#sambucky asks

[thatmexisaurusrex]

SamBucky Romance Asks

So. Something's going around. And I was like "fuck it, let's do something fun". Reblog this if you'd like and participate too. Send an ask with one of these emojis and the person you're asking will give you a SamBucky headcanon, a short ficlet, a fic recommendation, or a tiny sketch based on the prompt.

🏥 Hurt/Comfort 💋 Almost Kiss ❤️ "You okay?" 📸 Accidental Public Confession 💭 Bickering 👀 Lingering Gazes 🛏️ Bed Sharing 🛥️ Meanwhile, on the Boat... 💕 Who Fell First 👔 Zipping or Buttoning His Jacket for/Putting a Tie on Him ☀️ "Good morning." 🍜 Sick Day 🧤 Touch 🚪 Roommates 💥 A Surprise Encounter 🤗 Cuddling 🐦 Redwing 🚨 The Moment a Mission Goes Awry 😊 Relax 🍺 Sharing a Beer 🌭 It's Not a Lunch Date 👟 Jogging 🎤 Practicing for an Interview 📕 Absolute Dorks 👠 Slow Dance

[wenellyb]

if there is one thing that is gonna happen it’s def a sambucky smooch and not a sambucky breakup

Hiiii!!! Agreed!!! Nothing even points to a breakup. They'll just be an independant power couple! Doing their thing and then meeting at home.

[plantswithme]

the full “still not funny” scene!

[kayjayo1227]

I had a dumb thought and I drew it

[panevanbuckley]

how do u mark a fic as read?????????? I don't have that button! what is this sorcery???!!!?? :O

ahh okay sorry it's literally a month late 😭

a lot of people saw this post and apparently didn't know the mark as read feature existed (which ??? i'm 95% sure y'all will recognise it once you read this post)

so anyways. say you're like me and are scrolling for a very specific fic but during that scrolling you pass a fic that also intrigues you. but you don't wanna read it yet. you also don't trust yourself to open a new tab and not lose it so you use the mark for later button!

you'll see it at the top of any fic (example below)

click this. and boom! fic has now been added to your mark for later list. which can be found under history and marked for later on your account

but if you're anything like me you probably won't actually use that list because you switch hyperfixations far too often

it does come in handy still though because when (read: if) you return to this ship/fandom and are yet again scrolling for a good fic it can help you identify fics you've read before or not. usually i'll see something that sounds interesting, open it, and either it will be bookmarked already or it will have this new button at the top:

mark as read my beloved 🥰 means this fic caught my eye in the past but i never got around to actually reading it. so yay! new fic to read!!

(unless, like in the original post, i somehow either forgot to then mark the fic as read after reading it or for some reason never bookmarked it and then i trick myself into thinking i've not seen it 💀)

[firstelevens]

#8, things you said when you were crying for the fic meme!

8. things you said when you were crying

this might more accurately be termed 'things you didn't say when you were crying' but that doesn't roll off the tongue as well

When Bucky wakes up, there's a weight on his chest and a sob caught in his throat. His heart is starting to race in his chest and he does his best to slow down his breathing, reaching out to feel around him in the dark like he might find something there to anchor himself.

The first thing that his fingers brush is a woven rug, the tassels at the end worn down to almost nothing. It’s old, clearly, but well taken care of, no pilling or loose stitches. Just beyond it, he feels polished wood, and when he curves his fingers around it, he can feel a short, square post, like the leg of a table. His pillow is cool and wet by his ears, and it takes him far too long to realize that it's from tears that have been tracking their way down his face long enough to leave a trail.

There’s a wooden floor underneath him, cushioned with a plush sleeping bag, and when he pulls his hand back towards him, it brushes against a soft, knitted blanket.

Bucky can sense one of those ugly, choked gasps rising up in his chest, his attempts at even breathing too late to help it, so he tries to tuck his head under the blanket to muffle it as best he can. The tears don't stop, but as he takes shaky breaths with his face pressed against the blanket, his nose is filled with the smell of sandalwood and citrus, something that would be intimately familiar even if he hadn't ended up using that particular soap in the shower for the past few days.

