stray a little to far.

extremely territorial over chores

You try to do the dishes after cooking, but he's eyeing you so bad. "You cooked. Go rest." You try to vacuum, and he already beat you to it. Not that he thinks he can do it better - never. He just wants to feel useful in the home he shares with you.

you hung the moon

You could be doing something so mundane - folding towels, brushing your teeth, laughing at some stupid tiktok - and he'll stop whatever he's doing to watch you with this soft, stunned look. like he st can't believe you let him stay.

gaslighter

You wake up freezing and he’s cocooned like a burrito? “That’s weird,” he mumbles, clearly sweating. “Must be the draft.”

you don’t notice his haircut

It’s a half-centimeter trim. You blink and suddenly he's quiet, eating cereal angrily, whispering “new hair, new me, same neglect.”

gets jealous, but doesn’t know what to do about it

He’ll just stand there glaring at whoever’s making you laugh a little too hard, arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s trying to kill them with eye contact alone.

grumpy little observations

“That guy’s voice is annoying.” Translation: “Don’t talk to him, talk to me.” “You left your sweater again.” Translation: “It smells like you and I’m keeping it forever.”

overwhelmed by happiness sometimes

He’ll be brushing his teeth or tying his boots, and it’ll hit him—he’s loved. He’s safe.

never thinks he deserves you—but he protects you like he does

Doesn’t care if it’s something small or world-ending. If you’re stressed, he’s fixing it. If you’re in danger, he’s between you and the threat before anyone blinks.

[honeeysagee]

This is more Bucky coded, but it could easily work for either of them

[honeeysagee]

worst places to go - sambucky

a little sambucky drabble <3 warning: emotionally messy, stubborn bucky, distracted sam, my little idiots being just that

masterlist

summary: Bucky needs a place to hide out, and the only number he knows by heart is Sam’s. Okay, that’s a lie—but he needs his Sam right now. Sam see's they as his boyfriend coming to visit. Bucky don't know they're dating though.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sam was too busy trying to get a rusty nail out of the side of the boat before he felt the presence of someone else.

He didn’t look up right away—just grunted, yanked the nail free, and tossed it into the old coffee can clinking with metal.

“Didn’t hear you pull up,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants. “Unless you figured out how to teleport.”

Only then did he glance over his shoulder.

Bucky stood at the edge of the dock, duffel bag over one shoulder, hair pulled back, jaw set in that something’s-wrong-but-I-won’t-say-it kind of way.

“I need a place to stay,” Bucky said, voice low and even.

Sam straightened, brushing dust off his pants. The sun caught on the water behind Bucky, casting everything in gold.

“…You picked the boat?”

Bucky shrugged. “There’s worse places to go.”

Sam blinked. Then looked at the boat—warped wood, chipped paint, a motor that coughed like it had bronchitis—and then back at Bucky.

“You serious?”

“Dead.”

Sam sighed, already sensing the headache forming. “I got a perfectly good house two miles that way.”

Bucky dropped his bag on the deck with a thud. “Yeah, but the boat’s got you on it.”

Sam rolled his eyes, moved over on the bench, and patted the empty space beside him. Bucky took it without hesitation, settling in like this was normal. Like it was something they always did.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning came slow and quiet, all filtered sunlight and creaking wood. The boat swayed gently, just enough to remind Bucky he wasn’t on solid ground—but he didn’t mind. The rocking had lulled him to sleep, and now, curled beneath a too-small blanket, it kept him there, still and heavy-eyed.

He barely stirred when Sam knocked once on the doorframe and leaned in.

“Mornin’,” Sam said, voice low like he didn’t want to break the peace. “You decent?”

Bucky grunted, burying half his face into the pillow. “Unfortunately.”

Sam chuckled and stepped inside, a coffee mug in one hand, toolbox in the other.

“I’m headin’ out tomorrow,” he said casually, like it didn’t mean anything. “Supply run in town. Then, a little meeting with Joaquin. I'll be gone for a while.”

That got Bucky’s eyes open.

“Gone?”

“Mmhm. Gotta see about parts for the motor and, you know… wood that doesn’t crumble when I look at it.”

Bucky sat up, blanket falling around his waist. “You’re leaving me here?”

Sam check out his boyfriend. How could he not. He was in his bed, shirtless. Underwear handing just low enough to show his V-line perfectly. Sam would have jumped his bones there, but he figure Bucky wanted to take things slow like the last few months. Instead, Sam raised an eyebrow. “What, you need a babysitter now?”

