#bucky x sam

[skippylov3rs]

Bucky : “I feel like we're starting to lose the ''b'' in our «bromance», bro.”

*Sam, pausing from kissing Bucky's neck* : “Hmph?”

[enthyrea]

a small collection of recent sambucky doodles

[sambuckydrawer]

Sam: Of course i’m not in love with Bucky

Sarah: That’s was not my question

Sam:

Sarah:

[samuelwilsonbarnes]

my love for bucky's obsession/devotion over sam is just like. I really think it's beautiful for bucky to have a partner he gets/has to practice his rather newfound ability for restraint with that also fully trusts him and even encourages him to let go and be weird and intense and kind of fucked up with how deep his love and desire goes in equal measure. I think it makes him feel so alive which only makes his love deeper

i think its equally beautiful for sam to have someone capable of both grounding him and matching his freak, someone insatiable, but especially someone who sees sam, who's devoted to seeing sam and is hungry for him even when he's not "showing" himself. someone devoted to offering him the world instead of more weight to carry, I think it makes him feel so at peace which only makes his love deeper

something something freedom in ultimate fidelity. love a healthy wholesome relationship but I swear they become a next tier duo when they're just Not Normal about each other <3

[honeeysagee]

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.

[azriona]

Beach Day (MCU ficlet)

Pairing: Sam/Bucky

Deets: Gen (it's a meet-cute!), 2.5k words, No Powers Beach AU

Summary: Bucky is thirsty for many reasons. (Spoiler alert: one of them is the lifeguard on duty.) (Second spoiler alert: Sam's the lifeguard.)

“You’re staring again,” says Steve, which is all it takes for Bucky to whip his head back from where his gaze had strayed to where he’s meant to be looking instead, off into the horizon like he’s trying to ignore the girl wrapped around his leg without falling off the sea-sprayed rock he’s standing on. “Can you blame the guy?” says Natasha lazily, as if she’s not dead-ass weight trying to pull Bucky off the damn rock. “The lifeguard’s cute.” “The lifeguard is on the beach,” says Steve, cold and uncaring and not looking up from his sketchpad. “And Rudolpho Alfonso McHunk is supposed to be staring off into the sunset.” “Then someone should’ve let Rudolpho Alfonso McHunk wear sunglasses, the sunset’s burning my corneas,” grumbles Bucky. “Stop squinting, you’re ruining the lines on your face.” “Draw faster,” retorts Bucky. “His shift’s nearly over.” “How do you know when his shift is over?” “Because he’s been sitting on that goddamn lifeguard chair as long as you’ve had us posing for this goddamn drawing,” complains Bucky.

Will Bucky get to flirt with the cute lifeguard? And more importantly, will the cute lifeguard flirt back, or squash him like a sand bug? Find out on AO3.

[katdavina8]

Not even two braincells amongst them.

[zenozero106]

I forgot how to render in the middle of drawing 💀💀

[marvelsgirl616]

[lives-in-midgard]

Bucky: You can’t make everyone like you. You’re not Y/N.

Sam: Not everyone likes Y/N.

Bucky: Who doesn’t?

Sam: Well...

Bucky: Names, now. Give me their names.

[whtactch-dawnie]

EVERYONE SHUT UP AND CONSIDER: the aftermath of brave new world.

sam is tired. so, so tired. the adrenaline that’s kept him running far longer than it should’ve is finally wearing thin and he makes it to his and bucky’s apartment and all but collapses in his fiancé’s arms. bucky coos at him, he talks sweet and quiet. he scolds him a little for not properly dealing with those stab wounds, but it’s okay.

“it’ll be okay, sammy.”

bucky stitching him up, bandaging him. despite every feeble protest, he’s able to get sam to lay down finally and drink some water and take some pain meds. he makes him a sandwich that sam is able to eat about half of. he hates being coddled most of the time, but right now he’s in a bit too much pain to really care. instead, sam focuses on telling bucky he’s full of shit and that the serum would’ve definitely came in handy. he’s kind of mumbling, and his words come out a bit out of order and bucky just gives a roll of his eyes because someday, sam’ll get it. he’ll see himself the way bucky sees him, and he’ll get it.

and once bucky’s pretty sure he’s stable, or stable enough, he’ll crawl into bed beside him. sam’s already asleep and bucky will drive him to the hospital tomorrow for a proper examination, but right now he deserves a good night’s sleep, safe and sound in his own bed. their bed. the bed that took them both a long time to get used to, but when they’re wrapped in one another’s arms, it’s a bit more bearable.

