whoreforsamwilson

[whoreforsamwilson]

Thor Odinson's Masterlist ϟ

For my girls that love Thor just has much as I do😉

SMUT: MDI. Content is 18+ please read at your own risk. Most of the time there is no plot.

Thunder and Lightning

┌── ⋆ ⋅ ⚡⋅⋆ ──┐┌── ⋅⋆ ⚡⋅⋆──┐┌── ⋆⋅ ⚡ ⋅⋆ ──┐┌── ⋆⋅ ⚡ ⋅⋆ ──┐

ONESHOTS: Oneshots that have smut will have a 🔥on the side.

Get Away

I love you in every universe

A King's Sacrifice

[whoreforsamwilson]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐱

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

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

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

Sarah Wilson had to beg her brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She hated me, Sarah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

A shadow shifted behind the glass.

You hesitated, heartbeat slow and heavy in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

You took a breath. You opened it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam didn’t move.

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

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

You blinked, the question catching you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, stepping back from the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You opened your mouth, closed it. Fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn't say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not outside. Not inside either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind you, Sam didn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat passed. Neither of you spoke.

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

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

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

“I would’ve,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence followed, thick and hot between you.

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

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

That made him flinch.

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

Sam was there.

Right where he always was when you were running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

Click.

The lights blinked on.

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

And then you saw him.

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

Just him.

Sam Wilson.

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

Still steady. Still guarded.

Still the boy you left behind.

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

He hadn’t outgrown you.

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

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

You won’t know whether to smile or cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[whoreforsamwilson]

Sam Wilson's Masterlist ⍟

SMUT: MDI. Content is 18+ please read at your own risk. Most of the time there is no plot.

Let It Build

Business Partners

Freak 'em Dress

Beg For It

Jamaica 🇯🇲

Beard Warmer

Runner, Runner

┌── ⋆⍟⋅⋆ ──┐┌── ⋆⋅⍟⋅⋆ ──┐┌── ⋆⋅⍟⋅⋆ ──┐┌── ⋆⋅⍟⋅⋆ ──┐

Oneshots: Oneshots that have smut will have a 🔥on the side.

Next Lifetime

Friend Of Mine

Cater 2 You

Busted

Next Lifetime pt. 2

Cheer Me On

Louisiana Welcome⚜️

Fishing 🎣

Where the shadows sing on Tremé

[whoreforsamwilson]

Let him have respect.

Let him have care and love, consistency and companionship.

Let him have it all.

[whoreforsamwilson]

Page 142

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

FRESHMAN YEAR - 1991

Sam Wilson bit his fingertips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew where he was.

Page 142.

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

But Sam knew better.

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

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

JUNIOR YEAR - 1993

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

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

Sam didn’t care much about Captain America.

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

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

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

SENIOR YEAR - 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t write her at all.

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

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

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

He told the recruiter he wanted to fly.

And he will.

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

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

WASHINGTON D.C. - 2014

Sam stared.

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

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

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

Real.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Bruised.

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

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

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

Sam didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Sharp. A lie.

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

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

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

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

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

But he said nothing.

Bucky didn’t look at him at all.

DELACROIX - 2026

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

To Bucky too.

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

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

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

Tonight was different.

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

Then, he heard it - pages flipping.

Soft.

Measured.

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

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

“What are you doing?”

Sam’s voice came out sharper than he meant.

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

Sam stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.

“They’re private.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He could feel the blood in his ears.

“You drew me.”

It wasn’t a question.

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

Sam opened his mouth. Closed it again.

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

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

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

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

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

Sam turned his head, eyeing him completely, “I don’t know why. I just fell for your…everything.” Bucky’s voice didn’t speak at first. His thumb paused at the edge of a sketch - one where he was drawn laughing, head drawn back, eyes crinkled, alive in a way Bucky only was with Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not moving,” Bucky added.

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

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

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

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

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

Just a stick figure.

Sloppy curls on the head.

A lopsided smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.”