“No,” Bucky muttered. “Just didn’t want to be alone.”

Sam sipped his coffee, watching him over the rim. “Thought you came out here to be alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the worn blanket, at the narrow bed, at the little sliver of light creeping through the porthole window.

“I did.” Bucky muttered, a little annoyed. “Don’t worry.” He flopped back against the bed and sighed, arm draped over his face like the conversation had physically exhausted him.

Sam watched him with a squinted eye, coffee cooling in his hand. There was something about the way Bucky said it—like he was trying too hard to sound unaffected, like he wanted Sam to hear the lie underneath it.

Sam narrowed his eyes. Something was off. Bucky had been... clingy lately. Showing up out of nowhere. Drunk calls. Helping with the boat when he barely knew what a wrench looked like. And now, crashing here?

“Didn’t say I was worried,” Sam said, even though he kind of was.

“Good,” came Bucky’s muffled reply from under his arm.

The boat creaked again, gentle and rhythmic, like it was breathing with them. Sam stayed rooted in the doorway, staring at the ridiculous man sprawled across his bed, shirtless and stubborn and radiating that wounded-dog energy that always made Sam want to fix things.

He sighed and left.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sam didn't return for five whole days.

Bucky told himself it was fine. That he didn’t care. That he liked the quiet, the space, the time to think. That sleeping in Sam’s bed, wrapped in Sam’s scent, wasn’t messing him up just a little more each night.

He cleaned the boat—or tried. Ended up breaking a drawer. Got a splinter. Fixed the latch on the door just to prove he could. Burned rice. Ate cereal for dinner. Watched the sun set from the deck every evening and pretended he wasn’t looking for a familiar silhouette walking down the dock.

The duffel by the bed stayed zipped. Like if he didn’t unpack, it meant he wasn’t really staying. Like if he didn’t get too comfortable, this wouldn’t feel like rejection.

On the fifth night, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, thumb rubbing circles into his palm like it might ground him.

“Should’ve picked a worse place,” he muttered to himself, voice low and tired.

Then—footsteps on wood. Slow. Familiar.

The door creaked open.

Sam stood there in the doorway, hoodie damp from the rain, expression unreadable.

Bucky blinked. “You said one day.”

Sam didn’t look guilty. He just looked at Bucky like he’d been expecting the question.

“Yeah,” he said. “And you stayed.”

Bucky rubbed his forehead, eyes narrowing. “One day, Sam. You said one day. Not five. I’m starting to think your ‘plans changed’ is code for ‘I forgot you existed.’”

Sam shrugged, peeling off his damp hoodie like it was a get-out-of-jail-free card. “Hey, I’m not a calendar you can schedule.”

“I'm here,” Bucky shot back. “I'm here instead of some five star hotel or your house. I knew you were here, and I came for you! But you're too oblivious to see that!”

Sam stood there, watching Bucky fidget on the creaky bed, and suddenly it hit him like a ton of rusty boat parts.

This wasn’t just about hiding out. Or a broken-down boat.

Bucky was trying to get under his skin. Like, literally camping out in his life.

And those weird vibes? The late-night “I’m fine” with obvious panic, the way Bucky insisted on “helping” with the boat that was basically falling apart…

Sam squinted. “Wait a minute. You're being extra weird. Late-night phone calls, drunk messages. Now this? Are you in danger, Buck?”

Bucky blinked, then stammered, “What? No! I mean, yes? But not like... officially? Like my heart's in danger. I just—”

Sam held up a hand. “Are you dying?”

Bucky groaned, rubbing his face like he was trying to erase the words before they even came out. He glanced up at Sam, who was watching him with that mix of concern and confusion that made Bucky’s throat tighten.

For a moment, he just stared at the floor, willing himself to say something else—anything else. But he knew. He knew this was it. If he didn’t say it now, he might never get another chance.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky finally looked Sam in the eyes, voice low but steady.

“No, man. Not dying. Just… in love with you.”

Sam’s expression softened, worry melting into something quieter, something hopeful. The air between them shifted, charged and fragile all at once.

“Oh.” Sam whispered, eyes widening like he’d just been hit by a surprise wave. "Oh!"

He blinked a few times, as if hearing it again might make it sink in better.

