#tfatws writing
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metal arm brrr
Summary: Every problem needs a solution. Bucky just isn't the biggest fan of yours.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 1k
Tags: Fluff in the highest degree, old married couple, Swearing (It's Bucky, duh)
A/N: I just needed to give you guys something, it's been too long since i've written on here and you guys are the best :) I've barely checked this over so I apologize for any typos.
*****
“Can you stop moving, please?”
Bucky Barnes half asleep is not someone you want to mess with. The first time you shuffled he had hardly made a sound, the second you were met with a low grumble (a warning you knew well) and the third strike, he was thirty seconds from kicking you out of the bed.
When Bucky had finally learnt to sleep in a bed again, mostly thanks to you, he steadily became a big fan of his beauty sleep and god help anyone who ended up disturbing him. He had a lot to catch up on. Once, you had violently shaken him awake because his phone was ringing and when he heard Sam on the other line, you were deemed a ‘sleep thief’ for a week and a half after. Bucky Barnes was a bitch when it came to his sleep.
You usually wouldn't have any complaints about being in his vice grip but it was January and the nights were still cold and having a boyfriend with a metal arm meant that you were held to him with an ice cold grip around your waist. When the Summer came, it was a life saver, your own personal refrigerator but you still had a good few months to go before you were hanging off his arm everyday.
“Sorry.” You mumbled and tried to convince yourself you were comfortable without another word.
Nope, can’t do it. You shift again.
“You’re kidding- what is it?” He pulls away from you and sits up on his elbow, glaring, he dares you. “Go on.”
With the most innocent doe eyes you could muster you slip your bottom lip between your teeth and debate the argument you could spark when your gaze slips to his vibranium arm in the semi darkness.
He doesn’t miss a thing, you’ve come to realize.
“I swear if you say-”
“-It’s cold! I’m cold! It’s just too much cold!” You burst, arms flailing in desperation.
“It’s my arm! You said you wanted to sleep on my left, this is my left arm, nothing I can do. Okay?”
“There has to be something.” You search the room for solutions, briefly lingering on the sock drawer.
“Oh yeah, sorry, let me just take it off.” Bucky grunts, dripping with sarcasm.
“...If you could?”
“Seriously, fuck you.”
Bucky falls back into his beloved pillow, eyes shut and wishing he has chosen a partner that let him sleep peacefully, then again, why would he want that when you exist?
“Look, either come to the other side or deal with it.”
Silence finally reaches your bedroom and Bucky is deeply in dreamland while you lie awake, scheming away.
In the early hours, you slip out of bed without a sound and make a beeline for the sock drawer, knowing you had some old pairs of slipper socks stuffed at the back. Scissors in hand, you snipped off the toes and smiled at the D.I.Y leg warmers. Oh, he was gonna be mad.
With nearly medical precision, you held out the slumbering Bucky’s arm in front of you and one by one, slid the fluffy socks up the freezing metal until it was sufficiently covered. Thanking the universe, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, you shuffled back under the covers and happily wrapped the soft arm back around your waist.
You slept like a lamb after that.
*****
When the morning came, you woke up before him like usual and briefly left him to his own devices as you made coffee, two mugs sitting on the counter beside each other.
Through the wall, you faintly hear the rising of the soldier before heavy footsteps quickly storm in your direction.
“The fuck is this?”
You look up to see him in the doorway, and find yourself the subject of a stare that would send millions running. Not you. The multicolored socks lined up his arm kind of softened his hoped effect and you had to stifle your laughter.
“A solution?” You shrug.
“No.” He points at you with his flesh arm accusingly “Nu-uh. This? This is not how we solve things.”
“Is it not? I’m really digging the rainbow on you.” The giggle you had tried to push down had spilled over.
“You’re a fucking menace.”
The giggle now a full bodied laugh that had you clutching at your chest as you were overcome with the image of your big, scary, ‘world’s most deadly assassin’ boyfriend glaring daggers at you while donning the most fluffy and most colorful socks up his arm.
Bucky was fighting a grin with all his might, your laughter was like an ugly disease, incredibly contagious, hard to avoid, and annoying.
Something soft hits you in the face and you halt your hysterics as you peer at the slipper sock now at your feet. Lifting your gaze, Bucky is smiling smugly, and working a second sock off his arm.
“Bucky!” You yelp and duck under the counter as the rainbow sock flies in slow motion over your head.
You probably shouldn’t poke the bear but-
“Y’know, for the best shot the United States army had ever seen you sure do miss a lot.” You taunt from your hiding spot.
When there's no response, you make a break for the couch and get shot squarely in the forehead.
“Say that again.” He dares with narrowed eyes.
“Okay, truce. Truce!” You raise your hands in surrender.
“Say sorry for last night.” The pink ball of fluff in his hands, a deadly fate, and you’re consigned to concede
“I apologize for last night.” You sigh, approaching him with caution “Now, it’s been ten whole minutes and you still haven’t subjected me to your obscene morning breath.”
He beckons you with his head and you happily plod over, throwing your arms around his neck. The kiss is sweet, and full of promised mornings to come.
It’s welcomed by you. Until you feel the coldest thing known to man, his left arm, writhing under your shirt and sending immediate shivers down your back.
“Bucky!” You screech and his strong laughter descends on your morning with malice.
Desperately wiggling out of his hold, you escape to the bedroom and yell from your stronghold:
“That was an act of war James Buchanan Barnes!”
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky x you#marvel imagine#bucky barnes imagine#tfatws#bucky x y/n#bucky x female reader#clara writes
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Daniel Brühl as BARON ZEMO
The Falcon and The Winter Soldier | 1.03
#marveledit#daniel brühl#zemo#tfatws#menedit#zemoedit#danielbrühledit#i hope y'all enjoy this bc this i prob the last set i'll post in a while due to thesis writing and my ps sub running out :(#so going crazy on the coloring as a grand finale for now lol#tuserhan#userangel#userpng#userrutledge#underbetelgeuse#userashe#tuserlarissa#usersameera#creationtag
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But that was all in the past. It was blue and orange; this was nothing but a dull, muted gray. And this was his fate.
#sambucky#sam wilson#bucky barnes#sambucky fic#sambuckyedit#sambuckygifs#tfatws#tfatwsedit#my gifs#my writing#*sb
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+bonus feral super soldiers:
#winterwalker#john walker#bucky barnes#wyatt russell#sebastian stan#tfatws#the falcon and the winter soldier#cara gifs#someone take photoshop away from me#i should be writing#john walker tag#bucky tag#ps: this is a pro walker tumblr i will fight#i wanted to slow them down more but then the fight looks especially bad and like they're not hitting each other at all
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Oh, here we go again... that first one, with the purple shirt and the upturned collar?? It's so Zemo in disguise.
📸 ic! berlin
#daniel brühl#ic! berlin#db with glasses#daniel brühl with glasses#daniel bruhl#baron zemo#helmut zemo#tfatws#the photos just write themselves#RIP sanity
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Big kinda-sorta fill for a bunch of prompts all at once because I thought they fit well together. Don't think too hard about the logic of this one. Truly. Don't.
Written for the @sambuckylibrary Anniversary Event!
Cw: violence, blood, injury, medical procedures (on page and discussed), radiation poisoning (sickness, pain, and gore affiliated), body horror (in a dream)
Read on AO3!
Upon Faith
It's 10:34 AM on a Thursday morning when the Winter Soldier kills the GRC delegation leader in the middle of an international summit. He takes out every security agent who gets near him, maims most of the bystanders. He looks right into Sam's eyes as he raises a modified sig-sauer micro-rifle and shoots Sam directly in the middle of the star covering his chest.
Deliriously, as he’s falling backwards with extraordinary pain blooming along every nerve in his body, Sam thinks about how Bucky hated the shield looking like a target, and that he had designed this suit for him and put a target right over Sam's heart anyway.
. . .
Sam woke up a day later, in a hospital room with a heavy cast around his ribs to hold him immobile at least temporarily. There was no shifting around in this behemoth. He couldn't even reach for the water on the table next to him. Normally, it was Bucky's job to bitch about whether he was getting enough fluids, to hand him water glasses and sneak in the digestive sodas Sam liked.
“It’s a bulletproof vest,” Bucky had said once, using an arm across Sam’s hips to keep him in bed. “That means the bullet doesn’t go in. It doesn’t mean the impact doesn’t hit you.”
Sam tried to compare that gunshot to this one. He hadn’t been wearing his Captain America suit that time, just regular kevlar. But the shot had come from a handgun from much further away. The micro-rifle was designed for performance and Bucky had been right in front of him. The vibranium was strong, but that blast had cut right through Sam. What kind of bullet was it? One large one? Or a volley of fire? He couldn’t even remember the sound of it firing.
