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wikiangela · 3 months ago

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the moments we share stay a secret from the world

ship: sambucky rating: G words: 1.7k spoilers for captain america: brave new world

[also on ao3]

___

As soon as the door closes behind Sam, he slumps against it with a groan. It’s been a long few days. He’s tired, a little bruised and broken, and all he wants is to get in bed and sleep for a week straight. He knows that’s impossible, this job being really a full-time, 24/7 thing, so he’ll take any rest he can get. If he can get to his bedroom, that is – he feels like any energy left him as soon as he stepped foot in his apartment, only now the adrenaline leaving him, worry seeping out now that he knows Joaquin is okay, and all that’s left is pure exhaustion. He could fall asleep right here, at the front door, standing up.

With a deep, heavy sigh that feels like it comes from deep in his soul, he pushes away from the door and forces his legs to take him to the bathroom. He desperately needs a hot shower first.

The walk seems to take forever, and in between the front door and the bathroom, he manages to pull out his phone and shoot a quick text that just reads ‘ur full of shit, could’ve used that serum right about now.’

He doesn’t wait for a response, he doesn’t expect one anyway. They usually text, but at this hour there’s a bigger chance the old man would call instead. He doesn’t wait for that, either. Just tosses his phone on the bed when he walks through the bedroom, then strips out of his clothes and hauls his aching body into the shower. He stands under the hot water for as long as his legs let him, letting it soothe the strained muscles, but careful of all the stitches and wounds. He’s way too used to those by now.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally leaves the bathroom, just a towel around his waist, dragging his feet on his way to the bed – only to see an unexpected visitor sitting at the end of it.

“Hey,” Sam says, barely even phased. As unexpected as it is to see Bucky here, it’s not all that surprising at this point. “So we don’t knock anymore?”

“I don’t.” Bucky shrugs, a hint of a smile on his face, as he leans back on his hands, eyes scanning Sam’s half naked body up and down, worry carefully hidden, visible only in his eyes, only to Sam. He looks comfortable as if he was at his own place. He’s not dressed in a suit anymore, now wearing his usual black jeans, and a leather jacket, unzipped to reveal a plain black t-shirt. Some things never change – and not all should, he looks damn good like this. Sam thinks he prefers this version. “And you don’t mind.”

“Hm, well, as long as it’s you and not someone who tries to kill me, break into my place all you want.” Sam waves his hand, walking over to his closet to grab some sweats to sleep in.

“You don’t have to get dressed on my account.” Bucky says, that flirtatious tone in his voice that Sam hates and loves at the same time.

“If you want a show, you gotta earn it,” he throws back with a grin over his shoulder, that might come off more as a grimace, with the way his whole body aches. He feels Bucky’s eyes on himself as he shamelessly drops the towel on the floor, grabs some sweatpants and puts them on.

“Eh, you don’t look so good tonight, I’ll pass.” Bucky teases, the usual humor covering up what he’s not saying, the worry and concern at all the cuts and injuries and bruises all over Sam’s body, the regret about not being there to help. “Seriously, Sam,” Bucky adds, a complete change in tone, “you look awful.”

“Wow, thanks.” Sam rolls his eyes, turning to face Bucky again. He can feel his eyes analyzing all his wounds and bruises. The stab wound in his chest stings, but he ignores it. “I’m fine, Buck. Nothing new, nothing I haven’t survived before. It comes with the job,” he shrugs, one of his shoulders protesting and he can’t hide a wince.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Bucky adds quietly, blue eyes finding Sam’s.

“Me too.” Sam sighs. “Could’ve really used that super strength of yours,” he adds, trying to keep it light. The truth is, he misses being a team, out there, on the battlefield. He’s never been more in tune with anyone, especially now. They know each other inside out, they can communicate without words, it’s like Bucky lives in his head – which isn’t untrue.

“You did amazing without it. You can do it without it, without me. You know that, right? You don’t need me.”

“Yeah,” he takes a step towards the bed, then another. “Yeah, I know. I’m doing my best.” He might not need Bucky, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want him, as a partner, as a friend, in whatever way he can. But he also knows he’s capable by himself. He has to be. Steve chose him for a reason, and he needs to stop doubting that choice, doubting whether he deserves it. It’s easier said than done, but he’s trying. He did a damn good job today, though, if he says so himself.

“I’ll always have your back.” Buck promises, and Sam knows that. If he could, he’d be there, fighting by his side. He’ll be there if Sam ever needs him.

“I know.” Sam stops in front of Bucky, whose curious eyes look him up and down again.

“How’s Torres?”

“Awake. He’ll be okay. I just-”

“Feel guilty?” Bucky guesses. He really knows Sam so well. “Sam, none of what happened was your fault. Including him.”

“I know,” he repeats with a sigh, running a hand over his face. “Hard not to feel that way sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, understanding better than anyone. They don’t need a lot of words, not right now. They’ll talk, debrief, and discuss everything at some point. Tonight, Sam is just so damn tired.

He climbs into Bucky’s lap, straddling him – he wishes he could say he did it without wincing in pain, but alas. Bucky’s hands immediately rest gently on his hips, gripping lightly but firmly, careful not to hurt him further. Sam knows he’s dying to examine all his wounds and make sure he’s okay, but Sam’s been to the hospital, he’s fine, he doesn’t need him to fuss.

“Now, what did I do to deserve a visit from the future congressman James Buchanan Barnes? It’s a rare sight lately. And twice in two days?” He teases. Bucky rolls his eyes. They haven’t been seeing each other as often as they’d like, both busy with their new jobs, and keeping this relationship private, but they try. Sam would rather have those few moments once in a while than none at all.

“I meant it, I missed you,” Bucky shrugs, earnest and genuine as he smiles softly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fucking exhausted and beaten up, and I could sleep for a week.” Sam sighs, slumping against Bucky. Bucky’s right hand gently moves up his side, caresses his skin, mindful of his bruised and cracked ribs, until he cradles Sam’s cheek. Sam leans into the touch. “Can you stay the night?”

“Yeah, of course. I don’t have anywhere to be until morning.”

“Good.” Sam whispers, and finally presses his lips to Bucky’s, his hands finding his jacket and helping him out of it. All he wants is to fall asleep in his man’s arms right now, he wants to keep him here as long as he can, until they both need to go back to their roles and titles, and keep their personal life under wraps.

They kiss slowly, lazily, until Sam’s yawn breaks it, and Bucky chuckles, standing up with Sam still in his arms, then gently places him down on the bed – any other night, if Sam wasn’t half asleep and what feels like half-alive, it’d get him going immediately, his boyfriend’s strength always such a turn on. As it is, Sam forces his limbs to work a little bit longer to scoot up the bed and onto the pillow, then waits for Bucky to take off his jeans and join him.

He tries to wrap himself around Bucky, but he can’t breathe on his side, his ribs are not in the best state, cuts and bruises on the rest of his body are hurting. So he settles on his back, as comfortably as he can, and brings Buck as close as possible. Bucky slips his right arm under Sam’s head, the metal of the left one lightly pressing against his abdomen, as Bucky holds him.

“Can you promise me something?” Sam asks sleepily, already starting to nod off.

“What’s that?”

“Can you wake me up when you have to go, no matter what time?” He just wants to say goodbye, he doesn’t want Bucky to just disappear into the night. He could get out without waking Sam up, his stealth skills as impressive as always. But Sam wants to see him, kiss him one more time, watch him leave. Get one more second together.

“Of course, Sam. Now sleep, I’m right here.” Sam feels a soft kiss to his head.

“I love you, Buck.” Sam mutters, blinking as he tries to get one more look at his gorgeous blue eyes.

“I love you, too.” Bucky whispers with one more quick kiss to Sam’s lips.

Sam falls asleep to the sound of Bucky’s breathing, feeling his heartbeat where their chests are pressed together, familiar cool metal fingers drawing soothing patterns on his stomach. He’s out within seconds, feeling calm and safe and loved in the arms of his man, knowing that he’ll get woken up way before sunrise, and he’ll have to say goodbye to him again. That’s okay. He’ll have a busy day tomorrow, as well, back to Captain America duties, having to deal with the aftermath of… this whole mess. But for now, it’s just him and Bucky, in the quiet of the night, sleeping in one bed, like a regular couple. Maybe one day it’ll be the norm for them. If not, he’ll take what he can get.

[also on ao3]

#wikiangela writes #sambucky #sambucky fic #sambucky fanfiction #sambucky fluff #sam x bucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america #captain america brave new world #cap 4 spoilers #captain america spoilers #captain america ficlet #my writing #back on my sambucky bs for a minute lol

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glittercake · 1 month ago

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pwp anon here! u got me excited! sending virtual hugs and flowers

This one got spicy, Anon 🌶️❤️‍🔥🔥 The other Sam in Lingerie fics can be found here and here and here. Enjoy!

The gift bag’s just sitting on the counter. If Bucky’s honest, just thinking about what’s inside is making his work slacks real uncomfortable to sit in.

Spent a pretty penny on it too, but it’s small change, really, when he remembers what Sam looked like that first time.

He busies himself with the most boring dockets he’s ever laid eyes on just to keep his mind off Sam and his dick, at least until Sam gets home, but it’s all futile. There hasn’t been one goddamn moment since he got his mind back that he hasn’t thought about Sam. Or his dick.

He finally he hears the jingle of Sam’s keys in the door just after eight.

“Yo,” Sam calls out to Bucky like he does every night, stopping to take his jacket off and hanging it up too.

“In the kitchen, sweetheart.” Bucky swivels his chair when Sam enters and takes him into his arms, slots Sam perfectly between his thighs then kisses him. “Hm.” He leans away and opens his eyes to Sam smiling.

“Working?” Sam tucks a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “Thought it was supposed to be date night.”

“Just got done.” He shuts his laptop and reaches behind him for the gift bag. “And it is. Happy date night or whatever.”

Sam snorts. “Thanks. What is it?” he arches an eyebrow up at Bucky, probably because the last time Bucky got him a surprise, it was cock ring that looked like his shield.

“It’s nice, don’t worry,” Bucky laughs.

“Hm.” Sam digs inside and pulls out a handful of crisp white chiffon and straps. “Oh, my god.” He shakes it out to give it some kind of shape, holds it by two straps but it’s still unrecognizable. “Alright, for real. What is this?”

Bucky grins. “There’s a picture inside the bag. Come on, go put it on for us.”

“Oh, Lord, it comes with instructions?” And there the eyebrow goes again. Bucky just bites his lip and Sam reaches up with one hand to squeeze Bucky’s cheeks together, then kisses the pout it forces his mouth into. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Bucky smacks his ass so hard the clap resounds even through the jeans he’s wearing. “Now where the hell else would I ever want to be, dollface?” He leans back against the counter and watches Sam go.

Bucky’s fucking achingly hard by the time Sam's got the shower running, so he heads to their bedroom, kicks his shoes off, waits for Sam on the bed, and tries not to touch himself.

Sam takes way too long, but it’s so absolutely worth it when he eventually steps out in Bucky’s gift. “Jesus, this thing's like a maze,” he says, still tugging on a strap when he walks in.

And fuck. Bucky knew it’d be hot. He knew Sam would look insane in this, but he’s kind of knocked on his ass here. He’s gaping.

What’s really got him isn’t the tiny, tiny bra barely cupping Sam’s tit’s, or the tight garter buckles around his thighs, or the lace choker—God the choker—or the thin white strap around his middle attached to the garters, but a delicate, sheer little panty that only just covers his junk. It looks obscene: that thick bulge confined by just a barely there layer of chiffon. Bucky could slice through it with a glide of his right thumb.

“Goddamn, come here,” he says, but he’s already halfway across the room and dragging Sam against him, hands instantly on the bra.

He feels his way around the soft chiffon, finds Sam’s nipple beneath it, and rubs a little harder until Sam sighs and drops his head back. He looks so pretty like this; Bucky can’t take his eyes off. He kisses his way down Sam’s neck, then leans down to place a kiss on each pec before he sucks a nipple into his mouth through the material.

“Buck,” Sam whispers. He cups the back of Bucky’s head and keeps him there, breathing shallow.