"Oh?" Bucky asks. "I just confessed my love to you, and I get an 'oh'."

Sam stared like Bucky had just grown a second metal arm. “Well, I—Bucky. It’s kinda known that I love you too. You’re my boyfriend.”

Sam laughed, “I thought we were already together!”

Bucky recoiled. “What?!”

Sam threw both arms up. “You’ve been calling me every night! Not just ‘checking in’ calls—full-on midnight conversations about your dreams and which bread is superior!”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

“You helped me paint the damn boat,” Sam continued, voice climbing, “even though you don’t know a single thing about paint—or boats!”

“I was being supportive!”

“You brought me soup when I had a cold!”

“You sounded like you were dying!”

Sam pointed dramatically. “You slept over for three months and folded my laundry, Bucky. You folded my underwear. That’s not just friendship. That’s domestic.”

“I was being a good friend!” Bucky argued, eyes wide, clearly panicking. “What kind of couple doesn’t even kiss?!”

“I thought you wanted to take it slow!” Sam shouted, equally flustered.

Bucky stared at him like he had just spoken in binary code. “Sam. I haven’t kissed anyone in like... eighty years." He threw his hands up. “You think I’d be subtle about it?! I would’ve brought a banner! A speech! Maybe fireworks!”

There was a long pause. Both of them just breathing, blinking at each other.

"So, you're not dying?" Sam asked holding back laugher.

"Oh my fucking-" Bucky was across the room in 3 steps, taking Sam's face in his hands and pulling him into the inevitable.

Sam’s laugh barely had time to escape before Bucky’s mouth was on his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow.

It was years of near-misses, of unsaid things and sidelong looks, crashing into one kiss that tasted like frustration, rain, and something finally, finally falling into place.

Bucky held Sam’s face like it was the only thing anchoring him, and Sam didn’t hesitate—hands curling into Bucky’s shirt, grounding them both.

When they finally pulled apart, just barely, Sam’s forehead rested against Bucky’s.

“So… we’re doing this now?” Sam asked, breathless, grinning.

Bucky nodded, equally out of breath. “We’ve been doing this. I’m just catching up.”

Sam snorted. “Next time you show up on my boat with a duffel bag and emotional whiplash, maybe lead with the kiss.”

Bucky grinned. “Next time I’ll bring fireworks.”

Sam kissed him again, smiling into it. “Damn right you will.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

[honeeysagee]

Long Night?

once again, i'm missing soft!steve. sue me! here's a little context. warnings: very touch depraved Steve, fluff

summary: 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘞𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘰𝘯. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

The screen door creaks and slams, but you don't flinch. You hear him before you see him - boots off, footsteps slow and heavy, shirt already discared and slung over one shouler. You swear he's gotten bigger since you've been staying over these last few weeks.

He smells like the day: sun, hay, sweat, and earth. The kind of scent that sink into your and stays.

Steve pauses in the doorway, catching his breath, eyes meeting yours with a softness that speaks volumes. Without a word, he moves toward the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of his movements grounding you.

You watch as he fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, then leans against the counter.

"Long day?" You asks, while wearing his shirt and typing away on some report you barely had interest in. No, you were distracted by the 6'2 sweating mess that just stalked through the house.

Steve glances over, water pooling at the corner of his gaze. "Yeah," He says, voice low and measured. "They called again today."

You stop typing, "Government?" You prompted gently.

He nods, a tired exhale fills the room entirely. "That 'New Avenger' nonsense. They want me to lead. Be the symbol again," He picks up the kettle, no mitten. That's your man right there. "I already told them. I'm not Captain America anymore. Sam is. I don't even know why Bucky agreed to that."

He pours the tea in the mug, lifts it towards you. "I need this." He murmurs - cradling the mug and enjoying the warmth. Slowly, he makes his way to the sofa then spreads his legs far apart until he's comfortable. Yet, you also knew it was an invitation.

You notice his fingers twitch, restless, thumb brushing the empty space beside him almost desperately.

You wait.

"Bunny, lap." Steve demands so softly - you thought he asked first, but you knew better. Since reconnecting, he's been a little demanding and needy with touch, but you didn't mind.

You set your laptop aside and slide onto his lap. He breathes out a shaky sigh, arms easing around your waist, fingers pressing into fabric like he’s anchoring himself to something real.

You rest your head against his shoulder, and he loosens the tension in his neck, pressing forward just enough to deepen the contact.