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

[whoreforsamwilson]

Where the Shadows sing on Tremé

Warning: CONTAINS MINOR BRAVE NEW WORLD SPOILERS!

Word count: 1,511

My heart felt as if it would beat out of my chest as I stood at the doors of the emporium. The door was purple with a white skull and crossbones. I don’t know why I’m here or what even led me here. But I couldn’t bring myself to turn around, at least not now.

“C’mon Sam you can do this.” I mumbled to myself, balling my fist.

Just knock on the door what’s the worst that could happen.

A lot could happen.

Too much to risk and loose. But none of that mattered now. Riley’s face flashed in my head, the look he gave me before the explosion the way I screamed his name.

I thought I’d buried that guilt. Told myself the wings and shield made it easier. That being Captain America could dull the ache.

But after Torres’ accident everything I’d locked away came back, screaming.

Now the world wanted me to be something I never asked to be.

I swallowed hard, raised my hand and knocked.

One beat.

Two beats.

Silence.

I sigh stepping back to walk away when the door creaked open. A slow groan of wood and something more sinister dragging across the threshold. The room inside smelled of burnt herbs and old sorrow.

I let out a breath, ready to turn away when the door creaked open with a slow, aching groan. Wood grinding against wood or something else, older, dragging just beneath the threshold.

The scent hit me first—burnt herbs, dried roses, and something deeper. Like sorrow left too long in the sun.

Inside, the room pulsed with candlelight. Some flickered from a chandelier overhead, others floated midair, dancing like spirits.

Shadows played on the velvet walls, breathing with the flicker.

At the far end stood a figure, wrapped in smoke and something harder to name. Half lost to shadow, the other half painted in golden flame.

“Sam Wilson,” she said, her voice smooth and slow—like poured honey.

“You’ve taken your time.”

I held my breath as she stepped forward.

She was slender, poised, draped in a gown the same shade as the door behind me. Her skin glowed in the light, eyes a soft, piercing brown.

Her smile curved like she knew every question I hadn’t asked yet.

“Your heart is heavy with ghosts,” she said, circling a small round table. “But ghosts can be silenced, for a price.”

With a flick of her fingers, a chair slid out from the table—empty, waiting.

“Sit.”

The chair creaked softly as it moved, like it didn’t want me sitting there either. The velvet seat looked too clean, too deliberate, like it hadn’t been touched in years—until now.

I stepped forward.

Each footfall on the hardwood floor echoed a little too loud, swallowed slowly by the silence. I sat, stiff and cautious, hands resting on my thighs like I was bracing for impact.

The woman sat across from me, hands folded, gaze steady.

“I’m not here for tricks,” I said. “And I’m not looking to make deals.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Everyone says that at first.”

“I’m serious.” "I know." She tilted her head slightly. "That's what makes this harder."

“Your minds telling you to leave, that this is a bad idea, but your hearts saying differently.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” I say sternly.

“I may not, but I do know what you came here for.”

She raised one brow, graceful and slow. “You came for Riley.”

I froze.

Her words clanged through me like church bells at a funeral.

Loud.

Final.

The name, his name, hadn’t passed anyone’s lips in years—not even mine. I’d locked it away, buried it under medals and missions and the pressure of living up to something I wasn’t even sure I believed in.

“I don’t know what you think you know,” I said, voice low, shaky. “But Riley’s gone. Ain’t no bringing him back.”

“That’s true, but I know after Joaquin’s little accident it brought back memories, guilt, and sorrow.”

She leaned forward, her hands never leaving each other, fingers interlaced like she was holding something fragile between them—like truth.

“Loss doesn’t vanish, Sam. It festers. It carves out little hollows inside us, and waits. Waits for a crack wide enough to crawl through.”

Her words fell soft, but they hit hard.

“You think that shield is a protection Sam,” she continued, voice dipping like twilight, “but it’s not. They’re a burden. They carry the weight of too many ghosts.”

I looked away, jaw tight.

