#stucky ficlet

[gay-jewish-bucky]

Bucky, standing at the island counter in the kitchen, his long hair is wrapped neatly in a tichel and an apron is tied around his waist.

The late afternoon sun is streaming in through the large window and painting everything a soft gold, the Magen David necklace hanging around his neck–the one Steve gave him–sparkling brilliantly when the light hits it.

He is kneading and portioning out dough to make fresh loaves of challah, swaying unconsciously to the familiar music coming from the antique record player. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as his hands work expertly and a small, easy smile is gracing his flour-smudged face.

Alpine is underfoot, as always, purring happily as she winds her fluffy, white body around his colourfully socked feet.

Steve is sitting across from him, watching with a look of reverence and adoration. Occasionally glancing down at the sketchbook in front of him, trying to perfectly capture his husband in this moment: beautiful, untouched by the pain that was once his constant companion, totally in his element and so wonderfully alive.

Steve thinking in this moment, as he often does, that Bucky might be right when he says that miracles, like G-d, can be found within the seemingly mundane.

[its-tortle]

Hi Luisa! Hope you’re doing well!! ❤️ From the prompt list, how about 23? 🥰

hi galks!! thank you for this <3 sorry it took so long

23. "Just pretend to be my date"

In retrospect, Bucky has no idea why he thought it would even be a good idea to come to this thing. He doesn’t know the groom that well, he doesn't know the bride at all, and his positive response to the RSVP was really mostly just because he had a pathetic lack of plans and was a glass or three of wine in. Also, he had foolishly hoped that the guy he had gone on two semi-pleasant dates with would turn into a boyfriend by the time he had to attend yet another one of these stupid weddings. But Darrian or Dorian or Darryl had turned out to be a tool, mostly, and they hadn’t even made it to their fourth date, so now Bucky is an itchy suit again, nursing his fourth glass of champagne and watching the happy couple -- couples, really -- spin around the dancefloor in their own little world of blissful oblivion. Bitches. 

He suppresses a sneer -- because he should be happy for them, really he should! -- and knocks back the rest of his glass. 

He hates himself a little bit, maybe, because he’s being the grumpy asshole in the corner he vowed to never be, but he’s just really sick of tinder matches that result in having to answer to how many siblings he has and what his favorite movie is only to end up at every wedding alone.

It’s not his fault his ex was an asshole and he’s gotten kind of bad at letting people in. 

And he’s fine most of the time, he really is, except suddenly it’s getting hard to convince himself of that because Brock is here, somehow, and he looks way too put together in his crisp suit and he’s laughing at something with a blonde hanging off of his arm and Bucky’s skin is crawling. He wants to run. He wants to grab another flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray just to throw it in Brock’s face. He wants to scream.

Mostly, he finds he just wants to show Brock that he’s better off without him, even if he still has to remind himself of it sometimes. He wants to seem cool, and handsome, and put together and over it in a way he can’t bring himself to totally be. He hears what sounds like an echo of a pop princess in his head sing “nobody actually happy and healthy has ever felt so desperate to prove it” at that thought, and maybe Maisie is right, but dammit, he just wants Brock to see that it’s his loss. 

Bucky is a catch. Brock is just some dude.

Except Bucky is the one sitting sourly in the corner while Brock is charming the pants off of the audience he’s amassed.

Bucky refuses to stand for it.

“If looks could kill,” a voice muses suddenly from beside him, and Bucky almost jumps with the surprise of it. 

His gaze follows the voice to a figure sitting at the table to his left -- and what a figure it is. The man is around Bucky’s age, with golden hair and blue, blue eyes, and shoulder’s the size of a fridge. Somehow, miraculously, he almost looks graceful despite it. With the bump in his nose and little waist Bucky can see under his tapered suit, he looks like a Greco-Roman statue. 

Bucky stares.

The man raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Bucky blurts. “I’m not- I don’t usually stare like that. I’m not a serial killer.”

The blond chuckles, but it doesn’t feel mean. “You sure?”

“I mean-” Bucky feels himself sink deeper into his awkwardness, even as he tries to backpedal. “I’d kill him maybe, but he’s an outlier.”

The stranger laughs again, and Bucky feels a little too proud of himself for it.

He steps away from the column he’s leaning on to take a seat beside the stranger at the table and hopes he isn’t being presumptuous. A pretty smile lets him know he doesn't mind.

“So what’s his crime?” the stranger prompts then. “Is he a high school bully? A shitty coworker? An ex?

“The latter,” Bucky admits. “And obviously it looks like he’s here only to rub into my face that he’s thriving.”

“I don’t know,” the stranger muses. “It kind of looks like he’s balding a little bit.”

Bucky lets out a startled laugh and decides he likes him right there and then. “Fucker deserves it.”

“Didn’t end well?” the stranger guesses.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky scoffs wryly, finally feeling somewhat like he’s regained his footing. “He kind of- oh shit, he’s coming over.”

And like that, his footing is gone. Sure enough, Brock seems to have spotted them across the dance floor and is cutting his way through the crowds with that pretty blonde still hanging off of his arm.

Bucky turns to the stranger in a panic. “Fuck. Can you- Can I ask a favor?”

The stranger frowns. “Sure.”

“Just pretend to be my date,” Bucky blurts. “For like, a minute until he goes away.”

Bucky expects the stranger to protest, to scoff and call him ridiculous to even suggest it, but instead he just gives Bucky a subtle nod and adjusts his seating so his (glorious) thigh and (beautiful devastating) shoulder is bumping into Bucky’s. Bucky presses back in thanks.

“James, darling,” Brock jeers when he approaches them. “How nice to see you made it.”

Brock might have been ruinously impossible to read, but even Bucky can tell he doesn't mean that. If he does, it’s just to rub his composed-ness into Bucky’s face. That’s not a word. Whatever.

“You too,” Bucky manages to grit back. “You look good.”

“You too,” Brock replies, but the moment of hesitation before it speaks volumes. Bucky wants to scratch his eyes out. 

“Still working at the shop, then?” Brock asks. Bucky just about jumps out of his chair.

“Yeah,” Bucky manages. His smile is so fake it's hurting his face.

“But he’s actually just started a new project!” the stranger cuts in all of a sudden. “Haven’t you, babe?”

He’s perfect, beautiful, a knight in shining armor. Bucky could kiss him.

Instead, he just smiles and looks back to Brock. “Oh, yes!” he confirms, like he only just remembered because fun new projects happen to him all the time. “I’m restoring this gorgeous 60s Corvette. It’s Tony Starks, actually.”

Brock looks almost impressed, and Bucky wants to leap with joy. He isn’t even lying.

“That’s so cool!” the blonde on Brock’s arm says.

“Congrats,” Brock comments, though it falls a little flat. “Who’s this?” he asks after a moment, gesturing to the Adonis of a stranger.