He breathes in, slower now, each exhale softer than the last—letting the quiet evening fill the space between you. Then your lips brush the side of his neck, softly, a tender question in the warmth of the moment.

Steve stills for a heartbeat, then wraps his arms around you tighter, one hand gently tilting your head so he can press a careful, slow kiss just behind your ear. The movement is gentle, as if he’s rediscovering the meaning of touch.

His lips trace small, feather-light kisses along the nape of your neck. Each one is deliberate—silent, loving. He murmurs your nickname into the quiet, murmurs that linger like a secret: “Bunny.”

The world beyond the sofa—fields, obligations, expectations—fades. There’s just this: soft lips, the scent of earth and tea, the warmth of Steve’s arms, and the unspoken promise that here, tonight, touch is enough.

[honeeysagee]

i usually draw louis as a kitty but i saw these cute stoat pictures that reminded me so much of him that i had to draw it lol

[honeeysagee]

TROUBLE

WARNINGS: smut, p in v, dirty talk, public place sex, oral (reader receiving, overstimulation, sam fucking reader dumb, mutual pining in surround sound, Marvin Gaye is basically the third main character, overuse of Trouble Man lyrics, tuxedo Sam Wilson should be illegal, smut with feelings and unholy levels of dirty talk, second chance romance with grown folks business

Summary: Years after a near-romance fell through, you and Sam Wilson reunite at a gala in D.C., where old feelings resurface and Marvin Gaye's "Trouble Man" sets the tone for a second chance neither of you saw coming.

The music slides through the ballroom, low and rich—Trouble Man dressed in satin, courtesy of the string quartet in the corner. It's almost funny. Too on the nose. You let the sound settle in your chest anyway, like it belongs there. Like it’s always been there.

You shouldn't be here. Or maybe you should. This is your circle, after all. Defense contracts. Post-blip rehabilitation efforts. Clean suits and dirty secrets. Everyone in this room has blood on their hands and a drink in the other.

You swirl yours slowly, eyes scanning—not for danger, not anymore. For history. And there it is, across the room.

Sam Wilson.

The new Captain America. Polished. Poised. Impossible to ignore.

You haven’t spoken in years. Not since before the shield. Not since your company—the one that takes in reformed assassins, mercenaries, anyone clawing toward redemption—started showing up at the same tables as government liaison teams.

You’re not supposed to mix. Not really. Sam deals in symbols; you deal in scars. The tension isn’t personal—at least, that’s what you’ve told yourself every time his name crossed your desk.

But now he’s here. Same space. Same music. Same ache.

You catch him looking. Just once. A flicker. Like a nerve being touched.

Your throat tightens.

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m fine I’m checkin’ trouble, sugar, movin’ down the line.

His gaze flickers again—subtle but electric, like a spark across dry grass. Neither of you moves closer—too much unsaid, too much ground lost, too many battles fought inside your own heads.

The room spins quietly around you, but the space between you feels like a war zone.

You look away, eyes drifting down to your glass. The bitter scent of cheap wine curls up to meet your nose—sharp and unforgiving. The liquid slides past your lips, cool and hollow, pooling deep in the pit of your stomach like a slow, aching weight you’ve carried too long.

You lift the glass again, pretending the burn distracts from the tight knot coiling in your chest. Around you, laughter bubbles and conversations hum, but all you hear is the quiet pull of that familiar tension—like a thread stretched taut between you and Sam, ready to snap or pull you closer.

You look up again, hoping to catch the subtle smirk he always had plastered on his face or maybe, just maybe, the playful glint in his dark brown eyes. Instead, you meet the wall he stood in front of just minutes ago.

Panic doesn’t bloom—not quite—but something close settles just beneath your skin, sharp and searching.

You scan the crowd slow and deliberate, refusing to look like you’re looking. He’s too big to disappear, too steady to slip through cracks. Somehow, he always knew how to move when you least expected him.

There’s only three things that’s for sho’… The lyrics haunt you now, threading through your thoughts like smoke. Taxes, death... and trouble.

And Sam Wilson? He was all three at once.

“Lookin’ for someone?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze as he appears in your vision. The distance—once large and escapable—is now a memory.

Now he’s close. Close enough to feel—the heat radiating off him like tension in a too-warm room, thick and heavy. Like standing at the edge of something and knowing it’s about to give.

You almost smile.

Almost.