[enthyrea]

undercover

[sisalrian]

the captain & the congressman spend their (very few) off days together

[lokichaoss]

I can’t help but be in love with their friendship

[yikesdrama]

“I should have taken that serum. Bucky was full of shit.” 😂❤️

— Sam Wilson, Captain America

[sunsetmaidenwrites]

An Essay on SamBucky

Just got back from seeing Captain America: Brave New World and am full of thoughts. The following contains Sambucky-centric thoughts, head canons, and spoilers based on the movie. (I have a separate post that includes my overall thoughts on the movie but this one is solely Sambucky.)

Sambucky nation--we rise! No divorce era for us! (Though it did provide for some awesome, angsty fics). I hope the trend continues with Thunderbolts*. Bucky is obviously looking rougher there than he did in this movie, so we're not out of the woods yet, but I'm feeling pretty good about our chances.

There's so much to say here. Multiple Bucky mentions (Sam alluding to Bucky when he talks about having a friend who was controlled by trigger words.), a picture of SamBucky prominently displayed at Sam's headquarters, Bucky showing up as emotional support when Sam needs him most, the hug, the "Buck" and the "I love you, Buddy." All of these have already been mentioned a lot, though, so for this post (who am I kidding this is an essay!), I would like to highlight a few points pertaining to the movie. I haven't really seen discussed in the Sambucky tag yet.

First, Sam says the following to Bucky at the hospital:

"Joaquin’s in here. Isaiah’s in prison. And Sterns…I had him. I had Sterns right in my hands but he got away." Bucky is given no additional backstory here, which means he already knows who Sterns is and what Sam is dealing with. This indicates Sam and Bucky are in regular contact with Sam keeping Bucky filled in on what's happening. This isn't just a case of Bucky seeing news footage and immediately going to Sam. Bucky is an active part of Sam's life and support system.

Then we have Bucky's line:

"Steve gave people something to believe in, but you give them something to aspire to." Bucky's admiration and devotion to Sam here is quite evident. I fully believe Bucky Barnes is all in for Sam Wilson and has been probably for longer than even he realizes.

Then toward the end of the scene where we get our iconic "Thanks Buck" and "I love you, Buddy" moment:

We have a wealth of unspoken communication here. Sam and Bucky seem to have a whole conversation with both their eyes and body language before they speak these words. Sam looks at Bucky. Looks down at (presumably) Bucky's outstretched hand. Then his eyes cut back up to Bucky. Then they cut back down as he shakes Bucky's hand, then he looks back up at Bucky. For Bucky's part, his eyes never leave Sam's face during the entirety of this. It's only right before he says "I love you, Buddy" that his gaze cuts down from Sam's face. After saying the words, Bucky proceeds to back away and Sam watches him go. The way this scene plays out, and the choices Mackie and Stan make leave a lot of room for subtext and interpretation, imo.

Right after this scene, we also get the female agent coming in with questions/comments about Bucky to Sam, alluding to a possible interest which Sam shuts down with "He's 110 years old." Look, it might make sense for Sam to try to nip a Bucky/Sarah potential connection in the bud like he did in TFATWS and it not mean anything (that's another essay for another day. I wasn't on Tumblr back then to share my thoughts on that.); after all, that's his sister and Bucky was riding on his last nerve through all the previous episodes at that point. It does not, however, make sense for Sam to insert himself into the narrative at this point and try to dissuade a random CIA agent from showing interest in Bucky if Bucky is just his friend and/or Sam's interest in him is purely platonic. It just doesn't. I cannot come up with a logical explanation for this besides the obvious 'that man is mine, step off' conclusion.

And for my last point:

During Sam's final showdown with the red hulk, with the outcome uncertain, and defeat (and therefore death) potentially eminent, Sam proceeds to bitch about Bucky under his breath. "Bucky is full of so much shit..." I know this is supposed to be funny and snarky, but it's also quite telling. We know that the signature of SamBucky's relationship--whether it's platonic or romantic--is the bickering. Not only is Sam spending his potential last moments ranting about Bucky (again, the staple of their relationship), he's also spending them thinking about Bucky. He's going out there facing odds that seem insurmountable and it's Bucky that's on his mind.

So, in conclusion, they're in love.