It's Sam's soap, pipes a little voice somewhere in the back of his head. It's Sam's soap and Sam's blanket and Sam's bedroom, he remembers with another shuddering breath. He's in Sam's bedroom, and Sam is asleep just a few feet away, and Bucky is safe here.

Bucky slumps back against the pillow, presses the heel of his hand against his eyes like that'll do anything, but the tears don't stop. The thing in his chest feels more than hollow; it feels like some kind of vacuum, and he doesn't know how to stop it from swallowing him whole.

By now, Bucky's had plenty of practice waking up from nightmares of his time as the soldier, or even before that, back when he and Steve were on the front lines. He's dreamed of Azzano, of Zola, of so many of the people he'd been made to hurt. It's grim, but that's been a part of his life long enough that Bucky has a system for dealing with it.

This hadn't been a nightmare, though, or at least not that kind of nightmare. This time, he'd seen his family, warm and cozy and boisterous in a brightly light apartment. There was Becca stringing popcorn garlands with Evie and Ma putting oranges in Christmas stockings, all of them safe and whole and surrounded by the crackle of the radio. He'd been there, too, right in the doorway, but he hadn't been able to make his feet move closer, and he hadn't been able to touch any of them. Instead he'd watched them with a growing ache in his chest, just out of reach and unhearing, even when he'd tried to scream for their attention.

Bucky blinks rapidly, pushing himself up to sit in the hopes that it'll help him breathe better, but there's no difference. He has a hand pressed to the center of his chest like maybe it’ll stop the pounding, and he almost doesn’t hear the quiet creak of bed springs and the rustling of sheets as Sam rolls over. Bucky's eyes have finally adjusted to the sliver of moonlight coming from between the curtains, and in it he can see Sam silhouetted against the window, pushed up on one elbow.

"Buck?" he whispers. "What happened?"

But Bucky can't make words happen, can't do anything except breathe those shaky breaths. He doesn't know what he'd say even if he could speak.

He must have been quiet for longer than he thought, because he hears Sam mumble a soft curse before the bed springs creak again and the silhouette resolves into someone sitting up at the edge of a bed. "I'm gonna turn on the light, okay?" he asks softly, and then leans over and waits with his hand over the switch like he's giving Bucky a chance to stop him.

When Bucky manages an mhmm, there's a click as the bedside lamp comes on, throwing a soft orange glow around the room. It's just enough light for Bucky to see the pained expression on Sam's face as he looks down at Bucky.

Sam's eyebrows knit together for a minute, and he starts to reach out a hand before hurriedly drawing it back. "Can I touch you, Bucky? Is that okay?"

Bucky nods mutely, and Sam pushes up off the bed and comes to kneel beside him instead. With gentle fingers, he moves Bucky's hair away from where it sticks to his forehead, seemingly unfazed by the cold sweat there. Then, with a knuckle, he brushes away the stray tears on Bucky's cheeks. It's only when he swipes a thumb under Bucky's eye that he seems to realize he's cradling Bucky's face in his hands, and he goes to pull away.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't realize I..."

But whatever the thought is, Bucky doesn't let him finish. Sam's hands are warm and familiar, the touch of them doing more to steady Bucky’s breathing than anything else has. He's not quite ready to lose that and return to a world where this would never happen. He reaches up with his right hand--his prosthesis set aside when they called it a night a few hours ago--and holds Sam's hand where it is, shaking his head a little.

Sam relaxes, but it's just for a second before he finds something new to be concerned about. "Shit," says Sam, his voice soft. "You're freezing. How come you didn't say you were cold?"

The truth is that Bucky hadn't really realized, but he feels pathetic enough without bringing up the fact that his frame of reference for temperature is wildly skewed thanks to all of Hydra's freezing and defrosting over the years. He just shrugs and hopes that’s enough of an answer.

Generally, Sam is nosier about this stuff, but he lets it slide. “I can try to dig around the closets, maybe the attic,” he says. “See if the kids managed to leave us any blankets after they made their fort downstairs.”