“Sam Wilson,” you say finally, feeling the wine settle in your veins. “Last person I expected to see.”

Sam Wilson, in a suit that fits like a tailored dare, hands in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes don’t flicker or dance—no, they hold. They see. It’s not polite observation. It’s history, memory, ache. He watches you like he remembers everything—how you sounded, how you left, how you never quite looked back.

Sam hums low, the sound curling in his throat like a secret. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “I could say the same.”

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.

It’s there in the way he shifts his weight—subtle but solid—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re still the same person who left that hotel room at 3 AM with nothing but a nod and a locked jaw.

“I didn’t think you still came to these,” he adds. Casual. Too casual.

You lift a brow, lips curving just slightly at the edges. “Well, potential clients,” you say, eyeing him slowly—up, down, and up again. “Old friends.”

Sam tilts his head, that crooked almost-smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he says, voice low and threaded with something just shy of teasing, “you out here recruiting? Looking for new clients… or old trouble?”

You take your time with the sip this time. Let the wine settle on your tongue. Let the pause stretch long enough to feel deliberate. Then you lower the glass, eyes cutting toward him with a glint he knows too well.

“Both,” you say simply. “There’s a new Avengers lineup forming. You know how it is—everyone wants in before the press release drops. Not to mention, you got your own team.”

Sam raises a brow, hands still tucked in his pockets. “You trying to build your own team now?”

“I’m helping the people no one else will touch,” you reply, letting the edge slip into your voice. “You’ve got your clean-cut recruits. Hawkgirl, Captain Marvel, She-Hulk. Meanwhile, I’ve got three ex-Widows, a former Ten Rings operative, and a guy who used to rob banks in a ski mask and now teaches mindfulness.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but bright. “Think you can rival the New Avengers?”

You shrug. “I'm not forming a team for them. I'm preparing yours.”

The smile falters. Just slightly. His jaw tightens—not in annoyance, but something closer to realization. You don’t flinch or soften it. Let the weight of your words settle between you—real, sharp, and too heavy to ignore.

Sam straightens a little, the light in his eyes shifting. Serious now. “That’s not your style,” he says quietly. “You don’t build things for other people.”

You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth curving. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m building second chances. What you do with them is up to you.”

For a beat, neither of you speak.

“You know how often I have to deal with the fallout of your making, Sam Wilson? Some new villain-of-the-week wants your head on their mantle. That shield of yours tossed in the corner of their room like trash,” you lick your lips, remembering, “that is until I reform them. Now, they want to be your right-hand man.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t break, but his jaw tics. Once. Twice. Like he’s biting something back. Maybe pride. Maybe guilt. Maybe the same thing that’s been thrumming between you since the second you locked eyes in this damn ballroom.

The music dips into a hush before the next swell, and in that quiet pocket, your words hang there—half accusation, half offering.

He doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you like he’s remembering every argument you two ever had. Every time you pressed him to look at the world differently. Every time he wanted to grab your wrist and pull you back before you walked away.

And maybe—just maybe—every time he didn’t.

Sam leans in close. “I still remember the way you had my shield thrown in the corner of the room. Your clothes with it.”

Your lips part, just slightly, but no words come. Because you remember too. The weight of the shield against the hotel floor. The scrape of your zipper. The sound of your breath catching. His hands everywhere. The ache of something you shouldn’t have wanted so badly.

“You think I forgot?” he murmurs. “You think I didn’t notice the way you left it there? Like all of it—me, the shield—meant the same damn thing.”

You swallow hard. The wine on your tongue turns sour. You look away—but only for a second. He doesn’t let you drift far.

“I didn’t forget,” he says, softer now. “And don’t act like you did.”

And just like that, Trouble Man hits its chorus again. Loud. Heavy. Meant to be felt.

“I’ll remind you,” Sam says, voice thick with heat and certainty, low enough to settle under your skin. He leans in, eyes never leaving yours. “Just say the words, baby.”

Then he pulls back—slow, smooth, unfazed.

And walks away.

No glance over his shoulder. No lingering hesitation. Just long strides and all the pride in the world like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire and leave you standing in the ruins.

You watch his back disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest. The wine in your glass trembles.

And Marvin sings on, the orchestra bleeding into the ache:

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m cool...

It took you exactly 19 minutes and 13 seconds to find him.

Not that you were counting.