The flickering candlelight caught in the corners of my eyes, making it look like they might be watering. I told myself it was just the smoke.

“I’ve spent every damn day trying to live right,” I muttered. “To make up for things I couldn’t change. For people I couldn’t save.”

“And yet,” she whispered, “you’re still haunted.”

She gestured to the air between us. Suddenly, the space shimmered, like heat on asphalt. Then—images.

Riley’s grin. His hand reaching out in slow motion. The blast. Smoke curling like a vengeful spirit. Torres’ falling from the air, body limp almost lifeless.

Blood on a suit that was never meant to be his.

She leaned forward, the candlelight catching in her eyes like twin stars swallowed by dusk.

“I can bring him back, you know.”

My breath hitched. I stared at her, unsure if I’d heard right.

“Riley,” she said, voice smooth as silk drawn over glass. “Not as a vision. Not as a memory. Real. Breathing. Whole.”

I pushed back in my chair, the legs scraping against the hardwood. “I’m not here for that,” I said sharply. “I’m not looking to make deals.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “This isn’t a deal, Sam.”

She stood, circled the table slowly, each step deliberate, like she was walking along a fault line.

“It’s a favor,” she said. “No soul-swapping. No binding contracts. No blood. Just a simple agreement.”

I narrowed my eyes. “There’s no such thing as a simple agreement with people like you.”

She stopped behind me. I could feel her presence like static in the air.

“Then call it… a promise. One day, I’ll need something. I don’t know when. I don’t know what. But when the time comes, I’ll call. All I ask is that you answer.”

“That’s a deal by another name.”

"No," she said gently. "A deal is a price. This is a stand-by. Nothing more."

I stared at the table. The images were gone now. Just the candlelight and her quiet presence behind me.

My chest tightened.

Riley’s laugh echoed in my head. The way he used to nudge me at the docks, always pretending he caught the bigger fish. The way his hand grabbed mine when we were pinned down, the way he said “I got you, Sam”—just before he didn’t.

I clenched my jaw.

“You can really bring him back?”

She stepped around, met my eyes. “Yes.”

I looked down at my hands. These hands that had caught people falling from the sky. That had held the shield of a legend. That had failed him.

I didn’t speak for a long time.

Then slowly, I nodded.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll answer when you call.”

She didn’t smile this time. Just reached out, her fingertips brushing my temple like a mother checking for fever.

“Then it’s done.”

The candlelight flared, blinding.

Everything went white.

When I opened my eyes, the world had changed.

Gone was the smoke, the candlelight, the thick velvet air of the emporium. In its place was sunlight—clean, warm, heavy with the scent of salt and river water.

I was sitting on the dock behind the house in Delacroix.

The old wooden boards creaked beneath me as they always had, weathered soft by time and tide. The fishing rod lay in my hands like it had never left them, the line cutting a gentle arc through the air and disappearing into the still, glassy bayou.

A dragonfly buzzed past my ear. The cicadas droned in the distance. Somewhere far off, a boat motor rumbled low, steady. Familiar.

Everything felt too vivid, too real. Like I’d stepped into a memory—but one I didn’t remember making.

I didn’t move.

Just breathed.

The wind carried the smell of marsh and old pine, sunbaked rope and fish. I knew this place like I knew my own heartbeat—but something in the air had shifted.

Then I heard it.

The soft thud of footsteps on the dock behind me.

Slow.

Measured.

My breath caught.

And then—his voice.

“Sam.”

The world stilled.

My fingers clenched around the fishing rod, knuckles white. My pulse thundered in my ears.

That voice. I hadn’t heard it in years. Hadn’t dared to dream it would ever speak my name again.

I didn't turn.

Not yet.

I sat there, frozen between heartbeat and memory, unsure if the world had just given something back—or if it was about to take something else away.

And the water rippled gently beneath me, like it knew.

[whoreforsamwilson]

Between the Shield and the Stone

| Warning: None

Sam stood at the foot of the small, weathered headstone, his breath a thin cloud in the cold air. The graveyard was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind.