Bucky feels his eyes go wide, his heart kicking up like Sam is proposing walking into a den of lions and not down the hallway of the house he grew up in. Though he schools his face into something else a moment later, it’s long enough for Sam to notice.

He watches Sam’s gaze drop down to where Bucky’s hand holds his in place, and Bucky doesn’t know whether it’s absent or intentional when he sweeps his thumb up and down Bucky’s cheekbone like he knows Bucky’s been matching the rhythm of his breaths to it.

“I mean, we could also–” Sam starts to say, then falters. It’s weird, Sam not knowing what to say. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, and maybe you want space, so I could go sleep in AJ’s room, because I know he’s downstairs with the others, so you wouldn’t have to–”

“Sam,” Bucky manages to croak, and startles him into silence.

But Sam’s eyebrows just knit together, his eyes locked on Bucky’s like he’s trying to read something there. It feels like watching Sam just before he takes to the skies on a mission, like he’s spinning some tactical diagram around in his head and mapping out all the ways something could go wrong, and Bucky realizes suddenly that Sam is nervous.

It should be uncomfortable or tense or something, given how awful Bucky felt just minutes ago, but instead he’s finally got his breathing back under control, the hammering of his heart finally slowed down to something vaguely normal. With the adrenaline rush of the nightmare ebbing away, exhaustion and the late hour are settling over his shoulders, and Bucky doesn’t have it in him to puzzle out what’s happening.

“Sam,” he says again, his voice still hoarse. Once Sam’s gaze has snapped to his again, Bucky turns his head just enough to brush a kiss against the heel of Sam’s hand, soft but deliberate enough to make Sam’s eyes go wide. “What is it?”

The careful way that Sam’s been holding himself relaxes just a fraction as he lets out a long, slow breath. “The bed,” he says softly. “I could- we could share the bed, if you wanted. So you could be warmer.”

Bucky breathes a soft oh of realization, and though there’s already an answer on the tip of his tongue, he takes a moment to really look at Sam. There’s determination in the set of his jaw and tenderness in the way he holds Bucky. His eyes are watchful, scanning Bucky’s expression for something, and he’s got pillow marks running up to his left cheekbone. Bucky wonders if that means they would sleep facing each other. He wouldn’t mind that, he thinks.

The longer that Bucky stays quiet, the warier Sam’s eyes get, but there’ll be time for conversations later. Bucky is just so tired, and Sam’s warmth draws him in even on days when he isn’t chilled to the bone, and the idea of getting to bask in it—in being seen and held and heard, even when he isn’t saying anything—is too tempting to refuse.

He turns and presses another kiss to Sam’s hand, firmer this time, and hears Sam’s breath catch in his throat.

“Okay?” asks Sam, and his eyes are wide and curious like he really doesn’t know how hard Bucky has to work to keep his distance.

Bucky smiles a little, reaching out to hold Sam’s face the way that he’s holding Bucky’s, sweeping his thumb along the cheekbone and abruptly wanting to kiss him there, too.

“Okay,” says Bucky, soft, and feels the bright grin on Sam’s face even sooner than he sees it.

[jemgirl86]

I just got into the Sambucky fandom recently and you, @siancore and @glittercake are the only fanfic writers I trust with this ship so far. I love how y'all write Sam with so much care and respect. I refuse to read stories where Sam is just relegated to being Bucky's therapist and/or rebound. The antiblackness is loud and I'd rather these losers not write about him at all if they're not gonna do right by him.

Aww thank you so much ❤️ This really put a smile on my face.

AntiBlackness is running rampant in this fandom, and the folks that don’t really care about Sam are loud, but luckily there are some really good writers who care about Sam too. I mean, @siancore and @glittercake are two of my favorites, of course lol, but there’s also @katatonicimpression @six2vii @capnwinghead @abarbaricyalp @the-lunar-pull @attaining-fic flowermasters (ao3 name) and @targaryenmelodrama

They’re just who I can think of off the top of my head. As a Sam fan, I promise you won’t be disappointed if you give their works a try!