Not that you watched the clock tick past every painfully slow second while you made small talk with some diplomat’s assistant who smelled like expensive cologne and colonialism.

Not that you replayed his voice in your head—the low, just say the words, baby looping over and over like it was stitched into the beat of your pulse.

But still—19 minutes and 13 seconds. That’s how long it took. A new record.

By the time he spotted you, you were already leaving a breadcrumb trail behind you: a napkin with your lipstick, a perfume scent, or a broken heart. Whichever it was, Sam didn’t fall for it. He knew the song and dance. Knew where to go, and where the two of you were headed.

The door creaked softly behind him, the sound swallowed by the hush of the room. Neutral walls, dim lighting—some nondescript office buried in the east wing of the building. Empty, quiet, untouched.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of a sleek desk like you owned it. One heel dangling from your fingers, the other kicked off to the side. Legs crossed, dress pulled just high enough to be a problem.

Sam stood in the doorway, unmoving. Watching. Waiting. You finally lifted your gaze, slow and deliberate, as if you’d been expecting him all night.

Because you had. His expression didn’t change—just the clench of his jaw, the slow drag of his eyes down your frame and back up again, like he was counting sins.

Then, without a word, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The click of the lock was louder than it should be. Final. Familiar.

“I wasn’t sure you’d follow,” you murmured, tossing your heel gently to the floor with a soft thud.

Sam’s voice was low, rough, full of something he’d been swallowing since the moment he saw you. “I would follow you to Hell if it meant I’d have you forever.”

He took a step closer. Then another. And just like that—you weren’t avoiding anything anymore.

You smirked, your voice velvet and loaded. “You talk a lot for a man who hasn’t earned the right yet.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. He just stepped closer, eyes dark, calm—hungry. Then, wordlessly, he sank to his knees in front of you, steady hands dragging the hem of your dress up with reverence and intent.

One of your legs lifted, draped over his shoulder like instinct, your heel dangling from your toes. The air was thick, the low hum of Trouble Man bleeding through the walls like a promise. You threaded your fingers through his close-cropped hair, nails gently scraping his scalp as you tugged his gaze upward.

“Go on, Captain,” you murmured. “Show me what all that discipline’s good for.”

His breath ghosted over your skin—warm, controlled, reverent—and then his mouth found you.

You gasped, head tipping back as your spine curved into the glass behind you. His lips latched onto your folds with the kind of hunger that made you forget how to stand, how to breathe. His tongue licked long, deliberate strokes before circling your clit, sucking it into his mouth like he needed it.

“Sam…” you breathed, the name slipping out like a prayer laced with sin.

He didn’t stop. Just moaned against you, the sound vibrating deep where you needed him most. He looked up as he licked, watching your body tremble, your eyes flutter, your jaw go slack.

You held him there, hands tangled in his hair, grinding into his face as he pushed two fingers inside you—slow, then deep. Curling. Stroking. Finding that spot like he’d never forgotten it.

And he hadn’t.

Your thighs began to tremble, your body arching toward the edge of something that had nothing to do with control. He took it all—your cries, your slick, the way your hips bucked into him as you shattered.

He stayed with you through it, lips wrapped tight around your clit as your orgasm ripped through you in waves.

The aftershocks made your vision blur, but you could feel him kissing the inside of your thighs, slow and soft, beard rough enough to leave a memory behind.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was standing again, towering over you, his lips swollen and glistening, that smug smile written all over his beautiful face.

“Done bossin’ me around?” he asked, voice rough with lust. “Or you want me to keep proving my worth?”

You reached for him, breathless and ruined, smile lazy and satisfied.

“Shut up,” you whispered, pulling him between your legs. “And remind me why I shouldn’t leave you again.”

His grip on your hip tightened, anchoring you to the edge of the desk. The cool wood pressed against the backs of your thighs as he lined himself up, breath ragged against your shoulder. Sam’s other hand slid up your waist—slow, deliberate—his thumb brushing the soft dip beneath your ribs.

Then he pushed in—slow, thick, all-consuming.

You gasped, head falling back with a sharp cry as he bottomed out, the stretch dizzying, overwhelming. The music outside—the quartet’s rendition of Trouble Man—poured through the office walls, rich and thunderous, masking the sound of your moan like it was part of the score.

Sam groaned low in his throat, sliding nearly all the way out before snapping his hips forward, slamming back into you with punishing precision.