“Oh, right,” Bucky asks, like this isn’t an orchestrated part of the interaction. “This is my boyfriend. Darling, this is Brock. He’s an old friend.”

Brock’s face twitches like Bucky hoped it would. The ‘old friend’ bit always works like a charm -- Bucky’s been on the other end of it.

“Steve,” his fake boyfriend, Steve, introduces himself. “Pleasure.” He holds out his hand to shake because apparently Bucky looped a gentleman into his con.

A gentleman with a lame white boy name that Bucky somehow finds endearing when it melds itself to pretty blue eyes and a crooked nose.

Brock shakes the hand with a poorly disguised grimace.

“Right well,” he says after another short moment of awkward silence. “This is Emily.”

Emily gives them a dorky little wave that’s almost cute. Bucky notes that she wasn’t allowed to introduce herself and reminds himself not to hate her. She’s just Brock’s next victim anyhow. 

She doesn’t even get the girlfriend label. Classic.

“Nice to meet you,” Bucky says as earnestly as he can.

Another silence stretches between them. The band has just started playing a Smiths song at a wedding, for some reason.

“Right, well,” Bucky’s knight in shining armor says before it can stretch too wide. “It was so nice to meet you both and I hate to interrupt, but I’d love to ask my best guy for a dance?”

He looks over at Bucky with a questioning glance, and Bucky takes the bait gladly. “Yes! Of course. Please excuse us, this is our song.”

If either Brock or Emily are perturbed by their song being Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want by the Smiths, they don’t show it. Bucky internally pumps his fist.

Steve loops his arm through Bucky’s as he leads them to the dance floor, and Bucky curses himself for noticing how solid and warm his arm is. He smells like a warm July evening.

When they reach the floor, Steve loops the same arm around Bucky’s waist and loosely holds his hand in the other. Bucky glances at Brock and Emily over his shoulder and makes a short moment of eye contact with Brock until Steve spins him around and Brock is well out of sight.

“Sorry,” Steve says suddenly, quietly. “I just thought we might want out of that situation.”

Bucky waves him off. “No, thank you. For that and for- the whole thing.”

“Sure,” he responds easily. “He seems like an asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “He is.”

His beautiful knight-in-shining-armor Adonis stranger is even more beautiful under the twinkling lights of the dance floor, if that’s even possible. His hair falls into his face like a golden curtain. His eyes look like the stars.

“But really,” Bucky says. “You were amazing. I owe you one.”

Steve’s starry eyes crinkle at the corners. “No need. It was fun, honestly.”

Bucky tries to find a way to say that he wants to owe Steve one, wants the excuse to see Steve again, when he beats him to it.

“But, um,” he utters, looking suddenly a bit nervous. Bucky admires that he’s still smiling, that he looks unapologetic about his nervousness. He’s brave, Bucky realizes, and it makes him a little warm. 

“If you wanted to owe me one,” Steve ventures, “you could.”

Bucky can’t help the incredulous little laugh that escapes him. Steve isn’t real. He can’t be.

“Dinner?” he asks.

Steve nods.

When Bucky enters his number in Steve’s phone a moment later, he enters his name as Bucky :) before he can think better of it.

Steve frowns when he takes it back. “I thought your name was James,” he questions.

“It is,” Bucky says quickly. “Technically. But Bucky’s a childhood nickname and I just- I like it better.”

Brock always laughed at it, said it was juvenile and Bucky couldn’t expect anyone to take him seriously with it. But Steve just smiles. 

“Me too,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t mind the next wedding he attends so much. It’s hard to when Steve is holding his hand and clumsily spinning him around a dance floor and making him choke on his drink with laughter. 

And when Brock shows up dateless, Bucky’s too happy to even feel vindictive about it. Mostly.

[metalbvcky]

Lazy Evenings, a Bloom!Verse moodboard + drabble

"Is that my sweater?" "No," Bucky says with a smile so wide, it hurts his cheeks. He tips his champagne glass at the thin leather around Steve's waist. "Is that my belt?" Steve leans against the archway and smirks, arms crossed. "I don't know. You tell me." Bucky props his feet on the table in response to his boyfriend's teasing. The sun warms his skin. Lazy evenings like today are nice. Steve crosses the short distance between them, brows softened, blue eyes shining with love. Their lips slot together in a gentle kiss. "It looks good on you." Bucky smiles.

Bucky Barnes Bingo | U4 - [image of Bucky/Sebastian's profile] @buckybarnesbingo Stucky Bingo | G4 - Sharing Clothes @stuckybingo BBE Build a Bucky Bingo | December Prompt - Social Media @buckybarnesevents

[turtle-steverogers]

When Steve was 7 years old, he came down with scarlet fever. It was a close one— his fever was high and it took him nearly a month to kick all of the symptoms. He was told after he got better, that he had to burn all his stuff. His bedsheets, his pajamas, everything.

Including his stuffed animals.

It isn’t like he has much. Ma and dad couldn’t afford to buy him a whole bunch of stuffies anyway, but he really loves the friends he does have. And he tries to be brave while his Ma takes them out to go into a fire, but it makes his stomach hurt so bad to know that he’s losing his friends and they’re gonna be so scared all alone, and he can’t help it. He starts to cry.

Bucky finds Steve like that after school, knelt on his front steps, head in his arms as he cries and Steve doesn’t wanna tell him why he’s crying, because maybe Bucky will think he’s a big baby, but Bucky tells him when he lost his old teddy bear at the park, he cried, so maybe it’s okay.

After that, Bucky decides he can help Steve get new friends, especially because he knows Steve’s family doesn’t have as much money as his family. So every time Bucky goes to the shops with his Ma and Dad and gets a new stuffed animal, he asks if he can get two— one for Steve, too.

The first time Bucky’s parents say yes, Bucky can barely contain his excitement the whole way to Steve’s tenement. He knocks on the door, two matching bulldog stuffies tucked under his arms, and nearly tackles Steve to give him his bulldog when he answers the door.

“Bucky? What’d you get?” Steve asks, taking the bulldog and squishing its plushy body in his hands.

“Ma and dad said I could get you a friend, too!” Bucky says, beaming. “‘Cause you were real sad when you had to give up all your old ones and I thought maybe you’d be happy if you got some more.”

Steve stares at Bucky for a long time, looking like he might cry, then looks down at the bulldog, squishing it to his chest. He sniffles a little.

“Thanks, Bucky. You didn’t have to.”

Bucky smiles, shuffling closer with his own bulldog. “‘Course I did. You were sad,” he says, like it’s as simple as that.

And it is. Being Stevie’s friend is the easiest thing Bucky’s ever done— he loves him a lot. Enough that they’re gonna get married one day, probably.

Steve launches himself at Bucky to give him a big hug, their stuffies squished between them.

“Thanks, Buck Buck.”

“You’re welcome, Stevie.”

[cable-knit-sweater]

Moodboard created by cable-knit-sweater

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: modern AU, meet-cute, caught in the rain, fluff

For: @motorboo 💖 I hope you like it!!!