[katatonicimpression]

@jemgirl86 i somehow lost your ask, but I answered both prompts! This one is fluffy, the other is angst.

14. things you said after you kissed me

“Called it.”

Bucky pulled back, but didn’t take his hands off Sam’s waist.

“What?”

“Sorry,” Sam smiled, reaching up and trying to pull Bucky back in for a second kiss.

“You said “called it”, Sam.”

“Ok.” Sam pulled back a little, resting his forearms on Bucky’s shoulders. “So… Don’t make it weird, but Joaquin owes me twenty dollars now.”

Bucky blinked, then frowned.

“You had a bet on me kissing you?”

“I said don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m the one who’s weird?” Bucky’s face contorted into something outraged, and adorable. “I didn’t even know I was going to do that!”

Sam shrugged in lieu of an answer.

“What, and you did?” Bucky wasn’t done, although his hands still hadn’t moved.

“Maybe,” Sam said. He was still smiling, a little bit smug. “I know you’ll do it again.”

Bucky glared at him for a second, then relented. He leaned down to kiss Sam again.

“I hate you,” Bucky said against his lips.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

[livingincolorsagain]

Hi, can I make a short ramble request?? Pls, tell me the beauty of why sam's the sun and bucky's the moon?? I have minimal understanding of what this dynamic means and I wanna know how, welp.

Have a good one ahead of you!

Hi, anon, you’re always more than welcome to do so! <3

The sun/moon dynamic is about opposites attract. The sun character is usually upbeat and optimistic, while the moon character is more reserved and moody. That’s what I think it is on the surface anyway.

I don’t think that’s necessary why the sun/moon dynamic works for sambucky, though. Sam is the sun because he burns bright, is warm, and, well, has more boiling beneath the surface than he lets on. Bucky is the moon because he’s quiet and he’s resilient and he’s steady and optimistic, and yeah, okay, he reflects Sam’s light. Like, he lets himself be lighter around Sam, and he gives Sam the space to let out everything he always tries to hide and hold back. Bucky wears his heart on his sleeve, he is quiet and moody sometimes, but you can look at his face and just see him. You can’t just look at Sam’s face, he burns too bright.

But, well, that’s the whole point of the moon, right? To reflect the sun’s light and light up the sky when it’s dark? That’s why I think the sun/moon metaphor works for them. Bucky takes in some of Sam’s fire and use it to make the dark days a little lighter, for both of them. And Sam lets him.

[elwenyere]

I would like to see who you stuck in an old guard au 👀

Thank you for the ask, Serie!!! Titles are from this list. I hope you enjoy the always-unfinished-but-much-beloved Old Guard AU (MCU, eventual Sambucky, canon-typical deaths and undeaths):

*****

The first time Sam Wilson died, he had the theme song from The Golden Girls stuck in his head.

Riley had been singing it into his combat boot while they suited up for the last mission: everyone had their own ways of channeling the pre-flight adrenaline, and Riley’s sounded like two cats going at it in an alley. Sam had rolled his eyes and chucked a towel at him at the time, but then sure enough, the fucking tune had been playing on a loop in his mind all the way from Kandahar. 

He couldn’t say for sure whether that had anything to do with his lapse in attention as they flew over a low stone wall just east of Belal. Much later, his mind would play tricks on him, adding to his nightmares a blur of movement and a flash like moonlight reflecting off metal. Had he seen it at the time and failed to register what it meant? Could there have been a moment - a split-second when a different choice might have saved their lives? Sam turned the question over and over, but no answer could ever be as final as what had happened: in the instant when it mattered, he hadn’t done shit. He’d flown them both straight into the path of the RPG.

That was the first time: a jagged line of fire tearing through his tissue as the combined voices of his dead wingman and Cynthia Fee thanked him for being a friend. 

But even when Sam woke up hours later, thrashing at the canvas sheet covering his face and causing the unit’s medic to leap backward with a choked-off curse, it would still be a full day - twenty-four hours of medical tests and conversations with increasingly concerned military superiors - before the other half of the truth sunk in. That he was alive again meant he was going to die again.