"It wasn't him," Sam said as soon as someone walked in the door–brought forth by the increased rate in his heart monitor. “I know him better than you do. That wasn’t him.”
He was surprised to see that it was Everett Ross who had walked in the door. If for no other reason than he thought Ross was in Wakanda again. Ross looked up from a file folder thicker than a fist. “Now why am I not surprised to hear you say that, Captain?” he asked. “Nevertheless, you’re not to contact him. You understand of course.”
Sam’s jaw tightened and he tried to sit up again. It didn’t work again. “It wasn’t him. He’s in danger. He’s undercover right now.”
Ross scoffed slightly. “I don’t think he’s the best candidate for undercover work. Pretty identifiable.”
Sam sighed in frustration, tossing his head to the side because he couldn’t do anything with his arms. “Ask your girlfriend. She’d know more than me.”
Unfiltered disgust flashed across Ross’s face. He practically flushed green. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said sharply. “I heard you two had a falling out,” he added, prodding at old bruises that Sam didn’t want to expose. “You two haven’t spoken in months.”
“He didn’t do it,” Sam repeated.
“The only stable thing in his life gets cut out like that…” Ross suggested with a shrug. “Could make anyone lose it. Especially after prolonged time with Valentina.”
“Bucky’s not a bomb,” Sam almost snarled. “He’s not going to explode from a pin-prick. He’s in trouble. Whatever’s going on, he has a target on his back now.”
“You could say that,” Ross agreed. “Where is he?”
Sam almost managed to throw his hands up in the air. The AC cut on above them and Sam listened to it hum and churn while he stared at Ross. “I don’t know. Like you said, we haven’t talked since he was assigned to the Thunderbolts.”
“Why not?” Ross prodded, poking harder at the bruise encasing Sam’s heart.
Sam found himself shaking his head. He wasn’t sure where the gesture actually came from. The actual answer was that Sam knew Bucky was hiding something from him. Something about this assignment, about the team. He’d adopted this asinine habit of taking on all the dirt and blood that could possibly be slung at Sam, doing all the shady work that Sam came up against recently. Sam had confronted him about it, this assignment had come in, Bucky left without so much as an argument. Just a kiss to the scar under Sam’s eye. He’d been unreachable since.
But Sam couldn’t say any of that to Ross. It would only stoke the flames snaring closer to Bucky, wherever he was. Sam had learned the hard way to watch what he said to their bosses. Every watercooler conversation was some subterfuge to notch another complaint about Bucky’s pardon. Now? If Sam didn’t find Bucky before anyone else, Bucky was never going to see the light of day again.
“We decided long distance wouldn’t work,” he said drily.
Ross snorted and flipped through several pages in the tome in his hand. “Captain, the sooner you help us, the less damage he can do. Do you know he’s been MIA for almost three weeks now?”
Sam’s blood ran cold. He was glad Ross wouldn’t be able to tell how his body tensed through all of the casting on him. Three weeks? Had they even been looking for him? Sam didn’t know anything about the Thunderbolts, but he was sure the leash he was on must’ve had some slack. How long until the team’s handlers decided something was wrong? How much effort had even been put into looking for him before this?
“You think Hydra got their hands on him and reverted him,” Sam surmised. “It didn’t happen. Shuri and her team took all of that out. It took them a decade to break him last time. This wasn’t him. Something else is going on. You’re wasting time focusing on him. You’re wasting his time.”
“Then what do you think happened?” Ross asked, finally looking up at Sam for longer than a glance. He closed the file in his hand and everything.
“The same thing that happened last time,” Sam said. “A mesh-mask. A robot. A shapeshifter. A clone. I don’t know. I only saw it for a few seconds. But it wasn’t Bucky. I know him better than anyone else.”
“You were actively being shot at as well,” Ross pointed out. “I’d hardly consider that a healthy state of mind to be making judgement calls. It’s no secret that you and Barnes are a weak spot for each other. Your opinion, your defense of him, doesn’t weigh very much here.”
Sam bared his teeth and strained too hard all at once. Pain laced up his body, straight down to the bone of him. It cut through the fuzz of quality pain medications and cleared his head only to stuff it full of over-stimulation. Every bone in his chest felt like it was covered in buckshot and he couldn’t get a deep breath in, which made him panic. He was panicking about Bucky too. All his concern came flooding in at once. He wanted out of this bed. He wanted his own phone. He needed to call Bucky, even if he wouldn’t pick up. Sam could leave a message warning him.
Ross tutted and came over to increase Sam’s morphine drip. Too fast, Sam thought, fighting through the red haze and black spots creeping into his vision, that was too much all at once.
“We’ll find him, Captain,” Ross said, stepping back. “Don’t worry about that.”
“Don’t you even–” Sam started, but his tongue got heavy in his mouth and the spots in his vision grew and grew and grew. Don’t hurt him, he tried again as he fell into endless black.
Read the rest on AO3!
#sambucky#sam wilson#bucky barnes#captain america#sambucky fanfic#the falcon and the winter soldier#writing#tfatws
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A collection of my thoughts and headcanons to improve TFATWS
(Warning: Long post ahead!)
I was rewatching The Last of Us the other night and I really appreciated how, in a 9 episode (10 really with the 2ep pilot), it delivered so much plot momentum while still delving into multiple characters' backstories, with multiple episodes almost entirely devoted to flashbacks.
Like... with a somewhat modified plot and longer run time, TFATWS could've added so much backstory for both Sam and Bucky. Hell, they didn't mind spending CGI de-aging money on Fury in Secret Invasion so we could've used a little here too, no?
So, in a similar series structure, we could've had a 2ep opening pilot, really setting the foundational themes, then after Walker gets introduced as Walmart Cap, the next episode (after the recap) could've opened with an almost entirely flashback episode of Sam's time in the air force. (Walker might’ve even been in Afghanistan at the same time, depending on age/Blip years, etc. if you wanted to show them crossing paths, show Walker's always been entitled and a loose cannon, etc).
The episode could've A) shown Sam's awesome Falcon skills as a pararescue, B) given us Riley, whose loss we'd see echoed in Sam's grief and mixed emotions about Steve (and NAT!), and C) could've shown more Sam's reasons for being anti-authority and anti-institutional power, and a distrust in power structures that change their minds and agendas.
A headcanon I've had for a while is that even though Sam and Riley were trained and deployed as pararescue, eventually, maybe after their first tour trialling the EXO-7s, the military higher-ups realised that the Falcons could get in and out of certain regions/facilities, far better than a lot of other special forces crew. This meant that very quickly, Sam and Riley were being pulled from their pararescue unit and sent on more and more ops that weren't what they signed up for. Weren't of the 'rescue and recovery, saving people, bringing them home' variety. And this would weigh heavily on Sam's morals. Not only does he either not get all the info on these ops or doesn't agree with them, but he's also leaving his unit, the 58th, without him. Which could lead to guilt if some of his fellow soldiers are killed or wounded and not rescued in time, because the Falcons weren't there to save them. And of course, Riley's eventually death perhaps resulting from one of these dangerous ops. (Covered up officially as that 'standard night mission' which is all Sam's allowed to say.)
I think something like that could've shown Sam's disillusionment with government agencies and military institutions (especially when propped up by propaganda). And mirrored comments made by both Steve and Sam in Winter Solider and Civil War.
"The people giving me orders are down to zero..."
"Agendas change."
"What if this sends us somewhere we don't think we should go? What if there's somewhere we need to go and they don't let us?"
"How long you gonna play both sides?"
Part of Sam's reluctance in taking up the shield could've been his past experience in his abilities being turned to something he didn't sign up for and ultimately misused. (Also a parallel to Bucky!) A conversation prior to Riley's death, between him and Sam, could've shown that growing distrust in what they've been made to do.
Anyway, then (this post's already too long lol), later in the season, there's an almost entirely Bucky-centric flashback episode (like Ellie's ep7 in TLoU). Maybe Sam's injured and in hospital after the fight with Walker for the shield (but also Lemar doesn't get killed, because i say so), and this leaves Bucky in crisis mode for personal and plot reasons.
I haven't nailed down the specifics of these flashbacks as much, but the general scope would include: Bucky being drafted (not freely enlisting), seeing his family happy pre-War (little Rebecca?!), Hydra (not torture porn, just as in he's turned into a weapon and ties in with his guilt/list later), hiding out post CAWS (bonus points if Sam DID find Bucky first, I can't help it 😉), isolation, but sees someone that embodies so much that's good and worth believing in (Sam), starting to heal in Wakanda (like with Ayo) (again, bonus points if Sam's there at least once).