Raffle: Misfit's Raffle, hosted by @jro616

Ficlet under the cut.

It’s pouring rain when Bucky leaves work, so instead of trying to brave the weather and make it to the closest subway station, he hails a cab. The only problem is, that right when he sits down, a guy sits down in the seat next to him. They look at each other for a moment - the guy, soaking wet, gives him a crooked smile.

“We could share?” He asks, looking hopeful. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

Bucky really doesn’t want to go out in the rain again and he’d feel bad if he said no. Plus, the guy is nice, polite - something you don’t see every day in New York. Bucky isn’t about to be rude in return.

“Yeah, why not,” he says, smiling back at the guy.

The first couple of minutes of the drive are awkwardly quiet, neither of them saying anything apart from Bucky giving the driver his address.

“Brooklyn huh?” the guy says then, and they end up talking about the borough. The guy, Steve, apparently lives there too, grew up there, just like Bucky.

He’s nice to talk to. Steve gestures a lot with his hands as he talks, which Bucky finds cute. It’s not the only thing he finds cute. Well, cute isn’t exactly the right word. Even soaking wet because of the rain, Steve is gorgeous. Straight out of one of Bucky’s dreams. Or, not so straight, he hopes.

Maybe he’s even more beautiful because of the rain - the wet hair he keeps pushing back in a way that makes Bucky’s fingers itch, the way his wet, ridiculously long lashes, call even more attention to beautiful green-blue eyes. He finds himself staring at Steve, a little enraptured.

When the driver announces they’re at Bucky’s place, he’s kind of disappointed. He could talk to Steve for hours.

Bucky takes out his wallet and is about to pay, when Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s.

“Wait, let me get it,” he says, “it’s the least I can do.”

It’s kind, but Bucky wouldn’t feel right letting Steve pay for the entire trip. “We could just split it?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, let’s do that.”

Bucky takes out a couple of bills and hands them over to the driver. When he looks at Steve, he sees him look a little panicked.

“What’s wrong?”

Steve flushes. “I uhm- I might have….fuck.” He shakes his head, water droplets shaking out of his hair. “I left my wallet in my suit jacket. Which I left at the office.”

Bucky bites his lip trying not to laugh. “That’s okay, I can just…let me just give you the money for the rest of the trip.”

“No, no I can’t do that, I can’t ask you to do that,” Steve says vehemently.

Before Bucky can tell him he doesn’t need to ask - surprising himself for wanting to help out a complete stranger like this - Steve gives him a sheepish look.

“I might have also…my keys are in my suit jacket too.”

He should probably consider that this is some sort of con, that Steve is tricking him somehow. But for some reason, he trusts Steve. He counts out a couple more bills to hand over to the driver - who’s sighing impatiently by now.

“Come on,” Bucky says. “You can stay the night, figure out your situation in the morning.” It feels like the right thing to do.

“No, no I couldn’t impose on you like that, I’ll just-“ Steve says, looking a little lost.

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. “You’ll just go back to the city?”

Steve deflates a little at that, and Bucky really feels sorry for him now.

“Come on,” he repeats, “I promise you’re not putting me out.”

Finally, Steve caves. He follows Bucky out of the cab and up to his apartment, where they’re greeted by an annoyed Alpine. It is past her usual dinner time, so Bucky makes his apologies, flushing a little when he notices Steve watching him.

Bucky tells Steve to make himself comfortable while he makes some tea, which they have in the living room sitting across from each other - Steve on the couch, Bucky in his favorite chair (even if it’s littered with little white hairs that seem to make their way onto everything Bucky owns).

They end up talking more, until deep into the night. When they’ve both started to yawn every 5 seconds, Bucky decides it’s time for bed. He almost invites Steve to join him in bed, but that seems a little forward even to him. Steve gets settled on the couch instead, and they say their good nights.

When Bucky wakes up in the morning, a little bleary eyed, he immediately knows there’s no one in his apartment apart from him and Alpine. His suspicions are proven correct when he makes his way into the living room, where a blanket is neatly folded on top of the couch.

It makes him a little sad. He should have asked for Steve’s phone number, would’ve liked to have said goodbye. He’s more than a little disappointed that Steve just left.

After having had such a short night, he has a rough day at work. It feels endless, he’s exhausted, and he’s not in a good mood, no matter how much coffee he drinks throughout the day.

When he gets home that night, he thinks the day is pretty much a write off. Until he gets to his front door, where a vase of gorgeous pink flowers is waiting for him.

There’s a card there. “Thank you for everything,” it says, in flowing cursive, “Call me?”. There’s a phone number at the bottom of the card and Steve’s name. Bucky can’t help but smile.

Maybe this day can be saved after all.

[thebrooklynnway]

[mature content below; unedited so please forgive my mistakes]

So there’s this ad on Pinterest that I can’t escape (see gif above).

Every time I see it, I get this silly thought of a teasing Steve and a reluctant Bucky. I think about Bucky living in the Tower for a few months after breaking his conditioning. Everything is going great. He’s going to therapy, going on a few missions with the Avengers, building healthy relationships with the team. It’s all good. He and Steve share an apartment, and nothing is awkward between them. Bucky remembers that they had an intimate relationship back in the day, but Steve doesn’t push for anything more than a friendship, which Bucky is grateful for.

So yeah, life’s good.

The one day he walks into the gym, fully prepared for an intense, sweat-drenching workout, to find Steve over by the yoga mats. He’s mid-squat, with his hands against the wall, wearing one of Bucky’s tank tops and the tiniest pair of yoga shorts he’s ever seen. Steve is easing his way down to the floor, and Bucky is entranced by the way Steve bounces; once, twice, three times, before slowly standing, squeezing his glutes with a subtle thrust to his hips once he’s flat on his feet.

Steve repeats this. Over and over and over. Then Steve is down for a final time, and he spreads his fucking thighs; out then in, out then in, and Christ, Bucky can’t look away, can’t stop his mind from conjuring images of Steve riding his cock with a flexibility that Bucky had no idea Steve had.

He’s so caught up in the flex of Steve’s ass, so caught up in the way the seam of his yoga shorts rises between his round cheeks, that he doesn’t hear the Widow until she calls out for Steve.

Bucky jumps and hisses at her, and she just laughs as she brushes by him, two cups of iced coffee in her hands.

Steve—that asshole—stands to his feet, finally taking notice of Bucky’s presence. “Hey, Buck,” he says sweetly before throwing an arm around Nat and taking one of the drinks.

They exchange a few words, then Steve turns to stare at Bucky through his long lashes as he sticks his tongue out and wraps it around his straw, making a show of sucking and gulping down that monstrosity they call coffee these days. It’s not until Steve pulls back, face shifting into his signature Boy Scout smile, and asks, “Everything okay, Buck?”; it’s not until Bucky glances at the Widow, leaning into Steve’s side with a hand on her hip and a glint in her eyes, that he finally catches on.

“Sonofa—,” Bucky mumbles, irritated ‘cause he’s so hard he could cut glass and he can’t believe he got himself caught in Steve Rogers' web…again! Bucky should have known better when Steve “Never Backs Down” Rogers didn’t fight for more of a commitment. He should have known that when Steve sets his mind to something, when he wants something, he will get it.

And Bucky’s only mildly annoyed to admit that he’ll always give into his baby’s demands. He stalks over and takes Steve’s drink, swallowing it down until it was empty.

“That wasn’t nice,” Steve says with a pout and Bucky’s response,

“Shut up!” He hands the empty cup to Nat, then he shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth.

It’s not long after Nat walks away, commanding JARVIS to lockdown the gym on her way out, that Bucky has Steve squatting over his cock, hands against the wall, while he fucks into him.

[film-in-my-soul]

D, stucky!

-> Scent Kink (non A/B/O, non werewolves), Masturbation <-

D is for Dirty Secret

It's wrong. Steve knows it's wrong. Even if it weren't Bucky's shirt held between his hands, a man's shirt, there's no mistaking the wrongness of bringing the fabric up to his nose and breathing in deep.

Steve's eyes flutter closed at the first inhale, a shiver of lust making his stomach clench, half from arousal, half from the shame he'll never entirely brush off. Still, despite knowing that, he can't stop himself, and he hasn't really tried to since the third time he'd used the excuse of having the time and energy to do laundry so he could get his hands on something of Bucky's.

Like a ritual, Steve runs through the reasons why he shouldn't. He ignores that it grows shorter every time he kneels at the foot of Bucky's bed, and when he's done, Steve eases his conscience with the reasons it's not that bad after all.

First, it's not like the shirt is clean, and even if Steve were to get it messy, he is going to clean up after. Bucky won't know the difference; he'll probably even muss up Steve's hair and call him a good little housewife for cleaning up while he's at work, anticipating the elbow Steve will jab him with. It's a trade-off, all things considered, a bit of payment for doing the work Bucky always likes to complain about. And really, if it stops Steve's resolve from breaking, something that feels closer and closer as the winter months draw nearer and Bucky insists on Steve taking his better coat when he leaves for sign painting in the early hours, then Steve can't find it in his heart to give more than a token protest against the need that lives inside him.

Justified in only the loosest sense, Steve swallows thickly, buries his nose in the balled-up cotton, and takes in another breath. The next burst of heat that rolls through him is all pleasure, fleeting guilt assuaged by the wash of Bucky. The groan that works itself from Steve's chest is just as unstoppable as his right hand falling to his lap to undo the fastenings on his slacks.

It hadn't always been like this, Steve acknowledges, panting hot into the bundle of cloth and slipping his slim fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts. There hadn't always been this wriggling little desire in the back of his head when he'd catch a whiff of Bucky coming in from the dance halls or off a night shift at the docks. But, one day during a wet summer, the roof of their apartment started leaking while they'd both been out, and everything changed. Steve's bed had suffered the damage, sheets already beginning to stink with mildew, the mattress waterlogged, and the crates they'd used to prop it all up warping from the weight and rain. Without a hint of sunshine on the horizon, it had sent Steve right into Bucky's bed, the other man not giving him a chance to argue over why the floor and a handful of blankets would be just as good as the lumpy mattress he'd been suffering with already.

That night, Steve had found himself with his face pressed into Bucky's pillow, Bucky against his back, smelling like damp summer heat. It had felt, at the time, inevitable, laying there in the dark and then in the dawn, cock hard, breathing in Bucky's scent as slowly as he could so the other wouldn't get suspicious or worried about Steve's lungs if he caught Steve struggling for air. After that- after getting himself off while Bucky had gone to gel up his hair and brush his teeth to start the day, biting Bucky's pillow and licking his own fingers clean to hide the evidence- well, some wires had gotten crossed.

So here Steve is, one hand shoved into his drawers, the other holding Bucky's shirt to his nose and mouth, getting off as quickly as he can without risking an asthma attack or ruining his pants by shooting off too soon.

Wracked with shivers, haunched over himself, and muffling his panting gasps of pleasure with the spit-slick fabric, Steve drags his tongue over the shirt, wanting to taste the lingering hints of a night of dancing and spilled lemonade. Steve can almost hear a voice that sounds a lot like Bucky in the back of his head, teasing him with a tone that's just a bit smokey, like how Bucky sounds when he's done with a cigarette.

"You gonna cream yourself, sweetheart? Make a mess in your shorts?"

And even though it's not someone real asking him, Steve nods, digging his face into the shirt and hiccuping on an indulgent sob when he catches another hit of Bucky's stale cologne. The spice of it makes his cock throb, the undercurrent of work-sweat a stab to his gut even stronger than the feeling of fisting himself, tight and rushed.

Steve tips forward, lets his upper half drape over Bucky's bed, and arches into his hand, spine bent awkward, his orgasm bright and hot beneath his skin as it grows in throbbing pulses. He lets himself imagine the soft, wet fabric against his mouth is something even softer and bites back a whine.

God, what he wouldn't give to slide his mouth and nose down Bucky's stomach, to catch the drying sweat of a day's work against his tongue, the salt tang of sea and summer so sharp it might hurt to taste. Even still, what deal he wouldn't strike to go further, to let his face fall into the perfect crease of Bucky's thigh and groin, the hair there rough and the scent as strong as it will ever be, in that most protected place. He could come from it, he's sure, wouldn't even need a hand to fuck into, just Bucky crooning low and letting Steve take it all for himself.

Steve is so lost in the idea that he almost doesn't feel his climax peaking, the coil of pleasure-pain behind his navel tightening, pre-come leaking over his forefinger and thumb where the curve over the slit as he strokes himself. But it's there, right at the tip of his tongue, a choking sound of need and a stutter in his hips that threaten to spend his already sore knees sprawling as his balls begin to draw up and his shoulders begin to shake. 

He has just enough time to pull his cock from his shorts and drag Bucky's shirt from his mouth to press the fabric against the head of his dick, biting down on Bucky's mattress to muffle his grunts as he finishes, eyes squeezed shut and chest tightening at the distant thought at mixing him and Bucky together, even in this tiny way.

There's a moment, spent but still muggy with orgasm, where Steve draws Bucky's shirt away from his softening cock and contemplates bringing it back to his mouth to smear the both of them on his cheeks and chin. But he's already going to be running against the clock doing the laundry before the sun goes down and Bucky gets home; throwing in a shower on top of that isn't worth the momentary pleasure he won't get to linger in.

When he gets off the floor, Steve’s knees pop, and he knows they’ll be smudged with faint bruises in a few hours. Distracted by the familiar pain and receding waves of climax, Steve doesn’t hear the telling creak of floorboards from the bedroom doorway. So when a voice breaks the semi-quiet, his heart flies into his throat as he swings around, soiled shirt clutched to his chest, pants still unzipped and loose on his hips. He meets Bucky’s eyes, the other man leaning against the doorframe, all lazy angles and hooded eyes.

“You got a funny way of washing laundry, pal.”

[granatkoroleva]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐬

Read it here

Pairing ⊳ Model!Bucky Barnes x Photographer!Steve Rogers

Word Count ⊳ 624

Major Tags ⊳ Modern AU, Lingerie, Photographs, Confidence, Ficlet, Seduction

Rating ⊳M

Summary ⊳ Bucky has been in the modeling world a while, and when taking the opportunity for his first risqué shoot with an admired photographer, he can’t resist.

Square + Prompt ⊳ B3 - Kink: Lingerie | Stucky Bingo | Card # R40101 | @stuckybingo | 

A/n ⊳ Mood board made by yours truly 🖤

[between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place]

@moonykat asked: First of all CONGRATS ON YOUR FIC-AVERSARY!!!!! ✨✨✨✨✨ You've been blessing all of us with your talent all this time, this fandom wouldn't be the same without you!!!!! 💕💕💕 Can I request some Wakanda Stucky, this line is from a song in Spanish called 'Eres' and translated it goes like this 'You are. When I wake up, the first thought I think about, that's what you are. What my life lacks when I don't have you, that's what you are. The one and only precious thought in my mind.

Kat!!! I was about to answer your ask/prompt but stupid tumblr ate my draft 😥... Anyway, thank you so much and right back at you! Thank you for being here and sharing your beautiful art with us 💚💚💚

Here's a sweet and spicy ficlet for you (though I may have mixed up the cinnamon and the angst ...)

how I loved you? like this, 0,8k, M

Read it on AO3

or under the cut

you sure about this?

He leaves his heart in a cryo tank in the royal palace; it’s been frozen for a long time anyway.

the best thing—for everybody

The guest house sits in a speck of a village straddling the bounds of the capital—it reminds him of a home in another century; he stays there until Natasha comes for him.

just a kid from Brooklyn

They hit the Raft in the gray hours before dawn and leave behind one guard in a cell, strapped into the straitjacket—a message.

too dumb not to run away from a fight

They cross the globe—Singapore to Cuba to Istanbul to La Paz—being chased and chasing, rumors and intercepted whispers.

not sure I’m worth all this

The inconspicuous flip phone he carries dings like clockwork, marking another week—minor breakthrough, adjusting the process, just a little while longer; outside the flimsy window screen he hears another city bustle, come to life for the night, and wishes he could lose himself in it, stumble through the streets with the same heedless abandon. 

you always stand up

He sees ghosts of the dead and the living—on street corners, through a tea shop window, in the rear-view mirror of a borrowed truck; he does a double take and they’re gone.

I can get by on my own

Sam sits with him on a moon-drenched rooftop in Beirut and listens, while he fumbles with words that are too big and too small and doesn’t end up really saying anything at all.

thing is—you don’t have to

Wanda learns how to tune out their nightmares while they sleep.

he’s my friend

It’s a Tuesday in the middle of the Siberian winter and his hands grow numb, unfeeling fingers cracking the screen that reads: It’s done. He’s waiting for you.

till the end of the line

Natasha finds him; they’re in the air within the hour.

∞

There’s a room on the topmost floor of the palace. It is sparse but full of color—the open balcony, a painting, a fiery sunset streaking the walls. A man stands by the open windows, his back to the door. Chestnut hair falls to his shoulders; the left one is wrapped in a blue cloth.

His heart drops and shatters on intricate stone-laid floors. No—it’s the ice that shatters; the heart beats and bleeds.

“How long have you been awake?” Asking hurts, like picking at a scab that’s been infected.

“Month—six weeks, give or take.” The man by the window turns. Bathed in the warm light his eyes are colorless; not shadow but shards of crystal, fractured light spilling through. He’s an idol of serenity—something to be worshiped.

It’s a heady mix of pain and wonder that catches his breath in his throat. “I didn’t know.”

A nod aimed at the floor. “I wasn’t ready.”

The words cut, quick and cleansing, fresh blood pouring from a never-healed wound. His body has moved without invitation; he stops, shakes his head, swallows it down.

“That’s okay, Buck.” You don’t have to be ready, ever. It’s enough that you are.

That name spoken aloud causes something to shift, a flicker of movement behind the glass.

“Steve.” It’s wavering, raw, urgent—everything he feels. 

Bucky takes a step toward him. And another. He’s close enough that Steve could hold out his hand and touch him, feel him as flesh and bone. He is here.

Bucky’s staring right at him. “Stubborn punk,” he mutters. “You ever gonna ask for something for yourself?”

It’s staggeringly familiar; it’s time and space bending and dropping him through a wormhole; it’s a blow to ribs left exposed in a fight.

Steve’s heart lodges in his throat. “How could I?”

Bucky sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose—the gesture too human for such sacred beauty. “Fine. Then do something for me.”

“Anything.” It’s automatic, knee-jerk.

“Remind me.” He takes another step. “How.” They’re chest to chest. “You loved me.” Their breaths are mixing together.

Steve’s eyes sting. If he focuses on that it will stop the world from tilting out under his feet and dropping him into space.

“You don’t remember?”

A smile, then. “Wanna make sure I do.”

He braves a touch. His hands find solid warmth, movement, life.

“Like this,” he says into the nest of dark curls, that secret spot of soft skin, the racing pulse underneath.

“Like this,” he says against bitten lips.

“Like this,” he breathes with eyes closed and foreheads leaned together.

Like this—fabric pulled to the side revealing skin, inch by luxurious inch—like this—eyes travel, followed by fingers, followed by lips—like this—nails clawing in careful desperation, limbs crushing, teeth drawing blood to the surface—like this—the bed a heavenly cloud under his arching back—like this—he spreads himself open, vulnerable, defenseless—like this—urging, begging, praying—like this—fallen, surrendered, branded, claimed—

Like this: a body tucked next to his as velvety blackness falls over the plain.

[zenaidamacrouras1]

Part of the All Caps Bingo Challenge - "The hell I can't, I'm a Captain" wherein the player is challenged to get a full Bingo in one work. The minimum is 200 words, so why not double the challenge?

Here is my 200 word BINGO - B2: Leaving notes I2: AU: Doctor N2: Facial G2: Forbidden Love O2: AU: Military

I'm way too amused with myself.

A million cupcakes for @AllCapsBingo for organizing.

Title: Leaving Notes

Ship(s): Steve and Bucky

Rating: Explicit

Square: BINGO - B2: Leaving notes I2: AU: Doctor N2: Facial G2: Forbidden Love O2: AU: Military

Tags: Gray area adultery, On-call room hook ups, questionable life choices

Summary: A 200 word forbidden love story between a Captain Steve Rogers, MD and Sergeant Bucky Barnes.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44864065

[its-tortle]

🥶 can you do Stucky for this emoji? I'd love that! Congrats on the milestone!

thank you!! i'm not sure what this is but i started typing and this came out. i hope you like &lt;3

Bucky has never liked the cold.

He didn’t like it in Brooklyn, when the biting wind whistled through the alleys and made the windows rattle. The winters were brutal some years, and then their shitty heater would give out completely until Bucky could see the clouds of his breath while he made bitter coffee in the kitchen. He didn’t like the way his hair was always on end, or the way his feet were never quite warm. 

And he certainly didn’t like the way it made Steve’s lungs stutter, and the way it turned his fingers red until they were blue. He didn’t like lying awake worrying, curled around Steve’s lithe frame in an attempt to share just some of his own dwindling warmth, checking every hour to see if Steve was running a fever, if he was still breathing.

The war would come to fix that worry for him, even if it exacerbated every other. Because now Steve was strong, and healthy, and he ran like a furnace even in the freezing French winterscape. While the rest of the Commandos grumbled about the cold nights, Bucky would sneak into Steve’s tent. He would dive his toes, so cold they were numb, into Steve’s warm, glorious thighs just to make him laugh and tuck some of the warmth that sound ignited behind his heart for safe keeping. 

Then, Steve curled around him to share warmth, and while Bucky’s skin sang with Steve’s touch and the heat it left behind, Bucky found that in between jokes about how he was owed it for all of his efforts in Brooklyn, he almost missed the winters in their cold room with the thin window panes. At least there, they weren’t brushing this close with death every day. At least there, Steve was all his.

It’s the memories of those cold Brooklyn nights and the warmth of Steve’s arms in France that get Bucky through the first days and weeks of the worst kind of cold. He doesn't know where he is, or soon even when, why, and who he is, but as the cold creeps into his dank cell -- and later his iron coffin -- some part of his mind always reaches out for those memories. He remembers how cold he had thought it was, even when it was nothing compared to this down-to-the-bone iciness, but he also remembers a different feeling, one that was almost warm despite it. 

He forgets its name for a while, until he finds blue eyes staring at him from across a bridge, and then he remembers what the source of it was.

Steve, he recalls. His best friend, his other half, the sun he revolves around; His warmth.

And those all remain true -- even when the first is finally amended with a giant romantic asterisk -- and Bucky revels in the way he gets to exist beside Steve again, to remember.

Because Bucky remembers everything. He remembers Steve’s knobby knees, and his mother’s laugh, and the grocer at the corner who gave each of the Barnes kids a free strawberry and a wink. He remembers Brooklyn and France, the rattling windows and frosty forests and the nights he and Steve have spent cold and glad for the excuse to curl around one another. He remembers the cryo too, of course, and the endless frost of being the soldier of winter. 

But it’s not so bad, in the end, because Steve never lets him get cold again. He makes him tea every evening, piles fluffy blankets on their bed and their couches. He gives Bucky all of his sweaters, and buys him the thickest, softest yarns to knit with. He curls around Bucky every night, and sometimes just when Bucky is making sweet coffee in their kitchen. 

Steve exaggerates it a little bit sometimes maybe, and then Bucky points out that he’s fighting a losing battle, that he can’t fight Jack Frost.

“Watch me,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes, because that’s stubborn and stupid and ridiculous, and then kisses him anyway, just for his efforts.

celebrate 1k with me!

[muensterfucker]

excerpt of a ficlet about the return from azzano.

tws : catholicism, light blasphemy

Steve spent maybe a month at Camp Lehigh, from the beginning ‘til the end of July, surmounting a variety of challenges presented to him by both his superiors, and his fellow soldiers. Steve didn’t think he’d tell Bucky what he’d done there, the lengths he’d gone to prove himself worthy. Worthy of the honor, the gift, of the serum, and of Rebirth.

Steve had been baptized in blinding vita-rays, and emerged cleansed of his sins; only to slip right back into his transgressive ways the second Bucky was involved.

Steve loved Bucky. Steve yearned, and longed, and pined for Bucky. It burned, like scarlet flames licking his ribcage from the inside, but it felt right. Somehow. If that was what he could have, and he’d take it in an instant.

Take his admiration and his reverence and shove it deep down. Take his penciled iconography — a dimpled chin portrayed by a pointed dot of graphite — and fold it ‘til it was small, and the creases and smudges made it recognizable only to Steve. Take Bucky and protect him, watch over him like an angel from the earthly choir.

How great the dignity of the soul, since each one has, from his birth, an angel commissioned to guard it? Steve loved Bucky. If that was sin, Steve couldn’t imagine he’d want to go to Heaven.

[fizzy-dizzie]

When Bucky hugged Steve for the first time since he got the serum, they were alone in a tent. They had just got back to the base camp after their miles long walk back from the hydra base and they were both exhausted.

Steve is situating himself around the very nice, fancy tent that he insisted on sharing and Bucky hasn't taken his eyes off him since he saw him from the table he was strapped onto. Steve. Little Steve. Steve who got sick every winter and who's asthma played up every summer. Steve who had been 5'4 and had remained as such since he was 14. Steve who got into too many fights and never won but not once for lack of passion.

Bucky has to say something, because he hasn't been saying anything since escaping the base and now he feels like he's about to boil over. "Steve"

The same big blue eyes he's always known greeted him and were quick to lace with concern. "You okay, Buck?"

And generally speaking no, Bucky was not okay, he'd been experimented on, he'd been taken by the enemy and strapped down to a goddamn table and he couldn't even remember half of what they did to him there.

For all Bucky knows he could drop dead at any moment but he isn't thinking about that, because he's thinking about how Steve is here, in front of him, all 6'2 of him. He's thinking about how the breath exiting his mouth doesn't follow with wheezing, or how he can take the full rib expanding breaths when he needs it without coughing until there are tears forcing themselves out of his eyes.

Bucky steps forward, his hand gently presses against the expanse of Steve's chest. He stops himself from gawking considering the fact you could park an eighteen wheeler on this thing, he even opens his mouth to say just that but then he feels Steve's heart beat, steady and pumping under his palm.

It's only slight considering the amount of muscle and thick bone in the way but he can feel it all the same and it's not stuttering and irregular. It's pumping blood, lots of blood wherever Steve needs it, constantly and in all the right places instead of spending most of its time in the lowest point of the body.

If Steve were to get sick this heart would help him get better instead of having to fight to keep itself working, and his new lungs might get congested but they wouldn't spasm every time he needed a breath of fresh air. Steve won't be laying in bed all winter sick and out of his mind with any and every illness that has always loved making his life a living hell.

Steve is healthy.

And suddenly feeling overwhelmed, Bucky clears his throat and blinks away any escaped liquid from his eyes, which are very pointedly looking towards his hand. Because if he looks up at Steve and sees those blue eyes all concerned, seeing right through him like they always do, he really will loose it.

"You're okay.." He mumbles mostly to himself.

It comes off as a statement more than anything and a chocked out one at that but Steve knows, because he always knows what Bucky is trying to get at. He places his hand over Bucky's wrist and just holds him, his hand is steady and must be magical because Bucky grows calm at the touch.

"I'm okay."

Feeling himself falter at the affirmation, he leans in, arms wrapping around the waist he could once circle completely with one arm. But he almost backs out as quickly as he started it, the foreign body giving the wrong signals, like hugging a coworker or a distant relative you see once a decade.

But taking a deep breath to centre himself, Steve smelled like he always did, plus the scent of cheap soap hardly lingering, faded from the long day they both just had.

And when he ran his hands over his back he could feel the familiar humps of his spine and count them all the same. Even Steve's hands find the same spot on Bucky's back as they always used to, where his ribs end and his back start to dip in at the start of his waist.

Bucky can still reach the hair at the base of Steve's head and run his fingers through it like he used to see Steve's ma do when they were young.

Now Steve sighs into the hug and Bucky squeezes tighter since he knows he won't be doing any damage. They stay like that for a long time in their own personal world, the centre of their own solar system, everything else moving around them, floating within their orbit.

When they pull back, Bucky's hands linger on Steve's waist for longer then they should and when he looks up Steve's eyes are so full of admiration but his nose and eyebrows are scrunched up like he's got something to say.

Bucky takes his hands back to his sides. "what?"

"We aren't going to leave each other again, okay?" He says it so sure, like they aren't going to be in the heat of battle every other day but Bucky wants it just as bad as he does so he nods and smiles.

"You're stuck with me pal, I'm not going anywhere"

[cable-knit-sweater]

Before The First Light

Rating: T Word count: 884 words Tags: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, nightmares, minor injuries, Steve Rogers needs a hug, (light?) angst

Written for @catws-anniversary || March 26 prompts: on your left, PTSD, endurance

He’s running. 

Steve’s running so fast that even with the serum coursing through his veins, his lungs are starting to burn with the strain of exertion. He barely pays any attention to the bullets whistling past him, dodging and weaving to avoid them, almost just on instinct. It is on instinct. There isn’t much time to think about anything but getting out.

The place is a fucking maze though, so it’s taking longer than he’d planned.  So much for that damn song, he thinks, almost laughing at the irony. So much for being the man with a plan.

He presses on, through endless corridors twisting and turning, Hydra soldiers hot on his heels. Steve thinks that maybe they’ve finally figured it out, judging from the screaming and cursing. That he’s just a diversion so the other Howlies could go to work. 

By now, they’ve definitely set the place to blow.  By now, Steve should’ve made his way out. 

A bullet grazes his shoulder, but he tries to ignore the searing pain as he pushes himself harder, his heart hammering in his chest. 

Suddenly, he’s outside, the building exploding behind him. He’s hit with a blast of air, pressure, heat, but it just propels him forward faster. There’s still no time to think. 

There’s more cursing and shouting. This time it’s not in German though.

 It’s in a heavy Brooklyn accent, his favorite in all the fucking world. 

“Are you fuckin kidding me? Are you tryin’ to get blown to pieces? For fuck’s sake Rogers!!”

“Just brushing up on my German,” he yells back as he gets closer and closer to the source of the cursing and shouting. “You know, they’d call you an Arsch-”

“Don’t you even think ab- fuck, Stevie, watch out! Three at your 9 o’clock!” 

Steve twists and turns to the right, still running towards the treeline that Bucky is shouting at him from.  He doesn’t slow down or turn back - he’s made that mistake before and gotten an earful - as Bucky takes out the Hydra goons with his rifle.

He doesn’t slow down or turn back until he gets to Bucky’s position. That’s where he draws the line. Steve’s not ever going anywhere without him. 

By the time he comes to a stop, Bucky has taken care of the last stragglers, and Steve collapses against a tree. 

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” Bucky grumbles as he drops down from a tree branch. “What the fuck?”

They start running again, side by side, Bucky on his left like always. There’s no benefit in sticking around. There might be more Hydra soldiers out there, and the other Howlies will definitely give them shit if they take much longer catching up to the group. 

“Hmm.”

“I was this close to coming in and dragging your ass out. Did we not have a plan?” 

“I was fine. I am fine, stop bitching, Buck.”

Bucky pushes his shoulder against Steve’s, and he winces. Of course, Bucky notices. “Fine, huh? I’m thinkin I should just tie myself to you so you don’t go runnin’ off making stupid ass decisions.”

“What makes you think I won’t do that with you tied to me?”

“Good point,” Bucky huffs. “You’d probably enjoy it, and then you’d just drag me int-”

The rest of his sentence gets cut off by a blood curdling scream. Steve’s heart stops. It’s Bucky. 

****

Steve jolts awake. 

He’s drenched in sweat, his senses still reeling. A little disoriented, he scans his dimly lit room, heart hammering against his ribcage, the image of Bucky lying motionless on the ground, blood staining the fabric of his uniform, still seared freshly into his mind.

It’s hard to ground himself. It seemed so real for a moment, like it was yesterday. But he’s not waking up in a tent in the French countryside, or on his cot back at SSR headquarters in London. He’s not waking up with-

He wakes up alone, in his DC apartment, and it’s never felt more suffocatingly small.  

With a heavy sigh, Steve swings his legs over the edge of his bed.  His muscles are protesting with the weight of exhaustion that still clings to him, but there’s no point in staying in bed. It’s not like he’s gonna get much more sleep now. He knows what images he’ll see if he closes his eyes.

Instead, he forces himself out of bed, switches out of his sweat-drenched clothes and into his running gear, and makes his way out of the apartment as quickly as he can. 

Running - ironically, given tonight’s dream - will help. Just to have a moment, an hour (or two) to not have to think, that’s all he needs. It doesn’t matter that it’s barely light out. He’ll be at it for a while. 

Maybe he'll try a different route today. Make his way south towards the Potomac, run a couple laps around the Mall before it’s run over with tourists.

Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. The sunrise over the Mall will make a pretty sight. Not enough to dislodge the dream still haunting him, but he doesn’t think anything ever will be. 

He doesn’t take much time to warm up, even if he knows he should. Soon enough, he’s running full speed.

He’s running. 

Steve’s running fast, but his lungs don’t burn. His heart, though. His heart aches.

[luna-rainbow]

It was 1926.

“Look, Stevie, a shooting star!” Sarah leaned closer to shield him from the night wind. “They say that when a curious angel lifts the curtain of the night sky to peek at the human world, we see the light as a shooting star.”

“If you make a wish while they’re peeking in, Stevie, they might hear it and make it come true.”

“Look! Another star! Stevie, quick, let’s make a wish!”

“I don’t need—”

“How about, you will make a friend at your new school?”