So Bucky indulges him and keeps sucking, flicking his tongue, even biting a little. When he feels Sam hard against his thigh, he pulls off to kiss him instead, licks in deep until Sam groans and really grinds up against him.

Bucky laughs quietly. He slips his left hand down to Sam's straining dick in those delicate little panties, fingertips just teasing feather-light over the wetness bleeding through the thin layer of material between them. “You’re making a mess of your gift, sweetheart,” he says low, smiling against Sam’s lips. “Look at this.”

Sam’s hand comes up to join Bucky’s, and he’s quick and sneaky about getting Bucky’s fingers wrapped around him. He curls his own fingers around Bucky’s and starts guiding his hand into a slow jerk, then he looks down at their hands, at his cock.

“Fuck,” he says, hips fucking up into it, arm coming around to drag Bucky into a kiss. His mouth’s easy and wet, tongue lapping hungrily, making the sweetest noises.

Bucky jerks him nice and tight, watches him leak but waits for that tremble in Sam’s body that happens just before he comes and then he pulls his hand away.

Sam gasps, appalled, staring daggers at Bucky.

“Night’s still long,” Bucky says, smirking at the absolute betrayal on Sam’s face. He takes Sam’s hand and walks them back to the bed. They get rid of his clothes and then he falls back on the bed and tugs Sam down on top of him.

“Should have known you’d drag this out. How long did you play with that red set for?” Sam gets himself comfortably straddled over Bucky’s lap then takes Bucky’s dick into his hand and starts stroking him off nice and slow.

And Jesus, Bucky sees stars, he sees white lace and see-through fabric that leaves just about nothing to the imagination, tight straps and buckles and little bows. All on Sam’s body, this body on top of him, touching him, grinding down on him.

Bucky’s the luckiest bastard alive, probably.

Bucky slides his fingers along the garter straps, drags them up to Sam’s hips, and slips them underneath the strap around his middle. Sam’s so hard the chiffon’s hanging on for dear life, soaked through now. His nipples are hard, clearly visible through the sheer fabric. The lace choker around his neck ripples with a swallow. Sweet Jesus.

It’s a goddamn sight—the contrast of all this delicate beauty and Sam’s flexing muscles, the dainty lace, and his roughly healed battle scars. One strap lays neatly over an old stab wound, another skimming the scar left by his recent round of stitches. Soft and unbreakable all at once.

Bucky yanks Sam down and kisses him as he comes, feels his dick press against the chiffon, against Sam’s, and goes off again before he’s even done.

Sam watches in amusement, a satisfied smirk on his face as Bucky twitches through it with his eyes fixed on the lingerie clinging to Sam’s body. “You’re too easy, baby. All it takes is some sexy underwear, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, pushing up when he's done and flipping them around so Sam lands on his back. He pries open Sam’s thighs and pulls those garter straps to their limits before snapping them back. “Your turn now, sweetheart.”

And then he’s sliding the panties down and putting his mouth on places that make Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his skull, and Sam doesn’t say another fucking thing except “Hhng.”

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sam in lingerie #the lingerie saga #ficlets

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thatmexisaurusrex · 10 months ago

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Oh, I loved this 🥺 there was something especially hauntingly beautiful about the repetition of "No casualties, no major injuries, just a couple of black eyes. Bucky’s will be gone by the morning, probably, and Sam’s will linger." Fantastic work here!!

Oooh what about SamBucky + offering the other your coat? 👀

All’s well that ends well, Bucky supposes. No casualties, no major injuries, just a couple of black eyes. Except Bucky’s will be gone by the morning, maybe midday tomorrow, and Sam’s will linger.

For all of his struggles with not feeling human, this is the one that bothers Bucky the most. Fragile isn’t a word that he would use to describe Sam, but Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from the evidence that Sam is, nonetheless, breakable.

Sam shivers, hunching in on himself just slightly. His jacket isn’t enough for the cold night. He hadn’t packed something warmer, but they hadn’t exactly planned to be out this late.

Bucky is unbuttoning his heavier coat before he even has the thought. “Take my coat Sam.”

Sam looks over at him, not breaking his stride. “Then you’ll be cold.”

“Trade me your jacket then.”

“You’ll still be cold.”

“It’s not that far to the apartment. And you’ve never lived north of D.C. Trade me.”

Sam’s expression is calculating, but he pulls off the jacket and hands it over, swapping it for Bucky’s coat.

Bucky hangs up Sam’s jacket and heads straight for the kettle, hoping that Sam will take the hint and grab the first shower. Sam heads to the bathroom without a word and Bucky leans against the kitchen counter and closes his eyes. No casualties, no major injuries, just a couple of black eyes. Bucky’s will be gone by the morning, probably, and Sam’s will linger.

The kettle clicks off, and Bucky grabs two chamomile tea bags, a mug for each of them, and watches the steam rise off of the mugs as he pours the water over the tea.

“Shower’s all warmed up.”

Bucky looks up. Sam is wearing one of Bucky’s hoodies, even though he definitely packed a couple of his own. “You wanna put some ice on that?”

“Thought you didn’t want me to be cold.” There’s no annoyance in Sam’s voice, and there’s the hint of a smirk on his face.

“I’ll warm you up again.” Bucky settles the kettle on its base.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing the shower’s warmed up for you.”

“Alright. Meet me on the sofa?”

“It’s a date.”

Bucky finishes up quickly in the shower. He pulls on a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt and heads out to the living room. His own cup of tea sits on the end table, and Sam is perched on the sofa, holding a frozen bag of mixed veg to his eye. He’s left just enough space for Bucky to slot himself in next to him, enough space that Bucky can comfortably reach his mug of tea and have Sam up against his other side.

Bucky settles next to Sam, puts his arm around him as Sam curls into his side. He picks up the mug and takes a sip. Sam pulls the frozen veg away from his face, turns his head, kisses Bucky along his jaw until Bucky meets his lips.

“Thanks for having my back tonight,” Sam murmurs.

“Always,” Bucky whispers. Something warm spreads through him, chasing the chill away.

#sambucky #sambucky ficlet #oh i loved this #thank you for writing it!!

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sunnysideprincess · 1 month ago

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De-aged Tony, a very sad steve, aunt peggy and cousin sharon, protective Rhodey AND found family Avengers anyone????😌

🫴✨💫

It's five days after. After Steve has left to punch the fifteenth punching bag of the day. After Bucky has passed out on the couch, trying to keep the kid from figuring out too much. After Sam has draped a gentle, soft blanket over Bucky's chest, where a small child and a cat have taken respite. After Natasha has sung her lullaby, Sharon Carter comes in like a raging storm, eyes seeking answers and mind reeling from the whiplash.

She takes one look at the kid and exhales like she has been shouldering the weight of the sky.

"Can I take him," she asks Rhodey, her voice suddenly small. And Jim Rhodes lets her. When he's been so fierce in his protection. Standing, mountain tall between the seven year old and SHIELD and the press and Hydra.

He lets them go and Steve appears, disheveled, sweaty and eyes wide and red, like he had been crying—missing the only man who made him feel like he's made of flesh and not of ice.

"Where—"

"Peggy."

Steve sags, all the fight, the tension and the grief slipping away as he leans against the wall with his hand over his heart.

"I thought..."

"What? You thought I'd let her take him to SHIELD?" Rhodes shakes his head. "You thought the Carters would take Tony to SHIELD?"

Hours later, the avengers are all flocking the kitchen for dinner and a late ping from Jarvis. And the peace—after all the work and struggle they've put in keeping Tony safe and happy and unassuming of the grief beyond his years—the peace they find in seeing an overly joyed Peggy Carter with her godson is all a soothing balm over the ache of missing their friend.

Bucky and Steve huddle close as the later breaks down, watching a Peggy who doesn't remember herself most days coddle a child who doesn't remember the life he has lived. It's an ache and a relief, seeing his own past and present collide. And for a minute, for a single minute he forgets he has been missing adult Tony, like something that fell out of his chest.

But then he remembers, and he's both sad and hopeful and curious when Thor tells them ", two more days and the curse resolves itself".

#deb writes in between #de aged au #tony stark #stevetony #steve rogers #stony #protective rhodey #james rhodes #hinted sambucky #found family #and also #aunt peggy #marvel #ficlet #fic

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x-press-it · 2 months ago

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Welcome Home, Birthday Boy

The best surprises are the ones that wait for you. 🎞️🖤🌹✅

TFATWS!Bucky x Greek!fem!OC x TFATWS!Sam

Summary: After a long trip, Bucky comes home to warmth, laughter, and a surprise waiting for him—one that reminds him exactly where he belongs

Content Warnings: Established relationship, Vee Polycule into Delta - Pet Names (Méli mou: My Honey, Gliké mou: My Sweet) - A very thin dash of Angst. Fluff. Domestic vibe - Timeline is a year or so after The Falcon and The Winter Woldier.

English and greek aren't my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences...

Notes: This is the first of a series of domestic ficlets I want to write about Bucky x Angeliki x Sam's polycule and I thought it would be the perfect subject to introduce them and their dynamic.

Posted a Bucky's smut fic yesterday and wanted to do something sweeter today for Bucky's birthday.

Fun fact my husband birthday was yesterday, only realized this year their birthdays are back to back XD

Need some music? I’ve got you. And just in case you need a second one. (Those are the songs playing in the background.)

Word Count: 1.2K

The flight home had been long. Too damn long.

Even for someone like Bucky, who had lived through every kind of discomfort known to man, jet lag still hit like a punch to the gut. His bones ached—not from the training with the Dora Milaje, not from the recalibration Shuri had run on his arm, but from sheer exhaustion. His body felt like lead, his head foggy, and all he wanted was to crash face-first into his bed and sleep for a month.

At least, that had been the plan.

But when he stepped off the plane, no familiar faces had been waiting for him. No Angeliki with her knowing smirk, teasing him for being an old man. No Sam, cracking some dumb joke about how Wakanda hadn’t managed to make him less grumpy. Just an impersonal text:

"Busy. Come straight home. See you soon."

It sat heavy in his chest.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. They had lives, plans, responsibilities. He was being stupid for expecting anything different. Still, after a week away, after being wrapped in memories he didn’t want, surrounded by people who respected him but didn’t know him, their absence in the airport’s constant hum and buzz had stung more than he wanted to admit.

Maybe that was why, as he came out of the elevator onto their floor, his steps were heavier than usual. Why his breath came out slow and quiet, like he was bracing for something.

And then—

Melodious laughter.

Muffled, soft. Warmth carried through the door.

Angeliki’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, followed by Sam’s deep, rolling voice, too low to make out the words.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

His fingers curled around the strap of his duffel bag, his throat tight.

That sound—God, that sound—it wrapped around him, loosened something in his chest even as it ached.

He was home.

And yet…

If they were here, if they had time to sit and talk and laugh, they could have picked him up. They could have spared him an hour, a few minutes, something.

His jaw clenched.

But before that feeling could settle, before it could fester into something uglier, another sound filtered through the door—the unmistakable clatter of pots, the scrape of metal against glass.

Cooking.

And the smell—rich, deep, layered—

Bucky frowned.

That wasn’t takeout. That was home-cooked. And not just any home-cooked meal, but something Greek. He recognized it now, the familiar scent of cinnamon, eggplant, something roasting in the oven.

Something Angeliki had spent hours making.

Her grandma’s recipe.

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip on his bag loosening.

Maybe he was an idiot.

Maybe they had been busy.

And maybe—just maybe—they had been waiting for him all along.

He sighed, ran a hand through his short hair, and finally turned his key in the lock.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit him full force—rich, savory, mouthwatering. His stomach clenched in protest, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, nudging his boots off with his toes, his duffel bag landing in the usual spot by the entrance—forgotten the second it left his grip.

From the kitchen, a faint rhythm drifted through the apartment. Slow beats, a languid melody—exactly the kind of music Angeliki liked. She always had something playing when she cooked or handled chores. And if she didn’t, she’d hum, sometimes sing under her breath, like music was stitched into her very being.

But right now, she was laughing.

The sound was clear, chiming like a bell, warm and sweet in a way that curled around him, pressing against the parts of himself still wound tight from the trip. It pulled at something deep in his chest—memories of evenings spent just like this, of meals shared, of Sam’s teasing and Angeliki’s exasperated fondness.