All that to say, Bucky's themes could highlight his displacement and disenfranchisement from his time, all his family, himself, and that clawing back of identity and belief in Good Things. And because in my scenario, I have Sam incapacitated to prompt this time of Bucky self-reflection, these flashbacks show that Sam is one of those Good Things that Bucky has grown to believe in and gravitate to. Which shows onscreen WHY he's been so adamant that Sam take up the shield. (Even though he went about this is a counter-intuitive and unhelpful way, we can fix this too). Sam inspired good in him, 'brought him home' (pararescue parallel!), and Bucky believes Sam can do the same for a broken world.
*Sam obviously wakes up, plot continues, he goes home while Bucky (being unable to verbalise yet everything we the audience now understands) has gone off to find Zemo, beg Wakanda for a fancy, over the top, 'I'm sorry I've been a dick, but I love you, I believe in you, and this is here should you choose it and if you need it' apology proposal present.
(I jest. This can all be read as strictly MCU-approved platonic. But this is tumblr, and me, so let's be real 😉)
I also would add, in the last episode, when Bucky is in NY, a scene of him contacting an older Rebecca. (Maybe this is something Sam asks him early in the show if he's done yet and Bucky brushes off, aggravated. Showing that he knows he has family alive, but his fear and other issues have been keeping him from reaching out - like what's kept him from Sam.) Because then you have back to back scenes of Bucky reconnecting to his old family, leading right into the dock party with Sam (his new family!) Visually showing he's healing that bridge of displacement and isolation.
Anyway, if you've stuck around to the end, thank you! That's how I would've incorporated flashbacks into a rough approximation of a TFATWS show to flesh out Sam and Bucky in relation to the show's themes and each other. (Obviously, we could fix all the Flagsmasher, power broker, serum stuff too. But the general plot outline still works for the purpose of this idea.)
Thanks for reading 😘
#i've forgotten so much while writing this#and the formatting kept doing weird things since i typed this on my phone#i hope this makes sense#tfatws#sambucky#sam wilson#bucky barnes#sambucky headcanons#sam wilson meta#i'll be very surprised if anyone reads to the end of this#long post#this is what i mean when i say all my headcanons interlink into one giant mega rewrite of tweaks#sam wilson headcanons#staying-elive#sambucky meta#tfatws meta
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𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 | 𝖇. 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖊𝖘
{𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕}
𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑺𝒊𝒙: Overstimulation
𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes
𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: THIS IS AN 18+/MDNI EVENT, language, overstimulation (duh),use of pet names, Dom!Bucky, praise, if I missed anything lmk!
-/-/-
“Ah-ah, no touching Bunny. You know the rules,” he chided as you desperately threaded your fingers through his hair and chased what might be your third? Or fourth orgasm of the night. Bucky stopped what he was doing and looked up at you from between your thighs.
“But - please?” you whimpered and when he raised an eyebrow, that was all the warning you needed to raise your hands above your head and hold onto the headboard once more.
He continued to devour you like you might disappear at any given moment. your head spun with desire as you tried everything to keep your moans and whimpers as quiet as possible. The last thing you needed was another noise complaint from your neighbours.
“C’mon, Bunny you can be louder than that -” Bucky goaded as two fingers pushed and dipped at your aching cunt. The noises that pulled from your chest involuntarily echoed off the walls and filled the space of your bedroom.
“Buck, m’gonna - fuck I’m gonna cum -” you cried as he stroked that one spot over and over again until you saw stars.
“That’s it, darlin’, let everyone know who’s makin’ you feel this good.” You let go of the headboard and grabbed fistfuls of the sheets instead, letting your toes curl until you got cramp in your feet.
“Atta girl - but I’m not done with you yet.” Before your vision had even fully cleared, he had you sitting up, in his lap. His hands on your waist controlled every single movement. Each rise and fall of you against his cock, every last roll of your hips against him. And you let him without any resistance, having been reduced to a keening, whimpering mess with your face buried in the dip of his shoulder and your nails raking down his back.
Bucky’s now short-cropped hair left little for you to hold onto but you worked with what he gave you. And right now he was about to give you your next mind-blowing orgasm of the night. You’d been at it since he came home from an afternoon of meetings, conferences and training.
And he was certainly making up for not being at home for most of the day.
“One more, Bunny. Think you can manage that, hm?” he panted against your neck as his Vibranium arm kept you in place, his other hand dipped between the two of you to rub circles against your abused, over-sensitive clit.
“- Can’t! I can’t -”
“Yeah, you can,” he insisted and found that spot on your neck that turned you to putty against him. With a cry-turned-scream you clenched and fluttered around him as you hit your release at full force. Bucky lay you back amongst the pillows and ruffled sheets to chase his own high.
When the two of you were truly spent, you laid together for a few minutes, catching your breaths and regaining your senses. Bucky was the first to move, heading into the bathroom to retrieve a warm, damp wash cloth to clean you up, though his touch along your skin made you whimper and shy away.
“C’mon, sweetheart. M’not gonna do anything else, but you need cleaning up, hm?” In your afterglow, you agreed, completely wiped out from the exertions of the past few hours, no thanks to your super soldier boyfriend. But no matter how hard he pushed, you knew he’d look after you when it was all done with.
-/-/-
@wintersoldierbaby
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x f!reader#the falcon and the winter soldier#tfatws!bucky x reader#james buchanan barnes#james buchanan barnes x reader#kinktober 2022#day 6#strwbrrykss writes
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(Nebulous parole universe)
Zemo disappears without a trace as soon as he is allowed to after the Thunderbolts' last mission, wanting to put distance between himself and Bucky.
It takes a few months, but Bucky, angry (and hurt) that Zemo has left without so much as a wave goodbye, eventually tracks him down to a nondescript apartment in Spain.
"You covered your tracks well, but you forget who I am."
Zemo, convinced that choosing to be with him will only spell bad things for Bucky, tells him to forget everything between them.
"You will lose everything, James: your pardon, Sam, Wakanda."
#winterbaron#bucky barnes#helmut zemo#tfatws#thunderbolts#the winter soldier#daniel bruhl#sebastian stan#bucky x zemo#i made myself sad again#zemo tries to protect him by being a dick#idiots in love#in love bucky is stubborn bucky#listen i need someone to write this#tragic winterbaron is best winterbaron#i will go down with this ship
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im afraid the sambucky era is back for me. brainrot so strong they made me write again after months of wanting to write but just can't. the genre is bucky utterly achingly obviously in love with sam of course. nothing but respect and adoration to HIS captain america.
#idk where this came from actually#suddenly craved for sambucky one day and the brainrot is back#thank u sambucky for making me write again!!!#sambucky#the falcon and the winter soldier#tfatws
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It's been three years since the tv show
The Falcon And The Winter Soldier
premiered!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So to celebrate, here is this huge pile of new fanworks to enjoy!
#helmut zemo#fanart#baron zemo#bucky barnes#winter soldier#zemo#mcu#tfatws#the falcon and the winter soldier#winterbaron#ao3#fanfiction#archive of our own#writing event#discord server
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catalogue - sam wilson
fandom: marvel, the falcon & the winter soldier
wc: 4,368
warnings: implied smut, mentions of injuries and scars, blood and bruises. neutral pronouns, no use of (y/n).
summary: you and sam don’t get to see each other often, but when you do, there’s a ritual you insist on going through to deal with your time apart.
masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi
You’re a sight for Sam’s sore eyes.
He hasn’t seen you in over six months. It’s an occupational hazard, he knows, but it’s the worst. Being the Falcon made his personal life take a step back in his list of priorities, and becoming Captain America meant setting the list on fire and declaring Sam Wilson’s downtime practically nonexistent. As far as he’s aware, Sarah and the boys are the only exceptions to the rule.
It’s not all on him. You’re an Avenger, too, even if you’re semi-retired. Semi, because the new kids still look for guidance as much as they can and you still keep a room at the Avengers compound because of it, even if scarcely decorated.
You make your entrance by scaring the shit out of him because of course, you have to.
“Is this what you call watching your six?”
Sam puffs out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. It’s always an interesting mix of emotions with you, Sam has never felt so safe and yet unbalanced than when he’s in your presence. It creates a sort of vacuum in his belly that has him feeling like a kid with a crush, but he’ll die before he ever admits that to anyone. Especially you.
“You know you don’t have to sneak up on me every time.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, raising your brows and extending a hand that Sam takes to haul himself back on his feet. You click your tongue. “Gotta say, though, it’s a little less charming now that you’re Captain America. Where does that leave national security?”
Sam rolls his eyes so hard he’s about to give himself a headache, dusting off his ass and giving you a quick once-over, taking advantage of your sudden closeness to do so freely. “Thank Jesus the world still has you, then.”
“Only half time,” you shrug, unaware that Sam knows you’ve spent more time at the Avengers compound than your own apartment lately. If he has a few eyes that check up on you when you’re there, well. It’s only cause he worries. “You and Barnes playing in the Big Leagues leaves a lot of unfinished business for little guys like us.”