“I don’t need a friend.” He thought about it and added, “But it would be nice if I can find someone who lets me draw them.” It was hard to find someone who had the patience to stay still long enough, and who didn’t think he was odd for staring.

“Well, if you are friends then they’re more likely to let you draw them.”

Steve was still dubious, but obeyed anyway, “Alright then. I wish for a friend, with nice eyes.” He liked drawing eyes.

“That’s a good wish,” Sarah said encouragingly.

“And a big, big smile.”

“That’s beautiful, Stevie.”

“And curls in his hair,” because he liked drawing hair too, and curls were fun to draw.

Sarah rubbed his head affectionately, “Alright—”

“And nice hands,” he liked how expressive they were and wanted to get better at drawing them.

“Certainly, Steve, now—”

“Also,” he remembered something important, “He can’t be taller than me.”

She rapped him on his forehead. “The angel won’t grant your wish if you’re too greedy. Come on, let’s get inside before you catch another cold.”

The moment he set eyes on Bucky, it was like the boy had walked straight out of his imagination. Every feature in that heart-shaped face, the mop of hair, the bright sparks in those eyes, the little curl of the corner of his lips when he smiled, made Steve wanted to draw him, and…astonishingly, Bucky loved indulging him.

Steve would marvel as they grew older, he would come to love every mark that time left on Bucky. The sharpening of those cheekbones, the crinkles as he smiled, the fuzzy stubble and the long limbs and the mop of curls that’s darkened from straw to a coffee brown.

No matter how Bucky grew and changed, he was always, always the most beautiful model Steve had taken a pencil to.

More importantly, Bucky became the friend Steve had never thought he could have.

That was when Steve began believing in angels.

(Except the minor quibble that Bucky towered over him. Maybe the angel didn’t hear that last bit.)

—

It was 1943.

Bucky was leaving to fight battles Steve had never seen.

Bucky saw his hope to join an army as a death wish. He could hear Bucky’s concern brimming in his voice.

Bucky wanted to keep him safe. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand.

Of course he did, but he wanted to keep Bucky safe too, and sometimes there was no walking away from a fight.

He just wished he could fight alongside Bucky and not have to wait in his lonely home, not knowing where Bucky was and what enemy fires he faced, not knowing if the next time he heard from Bucky would be in the form of a condolence letter.

“So you want to kill Nazis?” the bespectacled man asked.

“I don’t like bullies.”

He thought that was his opportunity, but for months afterwards he wondered if he was mistaken. He was bigger, taller, stronger, healthier, but layers of red tape stopped him from seeing Bucky, let alone fight alongside him.

And then, against all probability, he heard Bucky’s unit was not far from him. Against all odds, Bucky was still alive.

And against all his expectation, Bucky had said, “That little guy from Brooklyn who’s too dumb to walk away from a fight, I’m following him.”

Steve was sure he had a guardian angel.

(Who also heard his complaint about the height.)

—

It was 1945.

The sky was inadmissibly cloudless.

A streak of light flew across the stars.

But Steve, sitting alone in the shell shocked tavern, had stopped believing in angels.

—

It’s 2013.

“Want to join us for a drink, Cap?”

“Not today, you guys enjoy.”

“Got a better offer elsewhere, huh?” Natasha asked as the strike team walked off.

“I’m going to the observatory.”

“Oh?” Natasha arched her eyebrows, “You don’t strike me as an astronomy type. A date?”

“Kind of,” Steve grips the photo in his pocket.

“Wait, who with?” She looked affronted that she didn’t know of it beforehand, “The girl from statistics?”

“No, an angel.”

She elbowed him in the arm, “Look at you being a sap. Go get her.”

Steve wandered through the giant halls of hanging planets, stopping before every plaque, reading them slowly not because he was fascinated, but because the man whose photo he was holding in his pocket would have been.

“See Bucky, the first moon landing,” he said under his breath. “Bet you would’ve loved to watch that.”

“Hey Buck, remember how excited you were when they found Pluto? The ninth planet? Well, it’s no longer a planet.”

Steve smiled at the thought of Bucky’s indignant expression.

“Buck, look — an angel’s peeking in.”

The words came out on automatic when the light flashed across the sky.

The smile faded from his eyes, and his fingers tightened around the photo in his pocket. He drew a deep breath and sighed, “Wish you were here, Buck.”

—

It was 2016.

A trail of light cruised across the sparkling night sky.

“Look Bucky—” he had began to speak.

“An angel is peeking in,” Bucky finished for him.

They glanced at each other and smiled.

Steve turned back to watch the light slowly blink out as he held tightly onto Bucky’s hand.

“What did you wish for?” Bucky asked later.

“It’s a secret,” Steve said in his ear.

Steve believed in angels.

But the best was right next to him.

[film-in-my-soul]

Stucky ▪︎ Childhood friends ▪︎ "Always."

It's an attack out of goddamn nowhere, and it knocks Steve right to his knees as he's making his way from his bed, tucked nice and tidy into the corner of his and his mom's shared room, toward the tiny kitchenette. The ground is unyielding as Steve lands on it; the shock runs all the way up his crooked spine to his teeth, and he can't breathe.

It's the cold, or maybe Steve got up too fast and didn't give his body time to adjust from laying down to upright, or hell, maybe today is the day that his lungs will give up the ghost and just stop inflating altogether. Regardless, Steve' ma's at work, so there's no one there to hear his wheezing, pained gasps as he tries to drag himself to his feet and is brought right back down by a wash of dizziness. There's black at the edge of his vision, and Steve grits his teeth, willing for his body to just this once not try to kill him when he's five feet from the medicine box.

He makes it two feet crawling before he can't force his trembling limbs to cooperate more than that. It's not that bad; laying face down on the ground, as undignified as it is, is more comfortable than being upright. Still, his chest isn't expanding the way he needs it to, and he can feel a heaviness in his arms and legs that spells nothing but trouble.

Steve is so out of it, brain looping a panicked "This is it. This is it. Gonna die alone on the floor." that he doesn't realize his front doors opened. It's only when broad, familiar hands grab his shoulders and turn him over, laying Steve's upper half across muscular thighs, that he realizes Bucky's there, staring down at him with a crease between his brows. He reaches forward and presses something to Steve's lips, and Steve doesn't even think; he just opens his mouth and swallows dry, even though it hurts going down.

He already knows it's one of his emergency Aminophylline tablets. The kind Bucky keeps on him in an old mint can, just in case.

They wait out the thirty minutes unmoving, Bucky running his hands up and down Steve's shoulders in comforting swipes and Steve trying to keep breathing even though he knows it's not really up to him.

Eventually, he's able to inhale fully and carefully. Steve sits up, waving off Bucky's helping hands.

"You still with me, pal?" Bucky's tone is light, but Steve's been hearing those words for years now and can read the underlying thread of tension that lives beneath.

Steve smiles, shakey, sweat dappling his skin from the strain, and knocks his fist against Bucky's shoulder.

"Always."