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders as he rolled his neck, following the scent and the soft hum of conversation that grew clearer with each step.

Bucky smirked as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

The sight that greeted him was one he never would have imagined for himself a few years ago—Sam Wilson, Captain America himself, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour, a toothy grin on his face, looking far too pleased with himself. Next to him, Angeliki stood with her dark hair tied up in a messy bun, hands on her hips, exasperated but fond. A streak of flour ran across her cheek, and Bucky had the sudden urge to brush it off with his thumb.

The kitchen was a mess. Fine white powder dusted the counter, a measuring cup teetered on the edge of the sink, a bowl full of slices of caramelized plums, and an open bag of flour sat dangerously close to disaster. The moussaka was in the oven, its rich scent filling the air, but right now, they were focused on the pancake batter.

“—Not that much sugar, Méli mou!” Angeliki’s voice rang out, firm but amused. “We’re making pancakes, not trying to put him in a food coma.”

“Hey, I know what I’m doin’.” Sam sounded defensive, but Bucky could already see the smug grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, these are birthday pancakes. Gotta put some love in it.”

“Love, yes. A whole bucket of sugar? No.”

Bucky let out a low chuckle, drawing their attention. “You let him near the sugar again? Rookie mistake.”

Angeliki’s head snapped toward him, and for a split second, surprise and flecks of gold flickered in her storm-gray eyes before warmth took over, making them dance. “Bucky.”

His name came out soft, like a sigh of relief, like maybe she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Then she was moving, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing the space between them in two swift strides. She didn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. The scent of perfume from her hair—roses and argan oil, sweet and spicy—and something distinctly her curled around him.

A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left his lungs.

“You’re home,” she exhaled in a sigh.

Sam, ever the instigator, grinned at them over Angeliki’s head. “Damn, Buck. Took you long enough.”

Bucky huffed but didn’t pull away. “Would’ve been here sooner if someone picked me up from the airport.”

Angeliki pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “If we did, you wouldn’t have had a surprise waiting, gliké mou.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider it. “Still sounds like an excuse.”

Sam scoffed. “You’re complainin’, but I see you eatin’ those pancakes the second they’re done.”

Bucky smirked. “Damn right I will.”

Angeliki rolled her eyes but tugged him by the wrist toward the kitchen. “C’mon, birthday boy. If you’re gonna complain, you might as well help.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, but there was no real frustration behind it. Instead, he let himself be pulled in. He stepped up behind her, looping an arm around her waist and pressing his lips to her temple, feeling the last of his travel-worn exhaustion melt away.

Angeliki leaned into him, instinctively, chuckling and Sam watched the exchange, his brown eyes filled with an unmistakable fondness.

This warmth, this laughter, this love.

Yeah.

This was home.

And it might be his birthday, but this was the best gift he could ask for.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

Don’t forget to follow the tags “xpressit writings” to stay tuned for more stories 😁

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buckys-sam · 2 months ago

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[somewhere in the multiverse - established relationship] Sam was a little cocky. Always had been. It was part of his charm. The easy confidence, the slow, lazy smirk that made Bucky want to roll his eyes and kiss him senseless all at once.

But right now? Right now, that cocky little half grin of his was about to be wiped clean off his face.

Because Sam thought he was in control… Thought Bucky was gonna let him run the show just because that’s how it usually went.

But tonight?

Tonight, Bucky had other plans.

They were tangled together in bed, bodies still warm from sleep, Sam stretched out beneath him and that damn smirk already in place.

"You just gonna stare, Barnes?" Sam teased, hands sliding slow over Bucky’s waist, fingers pressing just enough to get a reaction. "Or you gonna-"

Bucky moved fast. He flipped them before Sam could blink, pinning him to the mattress with a grip that was just this side of rough, pressing him down and caging him in.

Sam let out a startled breath, blinking up at him. "Damn. Okay."

Bucky grinned, leaning in, his lips just brushing against Sam’s throat, his breath warm against his skin. "Hmm? What was that, Wilson?"

Sam swallowed, but he grinned too, tilting his chin up like he wasn’t even remotely concerned. "Was that supposed to impress me?"

Bucky chuckled, low and dangerous, his vibranium fingers ghosting over Sam’s ribs, slow and teasing. "I haven’t started yet."

Sam had always been kinda touchy. Always dragging Bucky into something, shoving at his shoulder, looping an arm around him, or pressing a steadying hand to his back like Bucky wasn’t perfectly capable of standing on his own and Bucky, touch starved for decades, had never questioned it.

And now that he had Sam... Now that Sam was his... Bucky took his time.

He let his hands wander, tracing along every line, every curve, every scar Sam had earned over the years. Bucky pressed his fingers into places he knew would make Sam shiver, into places Sam never let anyone else touch.

And when Sam’s breath hitched, when he arched slightly, that cocky grin of his flickering just a little, Bucky’s smile was slow and pleased. "Still unimpressed?"

Sam exhaled, blinking up at him. "Oh, I— Damn, man."

Bucky just grinned.

Bucky kissed Sam slow. He took his time, he made him feel it.

He nipped at his lower lip, soothed it with his tongue, let his hands slide lower, keeping Sam right where he wanted him.

And Sam... Sam Wilson, who always had a comeback, always had something smart to say, was speechless. He was breathing hard, mouth parted and hands gripping Bucky’s arms like he didn’t know if he wanted to pull him closer or hold on for dear life.

"Got something to say now?" Bucky murmured, lips brushing against Sam’s jaw, his voice low and deliberate.

Sam let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "I hate you."

Bucky huffed a small laugh against Sam's warm skin. "No, you don’t."

"Yeah, I do," and Sam hissed as Bucky bit down on the sensitive spot just beneath his ear. "Oh, you are so smug right now."

Bucky pressed another kiss to Sam’s throat, his vibranium fingers tightening just enough on Sam’s waist. "Guess now you know how it feels."

"Mm-hmm." Sam sighed, tilting his head back, his voice softer now. "Yeah, okay. So you got moves, Barnes."

Bucky kissed him again, deep and slow, steady and certain in a way he rarely was, taking his time and teasing Sam with his tongue. Sam melted underneath him.

When he finally pulled back just enough to see Sam wrecked beneath him, dazed and breathless, Bucky smiled slowly.

"Now that’s a good look on you, Wilson."

Sam blinked up at him, then laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while you can."

Bucky smiled again, leaning down to brush his lips just over Sam’s, his voice nothing but a whisper. "Oh, I plan to, sweetheart."

#sam x bucky #sambucky #sambucky ficlet

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jessiwritesstories · 6 months ago

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#lawrusso #lawrusso drabbles #i love them #lawrusso ficlets #new post #maybe some other ships idk #kenthony #stony #sambucky #my favs

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thatmexisaurusrex · 9 months ago

Note

I just couldn’t resist this one for the prompt game: 💈

SamBucky Prompt Game

Nice choice! Enjoy! 🥰

The Problem of Bucky’s Hair

Bucky.

Sat in front of Sam.

Watching Sam.

Watching him.

And.

"Okay. Come on. What's up?" asked Bucky.

Because he knew it had been a while. He had agreed to go undercover with the Thunderbolts. He knew it would take a few months, though, maybe he hadn't expected it to take six months before he saw Sam again.

"Why are you sporting a Rachel?" blurted Sam.

And.

Bucky didn't know what that meant.

"What?"

Sam.

Sam held Bucky's face in his hands. And this was what Bucky wanted. He wanted to look into his boyfriend's gorgeous brown eyes. He wanted to feel the touch of Sam again.

And Sam, in that emotional moment, said, "I love you James, but that bob is one of the hardest things to look at."

Okay, Bucky was laughing now. Sam was too.

"It's in the awkward phase you need to - you need to give me a little more time to get it back to the right length," giggled Bucky.

"Okay," said Sam before he gave Bucky a soft kiss, "I'll wait for it. Is everything going fine so far?"

"Yeah. It is. They don't suspect a thing. But - but it's really nice seeing you again," said Bucky.

"It really is," whispered Sam, "I missed you so much."

"Yeah. Me too," said Bucky as he found himself just staring at the most handsome fella he had ever seen.

At his boyfriend.

At Sam.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky ficlet #sambucky prompt game

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ironstrangle · 2 years ago

Text

Ficlet: The Little One Said (Joaquin x Bucky x Sam)

@allcapsbingo - prompt “Three’s a crowd.”

“You pushed me out of the bed,” Joaquín exclaimed, his voice laced with mock indignation. His eyes sparkled with a playful mixture of disgust and amusement as he looked up at Bucky and Sam. Sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, he playfully shook his head at them, unable to suppress a smile.

Sam couldn’t contain his laughter, burying his face into the pillow in a futile attempt to muffle the infectious sound. Meanwhile, Bucky simply grinned mischievously, fully aware of the playful chaos they had caused.

“I know you’re all juiced up, Bucky, but that was just rude.” He groaned and slowly rose to his feet. He rubbed his arm where he had hit it. “If I had broken my arm falling, you’d feel like shit right now.”

“But you didn’t,” Bucky pointed out with a smirk. He looked like an actual angel, wry smirk and vibranium arm shining in the sunlight. “Therefore, I feel pretty great. You know this bed’s not big enough for three people.”

“Yeah, because one of us is a bed hog,” Joaquín muttered, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He definitely looked like he had been tangling with two capable, brilliant lovers. His hair was a mess and his bare chest was littered with tiny little marks. Sam liked to bite. He rejoined them on the bed, sitting near the end of it and looking at his two partners with a mischevious smirk. “You know, Sam, you’re Captain America. Surely, you can afford a bigger bed now.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with this bed. It’s perfectly normal sized.”

“Perfectly normal sized for two,” Joaquín pointed out. “Is this your way of telling me that three is a crowd?”

Bucky’s teasing expression softened a little at that. Joaquín had learned over the past few months that Bucky had a very expressive face beneath all the glaring. He had these little micro-expressions that clued you in, if you were really paying close attention.

“You know that’s not true,” he said, his tone serious. “The three of us, we’re something good.”

“I was kidding, idiot,” Joaquín said, but he knew his smile said it all. He touched Bucky on the shoulder. “Of course, I wasn’t kidding about us needing a bigger bed. Surely, they have a polyamory friendly bed out there, right? We’re not the only people in the world in an arrangement like this.”

They settled back into the bed then, as comfortably as they could. It was a little bit of a tight squeeze, especially for three grown men. Sam settled between Joaquin and Bucky, and Bucky was looking at something on his phone.

“Hey how about this?” he asked, pulling up an image and passing it over Sam to Joaquin. “Alaskan King bed. I think we could spring for it.”

“Looks nice,” Sam said, grinning. “It would solve some gigantic problems.”

“Like three in the bed and the little one said…”

Joaquin glared at Bucky.

“Not the little one.”

“Whatever you say, little one.”

#ficlet #sam x joaquin x bucky #sambuckyquin #sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #joaquin torres #just a little fluff

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firstelevens · 8 months ago

Text

outlaw life looks pretty wholesome

sam/bucky | canon divergence/mr. and mrs. smith au | rated t | 14.8k words

Rescued from a HYDRA base by the Avengers, a rehabilitated Bucky runs covert missions for Nick Fury by night and is one half of a cheerful, cat-owning couple in an exclusive DC apartment building by day. When he gets called out on a mission to protect an important asset, the second-to-last thing he expects to see is a baby. The actual last thing he expects to see is his ostensibly-civilian husband Sam, wielding his own secret agent badge and ready to run point with Bucky on this new mission. Now they just have to hole up in a house in the suburbs, take care of an adorable baby, and try not to collapse under the weight of everything they haven't said over the course of their marriage. Easy.

now complete on AO3

#sambucky #sambucky mr and mrs smith au #me two weeks ago: this is only gonna be a quick ficlet!#narrator: it was not in fact going to be a quick ficlet #sincerest thanks to Emma for the shameless enabling as always love u bud #my fic #sam x bucky

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abarbaricyalp · 1 month ago

Note

sambucky + "could you promise me one thing?", if you like!

"Oh, I want to do quick 1000 word ficlets for these prompts" <- lying liar who lies Thanks for sending this prompt in. Evidently I liked it 😅 From this prompt list

People left.