And again and again, according to the man who was sitting in front of him now. 

The dude looked exhausted - and this wasn’t Sam’s first tour, so he knew from exhausted. He’d been cussed at and screamed over by some of the most worn-out motherfuckers in the U.S. Army, but the guy sitting in front of him - all 200 pounds of muscle, thick beard, and furrowed brow - looked tired on a level that strained Sam’ ability to render in language. Bone-tired, his mind tried, and then he had to suppress a shudder as the sensation of fire and metal ripped through his insides again.

“I’m just not tracking with what you’re saying, man,” Sam said out loud, dropping the chain-of-command honorifics, because what the fuck. His best friend was in a body bag, and here he was, with a guard outside the door and not a scratch on his face, so he was pretty sure he couldn’t dig himself much deeper in shit than he already was. “You’re saying I actually died?”

“I know it’s a lot,” the man said. “And you’re in shock.”

Great fucking guess, Sam thought to himself. No shortage of goddamn expert medical opinions around here today. 

But even he wasn’t quite reckless enough to voice that observation where it could be used against him in a discharge hearing, so instead he asked,

“What did you say your name and rank were again?” And then, just belated enough to be pointed, “Sir?”

He expected a rebuke, or at least a scowl, but instead a small smile crept across the man’s face, sloughing off almost a decade of age as it grew.

“I didn’t,” he replied. “And I won’t: not here. My associates and I are going to take you somewhere safe, where we can explain the situation more fully. You’ll be safe with us.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Sam said calmly. “People are already pretty tense here, and I’m going to have enough to explain to my sister without going AWOL on top of it. You come back here with a signed order from my CO, and I’m at your service. Until then, I’m sitting right here.”

The smile on the man’s face turned a little sadder.

“My associates said you’d make me do this the hard way,” he said. And Sam barely had time to realize the man was moving for his gun before a sharp pain cracked through his skull and the whole tent went dark.

–

A hundred years passed before the next impression, or after it - a strip of rusted wire around his windpipe, a blade opening her curled muscle at the seam - and then thousands - the shield’s edge a red welt across his nape as he walked for leagues in the blistering sand - and then there was nothing but pain - white-hot, licking raw, split lashes through his nerves as his shoulder shredded and he burned from the inside, again and again and again.

When thoughts returned, they returned wrong, like someone else was having them too.

“Did you really have to go for the head, Rogers?” a woman’s voice was saying - familiar as the woozy wash of a concussion. “He’s taking an awfully long nap.”

“I forget how long it takes to come back when you’re new,” the man from the tent replied, sounding old and tired and only mildly apologetic for someone who’d shot Sam in the head.

And wait: something about that was definitely wrong.

Sam hurtled upward, breath punching through his lungs, and by the time he’d gotten his fists between himself and his captors, he recognized them all: the man and woman who’d fought each other to the death in a burnt-out building in Berlin, the ancient motherfucker who’d killed thousands before killing Sam. But something was wrong, still. Something was missing.

“Hey, pal,” the blonde man who’d been garroted was saying. “We’re here to help -”

“Where’s the other one?” Sam demanded. “Where’s the guy in the chair?”

All three of them tensed: a shift like the air convulsing inward toward the split shell of an IED. The man they’d called Rogers staggered, just slightly, as if he’d been caught in the blast.

“The guy in the chair,” the woman repeated. “You saw him?”

“I felt him,” Sam corrected. “I felt him screaming. I felt him dying. Where is he?”

The woman looked at the man who’d killed her - whom she’d killed - and he shook his head, his lips forming a quiet fuck. Then she looked over at Rogers, the briefest flash of pain crumpling her expression before she smoothed her features back into their deadly, porcelain calm.

“He was taken,” she said. “We don’t know where. We looked -”

“I lost him.” Rogers’ voice was heavier than ever, and Sam could hear the break in it now: the split bone in his center, ossified around a hole. “They were looking for me. They found him first.”