The city was miles away, but Sam could still feel its weight on him, the noise, the pressure.

Being Captain America wasn’t just about fighting villains or saving the world; it was about carrying the weight of expectations, of history, of promises. And right now, it felt like too much.

He knelt down, brushing the dirt off the gravestone with a gloved hand. "Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad." His voice was low, tight with emotion. He’d been here before, but never quite like this.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” His words came out in a rush, the frustration spilling over.

“I thought I knew what it meant to wear this shield. Thought I could handle it. But lately? I don’t know, it feels like it’s all slipping through my fingers. Every time I try to fix something, it just makes it worse.” He shook his head, looking out at the quiet cemetery, wishing for some kind of clarity, some kind of answer.

“I know you’d tell me I’m doing my best, that I just need to stay true to myself. But right now, it feels like who I am isn’t enough. Not as Captain America. Not as Sam Wilson.” He took a deep breath, fighting back the sting of frustration that threatened to choke him up.

"People look to me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. Like I’m supposed to know what to do. But I don’t. I don’t know how to fix this."

He paused, staring at the grave, as if expecting some kind of miracle from the silent stones. But of course, there was no answer.

There never was. Still, it didn’t stop him from needing to say it. The weight of all the roles he had to play—the hero, the leader, the symbol—was crushing.

“Sometimes, it feels like I'm just one mistake away from falling apart. From letting people down. I’m trying to be who they need me to be. But I don’t know if I can keep this up. I don’t know how much more I have left in me.”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the gravestone. He wanted to break down, wanted to scream into the empty space and let out all the fear and doubt.

But there was something about the quiet of this place, something about being here with Paul and Darlene, that kept him grounded. They knew him. Really knew him. Before the shield. Before all the chaos.

“I guess... I guess I just need to hear you say it. That I’m doing okay. That it’s okay to not have all the answers all the time.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “Because right now, I’m not sure I can keep pretending that I’ve got it all together.”

For a long moment, Sam just sat there, his eyes fixed on the gravestone, listening to the wind and the faint rustling of the leaves around him. There was no response. No miracle. No magic words. But somehow, in this stillness, he felt something he hadn’t in a while—just a small piece of peace.

He straightened up, standing tall in front of the graves of the two people who had shaped him, who had loved him when he was just Sam. Not a symbol. Not a legend. Just him.

"Thanks," he whispered, more to himself than to them. "I’ll figure it out. I always do."

And as he walked away, the weight didn’t feel quite as heavy. For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry it alone.

[whoreforsamwilson]

Between the Shield and the Stone

| Warning: None

Sam stood at the foot of the small, weathered headstone, his breath a thin cloud in the cold air. The graveyard was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind.

The city was miles away, but Sam could still feel its weight on him, the noise, the pressure.

Being Captain America wasn’t just about fighting villains or saving the world; it was about carrying the weight of expectations, of history, of promises. And right now, it felt like too much.

He knelt down, brushing the dirt off the gravestone with a gloved hand. "Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad." His voice was low, tight with emotion. He’d been here before, but never quite like this.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” His words came out in a rush, the frustration spilling over.

“I thought I knew what it meant to wear this shield. Thought I could handle it. But lately? I don’t know, it feels like it’s all slipping through my fingers. Every time I try to fix something, it just makes it worse.” He shook his head, looking out at the quiet cemetery, wishing for some kind of clarity, some kind of answer.

“I know you’d tell me I’m doing my best, that I just need to stay true to myself. But right now, it feels like who I am isn’t enough. Not as Captain America. Not as Sam Wilson.” He took a deep breath, fighting back the sting of frustration that threatened to choke him up.

"People look to me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. Like I’m supposed to know what to do. But I don’t. I don’t know how to fix this."

He paused, staring at the grave, as if expecting some kind of miracle from the silent stones. But of course, there was no answer.

There never was. Still, it didn’t stop him from needing to say it. The weight of all the roles he had to play—the hero, the leader, the symbol—was crushing.