“Says the little guy who’s been to space,” Sam uses the same argument he always does when you try to downplay your importance in the job you do. It’s like a script, these meetings of yours, always under the excuse of responsibility until it’s not– until the conversation flows into what Sam has been aching for since the last time he saw you.
You roll your eyes like he knew you would. You’ve been an Avenger since before they had the name for it, so if anyone deserves the semi-retirement, Sam concedes, it’s gotta be you. He won’t pretend it won’t be a big hit when you choose to walk away completely, though. Whether that’s to the business or Sam’s life, well. That’s another conversation.
He misses you. It’s hardly a crime.
“And they’ve still got us doing intel like we’re rookies,” you shrug, lessening your significance anyway. As if you weren’t up there in the cosmos chasing after freaking Thanos, but Sam won’t argue with you about this. You already spend so little time together to waste it building conflicts between you.
“Please,” Sam’s a professional, so he doesn’t make a bitchface and say girl with disbelief coating his tone, but judging from the amusement that glints in your eyes, you read through the lines with ease. “Like we’d let the children anywhere near this.”
“Okay, Dad,” you snort. “How are Torres and Barnes anyway?”
“The kid and his grandpa are fine,” he goes for annoyed but his grin is boyish and unrestrained. “Jealous they weren’t authorized to drop by. This is practically a vacation, you know.”
You shake your head, but all in good fun. “If your bosses have you thinking that then you desperately need some real downtime.”
“This is as close as it gets, these days.”
Torres had flown him all the way to Switzerland just so Sam could go and spend a few weeks in a rustic, semi-abandoned town on the outskirts of the city where an old SHIELD safehouse still stood against all odds.
Why he had to go to the other side of the world for some intel, he asked and got no answer. Now it comes to mind how he has no idea where you– his contact– have been stationed lately nor what kind of work you’ve been pulling for whoever it is you answer to these days.
You don’t tell him about it, and he’s quit on trying to ask. Whether it’s because you don’t think he’ll approve of what you’re doing or because it’s strictly classified, Sam doesn’t know.
“Blink twice if they’re holding you hostage,” you say in all seriousness, and he peels his eyes at you without blinking, getting close to your face. You laugh, pushing him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re one with the nation. Let me show you these files and see what Mr. America makes of ‘em.”
The physical files you actually bring with you are minimal, and most of the data you’ve been ordered to skim through is kept in a USB you hand to Sam as soon as the coffee has kicked in. Neither of you are exactly sure what it is you’re looking for so you’re stuck in the studio of the tiny, look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-crumble safe house for over three whole days before you finally start gathering some worthy intel.
“I was told we’d known when we found it,” you shrug, not visibly bothered by the fact that you’ve most likely been sent on a wild goose chase. “Or if we didn’t. We might go back empty-handed after all.”
It’s not encouraging but it’s what you’ve got, even if Sam isn’t sure he’s able to be out of commission for that long. He’s realized people get antsy when Captain America isn’t seen somewhere in the world after a few days, but despite how hard he tries he’s not able to be in two places at once.
“Yet,” he tells you when you take a food break and you allow him to rant about these troubles. “Haven’t figured it out yet, but Steve kind of managed it after a few years, right?”
“Steve was superhuman,” you remind him helpfully behind your coffee cup. You’d found some old whiskey at the back of a cabinet and doused your drink with it, so you make a face when it goes down.
“You don’t think I’m super?”
“I think you’re something, alright.”
“Aw. That was almost a compliment.”
“Can’t let it get to your head, hotshot. Ego’s already too big for your body.”
It’s so fucking domestic Sam feels the ache of it in his teeth. You, sitting at the table in your tiny kitchen while he sits on the counter, each drinking your coffee how you like it as the sun sets through the window above the sink. Talking for hours until you realize you’re practically sitting in the dark as the afternoon flew by while you were taken with each other’s company.
But then you go back to looking at intel until your eyes are burning and you excuse yourself to pass out on the couch. You do it almost half an hour to the dot before Sam gives up himself, and he’s pretty sure you know enough of his tells to know when he’s getting tired and make an early escape so he doesn’t take the couch himself.
“You take the bed,” he’d offered the first night, having a little trouble not making it sound like an order. By how you’d raised your eyebrow, he’d failed by a mile. “God knows where you’re sleeping these days. It’s the least I can do after dragging you all the way out here.”
“You’re the one who keeps saying he’s on vacation,” you take your bags from his hands and drop them unceremoniously on the coffee table, marking the living room territory as yours. “And I’m sure the US government will kill me if I bring you back with a fucked up back.”
He almost suggested you could share. You have before, both out of necessity and leisure, but Sam’s sure that topic’s on the list of Things Not To Talk To You About. It might be the first one up there, in all caps and underlined with bright red.
Sam has both held you down to fuck your brains out and held your bleeding body in his hands, pressing against a gunshot wound to keep blood flow to a minimum. It’s a fucked up type of intimacy he doesn’t share with anyone else, but he’s still hesitant to bring it up. Somehow both events keep happening whether he intends for them or not.
It’s like he’s waiting for the shoe to drop, and it finally does on the fifth day of your assignment.
You ultimately get a lead from the USB. It guides you to search for a random code you insist it’s on a file you’d read through already. You make a noise of victory under your breath when you spot it across the table and when you shift to reach for it, your breath hitches.
It’s a quiet thing Sam wouldn’t be able to acknowledge if he weren’t good at his job, but he is.
“What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert, fingers twitching with the urge to hover over you worriedly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you shake your head. Whatever shadow of hesitance had fallen over you is pulled back into place, tucked away for Sam to blissfully ignore.
You both know that shit won’t fly, but Sam thinks it’s cute you try anyway.
He stares at you and you avoid his eye long enough, face buried in the file, to know you know he’s noticed. It’s a silent request to let it pass.
Tough fucking luck. Sam calls your name, admonishing.
“Sam,” you say right back at him in the same tone, still not looking at him. Sam grinds his teeth in annoyance, jaw tight.
“Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine. You know how it is.”
It’s not a no.
“I do know,” Sam agrees, but his mood’s a short fuse. “Are you grounded? Is that why you’re here? Because you’re hurt?”
Fucking jackpot. You exhale through your nose and tighten your jaw at the question but refuse to answer. You’re a couple of feet apart, divided by the desk filled with files and information, but somehow this is the closest he’s felt to you since you got here.
You’d been hiding something since the beginning; taking the couch when you could’ve been sharing the bed from the start, touching him less than usual so things wouldn’t go further, and moving around the house with rigid, calculated movements.
“Manning the desk,” he says with a little too much bite, and he can physically watch your hackles rise; the annoyance in your eyes when they finally meet his, the biting of your cheek to stop yourself from rising to his sudden passive-aggressive hostility. “Handing me files, giving me intel. You’re flying halfway across the world to keep yourself out of the field.”
“Sam,” you say through gritted teeth.
“You’re hurt,” he replies, not a question, nodding at your torso. It’s all suddenly painstakingly clear, the past week flashing through his mind like a movie from a different point of view. “And you’re hiding it from me, for some reason.”
“Is that all, Captain?” you ask, creating distance with the use of his new title in a way he despises and you know he does. You’re good at that, finding where it hurts and pressing methodically until the skin gives. Sam’s just not used to the trick being used on him. “Or is there something else about my person that you’ve figured out and have yet to enlighten me about?”
“Let me see,” he ignores you. It's easier than trying to match your level of cruel cleverness. He stands to cross over to your side of the desk, staring down at you expectantly with arms crossed. “Come on, show me.”
“No,” you deadpan, but the way you wrap your arms carefully around yourself shows the defensiveness underneath your nonchalance. “Sam, come on, what the hell are you doing?”
“If you’re not hurt, then show me,” he insists but doesn’t reach to touch you without your permission. It’s a line he won’t cross.
“Is that an order, sir?” you snap.
“I’m not your superior,” he replies, even though he is, technically, but not when you’re alone. Not when you’re hurt. “I’m your friend. And right now my friend is in pain, I’d like to be able to do something about it.”
“Like what?” you ask, and it’s as exhausted as it is conflictive. Thunder rumbles outside the house and inside Sam’s chest, two storms coming in. “Huh, Sam? What are you gonna do? It’s part of the damned job. Don’t tell me you’re injury-free right now.”
Sam isn’t. Both old and newer scars put a heaviness on his body he’s not supposed to carry, but he’s not the one hiding right now.
“I can hold you,” he offers and watches the way you look away, imagining the sting in your eyes as they glisten with sudden tears. You very visibly refuse to shed them, tightening your jaw and passing saliva like it’s gravel. “If you’d let me. Let’s not pretend we haven’t done it before.”
“It’s different now.”
“Why?” he wonders, brow furrowing. He does his best to relax his stance and reaches to touch your tight fists where they lay on your lap. With his fingertips barely there on your skin, the tension bleeds out of them like magic almost against your will. “Because I’m Captain America? Because you won’t tell me where you’re stationed half the time?”
“It’s–”
“Classified,” he finishes for you, unmoved. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. As far as I’m aware, that doesn’t change a damned thing.”
You close your eyes like the words pain you, resolve crumbling right before Sam’s eyes. “I don’t wanna fight with you.”
“Then don’t,” from Sam’s perspective, it’s as simple as that. “Let me see. Let me be with you, please. The last week has been torture.”
You let out a breath of a laugh that’s a little too miserable. “You’re telling me,” you say, and the slope of your shoulders falls from its tense, defensive curve. Sam takes it as the green light it is.
You stand straighter as he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering over the hem of your shirt. He looks to you for permission and you give him a tight nod, staring at the wall instead of him, gulping down your anxieties.
Sam’s breath catches when he lifts your shirt and sees your torso, skin showered in black, blue, purple, and green bruises. “Jesus.”
“It’s worse than it looks,” you say automatically. Sam can’t see how that’s true. It looks like it hurts to even breathe, it’s unbelievable how you were able to hide it from him for so long. “Nothing’s broken, I swear.”
“What the hell happened?” he asks even if he knows you can’t– or won’t– answer. You sigh, and he watches blemished skin shake with the effort it takes.
“I’m alright,” you say instead of the answer he wants, but your voice has softened and lost all fight response. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve been with him since you arrived and it has nothing to do with showing your skin. “Hey, I’m okay. That assignment’s over for good. I’m not going back there, I promise.”
The sigh of relief Sam lets out is shaky and doesn’t relinquish all the tension he’s been carrying. The possibilities of what must’ve happened are gonna haunt him long after this mission’s over.
“I hate it,” he says, and he knows you know what he means. Not knowing where you are, spending more than half the year apart with zero contact, this unease between you that doesn’t let you be honest.
You say, tired. “I know. Sam–”
Sam isn’t touching you– not yet. He’s careful so there’s no skin-to-skin contact, and you look at him with guarded eyes when he lowers your shirt back into place, standing up and towering over you.
“What?”
You breathe air out of your nose, frustrated. “You know.”
A beat. “You sure?” he says, as plainly as he can with the tension that’s grown between you pulling him forward.
“Yes.”
He hums.
“Oh. You gonna let me touch you now, then?” he asks, still under the excuse of medical purposes only. But Sam can’t help the way his voice deepens, molten like honey. His eyes trail over skin that isn’t blemished: the curve of your neck, the lines of your arms, the slope of your fingers.
You shiver under the attention, helpless to hide such a reaction to his voice. “Mmm? Honey?”
“Fuck you,” you say automatically, already opening your legs slightly for Sam to slip in between them, reaching for your jaw. You close your eyes at the touch, sighing away whatever tension remained in you.
You’re too fucking easy, despite the fight you insisted on going through before letting yourself be touched, and something in Sam’s belly tightens at the idea of it being just for him.
Sam’s hands remain on your jaw and throat as he tilts your head up for a kiss, slow and deep, lingering. It’s not long before you open up for him, his tongue sliding into your mouth like it was always meant to be there, coaxing a whine from you while you search for steadiness and settle your hands on his belt. Not pulling, not searching for more– not yet– but keeping him close.
The storm comes and goes and the files in the studio remain forgotten. Sam finally gets you on the bed and, better yet, with him in it.
He’s a little too careful, hands cupping your ribs with extreme caution after finally getting rid of your shirt for good and laying you down against the sheets. You roll your eyes fondly and grab onto his wrists to direct him where you want him.
He doesn’t complain as he takes your directions. The man will greedily take anything you give him in calloused, expert hands as he does his best to pull sounds out of you that are music to his ears.
After it’s over, you both lay in bed, naked and breathless. You find a new scar on him and trace the ragged line of skin gently with your fingertip, touch featherlight, almost nonexistent. It’s been over half a year since you last did this, but only a couple of months since he got himself injured and stitched up by Bucky in the Brazilian jungle. “This one’s new.”
It had been a quick job, good enough considering the circumstances, which is to say Sam now has an ugly, uneven scar a couple of inches above his hipbone that saved him from bleeding out on his partner.
The memory holds no gentleness, but your fingers do. The haze of his previous orgasm leaves Sam pliant under your touch, melted against the sheets and uncaring of your scrutiny. “Barnes?”
Sam makes an affirmative noise, a valid enough question since sometimes he’s admitted to doing patchwork on himself for the sake of the mission, uncaring of how bad it hurts as long as it’s quick and efficient.
“Did it hurt?”
“Like hell,” he admits, feeling safe enough to do so in the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves. Sam runs a hand up and down your naked back as if trying to soothe the brunt of the memory. “Did the job, though. Got us out alive.”
At that, you lean to kiss the skin, only slipping a bit of tongue into it. Sam sighs, ignoring the prick of discomfort that’s trying to crawl up his spine and leaning towards the softer, more tender sentiment that takes over him whenever you get like this. It’s not easy for him to accept such gentleness, to let himself be cared for and lay there, unable to give something back.
He will, in a minute. But he knows you like him like this, and that alone pins him down in his place to let you work. It’d be hypocritical of him, he thinks as his hips twitch with renowned interest, to not let you fret after him when his own worry is what got you here in the first place.
After you’re satisfied, you trail the path Sam’s grown accustomed to, the very same you follow every time you sleep together after a terribly long amount of time:
The knife scar under his pec from when they were chasing after Bucky, still the Winter Solider, superficial enough not to have caused concern at the time. The mark from when he got his appendix out, thinking nothing of the stabbing aches to his belly until he was doubling over in his bed and waking up half his platoon as he retched in the bathroom.
The dot on his finger where Riley accidentally stabbed him with a pencil once, sleep deprived and with two shots of whiskey on him. The wound had healed with ease but the mark made a permanent home on his skin, barely visible unless you leaned in close enough to look for it.
The scab on his knee from falling off his bike when he was six. Sarah had screeched bloody murder until their parents came out of the house to see what all the fuss was about. The scar left behind by a bullet on his right shoulder during his second tour in Afghanistan.
The cut on his lip he got shaving for the first time is always last on your list. Sam has long stopped calling you out on it, how convenient it was that the cataloging of his scars always ended with a thorough, slow kiss to his mouth that usually bloomed into a second round.
He found that you got skittish when he did so, pulling back into yourself and laying tensely in bed for a couple more minutes before you started looking around for your clothes, called out.
Now Sam only cups your jaw, tugs a little so it opens your mouth and he can slip in his tongue and steal a taste of your sigh. He wants you like this for as long as possible; vulnerable, unguarded, desperate to touch him and be touched back. Safe enough to know that you never have to ask for something he wants to give you so willingly.
You always forget. The second you meet again, you have to start the whole dance over. Fish for excuses to meet each other in the middle, hoping for new scars to lengthen your time together.
Sam isn’t a masochist by any means, and he’s not an adrenaline junkie asshat who chases the danger just to have proof on his skin that he can take all the grievances life throws at him.
But. But–
“We’re alright,” you say against his mouth, body warm and seeking on top of his. He’s mindful of your injuries but can’t help himself, the urge to touch you overrules any other instinct he owns. It makes him weak, on the field, but happy off of it. “Aren’t we? We’re gonna be alright.”
“‘Course we are, honey,” his southern charm pops out and you’re both parts equally pleased and unamused, a funny expression on your face that has him laughing as he cups the back of your neck to bring you in for another kiss. “What? What’s with the face?”
“Nothin’, pumpkin,” you imitate his accent and Sam focuses his ministrations on your jaw and neck, trying to get you to break character. “We’re gonna be just fine, sugar plum. You’re sure lookin’ very pretty tonight, peach fuzz.”
Sam splutters out a laugh. “Peach fuzz?”
“That’s what you sound like!”
“See if I ever call you something nice ever again.”
“You can’t resist me,” you say seriously, though a smile keeps trying to break your facade. “You literally lasted five days before taking me to bed. That’s on being weak, Wilson.”
“Some might say it’s a world record for me, baby,” he says, poking at your face until you show teeth, happy and at ease in his arms. “The six months before that were a little bit of a stretch, too.”
Your mood dampens a little but Sam won’t let it, nudging his nose against yours to catch your attention again. “Hey. What did I just say? We’re gonna be alright. Five days, six months, five years, it’s nothing. They mean shit when I get to see you again.”
The mention of the Snap unguards you further. He’d been gone while you tried to keep your life together, ignoring the Sam-shaped void in your surroundings. The first time you got together after he came back had been tainted by the grief of losing three of the best people you’d ever known, and he’d done his own reconnaissance of your skin as he took in new scars, new hurts that had happened and healed while he was gone.
You smile again, but it’s softer, fonder, a tender tilt of the lips for the man you managed to find in this chaotic line of work that became your whole life.
In another five days, you’ll once more be on opposite ends of the world without any idea of when you’ll see each other again or what new marks you’ll have on your skin that describe your time apart. You haven’t even put a name to this– this relationship that both of you are still too hesitant to define as such, but that’s okay.
It’s okay. It’s more than enough. The path of scars will be there to take when you meet again, permanent proof that you’ve survived to find the way to each other over and over and over again. The map that leads to you, every goddamn time.
___
hi!!!
hope you like this one! i’ve been putting this fic on the back burner for almost a month now, but i’m so glad to finally have finished it! i hope to put out the tommy miller sequel for dial drunk next week before school starts :)
thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, etc.!
<3
#sam wilson x reader#sam wilson#anthony mackie#marvel fanfic#reader insert#captain america x reader#captain america and the winter soldier#catws#bucky barnes#sebastian stan#joaquin torres#danny ramirez#falcon x reader#leo writes#sarah wilson#tfatws#the falcon and the winter soldier
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The Baron offers redemption, but his eyes are too cunning to take him at his word. The Soldier suspects he has unwittingly aligned himself with an entirely different kind of God.
#a medieval bucky set in the colonial era#tfw your fanfic ideas are too ambitious so u make fanart of it instead#loosely based off *that* scene in tfatws#someone write this plz#helmut zemo#baron zemo#winterbaron#winter soldier#bucky barnes#mcu#fanart
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*points originally in a tag-dump under another post about* Bucky's goodness + Steve's belief in him
+ the fact that the superserum worked on Bucky is empirical proof of his goodness:
+ this is also why the serum worked on Isaiah Bradley.
+ imagine if Isaiah had been made the Winter Soldier instead
Seriously it's a pretty eye-opening thought exercise to put any other character in Bucky's place and see just how poorly he's treated.
Do people really think Steve would hear about a man who had the same magic ‘only works on good people’ juice as him, tortured and enslaved by Hydra for decades… and then just NOT help him?
imagine if you had Sam saying 'Steve this 'Isaiah' guy he's not someone you save he's someone you stop.'
Nat saying 'Steve I know this matters to you but let the police handle Isaiah someone will arrest you if you interfere, it will inconvenience us all.' (LOL Nat have you met Steve who wrote this)
Sam agreeing, 'maybe Nat's right maybe we shouldn't bother helping Isaiah against the police in case they shoot at us,' and dismissing the fact that Isaiah could do good: ‘1945, maybe.’
When Isaiah was the guy that pulled Steve out of the river?
(And meanwhile the CIA have given police, that Nat and Sam are telling Steve not to interfere with, orders to shoot Isaiah dead on sight? quelle surprise)
Steve would still be arguing that it should be him to bring Isaiah in, since he's least likely to die trying.
He would still have put taking down the Insight helicarriers first, and been reluctant (but willing) to dislocate his arm for that very important reason.
He would still have lifted up the steel beam pinning Isaiah down
(and probably still tried to talk him out of his mind-control, even if he failed.)
imagine if everyone (Sam, Nat, Steve, Sharon, etc.) saw Isaiah -- when mind-controlled -- suddenly demonstrating a drastically different personality
and imagine if Steve and Sam saw Isaiah waking up with amnesia.. then proving his memory of his good, non-WS personality... but Sam was still rude/hostile to Isaiah anyway, insisting he and Steve should not be ‘cool' with him (then telling Isaiah he hates him).
Tony saying 'I don’t care that Isaiah was mind-controlled he killed my mom imma murder him just to spite you for not trusting me not to murder people.'
imagine if you had the therapist telling Isaiah he needs to be monitored by the state to prove he’s not giving into his innate violence, giving him rules to follow like a child, (and he’s pardoned, not exonerated, meaning he had to admit to crimes he wasn’t responsible for in order to get a modicum of freedom) and that it’s bullshit to suggest Isaiah just wants some peace
Ayo telling Isaiah 'you are free' 😌 as he finally escapes his bondage, watching him cry with relief, then: ‘SIKE! we put a booby-trap in ur limb the trust was a lie.’
Sam cracking jokes about Isaiah's trauma, dehumanizing him as a killing machine
taking part in a plot where Isaiah has to pretend to be WS, be sold to another human being, and have rape jokes cracked about him,
but then still being like 'listen Isaiah if you really want to apologise f̶o̶r̶ ̶b̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶l̶a̶v̶e̶ you should just do the work.' 😔
*event horizon voice* DO YOU SEE? DO YOU SEE?? 😬
#long post#tfatws critical#antisambucky#antitfatws#antitony#bucky meta#bucky's serum meta#mcu meta#dat's me#gunna tag this as anti-[those things]#cuz I don't imagine eg. sambucca fans wanna see this on their dash... 🤐#meta#steve meta#stucky meta#steve rogers#bucky barnes#stucky#the writing of sam and bucky#f/ws writers room: LOL dehumanizing the disabled is HILARIOUS!#why would we write a black-lead show empathising w/ a former slave who gets profiled by the police and molested by white women?? 🤔#a mystery for the ages#also I have been recced The Truth limited run of cap comics which feat isaiah...#tho warning: the differences between it + fatws may cause rage palpitations#yet each man queues the thing he loves
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fic pride weekend midweek
thank you so very much, @eusuntgratie, for tagging me!
Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.
hope on the horizon
She turns and gives [Bucky] a quick salute then continues on her way. Once she’s behind the count, Nat catches Sarah’s eye. Holding her hands about twelve inches apart, she mouths to Sarah, He has a huge dick!
Sarah laughs as she pulls a coffee stirrer out of the little caddy on the table and calls out, “Yes, thank you for that information, Nat!”
not too tired
“If you broke my phone—” Sarah starts to say, raising up to look behind him.
He shoves her down and plants his hand on her back to keep her there. “Then I’ll buy you a new one. Now shut up and take this dick.”
brighter than ever
… Their fingers brush when he grabs the bucket and he feels the same sizzle he always does; the ricochet of lightning through his body that settles and hums under his skin whenever she’s around.
stevie’s mom has got it goin’ on
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Yeah, and I’m gonna kiss yours with it, too.”
Steve slowly turns his head, eyes wide and fierce with murderous intent. Bucky puts his hand up, trying to protest his innocence, but Steve balls up his fist and stalks toward him.
but keep your heart up
Bucky hums low in his throat, still in that space between awake and asleep. If he keeps his eyes closed long enough, he’ll drift straight back into sleep. Lulled by the softness of the morning and Sam’s warmth curled into his side. He frowns when he feels Sam roll away from him. The bed dips and the sheet slides down to his hips.
something to talk about
Bucky’s smile widens when he catches sight of the covered dish in her hands. “Hey, kid; whatcha got there?”
“Well, my momma said to tell you we had some extra blackberry cobbler layin’ around. But, really, she just made the one. And it’s for you.”
The Holidate
“She’d kill me and then where would you be? Without your best friend in the whole wide world, that’s where.”
Closing the cooler and lifting it by both handles, she gives him a look before heading toward her truck. “You’re my brother’s best friend. We are acquaintances at best.”
a perfect end to a perfect day
He smiles a little to himself as he looks out over the lake, ears catching the song of a far-off bird. Sarah’s body heat seeps into his right side and her heartbeat thumps gently in his ear, a counterpoint to the crickets in the grass. The scent of her, warm skin and lotion, fills his nostrils and he breathes deep, pulling her in.
a night for bad dreams
With deft skill borne from years of experience, Okoye quickly gets her youngest settled back in her own bed without waking her. She kisses Esihle’s forehead before making her way back to the living room.
Attuma sits up at her approach, scrubbing one had over his face, he reaches for her with the other. He pulls her in to stand between his legs and asks, “Time ‘s it?” around a small yawn.
across the ocean blue
K’uk’ulkan sighs happily as he strolls toward the town center, food stalls giving way first to the fabric weavers then to the armorers and vibranium forgers. Attuma follows a few paces behind, eyes drawn to the showers of sparks as new spears and axes are shaped from raw vibranium. His left hand aches with yearning for the familiar weight of smooth metal.
He passes forge after forge, sees spear upon spear and ax after ax being stockpiled, and feels anticipation flutter in his chest. His people are preparing for war. Soon, he will be called upon, his altar overflowing with the choicest offerings, smoke from fresh candles mingling with the finest incense… And he will be glad to answer their prayers, to give their warriors strength and speed and courage against their enemy.
the calm before the storm
Taking a fortifying breath and blowing it out, [Attuma] goes first to the children’s room. He smooths the frown from Itzel’s sleeping face, unsurprised to see that even in her dreams she remains serious. Next, he gathers Khanyiswa’s discarded blankets from the floor and tucks her back in, as he has many a night. Coming upon the third bed, he smiles softly at the sight of little Esihle and Chimalmat curled together like kittens.
i tag: @jemgirl86 @dasphinxone @xoxoviva @siancore @spinachgarden @princess-of-gondor @jadedjotun and anyone else who sees this and would like to share!
#long post#tag games#writing tag#sarahbucky#sarah wilson#bucky barnes#sarah wilson x bucky barnes#tfatws#sambucky#sam wilson x bucky barnes#attoye#attuma x okoye#black panther wakanda forever
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Written for the @sambuckylibrary Anniversary Event! Y'all don't even know how many of these "no-power" stories I started for this prompt. Instead I hunkered down and finished one of my favorite (and oldest) WIPs (What is the life of a writer, if not creating four WIPs for every one finished?)
CW: blood and injury There is also glib discussion of limb loss by Bucky throughout.
Yeah the title is from that one poster. You know the one.
Hanging In There 🐱
Bucky Barnes was very good at free climbing. (Yes, even with the prosthetic arm, thank you very much, terrible-gym-trainer.) Mostly because he'd taken up free climbing after he was situated with the arm. It had become his ongoing PT and his proof of freedom. Once he'd gone a few months without flattening himself on the gym floor, everyone in his life (so, his sister Becca and his best friend Steve) finally left him alone when he was doing other things. So long as he could scale rock walls, he could do his own grocery shopping.
He got as much of a kick out of watching people's reactions to him climb with a prosthesis as he did from watching them finally work up the courage to tentatively ask if he lost his arm climbing. His answer changed depending on what mood he was in or the elevation he'd stopped at if he was outside. "Sure, it got caught in a rock shift. I had to cut it off with a pocket knife." "Yeah, I put my hand in a hole and got bitten by some poisonous reptile. Lost the whole thing." "Actually I fell off a cliff and ripped the whole thing off when I tried to get some purchase on the way down." He'd lost it in the line of duty overseas, but nosy people always managed to miss the dog tags around his neck.
The point was, Bucky was really good at free climbing. He'd been doing it for years now. He thought he knew his body better now than he did when he joined up with the military in the first place.
This was all his cat's fault.
No, that wasn't fair. This was all some other cat's fault. Some street cat rascal had gotten Alpine pregnant and Bucky was just trying to see who it was. Plus maybe figure out who was so irresponsible to let their cat roam. And, no. Alpine getting out to meet with this cat Casanova was not the same thing as someone being irresponsible because she slipped out the window by knocking the plastic accordion of the window AC unit out of the way. Bucky hadn't let her out. He was not an intentionally irresponsible cat dad. He was just a new cat dad. Who even knew he’d have to cat-proof window units?
He'd been watching her ever since he'd found out she was pregnant. He fully planned on following her to whatever back alley she met Tom O'Malley in. When Alpine had climbed out his window and perched on the wide railing of his balcony, he'd figured she was going to jump down the fire escape to the ground and carry on. Instead, she walked across the narrow decorative ledge of his building and he...
Well, he followed on instinct. That was the plan, right? Follow his cat to the culprit?
He could not stress how much he wasn't thinking in the moment.
The building wasn't that tall. He was on the fourth floor and the bottom floor was only a half floor. Still, Bucky wasn't imagining the wind tugging at his clothes as he crept along the narrow ledge after Alpine, who was not doing anything to wait for Bucky.
"Al," he hissed, making a small jump from the end of one apartment's ledge to the next. He knew his neighbor and hoped she wasn't home. She wasn't usually but his luck was not cooperating today. "Al, get back here. You had your fun night. I'm over this."
Bucky skirted across the neighbor's balcony and onto the next ledge. This one was a little different, wider but more broken up into pieces. More like a rock wall. The only problem was that there were no decorative pieces at hand level. And he wasn't wearing his prosthetic arm. If he missed a step or one of these bricks gave way, he was definitely falling.
Alpine gracefully jumped down a floor, using a drain pipe to launch herself sideways onto someone's balcony.
"Alpine!" Bucky called with a new wave of frustration. The balcony was close enough that Bucky could probably make the jump. It would be mostly falling anyway. He could land on the railing and stumble his way forward.
The only problem would be that he'd definitely alert whoever was in the apartment and he wasn't sure he'd be able to talk, or climb, his way out of that conversation. He crept closer to the other balcony, eyeing the drop and wishing he'd worn better shoes. He was just as liable to break an ankle as he was to miss the balcony.
Alpine pawed at the sliding door of the balcony and a black-and-white cat appeared on the other side of it, used its head to nudge the door open. Alpine and the cat rubbed heads and then disappeared into the apartment together.
"Are you kidding me?" Bucky asked the wind.
He looked down at the street below, thankful they weren't on the busy side of the building. Then again, that meant it was less likely someone would see him flatten himself and therefore less likely someone would call for help.
There were not many times in his climbing journey that he felt the need to leap from one spot to the other. Sure, the occasional shift a foot or so to a different grip hold, but not like this. He braced his feet against the ledge, testing his weight out and shifting it forward.
He leapt without thinking about it anymore than that.
When he crashed through the balcony, his brain was very confused about what happened. He'd hit something solid. He was still falling. His knee ached. His other knee was in his face. Something was soaking through his sock and shoes.
He realized his forearm was flat against the balcony and he tried to lift himself up, out of the hole he’d put in the wooden floor. But he couldn’t make his legs follow commands, couldn’t free the one stuck on the wood, being held up at an odd angle by his jeans, couldn’t swing the other one back to make momentum. Then the pain really set in, along with some panic. Bucky couldn't right himself, couldn't sit, could barely move, all of which meant he couldn't take stock of what was happening around him. His leg hurt. The pain was soaking into his brain until he couldn't think about anything else.
Then, to add insult to injury, the most beautiful man Bucky had ever seen came running out the door to the balcony and almost tripped over him. The cats followed him out. Alpine, the traitor, didn't even look concerned.
"What the hell?" his neighbor asked. Belatedly, Bucky saw the baseball bat in his hand. And, like, one that had been used in the field of play and left no comforting possibility that the man wouldn't actually use it on him. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Well, right now, I'm just hanging out," Bucky answered without knowing where the sarcasm came from since most of his brain was focused on the terror that he was about to lose his leg too.
"Are you trying to break in?" the man asked and curled his fingers around the bat again.
"Me, rob you?" Bucky asked in disbelief. "That's my cat that you're clearly trying to steal," he argued with a nod to Alpine. "And your terrible Tom got her pregnant on top of it!"
"That's your cat?" the man asked. "Do you ever pay attention to her? She's here all the time. I posted ‘Found: Cat’ posters downstairs and didn't get a response."
"You did not!" Bucky snapped. "Can you just..." He gestured to the fact that he was continually slipping further through the hole he'd crashed through in the balcony. Or...no. He did this. He crashed a hole through someone's balcony. Could this day get any worse?
The man tossed the bat inside and the cats disappeared after the noise to investigate. He kneeled beside Bucky, holding onto his elbow and maneuvering Bucky around to peer through the hole.
"Your leg is pretty torn up," he warned. "I think it's best if I just call for an ambulance. I don't want to agitate any wounds. I have gauze but not extra blood."
It took Bucky too long to realize that was a joke. Hopefully. "Come on, man. Just help me up. I'll be fine."
"You are literally dripping blood onto the next balcony," the man insisted. And then he seemed to realize his hand was flat on Bucky's ribs and not on his left arm. He blanched and his wide eyes met Bucky's.
"Don't worry," Bucky assured. "It was missing before I jumped. It disappeared on me earlier."
To his credit, the neighbor's shock switched to vaguely irked in a single breath and without any follow up questions. He looked at Bucky's leg again and heaved out a long suffering sigh before disappearing into the apartment again.
Alpine and her paramour took the man's place in the doorway, watching Bucky with a pitying and disdainful look, respectively. "This is your fault," Bucky told Alpine. Or maybe the black and white cat. Really, it was that cat's fault.
The neighbor came back with an armful of supplies, including some really nice 2x4s that he laid across the balcony, balancing them on the unimpaired metal frame. He also had a medical kit that needed a duffle bag to be lugged around.
"Were you military?" Bucky asked.
The neighbor startled a little and his fingers passed over what Bucky could assume was an insignia patch on the other side of the bag. "Yeah, Air Force. Pararescue. Sam, by the way. You?"
"Army. Bucky," Bucky said. "Not in that order."
"Explains the whole--" Sam gestured to his left side.
"Well, if you figured that out on your own, how am I supposed to test out my new stories on you?"