“Who is he?” Sam asked, because he could still see through the captured man’s eyes, still feel the captured man staring through his. I know him, he thought, and it echoed back from the dream: the man in the chair screaming as the missile split Sam’s chest into shards, I know him, I know him.

Rogers gave him another sad smile.

“His name’s Bucky,” he said. “And he’s immortal, like you.”

[fiprobably]

Okay, fun SamBucky ask game!! Send this to five other people to keep it going ✨ Say one of your favorite things about SamBucky, your favorite SamBucky headcanon, or write a tiny microfic. Have a wonderful day!! 💕

Thanks for the ask! Here are some of my favorite Sambucky headcanons:

If Sam falls first, Bucky falls harder. If Bucky falls first, Bucky falls harder.

They dance together quite a lot.

Bucky calls Sam pet names in other languages as well. I headcanon that the Winter Soldier was taught a lot of languages (as in 40+ or something), and Bucky would use those languages to nickname Sam.

Sam crossdresses from time to time just because he indulges it so much. Bucky fully supports him (this works for genderqueer/genderfluid/nonbinary Sam lovers!).

Have I mentioned dancing together.

I've read fics where Bucky is drunk, but I haven't come across fics with drunk Sam. So here's my little thought (with illustrations!): Sam is the kind to be really extra and talk a lot when he's drunk. Do what you will with that information.

[cobrafantasies]

Rules: Share a snippet from whatever you’re currently working on, and then tag 5 people.

Thank you for tagging me @sunsetmaidenwrites!

I currently only have two wips and one is a Halloween fic, which would be my first :)

No pressure, tagging @heyitsyav, @sambambucky, @ateerys-punctuationpanic, @soliloquent-stark, @bastianfruit

Since becoming Captain America, this may be the dumbest shit Sam has ever done. But he wanted a night out. One where he didn’t have to pose for thirty selfies and sign people’s sneakers or forearms with whatever shitty pen they could find. Where he didn’t have to fake-smile through an elderly man’s proclamation about history changing right before his eyes.

He just wanted a normal night out and Halloween seemed like the perfect pick when he found a bar hosting a costume party. So, yeah, Sam decided to wear a full-concealing, goblin mask that hides every inch of his face. It’s quite ugly. The rest of him is decked out in dark green. Suede, forest green suit pants and a long-sleeve, green turtle neck. A goblin has got to dress up sometime. 

He’s not going to win the costume contest and he doesn’t want to. His whole goal tonight is to relax in the glorious anonymity. Maybe dance a little dirty with a guy and if he’s lucky, find a dark enough room for him to take his mask off and make out with someone.

[wenellyb]

It's a weird feeling when I see you reblogging your old sambucky post because I go to like it and then I see I already did 3 years ago so I just sit there like what is time?! It's been 3 years?!

Hi!!! Right??? It's the same for me.... I reblog some old posts and look at the date and realize it has been that long!!! I still love them together and sometimes it feels like it was only last year

[thatmexisaurusrex]

sam and bucky have a tiny argument over the smallest thing (like truly not that significant in the long run) but they both give each other the silent treatment and don't know how to end it because it spiraled out of control and they thought about it too much, and it became a thing out of nothing. so now maybe sam is like yeah, this is stupid, but i can't just let it slide every single time. he needs to reach out first and acknowledge my feelings and i have to stand my ground since i already distanced myself. meanwhile bucky is convinced it's all his fault and they broke up forever. he knows the fight was stupid but in his brain he makes himself believe this will keep happening because of him and sam deserves better than someone who keeps getting it wrong. maybe he doesn't even reach out, simply empties his drawer in the middle of the night and tries to slip out of sam's life. 😶

Send Me a Headcanon or a Microfic Prompt

If this is why the divorce era happens, I'm going to cry. You can't be putting this down and making me pick it up 😭 Okay, I'm going to fix it. You're not asking me to, but I'm fixing it.

In the Middle of the Night

Sam heard it.

He heard the rummaging of someone in his room. And for a brief, tense moment, Sam wondered if someone had broken in. Someone was here to hurt his family and Sam couldn't - Sam wouldn't let that happen.