“Sometimes, it feels like I'm just one mistake away from falling apart. From letting people down. I’m trying to be who they need me to be. But I don’t know if I can keep this up. I don’t know how much more I have left in me.”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the gravestone. He wanted to break down, wanted to scream into the empty space and let out all the fear and doubt.

But there was something about the quiet of this place, something about being here with Paul and Darlene, that kept him grounded. They knew him. Really knew him. Before the shield. Before all the chaos.

“I guess... I guess I just need to hear you say it. That I’m doing okay. That it’s okay to not have all the answers all the time.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “Because right now, I’m not sure I can keep pretending that I’ve got it all together.”

For a long moment, Sam just sat there, his eyes fixed on the gravestone, listening to the wind and the faint rustling of the leaves around him. There was no response. No miracle. No magic words. But somehow, in this stillness, he felt something he hadn’t in a while—just a small piece of peace.

He straightened up, standing tall in front of the graves of the two people who had shaped him, who had loved him when he was just Sam. Not a symbol. Not a legend. Just him.

"Thanks," he whispered, more to himself than to them. "I’ll figure it out. I always do."

And as he walked away, the weight didn’t feel quite as heavy. For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry it alone.

[whoreforsamwilson]

When The Sun Goes Down

After a mission like the one we just had, you’d think all Sam would need is a hot shower and some rest.

But as soon as we got home, I could see it in his eyes—this wasn’t just about being tired. It was deeper than that.

I watched him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like it held the answers to everything weighing on him.

Normally, he’d crack a joke, flash that smile of his, and we’d both know everything was going to be okay.

But not tonight.

Tonight, that weight he carried as Captain America felt heavier, and no amount of sleep was going to lighten it.

“Sam,” I said softly, walking over to him. I reached out, placing my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension radiating from his body. “You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head but didn’t pull away. His silence spoke volumes, though. I could almost feel the turmoil inside him, the struggle between doing what’s right and the toll it takes on him.

I slid onto the bed next to him, wrapping my arm around his back.

“You know you don’t have to carry this alone, right?”

He sighed, finally looking up at me. His eyes were tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through.

“I don’t even know where to start, Y/N. I’m supposed to be this symbol of hope, but some days... some days it feels like I’m just a man with a shield, trying to do the impossible.”

I nodded, my heart aching for him. “You’re more than just a symbol, Sam. You’re a good man, and that’s what makes you the right person for this. But you’re also human, and it’s okay to feel like it’s too much sometimes.”

He leaned into me, resting his head against my shoulder. “It’s just... I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d have to give up to be Captain America. And it’s hard, Y/N. It’s hard knowing that no matter what I do, it might never be enough.”

I rubbed his back gently, trying to offer him some comfort. “You don’t have to be perfect, Sam. You just have to be you. That’s more than enough. And whatever you’re facing, whatever doubts or fears, I’m here. We’ll face them together.”

He stayed like that for a while, just letting himself be vulnerable, something I know he doesn’t allow himself often. And as I held him, I could feel the tension slowly start to ease, not because the weight was gone, but because he knew he didn’t have to carry it alone.

“You’re my strength, Y/N,” he murmured against my shoulder.

“And you’re mine, Sam. We’ve got this, together.”

[whoreforsamwilson]

When The Sun Goes Down

After a mission like the one we just had, you’d think all Sam would need is a hot shower and some rest.

But as soon as we got home, I could see it in his eyes—this wasn’t just about being tired. It was deeper than that.

I watched him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like it held the answers to everything weighing on him.

Normally, he’d crack a joke, flash that smile of his, and we’d both know everything was going to be okay.

But not tonight.

Tonight, that weight he carried as Captain America felt heavier, and no amount of sleep was going to lighten it.

“Sam,” I said softly, walking over to him. I reached out, placing my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension radiating from his body. “You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head but didn’t pull away. His silence spoke volumes, though. I could almost feel the turmoil inside him, the struggle between doing what’s right and the toll it takes on him.