Sam shook his head as he laid out a variety of supplies just inside the threshold of his apartment. "You and my partner would've gotten along. He had this scar on his face. Dog bite when he was a kid. But he made up stories all the livelong day about it."
"You get tired of the truth eventually," Bucky explained. "It's never good enough for anyone anyway."
Sam glanced over at him, brown eyes a little calculating for a moment. But he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he got his hands on Bucky's ribs again. "You need to help me here. I don't have a lot of leverage and we're gonna be fighting against the splintered boards."
Bucky nodded and braced his forearm against one of the boards Sam had brought out. Despite his concerns, Sam was just about strong enough to pull Bucky free on his own, which was both mortifying and also incredibly hot. Pieces of the balcony clattered to the one below as Bucky pulled his legs up behind him.
The pain started as soon as he was sure he was safely on the 2x4s. He hissed and reached for his knee like he could stave off the pain signals that way.
"Do you mind if I cut your jeans away?" Sam asked. "Just the legs. You can keep your modesty."
"I have no dignity left, so go for it," Bucky sighed. He leaned back against the railing of the balcony and watched Sam carefully cut through his favorite jeans. His leg was a gross, bloody mess but it didn't make Bucky flinch and Sam didn't flinch either. He imagined they’d both seen much worse.
"You should go to the hospital," Sam repeated as he cleared some blood away. He had nice fingers, Bucky realized, instead of listening to his admonishments. They were almost long enough to wrap around Bucky's calf and he was so sure with his movements as he wiped Bucky's leg down with a concentrate of alcohol that was definitely higher than what they sold at the bodega. His nails were maintained, but still a little dirty and rough from work. Like the rest of him: just effortlessly endearing and gorgeous.
"Why do you have random pieces of wood in your apartment?" he asked finally as Sam began to wrap bandages around his knee.
Sam looked down at his temporary floor. "I was going to redo the balcony. So, thanks for this, I guess.”
Bucky gave a lazy kind of wave and then dropped his arm over his eyes. “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my day either. I can help you with repairs. Pay for whatever else you need.”
“That’s more helpful than the maintenance guys have been,” Sam said. “I told them all this wood was rotten.”
“Yeah, you shoulda seen how long it took them to come look at my sink drain. I was scooping it out and pouring it down the shower for months,” Bucky agreed.
Sam groaned in sympathy, but didn’t look up from where he was now searching for large splinters. He had eyelashes longer than Bucky’s forearm, it seemed like. And cheekbones that were made to be seen from this angle. Of all the balconies in New York that he could’ve crashed on, why did he have to embarrass himself in front of a model?
Nah, even better than a model. Real and handsome and touchable.
“Wait, did you say partner?” Bucky asked suddenly.
Sam’s long eyelashes fluttered as he looked up and graced Bucky with those eyes again. “What? I didn’t say anything”
“No, earlier. You said your partner has a scar on their face.”
“Oh. Yeah. Riley,” Sam said and closed up a little bit.
“Are they going to be mad that there’s a stranger stuck in your balcony?”
“You’re not stuck anymore,” Sam pointed out. “I just don’t want you to bleed in my apartment.” He ran another cloth soaked with alcohol across Bucky’s leg and then pulled out a huge roll of gauze. “Riley was my flight partner in the Air Force. I mean. He was my partner-partner too. But I don’t think he’s gonna have much to say about you breaking the balcony.”
“Oh. You broke up,” Bucky surmised. “I just thought… The way you talked about him so easily… Sorry,” he added.
Sam raised an eyebrow at him but just gestured for Bucky to hold the edge of the gauze against his leg and proceeded to give Bucky the tightest, most fine wrapped bandages of Bucky’s life. They hadn’t done this well with bandages after he lost his arm.
“God, you were like rescue-pararescue,” Bucky said, like an idiot. What did that even mean. “I mean, we all got triage training, but you’re actually good at it.”
Sam snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, it was part of the job,” he agreed. He tapped off the gauze and then stood, making sure to step inside his apartment before letting himself sit back on his full weight.
Bucky leaned back a little and stared up at him. This was a fantastic angle.
“Come on, give me your hand,” he said, offering his down to Bucky. “Gotta get you off the balcony before my downstairs neighbor really starts to wonder what’s going on.”
Bucky took Sam’s hand and let him pull him to his feet, hopping over off the balcony to the apartment flooring. Only, as soon as he put his weight on his unhurt leg, that leg entirely went out from him. He fell against Sam’s chest and both he and Sam reached for the couch behind them to keep from falling over. The couch scooted back another inch, but it held steady after.
Bucky stared at Sam’s mouth because he was at the exact right level for it. But Sam was staring at him too, dark eyes wide, breath warm over Bucky’s face. His hand was on Bucky’s waist.
“Uh…I think I hurt my ankle too,” Bucky offered.
Sam took half a step backwards, scooting the couch again to do so, and helped Bucky find his unstable footing. Bucky balanced on one foot and his toes. Then Sam sank down to one knee and Bucky basically lost all coherent brain function entirely. He lifted Bucky’s pant leg and then sucked in a breath so sharply, the air whistled through the gap in his front teeth.
“Yeah, man. I think you broke it,” he confirmed. “You really need to go to the hospital.”
Bucky groaned and hobbled around Sam to lean on his couch. “It really looks that bad?”
“Are you attached to these shoes?” he asked.
“Yeah, kinda. Why?” They were just Vans, but he hated spending money on shoes (unless they were good boots, or dance shoes).
“Because your shoe may need to be cut off with the way the ankle’s swelling.”
Bucky dropped his head back and groaned like that was going to solve anything. It didn’t really matter. He’d seen how messy the other one had gotten from the blood, so it’s not like he was keeping this pair anyway. When he lifted his head again, Sam was standing there, looking like he was waiting on Bucky for something.
Bucky put on his best pathetic wet cat eyes. “Any chance you drive?” he asked. “I really don’t want to call an ambulance. You know VA insurance doesn’t cover shit.”
Sam’s eyebrow rose. “A man ruins my balcony, bleeds all over my things, accuses my cat of getting his cat pregnant–in fact, accuses me of stealing his cat–and now he wants to ask a favor after I stopped him from bleeding out or falling to his further grisly demise,” he summarized.
“A man will take you out to dinner?” Bucky offered. “As many times as you like?”
Sam stared at him for a moment longer before he relented. “I have discerning tastes,” he warned. “It’s gonna take a while for you to find a place that’s good enough.”
Bucky read directly into that and he grinned, triumphant. “Well, I have very good tastes,” he said. “But I’m gonna start off shitty just to keep you coming back.”
Sam rolled his beautiful eyes, but he was smiling and if Bucky liked his face before, he really loved it when he was smiling. “I’ll take you to the hospital, but don’t expect me to sit there and wait.”
“I think you should,” Bucky tempted. As he watched Sam gather his keys–and, fuck, Bucky’s door was locked and his keys were inside, he was going to have to call Steve to bring the extra–he limped to the door. The promise of Sam coming behind him was enough to keep the pain from taking up too many of his thoughts. Sam was firmly entrenched there.
“Why’s that?” Sam asked. He opened the door for Bucky and ushered him out.
“Because when they ask me what happened and I tell them I fell for the most beautiful man in the world, I’m gonna need the proof.”
“Oh my God,” Sam groaned, rolling his eyes again and smiling even brighter. “I should’ve checked you for a concussion. Lemme make sure your pupils aren't actually heart-shaped right now.”
“This is a perfectly normal reaction to fate literally throwing you into my life,” Bucky defended.
“Fate threw you into mine,” Sam corrected. “You’re the one who fell out of the sky like an omen.”
“An omen?” Bucky asked, affronted. “An angel.”
“Definitely not.”
They waited for the elevator in silence for a few seconds, Bucky leaning on Sam’s side to take some weight off of his leg. Then, just as the elevator dinged its approach, Sam said, “By the way, you're wrong about my cat. He's been fixed for years. Some other cat got your cat pregnant."
Bucky almost missed the elevator as he stared at Sam, who had stepped into it, in shock. Sam caught the door and Bucky quickly followed him in. “This was all for nothing? Why was she in your apartment?”
“I told you, she comes all the time. I think she likes Fig’s food. Besides,” Sam nudged an elbow into Bucky’s side. “I wouldn’t say it was for nothing.”
“‘Cause we met each other?” Bucky finished for him with a pleased grin. “Givin’ me all the warm and fuzzies, Sam.”
“Nah, ‘cause now I’ve got a reason to finally start on my balcony. And some volunteer guilt labor too.” He clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and hit the button for the garage level. “We’ll see about anything else fate might have gifted us later.”
Who knew, Bucky wondered, that fate was a cat.
#sambucky#bucky barnes#sam wilson#captain america#sambucky fanfic#the falcon and the winter soldier#writing#tfatws
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