And Sam's body moved before he could process what exactly was happening. He was sitting on this man, his thighs pressed on the man's sides. Sam had the entire body of James Buchanan Barnes sprawled on the ground under him as he held Bucky's wrists.

The both of them.

Breathing.

Breathing each other's air.

And Sam wouldn't say this was usually how he would capture an intruder, but hey, maybe his body had known something he hadn't when he sprang into action.

There was an intensity in Bucky's eyes.

Which.

Wasn't a new thing.

There was always an intensity to those eyes; piercing Sam's well-crafted armor.

They both.

Relaxed a touch.

But there was still a tenseness there. Not because of danger, but because of an argument. A small, nothing argument that Sam couldn't let happen again.

Because it always happened. Over and over, Bucky seemed to not take Sam's thoughts into consideration. And while the argument itself was a nothing one, wasn't important, the underlining problem was a major issue.

"What are you doing sneaking into my room in the middle of the night?" asked Sam.

Which, if Sam had asked Bucky that a few weeks ago, it would have been playful; there would have been a smile on his face.

"I was gathering my things," Bucky said simply.

And.

Sam glanced at Bucky's hands - saw t-shirts; clothes scattered on the floor from their skirmish.

Sam.

Sam slumped, the fight knocked out of him like a gut punch.

"You're seriously leaving me?" whispered Sam into the quiet room.

Bucky furrowed his brow.

"You don't want that?" asked Bucky.

Sam laughed bitterly. Because that was still the problem, that was the entire fucking problem.

"I want you to ask me what I want, James," Sam spelled out clearly, "I don't want you to do things assuming what I want."

And.

And maybe Bucky finally understood. He relaxed under Sam. He brought his hands up to Sam's face and held it.

"What do you want?" asked Bucky softly.

"For you to apologize. For you to put your fucking clothes back in the drawer. For you to get back in bed with me instead of sleeping on the couch," said Sam honestly.

Bucky sat up. His forehead touched Sam's and - and Bucky leaned even closer.

"I'm sorry," he said tenderly between kisses, "I'll put the clothes back up. I'll get in bed with you."

Sam held Bucky's wrists even tighter.

"You better," grumbled Sam before he reluctantly got up.

Sam settled back into bed as he watched Bucky put his clothes away in his drawer; as Bucky joined him in bed, Bucky's arms wrapped around Sam.

And Sam.

Sam hadn't slept so well in weeks.

[ineffablelvrs]

fuck you *makes your bucky barnes fall in love with captain america*

[exbex]

Hi! For the intimacy prompts: SamBucky + 21?

Sam’s heartrate is probably returning to its normal resting rate. 

Bucky’s, on the other hand, is definitely increasing.

Sam is standing in the kitchen, wearing what he calls runner’s leggings, what Bucky calls an imminent danger to motorists, and the royal blue hoodie that threatens to do Bucky in. He’s drinking from a metal water bottle and Bucky is losing his mind because he’s jealous of a damn bottle.

Sam turns to him and grins, and Bucky’s heartrate increases at the way his eyes light up, as if Bucky is the best thing he can think of coming home to. “Morning Sleepyhead.”

“Morning,” Bucky murmurs, and crosses the few feet between them. He takes the hem of the hoodie of excellence in his fingers, pauses, giving Sam time to put the brakes on, and when Sam just gives him a playful look, he begins to inch it up. “You look like you need to cool off.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Sam smirks, but he lifts his arms to allow Bucky to pull it over his head and off.

Bucky leans in, kisses the pulse point in Sam’s neck. “Gotta check your heartrate; make sure it’s returning to normal.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna do that with you this close,” Sam says as he tilts his head to give Bucky easier access.

Bucky pulls away, slots his hands on the backs of Sam’s thighs. “Up,” he says, and lifts Sam in one easy movement. He relishes the way Sam gasps and wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, leans his ear against Sam’s chest, and listens to his heart.

It’s strong, and steady, and reminds Bucky, more than the hoodie of excellence, more than the danger leggings, more than anything else at all, that he is damned lucky to be alive.