I slid onto the bed next to him, wrapping my arm around his back.

“You know you don’t have to carry this alone, right?”

He sighed, finally looking up at me. His eyes were tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through.

“I don’t even know where to start, Y/N. I’m supposed to be this symbol of hope, but some days... some days it feels like I’m just a man with a shield, trying to do the impossible.”

I nodded, my heart aching for him. “You’re more than just a symbol, Sam. You’re a good man, and that’s what makes you the right person for this. But you’re also human, and it’s okay to feel like it’s too much sometimes.”

He leaned into me, resting his head against my shoulder. “It’s just... I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d have to give up to be Captain America. And it’s hard, Y/N. It’s hard knowing that no matter what I do, it might never be enough.”

I rubbed his back gently, trying to offer him some comfort. “You don’t have to be perfect, Sam. You just have to be you. That’s more than enough. And whatever you’re facing, whatever doubts or fears, I’m here. We’ll face them together.”

He stayed like that for a while, just letting himself be vulnerable, something I know he doesn’t allow himself often. And as I held him, I could feel the tension slowly start to ease, not because the weight was gone, but because he knew he didn’t have to carry it alone.

“You’re my strength, Y/N,” he murmured against my shoulder.

“And you’re mine, Sam. We’ve got this, together.”

[whoreforsamwilson]

✶ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 ✶

Welcome to the Honey Pack! Find a Fic and get cozy! These are Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes Fics only but more are coming soon.

Trigger Warnings, MDNI: ⁀➷

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

STANDALONES

✶ this means goodbye (part one)

summary: Bucky has to go, and Sam lets him, which cause them both to question whether their love deserves to be fought for.

word count: 2,996

✶ this means goodbye (part two)

summary: Three times the charm. They keep meeting, each time worse than the last, but will Sam ever let Bucky back in?

word count: 5,008

✶ Never Came Back ⁀➷

summary: Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson returns to a veteran's home, facing their past. An old war hero stirs buried trauma.

word count: 3,939

✶ Invisible Threads

summary: Sam discovers a photo of Riley in the attic, sparking memories and unresolved feelings.

word count: 4,305

SERIES

✶ Come In With The Rain (part one)

summary: AU where Sam is a cafe owner in Delacroix and a new mechanic, Bucky, blows into town.

word count: 2,691

✶ Come In With The Rain (part two)

summary: What started off as the worse/hottest day to Sam ended up being something to remember.

word count: 3,692

. . .

✶ Supernova Chronicles

summary: With your parents gone for three months, you finally get a taste of freedom—until your father’s friend arrives to keep watch.

word count: 6,298

✶ Supernova Chronicles #2 ⁀➷

summary: With your parents gone for three months, you finally get a taste of freedom—until your father’s friend arrives to keep watch.

word count: 7.650

. . .

MORE TO ADD LATER

[whoreforsamwilson]

A King's Sacrifice

The skies over Asgard were dark, storm clouds swirling above us, heavy with the weight of the curse that was tearing our world apart.

Thor stood at the edge of the Bifrost, his hammer Mjölnir alive with electricity, his expression grave. I could see the turmoil in his eyes, the same fear and pain that churned within me.

Asgard was on the brink of destruction, and only one thing could save it—a sacrifice that would either cost me the man I loved or his life.

I stood beside him, my hand gripping his arm, desperate to keep him close.

"Thor," I whispered, my voice breaking despite my best efforts to stay strong. "There has to be another way. We can find it together."

He turned to me, those piercing blue eyes filled with a pain that cut me deeper than any sword ever could.

He’d always been the brave one, my protector, but now, for the first time, I saw how powerless even a god could be.

"The curse feeds on life, Y/N. If I don’t act now, Asgard will fall, and every soul within it will perish. I can’t let that happen."

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. "You don’t have to do this. We can find another way, Thor. Please."

But deep down, I knew.

I had always known. The Norns had foretold this moment—when Thor would face an impossible choice. I could feel it too, the weight of destiny pressing down on us, forcing our hands.