It was something Sam had understood on a surface level all his life. The people who slept on the Wilsons' couch for a few days at a time always left. The teachers at the school left year after year. His friends left to other states.

When he was eleven and his favorite titi died, he understood that the raw bruise ache that he knew from when people left with warning was nothing compared to the yawning chasm of loneliness that overwhelmed him when someone left without warning.

His titi when he was eleven. The boy down the road when he was fifteen. His dad when he was eighteen and his mama when he was nineteen. His grandparents. Two cousins. Three more kids from his graduating class before they graduated and another four before he moved to DC after the Air Force.

Him and Sarah had promised, in his terrible off campus apartment a few months after their mama died, that they wouldn't leave each other. And then Sam had been the one to leave.

People left his courses. People dropped out of their training class. He fed a cat out in the middle of the desert and even it stopped coming around eventually.

He'd made Riley make the same promise, to not leave, to see all of it through, to stay with him.

Then he stopped expecting it of anyone. Stopped wishing it of anyone.

People left. That was just life.

So, when he had the Winter Soldier laying in a safe house bed next to him, so loose and sleppy that he was letting Sam trace nonsense against his shoulder blade, he didn't beg him to stay. Instead, he said, "Can you promise me one thing?"

Bucky turned his head to more or less face Sam. Or, at least, Sam's hip, since he was still sitting up in the bed for some reason. "What?" he asked, voice gruff and rumbling.

"If you're going to leave, do it now. Before I get attached to you."

Bucky pushed himself up onto his elbow and narrowed his eyes at Sam. It wasn't a glare, but it put a little furrow between his brows. "I'm not leaving," he said simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam didn't argue. He didn't need to. Everyone left. It was an immutable fact of life and he wasn't going to let himself fall for it again.

"Sam," Bucky said seriously, batting Sam's hand away when it went back to tracing designs on the front of his shoulder now. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam hummed as he shifted to lay down, facing away from Bucky. The super soldier refused to take the hint and scooted closer to get his arms around Sam's waist and one leg hooked over Sam's thigh. Sam hated that he loved this. Hated that he leaned back against Bucky's chest. Hated that he knew Bucky would put his face against Sam's neck, like an animal burrowing somewhere safe.

"I'm not leaving," he said again.

Sam still didn't believe him.

. . .

Sam missed the news coverage of the Sokovia fight because, before anything could hit the airwaves, there was a knock at his door and an apparent bear attack victim on the other side of it.

"Barnes, what the hell?" he asked as he caught Bucky when he listed forward and dragged him inside. He kicked the door shut behind them and mostly carried Bucky to the bathroom. "Where were you? What happened?" he asked.

Bucky tried to look at him when Sam sat him down on the lid of the toilet, but his head kept tipping backwards and he could barely keep his eyes from rolling senselessly. He was covered in bruising and blood and there were three massive gashes running down the left side of his face. Every time something kind of white showed up in them, Sam had to remind himself this was his job and he couldn't be sick while he was working.

It had been a while since he'd dealt with worse than a skinned elbow or a broken ankle, the occasional stab wound. It felt like another lifetime since he'd been the guy who landed next to mangled destruction and began to put it back together.

Bucky mumbled something, but it was too low and garbled for Sam to make out and he didn't have the time to ask again. He filled the sink with warm water, dunking a washcloth beneath the stream so he could begin to clean some of the blood away.

He opened Bucky's mouth to check for obstructions in his airway, but got distracted by the fact that half his teeth were missing and, where there was red inflamed gum, white was beginning to show again in the empty spots.

"Okay, Jaws," he breathed, because otherwise he might really lose it. "Can you breathe?"

Bucky mostly nodded and so Sam got to work stopping the bleeding.

When Bucky came to a little more than an hour later, his first words were, "The shark's name is Bruce."

"No, the fake shark's name was Bruce. They didn't name the shark that was eating people." Sam set aside the tablet he'd been digging up information with and really looked at Bucky for the first time in 45 minutes, since he'd forced himself to stop trying to see his skin stitch itself back together. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a bus from the inside," Bucky groaned. He turned over on his side, laid there for a second, then pushed himself up so he was sitting off the bed. Mercifully, he didn't try to stand. Sam was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to catch him.

The wounds on his face weren't completely open anymore, though they were still red and raw. The more superficial damage had healed already, but slower than Sam had noticed scrapes and bruises healed on Steve. He wasn't sure if it was a difference in serums or because Bucky's body had a lot more to contend with at the moment than Sam and Steve's usual post-mission fare.

"You should lay back down," he said. "You're still hurt."

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, but he didn't make the lay down again. "You figure out what I was doing yet?"

Sam looked at the tablet and scowled. "No. I checked all of the alarms for the facilities we're aware of. You weren't at any of those."

Bucky considered this, then reached for the tablet and typed in an address and description to Sam's notes app. "You'll probably want to get eyes on that one."

"What were you doing?" Sam asked, tired of the merry-go-round of nothing.

"I was trying to take out an old science lab. I underestimated how busy it would be." He grimaced and put a hand to his mouth. "Really, underestimated it."

Sam passed over a box of tissues and Bucky spit blood into a fistful of them before putting the box on the beside table.

"Anyway, it'll probably be scrapped by the time your team checks it out, but someone needs to go knock it down afterwards. It had been abandoned once and they came back."

"Like wasps to a nest," Sam agreed. He stared at the box of tissues instead of Bucky's ashen face and asked, "Why did you come here? This base is nowhere near here. There must've been a hundred other places you could've recouped at."

Bucky put one foot out until it rested against Sam's. "I had to remind myself I couldn't leave yet," he said. "It was dicey for a while."

A wave of mottled emotion crashed over Sam all at once, pulling him into the rip current and not letting him back up. He could feel it in his lungs and behind his eyes and stinging his nose. A relentless torrent trying to drown him. Succeeding, if the pressure in his chest and up his throat was anything to go by.

He started to stand, to seek privacy, to grapple with something pithy to say as he left, but Bucky grabbed his wrist before he could.

"I'm not leaving," he promised again, as serious and immovable as a cliff face.

"Okay," Sam agreed, nodding. Let the current drag him under.

. . .

After the battle, after the fallout, the funeral, the time jumping, the machinery, the lake house, after even Steve Rogers had left, Sam sat on the large, lovely balcony of Intermediary House Number Four: the one for people who should be on the Raft, and passed a cigarette back and forth with Bucky, who was sitting beside him. Sam didn't smoke as a habit, but, God, it had been a-week-make-that-five-years.

Bucky had dragged out the blanket from the couch, but it was wrapped entirely around Sam, while the super soldier stubbornly didn't shiver in his boxers and a tank top. Sam watched him in the moonlight, paler than usual, softer than usual. His hair was still damp from a shower and crimped just a little against his neck.

Though the balcony was beautiful, the land it looked out on wasn't anything to write home about. They could see the next house over, shadows moving behind sheer curtains. It was another intermediary house for heroes waiting on pardons and something called the GRC to put them somewhere. There was no reason for Bucky to be staring so hard at an acre of dead grass while he puffed a cigarette down to the filter without noticing.

"Did he tell you?" Sam asked. His stomach curled in on itself violently, an ouroboros of self-doubt and hurt.

"Huh?" Bucky asked, passing over the dead cigarette.

Sam stubbed it out on the balcony. "You knew, when Steve didn't come back from that last jump. You knew where he'd be. You didn't panic, like I did. Did you know what he was going to do?" Sam didn't mean for his voice to be so hard, but he could hear it even in his own ears, feel it in his jaw. He was mad at Steve, but Steve wasn't around for him to be mad at, so the blame would have to find another host.

"He mentioned it," Bucky admitted gruffly. "Said he was thinkin' 'bout it. Little shit thinks about a lot though. I didn't know if he'd do it."

Sam glared at Bucky's temple, because Bucky still wasn't looking at him. "And you didn't think to mention it to me? Why didn't he tell me?"

Bucky shrugged and then chewed on his lower lip. "I don't know. He's an asshole. He wasn't thinking straight."

Sam watched Bucky worry a piece of chapped skin on his lip, then the snake in his belly curled tighter. "Oh my God, did he ask you to go with him?" he asked.

Bucky nodded, still studying the boring suburban yard like it was Versailles.

"Why didn't you?"

Because everyone left. It would only make sense that he'd lose both of them back to time. Both going in one blow would hurt less.

"Why the hell would I do that?" Bucky asked, finally turning to look at him. His eyes flashes, bright and dangerous. "Everything I want is right here. You think I wanna go back to the 40s? You think I wanna know you exist but never be able to look at you or talk to you or hold you again? You think I could ever be happy like that? Knowing all of this," he said, voice getting louder and louder with each new thought, arm throwing wide to gesture to the whole world, "living through what I lived through, knowing you? You think I could ever be happy without you again?"

Sam blinked at him, at a loss for words. There were plenty sitting in his chest, but none in his mouth.

"Steve went chasing love," Bucky added, suddenly quiet again. "I chose that option too. I just didn't have to run so far." He stood then, fluid and fast so that Sam barely noticed until Bucky was leaning over to kiss the crown of his head. "I told you I wasn't leaving. I'm not going to start now.

"But I am gonna go to sleep. Don't leave my lighter sitting out all night," he warned as he let himself in through the sliding door, leaving it open behind him.

With a sigh, Sam grabbed another cigarette and stared at the same spot Bucky had been memorizing.

. . .

There was six months when Sam didn't believe Bucky. Six months of radio silence. Six months of the occasional ping on his news tracker that picked up an old HYDRA name that had turned up dead or in handcuffs or, once, hanging by one ankle off of a bridge, waiting for authorities. Six months of double checking that Bucky was doing his stupid pardon check-ins.

Six whole months of nothing but speculation on what Bucky was doing and if he was even alive until he showed up in person in a private hangar, bothering Sam about something Sam had asked his opinion on and been ignored for. Six months of silence and suddenly Bucky was attached to his hip like they were glued together. Jumping out of airplanes, flying under semis, bouncing around Europe again like it was 2015 all over.

When he followed Sam to Louisiana, Sam wasn't sure if he was surprised or not. When he came back to Louisiana from New York, Sam figured he wasn't getting rid of the guy any time soon. Louisiana had that affect. Good food and better company and a little bit of quiet.

Bucky put in the work to make up for those silent six months. He ingratiated himself to the Wilsons, and all of Delacroix, until one day when Sam got back from a weekend trip up to DC for Cap stuff and found Bucky with bags packed in Sarah's living room.

Sam's stomach went out from under him, painful and poisonous. Every muscles in his body tightened, getting ready for the hit, trying to pre-emptively take some of the sting away.

"You get bored while I was gone?" he asked stiffly, stalking to the kitchen to pull out a sparkling water.

"Yeah, kind of," Bucky admitted. "The boys were at a friend's house all weekend and Sarah said I was getting in the way at the foodbank. I'd already fixed the front porch steps, so I wasn't sure what else to do without permission."

The hair on the back of Sam's neck rose and he felt an angry flush rush over his cheeks and into his hairline. "So you're leaving? Just because you had to sit and relax for a few days?"

Bucky sounded amused when he spoke again, after a measured weight. "Sammy, turn around, will ya'? Just humor me, alright?"

Sam did, holding the glass bottle tight enough to worry himself. "Why? So I can see you walk away?"

Bucky even looked amused, the smug bastard. "Well, I'm a sight to watch leave," he agreed. "But I was kinda hopin' you'd come with me, actually."

Then he raised his hand and a set of keys dangled off of his middle finger. Sam stared at them for a few seconds.

"You got your own place?" he asked in confusion. "Down here?"

"No," Bucky corrected slowly. "We're renting a place. Just for now."

"What?" Sam asked, train of thought derailing into a forest and sinking to the bottom of a lake.

"Come on, sweetheart. You didn't forget about us looking at a thousand listings for three weeks straight."

"That wasn't... We weren't... I thought..." Sam's jaw tightened and he glared at Bucky, but it only lasted a few seconds. "You chose one?"

"Well, you weren't going to," Bucky supposed. "Besides, it's my name on the lease, so if you don't like it, it won't affect your credit any."

"Which one?" Sam asked.

"That one we saw on the app first. I talked to the owners. Dropped your name. They were willing to rent it to us long term. I mean, it's a year lease, but that's better than reupping every month, y'know. It's right down the road. Two roads up and one over."