“Fuck, Sam—!” you choked out, hands flying to brace yourself against the desk. He gripped your hips and drove into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room like percussion.

“Whose is it?” he growled, leaning over you, the heat of his chest against your back. His pace didn’t falter.

Your spine arched, your head thrown back with a ragged cry. “Yours!” you yelped, voice cracking as he hit the same deep spot again, again, again. Your slick coated him, the sound of it filthy and unashamed.

He chuckled darkly, proud and breathless, and pulled out just enough to slam forward harder—his upward stroke punching a scream straight from your lungs.

“Shit—Sam, oh my fuck—” you babbled, hands scrambling across the desk, trying to push back against the pace, but it was useless. He was relentless. Glorious. Ruining you, just like he promised.

His hand cracked down on your ass, the sting sweet and shocking. You gasped, the force of it sending you straight into the edge of another climax.

“Don’t run,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “Take it.”

And you did—crying out as your hips jolted forward, your orgasm crashing down like a tidal wave. You clenched around him, legs shaking, barely holding yourself up as your body trembled beneath the weight of it.

But Sam didn’t stop. His grip dragged you back, slamming your hips flush against his cock with a groan torn from deep in his chest.

“Keep still,” he growled through gritted teeth, thrusts turning brutal, wild.

This was the man you craved every night with a hand between your legs.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—all you could do was feel. Feel the wet slap of your bodies, the stretch, the slick, the way your pussy hugged him tight, soaked and desperate.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth open like that,” he murmured, watching your face twist in bliss, watching you fall apart for him. Over and over.

His other hand found your clit, fingers rubbing fast, messy circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck—fuck—Sam—!” you sobbed, body convulsing as the tension inside you snapped again, the second orgasm ripping through you like fire in your bloodstream.

You gushed around him, trembling, ruined.

Sam hissed between his teeth, hips stuttering. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” His name was the only thing you could say, over and over, a prayer and a curse, lips parted, vision hazy.

Your cheek pressed to the cool desk, breath fogging the surface with every broken moan. Your nails scratched helplessly at the wood, searching for something to hold onto—because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him. Sam had you. Fully. Unforgivingly.

“Fuck, Sam,” you whimpered, voice strained and wrecked.

Sweat dripped from Sam’s temple, landing hot on your back. One of his hands left your hip to thread into your hair, tugging your head up just enough so he could hear every sound you made, every filthy little sob.

“You miss this?” he asked, voice like gravel and thunder. “Miss the way I fuck you stupid?”

You choked on a laugh, but it dissolved into a gasp when he slammed into you again, so deep it punched the air from your lungs.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusts brutal, timed with every pulse of your clit beneath his fingers. “Say it, baby.”

“I—” you breathed, blinking through stars. “I missed it. Missed you.”

He growled your name, low and guttural, right against your neck, before his mouth found your skin—biting, kissing, claiming. You arched into him, feeling the heat build again, unbearable and addictive. The rhythm of your bodies grew faster, messier, louder.

You screamed his name again as the final orgasm crashed over you, harder than the last, your whole body tightening before unraveling completely. You clenched around him, milking every last stroke until he finally groaned, long and deep, spilling into you with a final snap of his hips.

You were still pulsing around him, still trembling as he leaned down and kissed you—desperate and slow, all tongue and teeth and want.

You moaned into his mouth, your fingers slipping into the curls at the back of his neck, holding him there like if you let go, you’d come undone all over again.

Eventually, he eased out with a slow groan, and you whimpered at the empty slide, his release and yours dripping down your thighs. He caught it with his fingers, rubbing it lazily across your swollen folds before pressing one last kiss to the inside of your knee.

His release, hot and thick, mingled with yours and slid down the insides of your thighs in a slow, filthy trail.

Sam watched it for a beat, then brought his fingers down to catch it—rubbing it back into your sensitive folds with the same reverence he once used to touch your cheek.

You twitched beneath him, still overstimulated, still clinging to every last wave.

He leaned down and pressed a final kiss to the inside of your knee—soft, lingering, like it was a vow only you were meant to hear. Then another kiss, higher this time. A path. A question.

He rested his forehead against your leg, catching his breath.

Outside, the music swelled again—strings rising, Marvin’s voice melting through the walls like heat. There’s only three things that’s for sure... taxes, death, and trouble.

And trouble was still between your thighs, looking up at you like he’d never left.