Thor cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. His touch was so gentle, it nearly broke me. "I love you, Y/N. I always will. But Asgard... it’s my home, my people. I was born to protect it, even if it means sacrificing everything I hold dear."

My heart shattered at his words. I wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, but I knew it would be in vain. Thor was a god of honor, bound by duty. And that duty was now tearing us apart.

He stepped forward, and I felt the world tilt on its axis, the unbearable reality of what was happening sinking in.

His grip on Mjölnir tightened as he prepared to channel the curse into himself. It would drain his life force, but it would save Asgard.

It would save us all.

"Thor, no!" I cried, reaching out to him, but he was already surrounded by a bright light, the energy of the curse swirling around him like a storm, pulling him away from me.

He looked back at me, his eyes full of love and regret. "Live, Y/N. Live for me."

And then, with a blinding flash, he was gone. The curse, along with its deadly power, was absorbed into Mjölnir, and the skies over Asgard cleared, the realm saved from destruction.

But my world had crumbled. I fell to my knees, sobs tearing through me as I clutched the empty space where Thor had stood. The love of my life had sacrificed himself to save us all, and now I was left alone, a hero’s widow in all but name.

Asgard would live on, but at what cost?

[whoreforsamwilson]

cap!

[whoreforsamwilson]

Hi friends! We're only fifteen days away from ☆Samtember 2024☆!!!

If you need a quick refresher of the prompts, you can find the full event calendar here. We also have the AO3 collection up and running, and you can find it here.

*To add your works once the event starts, simply type in Samtember 2024 under [Add to collection].

[whoreforsamwilson]

????

The coldness of the morning air wasn’t enough to mask the pain I felt. I had been dreading this moment from the second those soldiers came to my front door.

My world shattered when I opened it, time seemed to slow down as their somber faces and crisp uniforms delivered the news. Sam was gone.

My Sam. The man who made my heart sing, who made me believe in the beauty of love and life, was taken from me.

Day after day and night after night, I waited. I waited for him to return home, to pull me into his warm embrace and mumble how much he missed us, before running off to Sweet Pea’s room to shower her with kisses.

But that moment would never come. It was hard to explain to her that her daddy wouldn’t be coming home anymore.

She was too young to understand, too innocent to grasp the finality of death.

Every time she asked when Daddy was coming back, my heart broke a little more. I had to be strong for her, to hold back my tears and find the words to comfort her, even when I felt like I was falling apart inside. How do you tell a child that their hero is gone forever? That the man who promised to always protect and love them was taken away by a cruel twist of fate?

In our community, Sam was a beacon of hope, a symbol of strength and resilience. As a Black man who had risen above so many obstacles, he was admired and respected by all. His loss wasn’t just mine; it was a loss felt by everyone who knew him. The world felt colder, emptier without his light.

“You okay?” Sarah asked as she stood beside me with a hand resting on my back.

The funeral was long over and people had left some going to the repast that my parents were holding at their place, I couldn’t let the world in my home for something like this.

I stood looking at the dirt pile where Sam’s tombstone would later go. I don’t know why, they didn't have a body. They couldn’t find it.

I fidget with the ends of with ends of the flag that was folded neatly and placed in my hands along with his dog tags. “He’s supposed to be here getting ready for some kind of welcome home celebration, but instead all I got was this shitty flag and dog tags.” I cried.

For the first time in weeks.

Tears streamed down my face, each one carrying the weight of my grief. I felt Sarah’s arm tighten around me, her presence a small comfort in this sea of sorrow. “It’s okay to cry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s okay to miss him.”

I nodded, unable to speak, as my gaze remained fixed on the grave. The memories of Sam flooded my mind: his laughter, his warmth, the way he made everything seem possible. I clutched the flag and dog tags tighter, feeling the rough fabric and cold metal against my skin, tangible reminders of his sacrifice.