"Yeah," Sam said a little numbly. "I remember. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I told you, I got bored. You're the opposite of my impulse control. As soon as I'm thinking about you, I do stupid shit."

"You could've called me."

"I did call you. You didn't answer."

And, yeah, now that Sam had said that out loud, he did remember ignoring a handful of Bucky's calls because Bucky had the uncanny ability to call five minutes into every meeting Sam ever walked into. Even the unscheduled ones.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did you do this? Why did you put it in your name?"

"Sweetheart, one day you'll believe me. I'm not leaving."

Sam forced away the knot of tears trying to climb his throat. Louisiana was always home. This house was home. But having a place to call his own was its own kind of special. And Bucky had made sure it happened because Sam had spiraled about it a few weeks ago.

"Can we go right now?" he asked.

Bucky grinned at him and held out Sam's go-bag. "It's all ours," he promised.

. . .

It was storming outside. The kind of summer storm that was full of electricity and thunder trying to rend the sky apart and inescapable rain coming from every direction and humidity that fed all of it.

Luckily, Sam was inside and the windows were all shut and he had a warm drink beside him, so he could appreciate the storm through the patio doors without feeling any of its affects.

Bucky was beside him, half watching the storm and mostly fiddling with something in his lap. It had been an old timepiece earlier that someone who knew someone who knew someone in New York had sent him. Allegedly it belonged to some part of the Barnes family, but there'd been no provenance note to accompany it. He'd been tinkering with it for days because "if it's what I think it is, Sammy, there's a false back here somewhere. I just don't remember how to open it."

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Bucky asked suddenly, words corresponding to a thunder clap outside and making Sam jump. Bucky rubbed his lower back gently.

"Yeah, 'course," Sam said as he turned to face Bucky instead of the door. "Only if I know the answer, though."

Bucky smiled and it was a soft, hesitant kind of thing that instantly had Sam's attention. Bucky was very rarely hesitant with him anymore. In fact, there was a whole entire blush on his cheeks and his pulse point was jumping beneath the skin of his neck. He was barely keeping his eyes on Sam.

"A long time ago, you told me to promise to leave before you got attached."

Bucky reminded him every few months. He wasn't likely to forget. "Was that the question?" he asked carefully.

"Have you gotten attached yet?" he asked nervously.

Sam put his hand against Bucky's cheek to keep him from dipping his head like a bird watering toy. "Yeah, pretty sure we passed that one a while ago," he said. "I'd say I'm inextricably linked to you now, Buck."

Bucky smiled, still hesitant, but grateful now. "Alright, then can you promise me something?"

His cheek flushed even warmer under Sam's hand. "Yeah, sweetheart," he said. "I can promise you lots."

Bucky fiddled in his pocket and Sam thought, just for a second, this all had something to do with that pocket watch for some reason. "Can you promise not to leave either? To let me love you for the rest of our lives? Stay tangled up with me, Sam. I don't want to sort this knot out. Don't want to ever be unlinked again."

It wasn't the pocketwatch in his hand. It was a gold band, a little worse for wear, old and scuffed, but solid.

"Sorry," he said, sheepish, when Sam just kept looking at it. "I just got it open and I didn't have a polishing cloth. I'll clean it. You don't have to--"

Sam nearly smacked his hand over Bucky's. Losing the ring that way would have been embarrassing. "Of course I want to love you for the rest of our lives," he said. "And I want you to put that ring on my hand right now, as is."

Finally, he was graced by one of Bucky's wide, sure, happy smiles. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and brighten. "Really?" he asked, even as he held Sam's hand still (it was Bucky's hand that was shaking anyway) and slid the ring on his finger. He brought Sam's hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles reverently and then pressed Sam's fingers to the space between his eyes, head bowed as quiet tears fell down his cheeks.

Sam gently urged his face upwards again and leaned forward to kiss him, feeling the waves of emotion dance over Bucky's face as he shuddered in a breath and tried to control himself. Wet eyelashes fluttered against Sam's kind. His nose scrunched up as he tried not to really cry. Cheeks quivered beneath Sam's hand.

"Baby, why are you crying?" Sam laughed softly. "I said yes, didn't I? I meant to."

Bucky tried to chuckle too, but it got punctured by a quiet, killed sob. "I've waited so long to be in love and I can't believe it all led me to you. When I saw that watch, I remembered how it felt to be sixteen and begging to know who I'd love enough to put that ring on for. And it's you. Everything was leading to you and it's all so impossible that I did find you. I'm not ever leaving, Sam. I'll tell you every day, if you need it. I'm staying right here."

Sam leaned forward to pull Bucky to him, hugging him tightly until Bucky sagged against him and held on too. "I know," he breathed against Bucky's neck. "I'm not leaving either."

Maybe not everyone left.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america #the falcon and the winter soldier #sambucky fanfic #i answer things #writing

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glittercake · 2 years ago

Note

would you ever write more sam in lingerie? 🫣

Here you go, Anon:

E | 800w | some more lingerie here | and another one here.

Getting undressed after missions is honestly the highlight of Bucky’s day. He can't wait to get rid of all the straps and leather and buckles that protect and bind him, kick his boots off and feel the cold tile under his feet.

Sam’s quick to unbuckle the suit, too. And, alright, perhaps Bucky lied. This has got to be the highlight of his day. He always loves watching Sam suit-down, watching his worn knuckles work that zip open from his neck to his navel. The way he lets the top half hang around his waist while he stretches his arms and cracks his neck. It’s enough spank bank material for a lifetime. Never mind that he gets to take Sam home every night, have him all to himself in all kinds of dirty ways.

But tonight, when Sam slides the zipper down, Bucky’s in for something else entirely.

At first he’s not sure he’s seeing correctly. He is one hundred and seven goddamn years old and maybe all those years are finally catching up to him.

He squints, tilts his head sideways, but then Sam catches him looking and smirks, and Bucky just knows he’s not mistaken.

Because, yeah, underneath the stealthy navy blue and muted silver vibranium, there’s a glimpse of scarlet lace peeking out.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, dropping his gun harness on the carpet. He can’t tear his eyes away from Sam’s chest. Thinks he’s gotta be dreaming. “What the fuck is that?”

“What’s what, Buck?” Sam’s got that pretty little smile dancing across his lips. One that is all too insinuating for how innocent he’s acting.

“No, come on,” he says, goes over. Sam lets him yank the suit open, slide it down his arms. “Jesus fucking Christ?” He looks at Sam—who has an infuriatingly content air about him—but his eyes struggle to focus on one place.

The lace is so delicate he thinks one solid tug could rip it apart. It spans over Sam's chest, little satin strings looping the balls of his shoulders to hold it up. Bucky’s thumb slips underneath. Sam’s battle warm skin and the smooth fabric sends an electric vibration up his left arm and it gives a deep mechanic purr.

“Oh, that got you going, huh?” Sam licks his lips. Bucky’s eyes flip up to him when he speaks. His brain’s going way past the speed limit, trying to comprehend this. “There’s more, though.”

“Darlin’,” Bucky says, incredulous, “what more could there possibly be?” His eyes fall back to the red lace clinging to Sam’s skin. He wants to yank Sam’s body against his, has an inexplicable urge to press that dainty material against his rough leather gear and buckles, wants to see the contrast. Wants to feel it. Wants to fuck Sam just like this bent over the counter.

And then Sam slips the suit over his hips and there really is more. God, there’s more. That was a dumb question.

Same delicate lace, same bright red, draped over the dips that cut down from his hip bones to his dick.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, he frowns then looks up. “You had this on the whole goddamn time?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe. You like it?” he laughs, steps out of the suit so it’s just him in this get-up standing in front of Bucky.

“Sweetheart, that ain’t the word.” He smooths his hands down Sam’s sides and Sam arches into the touch. Bucky slips his fingers underneath the thong’s straps and pulls, watches it dig into Sam’s skin. He lets his fingertips travel forward until he reaches Sam’s bulge trapped behind the lace. He pauses, careful with the dainty fabric, then traces his finger tip ever so gently along the thong’s seam and Sam’s shaft.

Sam shudders from the bare touch, dick twitching in its confinement, and finally leans in to kiss Bucky. And that does it, it derails any other thought Bucky has going on. He scoops Sam up, lowers him to the floor, and gets his mouth on the lace.

Sam grabs at his hair, and for a second he regrets growing it out because it stings, but that soon melts into a feverish want in his gut. He bites down, gets a good mouthful of Sam’s pec and red lace in his mouth, sucks his nipple through the fabric. Feels Sam squirm beneath him, urging him on.

“Shit, baby,” Sam says, reaches between them and gets Bucky free of his zip, lines them up—bare skin on lace—and then sighs like it's balm on a wound for him. “If I knew this was all I had to do to get you on me—”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky cuts him off, groans when his cock finally rubs up against Sam's. “Fuck—All you gotta do is look at me, you know that.”

Sam bites at Bucky's bottom lip, tugs at it with his teeth, and smirks because he knows. Of course he knows that.

He’s known that since they first laid eyes on each other.

#sambucky #winterfalcon #sam x bucky #samantha writes #sam in lingerie #the lingerie saga #ficlets

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azriona · 6 days ago

Text

The Apartment (MCU ficlet)

Summary:

This is a list of things that Bucky finds the first week in his newly-renamed Watchtower apartment: * A flashlight * A stack of New York Times dated December 2 through December 11, 2012 (the crossword is completed in all of them. Correctly. Including the Sunday version. In pen.) * Half a box of tea bags * Two unopened tubes of toothpaste and a used toothbrush * Denture cream * A near-empty container of “personal lubricant”

Bucky shouldn’t be surprised that his Watchtower apartment had once belonged to Steve.

The Deets: 7.7k, one-shot, spoilers for Thunderbolts*, SamBucky if you squint but otherwise very Gen.

Also available on AO3.

Bucky realizes a week after he moves in that his apartment in the newly renamed Watchtower had once belonged to Steve. He’s not sure Val realized it at all, though he wouldn’t put it past her. Mel had been the one to hand out the keys, and Bucky can’t get a read on her at all. Not that she’d had much expression, just sent ‘em to the right floors like she’d been pulling numbers out of a hat.

There are four apartments on each floor. Bucky shares the floor with Yelena, Ava, and Bob. Considering Alexei’s forlorn expression when he learns he’s on a different floor with Walker, Bucky is a thousand percent sure that Yelena requested it that way.

Alexei spends ten minutes posturing and talking about locks and security and how very much he loves his little girl who is a delicate, innocent flower, before Yelena gets so fed up, she does some quick move thing that has Bucky in a strangle-hold and his arm dropped to the floor before he can blink.

He could have stopped her. But the idea of sneaking into Yelena’s bed is so ridiculous a notion that it’s more fun to see the shock on Alexei’s face.

“I can take care of myself, Dad,” Yelena snaps at Alexei, before going into her apartment and loudly throwing every lock on the door.

“Women,” Alexei says to Bucky, full of admiration and pride and eyes practically brimming with tears.

“I want to learn how to do that,” says Ava, and Bob whimpers again, though honestly, Bucky’s not entirely sure that Bob ever stopped.

“Sure,” says Bucky, because seriously, fuck this day. He goes to inspect the water pressure in the shower, and it’s everything he has ever wanted. He might just live there now.

The shower should have tipped him off. It’s the first shower he’s been in that’s actually at the right height and big enough that he doesn’t accidentally brush the tiles when he turns around.

This is a list of things that Bucky finds the first week in his Watchtower apartment:

A flashlight

A stack of New York Times dated December 2 through December 11, 2012 (the crossword is completed in all of them. Correctly. Including the Sunday version. In pen.)

Half a box of tea bags

Two unopened tubes of toothpaste and a used toothbrush

Denture cream

A near-empty container of “personal lubricant”

Bucky recycles the newspapers, tosses the toothbrush, hides the denture cream in Alexei’s room, takes a picture of the personal lubricant and texts it to Sam and then hides the bottle in Walker’s team locker, positioned exactly right to fall out when he opens it.

It falls out when Walker opens it.

In front of Yelena and Ava.

Yelena just raises her eyebrow, Ava laughs for two hours straight, Walker screams and rants and raves and blames everyone for the prank but never figures out who did it.

Bucky wakes in the middle of the night with Alexei leaning over his bed, holding the denture cream.

“Is good joke, Winter Soldier,” says Alexei in stage-whispered Russian. “I have joke too.”

Bucky doesn’t find his arm until the next afternoon.

Hanging from the flagpole in Rockefeller Center.

It’s got a smiley face painted on it. In denture cream.

Honestly, he should have known it was Steve’s apartment. Even with the denture cream.

The apartment has a view of Brooklyn; Bucky can make out the docks and Prospect Park, and if he squints, he can see the group of buildings where his parents had the brownstone they’d lived in until his dad passed in ’52 and his mom moved into the assisted living in ‘64. The house went to Becca and John, but Becca died in ’98 and John hadn’t been particularly well and thus didn’t keep up with the maintenance. None of the kids wanted it when he passed in ’04 so it sold for a song and was given a complete overhaul inside. It didn’t look a thing like Bucky would have remembered, even if he did remember, which he doesn’t.

So Bucky doesn’t look out that window much.

The rest of the apartment is nice enough. Mel says they’re more or less the same as they were when the Avengers lived there; all that was needed was a coat of paint and new flooring. There’s furniture and cookware and all the bells and whistles; most of it is new enough, barely used, though there’s a leather chair in the sitting room that looks well-worn, a light positioned at almost the right height for reading, a table that has a dozen rings on the polished surface, like whoever’s lived in the apartment before had never bothered with a coaster.

“Use a coaster, Jamie, I didn’t raise you in a barn!”

“No, Ma, you just raised as me as one!”

The apartment, when Bucky moves in, looks like a blank slate, even when it doesn’t ever really feel that way.

The first thing Bucky finds that he is absolutely sure was Steve’s is the Yankees jersey on a shelf in the closet, shoved in the corner in the back. He’s trying to figure out why the box that should fit in the space doesn’t, and at first, he’s not sure what the material is when he pulls it out.

Then he unfolds it, curses, and notices what’s written on the back. Rogers 18.

“You have got to be kidding me,” grumbles Bucky. The only saving grace is the jersey still has its tags on it, so at least Steve never actually wore the traitorous thing.

It takes a moment before he grins, a bit lopsided, the snort of laughter slipping out of him. Easy to imagine Stevie’s reaction to the gift, especially if it had been in any kind of public sphere.

Wow, gosh, this is… great. Um. Thanks. Yeah. Wow.

It’s superimposed by an actual memory that drifts up like ash from a campfire.

“Damn those Yankees!” hollers Stevie Rogers, age eleven and already burning with all the fervor of a die-hard Dodgers fan, plus a bit of his own sense of righteousness. “I’m gonna hate ‘em ‘til the end of the century!”

Bucky can still hear their laughter and indignation, feel the slender weight of Stevie’s arm over his shoulders as they walk home after the game. It was the last summer they were the same height, because Bucky sprung up three inches that fall and Stevie… well. Didn’t.

Given the way the jersey was shoved in the back of the closet, Stevie probably kept on hating the Yankees well after the turn of the century.

Even so. He marches the jersey straight to the trash and is about to throw it in.

Instead, he gives to Walker.

Walker, being Walker, is so pleased he wears it for two days straight, and doesn’t even bother to remove the tags.

After the jersey, Bucky starts recognizing more things that were probably Steve, or Steve-adjacent, or at least Steve-inspired.

The size of the shower and the height of the counters are definitely the latter. The view of Brooklyn goes without saying. There’s a table near another window that gets fantastic light. It’s oversized, with lots of storage and drawers and open cabinets on one side, and now that Bucky knows this was Steve’s apartment, he’s also sure Steve used the table for drawing. The nooks and crannies for pencils or pens, the open shelving for various weights and types of paper. He finds a card wedged in one of the drawers for an art supply shop a few blocks away, and that more or less confirms his suspicions.

It's a good desk, anyway. Bucky uses it as a kitchen table, because he likes watching the ships come into the harbor while he eats his cereal in the morning. But the morning after he realizes that it was Steve’s drawing table, he can’t put his feet up on it as he did before without hearing Steve complain about how the entire apartment smells like Bucky’s socks.

“Jeez, Buck, do you bathe in skunk sweat or somethin’, before you come home?”

Well, it’s a good table, anyway. Even if he can’t put his feet on it anymore without feeling guilty. He sets up the pictures he’s got of Sam and Sarah and the kids and his parents and Becca’s family and the one of the Commandos that Congressman Gary gave him. It’s still good to look at the ships come in, all those familiar eyes keeping him honest.

Then there’s the books.

The apartments had all come furnished, though Mel’s quick to assure them that the mattresses and linens are brand-new. There’s plates and pots and glassware in Bucky’s apartment anyway, and he’s not sure if Steve’s the one who picked them out or someone else. There’s a fry pan that is scratched up to holy hell, but it’s the only one with the right heft to it; the handle fits in Bucky’s hand just right, and it’s big enough to cook up a meal for one hungry super soldier.

So maybe, if Steve wasn’t the one who picked it, he was the one who used it on the regular. Bucky fries up eggs and flips his grilled cheese and when Sam comes to visit, manages to make a stir-fry that has them both going back to make it a second time.

“It doesn’t bother you?” says Sam, looking at the view of Brooklyn. “Being in Steve’s apartment?”

“Was it?” says Bucky, scrubbing at the twice-used pan. “Better than them giving it to Walker, anyway.”

Sam snorts in that way he has, when he knows he’s being told a tale. “Still can’t believe you’re working with the guy.”

Bucky tries not to bristle. Not that he can believe it either, most days, but it sounds different, coming from Sam. “He’s not so bad. Get kind of used to him, after a while.”

“Not so good, either,” grumbles Sam.

“Kinda like me.”

“Yeah, knock that shit out,” says Sam, gruff. “You aren’t anyone else’s redemption arc, Barnes.”

Bucky wants to laugh at that. “Hell, I’m not even my own.”

Sam shakes his head. “These guys… they’re not your people.”

Bucky doesn’t answer; he just exhales hard through his nose and shuts off the water, dishes done.

Sam sighs. “Come on, come down to DC. You’d like the group I’ve got; they’re good kids—”

“They’re kids,” says Bucky, as if that’s reason enough to stay as far from DC as he can get. Even thinking about their innocent optimism and endless reams of hope make him tired. “And pretty sure my pass to Congress has expired now.”

“I’m not asking the ‘honorable congressman’, Buck. I’m asking you.”

“So… what? I’m not honorable?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Bucky grunts and rests his hands on either side of the sink, pushing his clenched fists into the counter and breathing steadily. “You didn’t say running for congress was a stupid idea, either. I still heard you.”

Sam’s nostrils flare as he breathes. “You were the only man in that building I’d trust to do the right thing while he was there. And I could sure as hell use you in DC now.”

Bucky shakes his head. “What about Joaquin?”

“Like you said. He’s a kid.”

“He’d go to hell and back for you,” Bucky counters, looking up at Sam.

“I’m not asking him—”

“You don’t have to. He’s yours to the end of the line,” says Bucky, and it hurts, stupidly enough, saying that to Sam, standing in Steve’s apartment. Steve who never specified which line.

But Sam’s chest rises and falls, like he knows how much it costs Bucky to say it.

He looks around the apartment, arms still crossed over his chest. Like he’s seen it before. Hell, he probably has, probably could tell Bucky which bits were picked out by Steve and which bits were put there for him.

Might even know the why of the denture cream or personal lubricant, but sure as hell Bucky’s not going to ask.

Bucky knows when Sam’s eyes land on the jacket Bucky’s left on the chair. The one with a single sleeve and the red outline of a star, the one with not a strap to be seen.

The one with the stylized red A.

Sam’s mouth twitches when he looks at it.

“Wasn’t my first choice,” says Bucky, and Sam snorts.

“Seems to be the current one, though.”

“Wouldn’t say that, either,” counters Bucky, quick as a wink.

Sam gives him a long look, then turns away from the jacket-shaped elephant.

“You know he had books,” says Sam, looking at a large blank space on the wall. A space that looks like it might have been good for bookshelves, once. “Said he didn’t sleep much, so he’d read two, maybe three a night, if they weren’t too long.”

“Weren’t any books when I got here,” says Bucky, already wondering what Steve had read. Thinking of the three Steve had brought him in Wakanda.

“Here, Buck. He wrote a whole series after the war, about what happened to the ring and Bilbo’s nephew. Thought you’d like it.”

Gone, like everything else he’d left in Wakanda when he went to dust.

“Too bad,” says Sam, but he drops the talk of DC and the kids he’s assembled.

Except.

“Offer in DC’s open, whenever you want it,” says Sam the next day, before he boards the train that will take him home. “I could use you there.”

“I know,” says Bucky. “But you need me here, too.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah. I know. I don’t like it—”

“You think I do?”

“A little, maybe,” says Sam. Bucky can’t hear the hurt, but he knows it’s there. “Think about it, okay? There’s more than one way to do what needs done.”

If Bucky holds the hug a little longer than he’d have done otherwise… well. Sam gives good hug. No one’s gonna blame him, and sometimes Bucky’s not sure he’ll get another chance.

It’s about a week later when Mel passes him in the hall and says, “Hey! I found those boxes you asked about.”

“Boxes?” says Bucky, head still in the report he’d been reading. Some group in Malaysia trying to pretend they’re the Ten Rings. There’d been a sticky note attached when he picked it up (do not eat chili dogs and read, you are not that talented) in Yelena’s handwriting. He transferred it to Walker’s packets instead.

“Yeah, they’re in your apartment.”

“Don’t go in my apartment,” Bucky says automatically, not that Mel hears; she’s already on her phone and talking with the next project.

Ten minutes later, he opens the door to his apartment, and can’t see his apartment. It’s a wall of cardboard boxes, all marked ROGERS – STORAGE – BOOKS.

“Shit,” he says, staring at the wall.

“Yeah, shit,” agrees the voice behind him, though Ava sounds more impressed than anything else. She’s munching on an apple. “You know that stack is two boxes deep, right?”

Bucky sighs. “Stay out of my apartment.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Ava, off-handedly, casually, absolutely not sincere. “What are they?”

“Books.”

“Books,” confirms Bucky and goes inside. They really are two boxes deep, with a third row one box high. Some fifty or sixty in all, though none are very big. Bucky picks up one and carries to the drawing table. It’s heavier than it looks, and when he rips off the tape and opens it, he snorts a laugh and pulls out the first volume.

“What, reading up on your past exploits?” says Ava, plucking the biography of JFK from Bucky’s hands.

“I didn’t actually kill him, you know.” Bucky yanks the book back, only to have Ava phase to the other side of him to take it back. “Stop tha—no. You know what? Go on, read it. Have a blast.”

“Oooh,” says Ava, reaching into the box and pulling out the next book. “Can I read this instead? It’s been on my list.”

Bucky frowns at the next book. “Is that the one with the kids who try to kill each other?”

Ava groans and rolls her eyes. “You’re thinking of Mockingjay. This—” waving the book for emphasis “—is To Kill a Mockingbird. You can have it when I’m done.”

“It’s my book,” says Bucky.

But Ava’s already phased to the other side of the wall of book boxes. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it!”

And the door slams behind her.

Bucky sighs, rubs his face, and looks at the biography of JFK Ava left behind.

“What the hell,” he sighs, and sits down to read.

It’s not a bad biography. It’s probably 95% right, even, and Bucky is about to put the book on the shelf that Mel had thoughtfully delivered with the boxes of books.

Instead, he takes it with him to the morning briefing and drops it on the table in front of Ava, where it lands with a bang that makes everyone jump.

“Oh,” says Ava, staring. “I didn’t finish the other one yet.”

“No rush,” says Bucky, taking his seat next to Yelena. “I got plenty.”

“Is that a book?” says Walker, leaning over the table to get a better look. “About JFK?”

Alexei gives Bucky a look. “You didn’t do it.”

“Of course I didn’t do it,” says Bucky, leaning back in his chair. “Yelena, what’s the first item on the list?”

“Did you do it?” Yelena asks him, and he sighs, hard.

“No.”

“Of course he didn’t do it,” says Alexei.

“Thank you,” says Bucky.

“His job was to kill Oswald,” continues Alexei, tapping the side of his nose. “Covering the tracks, see?”

Bucky sighs and rubs his face. “Briefing.”

“Why do you have a biography of JFK?” says Walker.

“They’re in his apartment,” says Ava.

“What’s in his apartment?” says Yelena.

“About fifty boxes of books from the Avengers storage locker,” says Ava. “He let me borrow one last night.”

“There’s an Avengers storage locker?” says Walker.

Bucky grabs the top paper from the stack in front of Yelena. “There’s a New Avengers meeting. Can we talk about that instead?”

“Can I borrow a book?” says Alexei. “If you let Ava borrow one.”

“Guys,” says Yelena. “Bucky’s not a lending library.”

“Are any of the books in Russian?” asks Alexei.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know! I haven’t unpacked them all yet.”

“I can help,” says Walker.

“No,” snaps Bucky, and Walker’s face falls a little.

“Aw, c’mon, Stevie, don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what, Buck?”

“Like I tell you no, and you immediately start planning six ways to do it anyway.”

“Sorry,” continues Bucky. “I’ve already got help, and there’s too many boxes for more than two people to get the work done and still have space.”

Alexei gets a gleam in his eye while he chortles happily. “Ah, yes. You and Mel, reaching for a book at the same time, your fingers brushing…”

“Bob,” says Bucky firmly. “Bob’s helping me.”

Alexei deflates.

“That’s a good idea,” says Yelena, pleased. “He’ll enjoy that.”

“Assuming he’s not still scared shitless of you,” says Walker, but he doesn’t sound half as sour as he might have otherwise.

“Or scared shirtless,” suggests Ava.

“Ah, yes,” says Alexei, his eyes brightening. “You and Bob, reaching for a book at the same time, your fingers brushing—”

Bucky stares at Alexei in horror before turning the horror to Yelena.

“Enough,” she says. “First order of business—”

“He should do something about his hair, though,” muses Alexei. “It should be longer, thicker. Good for pulling.”

“You,” says Ava, as if it’s her best day ever. “You, with the buzz cut and the beard, are going to complain about Bucky’s hair.”

“Ah, you noticed my beard!” says Alexei proudly, stroking his beard lovingly. “How soft and luxurious it is!”

“Enough about your beard,” says Yelena with a groan, even as Ava tries unsuccessfully to contain her laughter. “Bucky doesn’t need a beard.”

“Of course he doesn’t! He would look terrible with beard. He has Bob.”

“You mean his haircut, or the guy?” says Walker.

“Enough!” yells Yelena. “Enough about Bucky’s hair! Can we please get back to actual agenda which has nothing to do with Bucky’s books or Bucky’s beard or Bucky’s Bob?!?”

They do. Mostly.

Alexei still spends most of the meeting stroking his beard in Bucky’s direction, and Walker looks pained to the point of crying.

Well. That’s something, anyway.

Bob is not scared shitless (or shirtless) of him. Or maybe he is, for about two minutes, but the second he opens a box and pulls out a book, he switches focus from Bucky to the volume in his hand.

“Oh, this is a good one, have you read it?”

“No,” says Bucky, not even glancing over. The box he’s working on is mostly political retrospectives and biographies. When he flips through the pages, he notices the passages underlined, corners turned down, bits of paper stuck in to mark a spot.

Steve’s handwriting in the margins:

Logical leap?

Not accurate

Ask Tony

Ask Bruce

WRONG

Bob keeps talking, the gentle patter strangely comforting as he unboxes books and puts them up on the shelves. He doesn’t hurry, but he doesn’t dally either, and when Bucky puts a few books up, Bob takes those books without hesitation and moves them to another shelf, which is when Bucky realizes he’s organizing as he goes.

It’d be easy to ignore Bob, who doesn’t expect a response to anything he says, who doesn’t mind that Bucky’s not even paying attention to him. Who’s just happy to have been asked to help, apparently: the desire to be necessary, Bucky thinks.

“Oh, man, I loved this series,” Bob exclaims, turning the book over and over, cracking it open and examining the pages. “I wanted to be Mat. Stupid probably, you’re supposed to want to be the main character, right? But who’d want to be Rand?”

“I don’t know,” says Bucky. “I haven’t read it.”

“There’s a mini-series, but I haven’t seen it yet,” says Bob, reaching for another book in the box. “These haven’t even been read yet.”

“Kids’ books?” says Bucky, seeing the cartoony covers.

“I guess, but not really. Fantasy anyway, I guess they’re about as much kids books as Lord of the Rings.”

“Yeah.” Bucky watches as Bob pages through the book. “Fantasy, huh? Steve was never much into fantasy.”

Bob’s eyes go wide for a moment. “These were Steve Rogers’s?”

“So I’m told.” Bucky reaches for the book, and Bob hands it over. Sure enough, there’s not notes, no folded corners, no bits of paper stuck in. They’re nice copies, too: hard-back, dust jackets immaculate, spines barely cracked.

“Wait, if you’re gonna read it, this is the first one,” says Bob, handing him the first book.

Bucky switches and opens that one. Maybe Steve had started to…

There’s a note. Written in the flyleaf, exactly like Bucky remembers doing when giving a book to someone as a present.

Buck, it’s not Lord of the Rings, but Clint says his son loves these. Maybe you will too.

Bucky slams the book closed to cover his shaking. “I’ll read it later,” he says, handing it back to Bob. “Go ahead and shelve it for now.”

“Sure,” says Bob, but he glances at the shelves and the remaining boxes. “Not sure we’re gonna fit them all, though.”

Bucky can see that. “Maybe I should start a lending library.”

“Or get more bookshelves,” says Bob. “Oh, hey—”

Bucky glances over as Bob pulls the leather-bound notebook out of the box. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” says Bob, opening it.

His eyes go big, and he slams it back shut again and thrusts it to Bucky. “Here. I think it’s yours.”

“I don’t—” begins Bucky, taking the book. The leather feels worn under his fingers, softened by use, the board used to bind it pliable under his grip. The pages, too, are feathered, and when he opens it somewhere near the front of the book:

It’s a drawing. Pencil lines of a tree, the bark shaded in and the leaves in intricate detail. A little girl starts off running on one side of the page, but she appears again just to the right, a little older and a little bigger. Again, older and bigger still, until she reaches the far side of the page, an old lady leaning on her cane, still canopied by the overreaching oak tree.

In the corner, a scratched signature: SGR, 2012.

“Did you want to borrow those books?” says Bucky, staring at the drawing. “The ones you read as a kid?”

“Oh. Um, maybe?” says Bob, stammering a little. First time he’s stammered at all that afternoon. “If you don’t mind.”

“Nope,” says Bucky. “Just bring ‘em back when you’re done.”

This is a list of the books Bucky finds in Steve’s boxes:

27 biographies of American presidents from Harry S. Truman up to and including George W. Bush, and another three of the presidents since

5 histories covering the Cold War

3 political thrillers

A Socialist’s Guide to the Civil Rights Movement

5 biographies of civil rights leaders, 7 biographies of foreign leaders, 2 biographies of Steve Rogers, and Bucky stops counting the biographies of various cultural leaders

A Brief History of Time and The Right Stuff and A Walk in the Woods and The Radium Girls

The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Invisible Man, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Bluest Eye

Various fictional accounts of dystopian societies, including 1984, Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Brave New World

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, It, Contact, A Gentleman in Moscow

Various children’s books including: Charlotte’s Web, The Giver, So You Want to Be a Wizard, A Wrinkle in Time, and Where the Red Fern Grows

There are too many books to fit on the shelves, and after a while, Bucky stops trying to shelve them. He pulls out books at random and flips through them. It’s immediately obvious which books Steve read and which he did not, which he liked best (because they have the most markings) and which he read once and left alone.

Bucky gives the Socialist’s Guide to Alexei, mostly because Walker is watching. Walker goes apoplectic, shocked to learn that Captain America was really little socialist activist Stevie Rogers at heart, but Bucky gives him the history of the Afghanistan wars and Walker reads the thing three times over, grumbling to himself the whole time. He returns the book and destroys three punching bags in the gym afterwards, and reads the Socialist’s Guide when Alexei is done with it, daring Bucky to say a word. Bucky doesn’t.

Bucky reads the dystopian novels and has a good chuckle. He reads The Martian three times, completely riveted. He reads The Little Prince and hates it, then reads it again the next week and still hates it, and reads it a month later and still hates it, but maybe a little less.

He asks Sam about Malcolm X and reads “Letter from Birmingham Jail” next.

He reads The Giver, which somehow leads to “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”, which somehow leads to “The Lottery”, and all three conspire to give him a white night, sitting on the top of the Tower, watching the stars glitter above him while the city goes through its motions below: bright, unrelenting, never-ending, determinedly innocent. There’s hash-marks on the highest point of the tower, a tic-tac-toe game played by one person, judging from the handwriting, and a single word: “remember.”

Bucky’s not sure who would have written it, what they would have wanted to remember. He does anyway.

He reads The Diary of Anne Frank, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, They Called Us Enemy, Maus. He reads March and The Stonewall Reader. He reads biographies of Harvey Milk and Alan Turing and Alfred Kinsey, and then he reads books criticizing all three.

He reads The Eye of the World after Bob is done with it, and Steve was right, he does like it, though not as much as Lord of the Rings. He reads A Game of Thrones and watches the television series with the rest of them. Bucky had no idea what’s more entertaining, watching Alexei go into a frenzy at the battle scenes and political machinations, or watching Yelena squirm in discomfort when the scenes turn sexual while her dad sits on the other side of the couch.

He reads Pushkin and Dostoyevsky and A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. He lends them to Alexei and they have a long night of vodka and laughter, singing Soviet ballads and songs to the fatherland, reciting memorized poetry and growing maudlin with memory. Alexei is drunk and sobbing and Bucky joins in, sobbing but not drunk, because some of it was good moments, mixed in with the horrors, and some handlers were kind, when they weren’t otherwise.

He reads Steve’s books, sitting in Steve’s leather chair, under the yellow light of Steve’s lamp, and it’s like Steve’s in the room with him, reading too. Through the nights he can’t sleep or the afternoons when it’s raining so hard he can’t think. In the early mornings when the sun has just risen or in the late evenings when the Tower is quiet, when they are all too exhausted of each other’s company or the mission they’ve only just completed.

When the world looks harshly on them, for past mistakes neither they nor anyone else can forget.

And once in a while, Bucky leaves whatever book he’s reading on the table, and picks up the notebook instead, and if it’s still Steve’s voice, reading his own words to him… well. That’s between him and Steve.

“Sam,” says Bucky whenever he calls, in the dark of night. Sitting in Steve’s chair, reading by Steve’s light. Pulling Bucky out of the past and into the now, reminding him of what’s important.

“Buck,” says Sam, warmth coming in hard down the line. The conversation always ends in argument, in silence, in a tenseness in his jaw that Bucky hates, but in those first few minutes, Bucky clings to the way Sam says his name when he calls, and lets himself relax enough to laugh.

The notebook was never meant for him, Bucky knows that. Whatever Steve wrote in it was never meant to be shared or seen by anyone else. For all Bucky knows, Steve didn’t want to look at it again himself. Might have even forgot it existed.

But Bucky had always known, the notebook Steve had given him when he went back to the past hadn’t been the first. Hadn’t even been the second, might not have been the third. It had just been the most recent.

Bucky’s pretty sure this notebook was the first.

Orange juice

Bread

Potatoes

Bananas

Eggs

Tony, 2pm, Saturday, 60 W 45th St

Joe, 9.30am, Tuesday, 69 Grand St @ Wythe, Brooklyn

Uniform (no cap), shield, sense of humor?

Orange juice

Bread

Chicken

Apples

Eggs

Onions

Bucky likes paging through the notebook. The shopping lists, the names and dates and addresses, the reminders that will probably always remain mysteries. There’s a calmness to it, a reassurance that Steve remained Steve even in the future, even when he’d lost everything.

“You stay organized, you stay focused, Buck. That’s true of people and protests both.”

Pepper, Feb 16 19??

Clint, June 18, 197?

Natasha, 1982 or 83

Orange juice

Bread (whole wheat)

Chicken breasts (bone in w/skin)

Pears

Kiwi?

Eggs

Onions, peppers, eggplant?

Potatoes

Sheryl, 6am, Sunday, 3505 Broadway, Astoria

There are drawings interspersed with the notes. Quick sketches that Steve never had a chance to finish, flash images of the other Avengers or people on the street. Bucky recognizes some of them: Natasha, Nick Fury, Thor. The New York skyline, as seen from his window. The Capital building in DC.

Other people and places, too. Sarah Rogers, wearing her nurse’s cap and looking straight off the page. Becca, playing hopscotch with all the seriousness of a ten-year-old. Their old apartment on State Street. Peggy Carter in her uniform, eyes closed as if asleep but not a hair out of place.

Himself, head thrown back in easy laughter. But there’s a darkness to his eyes, and his shirt is open at the collar, dirt rubbed into his neck. And another drawing, a little later, of a silhouetted figure, arms and legs splayed, falling into the darkness.

He stares at that picture for a long time.

Orange juice

Bread

Raspberry jam

Apples

Kumquats

Melon

Peppers

Onion, tomato

Scotch bonnet?

Yeast, flour

Cheese

Ground beef, chicken, sausage

Arnie, 10a-4p daily, 631 Foster Ave Brooklyn

Cypress Hill, K-627-630 (left-hand side, row of trees, third back)

Things are shoved in between the pages sometimes. Bucky’s careful to put them back exactly as he finds them, or where he imagines they were before they fell out unexpectedly. The tickets to a Broadway show are slipped back into the page with the address for their theater. Evita, with Pepper, or the Philharmonic with Bruce. There was an exhibition at the Met with Van Gogh and Monet and a few others that pops up several times, and Bucky’s only surprised that Steve didn’t just set up camp while it was in town.

There are receipts for various restaurants, cafes, coffee shops.

And there’s the lists of books, movies, music, television shows. Celebrities and politicians. Political action groups and charities. All crossed out, check-marked, as if Steve was already trying to catch up desperately with the world, taking every suggestion at face-value and with all the seriousness he ever claimed.

Orange juice

Bread

Apples

Home, 8.30pm. ask for Laurel.

Every page of the notebook is full. The last few pages include Thanksgiving plans, Christmas shopping lists. Addresses for apartments in Arlington, Bethesda, Capitol Hill. One is even around the block from where Bucky ended up for his short stint there.

Plans for the future. Steve had always been looking to the horizon for the next big adventure. It’s comforting to know some things didn’t change.

“High school’s gonna be great, Buck, just you wait. That’s where it’s all gonna start happening.”

“What, Stevie?”

“I don’t know! But we’ll be in the middle of it.”

There are other notebooks, Bucky’s sure of it. The one Steve gave him didn’t start until halfway through the Blip. Somewhere, there’s a notebook with Marvin Gaye and Sam’s address.

Somewhere, there’s a notebook with addresses Bucky will remember, cities he’s unable to forget. Places where he was seen, places Steve looked for him.

Maybe a list of places where Sam’s French fries went mysteriously missing. Though Bucky suspects Sam probably wouldn’t have admitted to Steve how often that happened, assuming he even realized it was Bucky stealing them.

He’s not going to go through the rest of the boxes looking for them, though. No matter how much he’d like to.

“Hey,” says Walker one afternoon. “That library of yours—”

“It’s not a library,” says Bucky automatically.

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Do you have a copy of The Hunt for Red October?”

Bucky frowns. “Sounds familiar. Maybe. I’ll check.”

He does have a copy, as it turns out, so he finds Walker in the range to hand it over. Walker’s not a bad shot—give the guy another seventy years and he’ll probably match Bucky.

“Thanks, man,” says Walker, clearly surprised as Bucky hands him the book. As if he hadn’t expected Bucky to find it, let alone to actually loan it to him. “Been wanting to read this again.”

“Yeah, no problem,” says Bucky turning to go as Walker flicks through the pages. The card falls out almost immediately, landing on the ground between them.

“Oh, hey,” says Walker, leaning down to pick it up. “Think this fell—” He cuts off, staring.

“What?” Bucky peers at it. “Baseball card? Steve must’ve been using it as a bookmark.”

“Greg Maddux,” says Walker. The smile grows on his face, the excitement in his voice, with every word. “Best pitcher the Braves ever had. 61 career wins, 18 Golden Gloves—you know, he pitched the first major league game my dad took me to. Eight years old. I could hear that ball smack into the catcher’s glove as loud as if I was holding it myself. Dad liked to keep score. He had books and books of it, going back decades, could tell you every single play he’d ever seen. Saw Hank Aaron’s last game. Went up special to see Cal Ripken break the record in Baltimore. Tried to teach me how, but I liked watching better.”

Walker hands the card to Bucky. “Here. Guess this is yours now.”

“Nah,” says Bucky. “You keep it. Baseball was more Steve’s thing than mine.”

“Dodgers, right?” Walker carefully tucks the card back in the book. “Probably shit a brick about that jersey, didn’t he?”

Bucky barks a laugh. “He probably did, yeah.”

“Well, fits me fine. Joe Torre was a Brave, you know?”

“No kidding,” says Bucky, who didn’t know, and honestly couldn’t care less about the career history of any Yankee, then or now.

He stays and shoots with Walker, though, and Bucky tops the leader board in the range again, though Walker’s not quite as far behind as before.

The picture is wedged in between two books. It’s in a protective plastic sleeve, and it’s so beautifully done, so lifelike, Bucky half expects her to leap off the page, put him a playful choke-hold before gliding gracefully to the kitchen to rummage for a snack.

He takes it across the hall and knocks on Yelena’s door.

There’s no answer, so he knocks again, a little louder.

Still no answer.

“Yelena, I know you’re in there!”

“Then stop knocking, you asshole!”

He lets himself in; the door’s unlocked, because only an idiot is going to break into a Widow’s apartment. Bucky’s not an idiot.

Yelena comes out of the bedroom, wiping at her face and irritated as ever. Her eyes are red, but there’s a defiance there that dares him to say a word about it, so he just hands her the drawing in its protective sleeve.

“Found this in Steve’s books, and I thought you’d like it.”

Yelena takes the paper and stares at it. She sits, slow, on the couch, without taking her eyes off the drawing, her breath slow and steady, like she’s counting out beats in an effort to appear unphased.

Bucky’s not fooled. He goes into her kitchenette and starts the kettle for tea, and by the time the bags are in the hot water, she’s not counting her breaths anymore.

“He drew this?”

“His initials in the corner, so yeah.”

“It’s good. She looks happy.”

“Yeah,” agrees Bucky.

Yelena keeps looking at the drawing, but the conversation moves onto other things: the intel Val’s been feeding them and the intel they know she’s holding back. Sam’s kids in DC, one of whom Yelena knows and judging from the way she dismisses Bishop’s aptitude towards superheroing, Bucky thinks there might be something there she isn’t willing to admit. He recognizes the shape of it, anyway.

“Do you have to keep ragging on Sam all the time, Buck?”

“I’ll stop when he stops ragging on me.”

“It was her apartment,” says Yelena, when Bucky’s halfway out the door again. “I found her hair dye under the bathroom sink.”

Bucky stops at the door and looks back at Yelena. Recognizes the color around her eyes, the turn of her mouth, the way she looks at the drawing where she’s left it on the table, where she can see it from every corner of the room.

“Thought she was a natural redhead.”

“She was,” says Yelena, smiling a little. “But sometimes she’d dye it blue. That was my favorite.”

Yelena shakes the smile off a moment later, and the serious woman is left in her place. “Thanks for bringing over the drawing.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, not sure what else to say.

“You’ll talk to Sam?”

“Every day.”

“Okay.” Yelena glances back at the drawing.

Bucky doesn’t ask if she’ll talk to Bishop. But he sees the way her fingers jerk, as if they’re already tapping a message.

He finds the next drawing a few days later, again in a plastic protective sleeve. It’s a good drawing, Tony Stark with a pencil between his teeth, face illuminated by the glow of his blowtorch, building something Bucky doesn’t recognize.

He thinks about it for a few days, because Pepper Potts might have been nice enough at Tony Stark’s funeral, but given what Bucky knows of how Steve and Tony ended things, this drawing’s just as likely to be appreciated as it is tossed into a campfire, complete with roasted marshmallows.

In the end, though, he finds her address and sends it, trying not to think too hard about how it’ll be received. Out of his hands, anyway.

Two weeks later, there’s a package waiting for him at his door. Thin, delivered by courier, large enough that carrying it into the apartment’s a bit awkward.

When he unwraps it, his heart almost stops.

It’s a photograph of Steve, sitting at the table by the window, painting on a canvas. There’s paint on his cheek, and his hair’s a mess, but he looks happy, concentrating on his art. Laughing at something, despite the brush in between his teeth.

The table’s covered with paint bottles and paper and pencils and photographs in frames. Bucky laughs a little, because it’s so similar to how he’s set up the table, too, and he scans the frames, curious. Photographs of the team, of Sarah Rogers, of Peggy.

His heart stops in his chest.

Photographs of him.

A still from a film he saw once in the Smithsonian, he and Steve laughing in black and white.

A drawing of him, from when they were kids and Steve was still learning about perspective, and Bucky’s nose was off-centered.

A snapshot of the pair of them, laughing and giggling at Becca’s 18th birthday party, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

Another drawing, but one Bucky doesn’t recognize. It’s him, sitting on the windowsill in their old Brooklyn apartment, smoking a cigarette and his suspenders hanging loose from his waistband. The old A-line undershirt is loose on his spindly frame, and his feet are bare under the turned-up cuffs of his trousers.

Every line is soft, careful, considered. He looks bright, luminous, gazing out not just the window of their old apartment, but Steve’s apartment in 2012, too.

Bucky swallows hard, takes a long, deep breath, and sits on the couch to wait for the shaking to pass.

Dear Sergeant Barnes,

Thank you for the drawing of Tony. I knew Steve was a wonderful artist, but this is the only piece I’ve seen where he used Tony as a subject. It’s hanging in Morgan’s room; she kisses it every night before bed.

I’m sending you this photograph of Steve. Tony kept it in a drawer he used every day, and I don’t have the negative, so I’m afraid it’s a little worn, but I thought you’d like it. I hope you don’t mind that I had it framed for you.

Thank you again. We’ll take good care of Steve’s drawing.

Sincerely,

Pepper and Morgan Stark

It’s late, when his phone rings; Bucky’s in the leather chair, reading his current book (a history of the Central Asian republics that Steve found incredibly informative, judging from his notes, but which Bucky finds incredibly funny).

“Hey, Buck.”

“Sam,” says Bucky, laying the book on his lap. Settling into the leather, letting it curve around him like a glove.

“Well, I ain’t the tooth fairy.” Sam sounds tetchily amused.

“You sure? You both fly.”

“Collecting teeth’s for the underlings, I give that shit to Joaquin. Speaking of, Sarah’s giving me shit about Thanksgiving, you gonna answer her or not?”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“Wasn’t sure Val wasn’t going to book you again at the last minute.”

“Well, her loss if she tries,” says Bucky firmly. “I’m not missing Sarah’s gumbo a second time.”

“Good, I’ll tell her.” Sam pauses. “You give any more thought to what I said last time?”

Bucky’s eyes drift over to the photograph of Steve, where it sits amongst the others on the table by the window. He’s never found the drawing of himself in the photograph.

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, looking at the photograph. “But I think this is where I need to be right now, Sam. I’m sorry, I know that’s not the answer you want.”

“No, it’s not,” says Sam, and there’s so much packed in those three words, good and bad.

But it doesn’t really sound like the ending Bucky was afraid of, either. Not the way Sam says it.

And Sam lets it drop, though maybe not forever, because at the end of the conversation, just before they hang up, he says, “Buck. You sure this is how it goes?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “I’m sure.”

“And you’re good up there?”

Bucky smiles and exhales, deep.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

Cross-posted to AO3. Likes, Replies, and Reblogs all Welcomed Equally.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts* fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #thunderbolts spoilers #the new avengerz live in new avengerz tower #tower fics are BACK baby #at least there's one happy thing about this timeline #cross-posted to ao3

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