The sound of footsteps approaching made me look up. A few of Sam’s old friends from the community, their faces etched with grief, stood silently a few feet away. They nodded to me, their eyes full of unspoken words. Sam had touched so many lives, and his absence left a void that could never be filled.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “We have to keep going,” I said softly, more to myself than anyone else. “For Sweet Pea. For Sam.”

Sarah nodded, wiping away her tears. “He would want us to be strong. To live our lives fully, even without him.”

I knew she was right, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. The path ahead seemed daunting, a future without Sam’s guiding presence. But I had to believe that he was still with us in some way, watching over us, giving us the strength to carry on.

As we turned to leave, I took one last look at the grave. “I love you, Sam,” I whispered. “We’ll never forget you.”

With that, I walked away, holding Sarah’s hand tightly, ready to face the days ahead with the love and memories of the man who had given us so much.

[whoreforsamwilson]

????

The coldness of the morning air wasn’t enough to mask the pain I felt. I had been dreading this moment from the second those soldiers came to my front door.

My world shattered when I opened it, time seemed to slow down as their somber faces and crisp uniforms delivered the news. Sam was gone.

My Sam. The man who made my heart sing, who made me believe in the beauty of love and life, was taken from me.

Day after day and night after night, I waited. I waited for him to return home, to pull me into his warm embrace and mumble how much he missed us, before running off to Sweet Pea’s room to shower her with kisses.

But that moment would never come. It was hard to explain to her that her daddy wouldn’t be coming home anymore.

She was too young to understand, too innocent to grasp the finality of death.

Every time she asked when Daddy was coming back, my heart broke a little more. I had to be strong for her, to hold back my tears and find the words to comfort her, even when I felt like I was falling apart inside. How do you tell a child that their hero is gone forever? That the man who promised to always protect and love them was taken away by a cruel twist of fate?

In our community, Sam was a beacon of hope, a symbol of strength and resilience. As a Black man who had risen above so many obstacles, he was admired and respected by all. His loss wasn’t just mine; it was a loss felt by everyone who knew him. The world felt colder, emptier without his light.

“You okay?” Sarah asked as she stood beside me with a hand resting on my back.

The funeral was long over and people had left some going to the repast that my parents were holding at their place, I couldn’t let the world in my home for something like this.

I stood looking at the dirt pile where Sam’s tombstone would later go. I don’t know why, they didn't have a body. They couldn’t find it.

I fidget with the ends of with ends of the flag that was folded neatly and placed in my hands along with his dog tags. “He’s supposed to be here getting ready for some kind of welcome home celebration, but instead all I got was this shitty flag and dog tags.” I cried.

For the first time in weeks.

Tears streamed down my face, each one carrying the weight of my grief. I felt Sarah’s arm tighten around me, her presence a small comfort in this sea of sorrow. “It’s okay to cry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s okay to miss him.”

I nodded, unable to speak, as my gaze remained fixed on the grave. The memories of Sam flooded my mind: his laughter, his warmth, the way he made everything seem possible. I clutched the flag and dog tags tighter, feeling the rough fabric and cold metal against my skin, tangible reminders of his sacrifice.

The sound of footsteps approaching made me look up. A few of Sam’s old friends from the community, their faces etched with grief, stood silently a few feet away. They nodded to me, their eyes full of unspoken words. Sam had touched so many lives, and his absence left a void that could never be filled.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “We have to keep going,” I said softly, more to myself than anyone else. “For Sweet Pea. For Sam.”

Sarah nodded, wiping away her tears. “He would want us to be strong. To live our lives fully, even without him.”

I knew she was right, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. The path ahead seemed daunting, a future without Sam’s guiding presence. But I had to believe that he was still with us in some way, watching over us, giving us the strength to carry on.

As we turned to leave, I took one last look at the grave. “I love you, Sam,” I whispered. “We’ll never forget you.”

With that, I walked away, holding Sarah’s hand tightly, ready to face the days ahead with the love and memories of the man who had given us so much.

[whoreforsamwilson]

LETS HEAR IT FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA