If I had a nickel for every time I read a contemporary romance novel and developed the strong suspicion one (1) chapter in that it was secretly Roy Kent fanfiction, only to have that confirmed by a visit to the author's social media, I would have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
What they don't tell you about dating a guy who's a hundred and ten is that, in spite of a literal century's worth of life experience, sometimes that guy will act like a teenager, and there's just no way around it.
"You can stop playing that clip now," Sam calls out, as he opens his moisturizer. "Watching it a hundred times isn't going to prove your theory."
"It's not a theory, Samuel," says Bucky, appearing in the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed. From the bedroom, Sam can hear the same video that he found Bucky glaring at when he got home today, the recording of the bombastically popular podcast that the Avengers PR team convinced him to appear on. "It's a fact. That woman is clearly interested in you."
"Some people are just friendly, Buck. It's rare, but it happens. It doesn't mean she's coming onto me."
"Oh, yeah? And how often do people who are 'just friendly' touch your arms over the course of a conversation, hm?"
Sam can't argue that part. The interviewer had reached around the table to touch him so many times over the course of the hour that he'd started to worry that there was something on his sleeve that she was trying to knock off. (There hadn't been, for the record. Sam has always been a meticulous lint-roller.)
Instead, he just shakes his head and says, "She's getting married, Buck. Her fiancée is in the NFL and he bought her a ring that cost like half a million dollars; everyone knows that."
As Sam starts to moisturize his face, Bucky comes up behind him, arms snaking around his waist as he rests his chin on Sam's bare shoulder.
"You didn't notice it, did you?" asks Bucky, catching Sam's eye in the mirror.
"Notice what?"
Bucky's smirking now, which is how Sam knows he's in trouble. "Her ring. You didn't notice."
"There was nothing to notice," says Sam, but he thinks back to last week anyway, tries to remember if he'd noticed anything weird about her jewelry.
"Exactly," says Bucky. "There was nothing to notice because she took off her engagement ring."
"No, she didn-" But Sam cuts himself off, thinking about all the times that she reached over to touch him, all the times he should've been blinded by an obnoxiously big diamond reflecting the studio lights.
"Well?" asks Bucky, his grin triumphant. "Who's imagining things now, Samuel?"
"Still you," says Sam. "She could've taken her ring off for any reason. That thing's huge; it probably gets in the way of her note cards or her mic or something. This has nothing to do with me."
"That's weird," says Bucky, "because the comments are pretty sure that you're the only guest she's taken it off for in the year that she's been engaged."
He takes a half-step back then, grabbing the jar of scar balm off the counter and steadying Sam with one hand as he begins applying it. Sam lets his eyes drop closed for a moment, savoring the firm press of Bucky's fingers against the sore muscles in his back, the practiced swoops that they make along old and new scars from a lifetime of flying.
"That's on you for reading the comments," says Sam. "You know no one in the history of the world has ever been right in the comments section."
"I don't know about that," Bucky murmurs. "Sometimes they get it right."
Sam snorts. "You sure about that?"
"Didn't the people in your Instagram comments figure out that you weren't single from the background of a selfie?"
"Who said they were right, though?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "Very funny."
"I am, aren't I?" asks Sam, blinking innocently at a scowling Bucky in the mirror. "Maybe it'll help me find a boyfriend one of these days."
"I'm breaking up with you," Bucky says flatly, before turning on his heel and heading back into the bedroom.
"You could just get me my own engagement ring instead," Sam calls out after him, grinning when Bucky stops in his tracks. "I promise to keep it on during podcasts and everything."
(It really is impressive, Sam reflects as he finds himself in bed a second later, how goddamn fast Bucky moves when he's motivated.)
No joke you guys NEED to get more comfortable blocking people. No more insulting people in public over different blorbo opinions no more making 2k long posts on how whatever ship you don't like shouldn't exist we've grown past that shit. Consistent posts about shit that make you uncomfortable? Block. Rancid blorbo opinions? Block. Is mildly annoying in your replies? Block. Pisses you off for reasons so petty you could never admit it publicly? Block. YOUR mental health will improve from not being upset 24/7, THEIR mental health will not be at risk of you lashing out because you happened to catch their posts on a bad day, and EVERYONE ELSE will benefit from not seeing the most embarrassing arguments known to man on their dash. "Oooh but they didn't deserve it-" dude you're presumably running a personal blog as a hobby not a public service. Who fucking cares.
Well… I'm gonna steal as many bagels as I can fit in this box. With you as my partner, there's no telling when I'll be able to afford a real meal again.
Thank you to the nine of you who validated my highly specific foolishness and congratulations to that one anon who asked me if I would ever write any more pre-canon stuff from the F1 AU; I hope you feel well fed in this proverbial Chili’s tonight.
" Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day"
The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920)
@pscentral event 49: literature - Agatha Christie's Poirot
regardless of how long it's been since you last saw Mandy Patinkin performing "Younger Than Springtime", I can assure you that it's been too long since you last saw Mandy Patinkin performing "Younger Than Springtime"
for the action prompts, 7 for sambucky?! hope you're surviving the relative u don't care for 🫂❤️
7. switching on a lamp in the middle of the night
It figures, given the entire trajectory of Bucky's life, that the best thing that's ever happened to him would occur at a moment when he can't do anything about it. If it were any other day, he might brood about it, but he's made promises to a lot of people, and he can't let himself be distracted no matter how tempting the distraction is.
"Sam," he tries to say, but he's cut off again, Sam's hands gentle against his jaw as he pulls Bucky in for another kiss. "Sam— sweetheart, we should—"
For a moment, Sam pulls away, and Bucky thinks he still has a shot at keeping his word.
"Sorry," murmurs Sam, grinning up at Bucky. "Got a little carried away there. I should've known you were too old school to be necking where the neighbors might see."
There's the beginning of beard burn by Sam's upper lip, and the sight of it makes Bucky want to lift Sam onto the bed of his truck and show him just how much Bucky doesn't care about what the neighbors see as long as he gets to kiss Sam while they're seeing it.
"It's not that," says Bucky, and demolishes all of his own progress by leaning in and kissing Sam again, a single peck that turns into two, three more. He tries to remember why he's not having his way with Sam right here, and eventually lands on a reason that has the benefit of being true. "I just want to do this right. Treat you proper."
Sam's smile softens into something less teasing. "Buck," he says, "how many dates have we been on in the last month, huh? You've been a gentleman for weeks now. I think it's time you try something new."
Bucky raises an eyebrow, though he's not sure he's doing a very good job of faking skepticism. "Something new like what, telling you that I want us to be more than friends in the middle of an argument about parking spots?"
He's close enough to feel Sam's face go warm at that, laughing as he's gently cuffed on the shoulder.
"One of us had to make a move, and it wasn't going to be you," Sam says. "And you're welcome, by the way."
He has no choice but to pull Sam closer, using the movement to glance around the cab of the truck towards the Wilson house—windows still darkened, although he's pretty sure he just saw a curtain fall back into place—before he kisses Sam's forehead.
Bucky reaches up to take one of Sam's hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, too, before he interlaces their fingers. "Come on," he says. "Let's get inside before the mosquitoes eat me alive."
Sam takes the bait, just like Bucky was hoping he would, letting himself be pulled across the yard. With his free hand, he swats at the air, batting away any bugs that might be around them. "I swear, I have never seen anyone the mosquitoes love the way they love you," says Sam. "It's like they can smell that you're not from here and they all want a bite of something new."
"I guess you and the mosquitoes have that in common," says Bucky, and then lets out a soft oof as Sam bumps a shoulder into his.
"How can you be this corny?" asks Sam, and Bucky can hear the laugh in his voice. "You should be cool. You ride a motorcycle and you can punch through walls, but somehow you have no game. How is that possible?"
"The better question is how I landed you in spite of all that."
Sam snorts. "What do you mean, 'landed'? We just made out a little in the car; I don't see any rings on anyone's fingers."
But Bucky has spent enough time down in Delacroix to know better. He pulls Sam's keys out of his pockets and holds them up. "Who needs a ring when you've got me driving your truck all around town and to every cookout we've had in the past few months, huh?"
It's the right answer: Sam grins at him, then uses their joined hands to reel Bucky in towards him and tip his chin up for a kiss. Bucky is still aware of all the promises he made, determined to follow through on all of his plans, but…he's only been allowed to kiss Sam for like, an hour now. He's nowhere near immune to the temptation, so he lets himself be drawn in for one and then another and another after that.
Sam has to be the one to pull away eventually, and it's only when they separate that Bucky realizes they've moved, Sam's back now pressed up next to the Wilsons' front door with Bucky boxing him in. He can hear the way that Sam's breath hitches, feels the pounding of Sam's heart against his own chest. The air was humid and sticky a while ago but it feels cool now compared to the heat between the two of them.
"We should stop, sweetheart," murmurs Bucky, even as he lets his hands slip under Sam's shirt. "We can't—not in the house, not right now."
"But we can," says Sam, kissing Bucky again and grinning against his mouth. "Sarah and the boys are gone, remember?"
Sarah and the boys are very much not gone, as evidenced by the sounds that Bucky can hear behind the door, but Sam's not supposed to know that yet, so Bucky tries the only distraction he can think of: he starts kissing his way down Sam's neck.
Tactically speaking, it's a terrible idea. Whatever the original thought was behind it, it's gone now. Instantly, all that Bucky can think about is Sam, how good he smells and how fast his pulse is thudding and how badly Bucky wants to mark him up, make it obvious to anyone who looks that Captain America might belong to the world, but Sam Wilson is all Bucky's to ruin.
Sam tips his head to the side to give Bucky more room to work with, his hand sliding up into Bucky's hair. When Bucky nips at what must be a sensitive spot on Sam's neck, his grip tightens, pulling a little at Bucky's hair and drawing a noise out of him that's embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"We should"—Sam's breath hitches as Bucky gets a leg between Sam's, his hips immediately grinding down against Bucky's thigh—"we should take this inside."
"Not yet," Bucky says, finding his way back up to Sam's mouth. Then, after another kiss: "We can't, Sam."
Sam pulls away from Bucky, eyebrows furrowed. "What's wrong?"
From behind the door, Bucky can hear quiet conversation, enough voices pitched up that he knows they're trying to figure out what's going on on the porch.n"Nothing," he says, just a little too quick.
He feels Sam tense up just a little, his gaze sharpening. "You sure about that?"
"Yes?"
Bucky feels a sudden, retroactive burst of pity for all the people who've had to enter a negotiation with Sam Wilson, with or without the shield. He's determined not to give anything up, but Sam narrows his eyes and stays silent, and Bucky's mouth just starts moving.
"This seems like a sad way to spend time when we could be kissing instead," he says. "Is it because I was a cheap date? Should I have wooed you more? Do you feel like a nightcap? Ice cream? A ride on the boat? Maybe we should go inside and see what's still open this late."
But apparently Bucky isn't nearly as good at distracting Sam as Sam is at distracting him.
"Buck," he says, slow and even, "what are you not telling me?"
"Who says I'm not telling you something?" asks Bucky, but he and Sam are pressed close enough that there's likely no way to miss how Bucky has gone very, very still.
Sam watches Bucky for another moment, head tilted in thought, but then suddenly, miraculously, he seems to buy it. "You're right," he says, putting his arms around Bucky again and leaning in close. "Maybe the drinks just went to my head a little."
If Bucky had developed any level of immunity to Sam's charms, maybe he would've remembered that the aforementioned drinks were a glass of sweet tea and an ice water, but he doesn't. Instead, he mirrors Sam and leans in, too, his eyes drawn right back down to Sam's mouth. Their kiss is hungrier than the last few have been, and it leaves Bucky so tied up with wanting that he tries to follow Sam when he pulls away. It's okay, though, he decides, because he immediately earns a peck for his troubles, and Sam's hands are still toying with the hair at the nape of Bucky's neck.
"Buck," murmurs Sam, close enough that Bucky can hear the heat of it against his lips, "when I open that front door, what am I going to find, hm? Is it something you need to protect me from?"
Bucky steals another kiss before he replies, mostly because Sam's hands feel so good in his hair that he worried he might actually purr if he doesn't give his mouth something to do.
"Uh-uh," he says. Sam's lips move down to kiss his jaw, then trail further down to the place where his pulse beats. Bucky doesn't know what it says about his survival instincts that he instantly tips his head to the side and bares his throat to Sam's mouth. "Nothing like that."
Sam hums in acknowledgment and Bucky feels it through his whole body. "No, of course not," he says. "You'd never walk me into something like that."
"Never," echoes Bucky, his breath hitching when Sam's teeth graze his neck. "You're safe with me."
"I know," says Sam. "I always am."
"Uh-huh."
Bucky shivers a little as Sam leans in to whisper to him, so distracted by the realization that the ear can be an erogenous zone that it takes him a second to process Sam's words.
"I'm safe with you even when you conspire with Sarah to throw me a surprise party," Sam says, and it's only belatedly that Bucky's eyes go wide in shock.
"Wait, wait," he says, stumbling back a half step to get a better look at Sam. "Who said anything about a surprise party?"
Sam raises his eyebrows. "Bucky."
"What, Samuel? Who said anything about a party?"
"Nobody needed to," says Sam. "You think I can't tell when y'all are planning something without me? I know you were some kind of ghost back in the day, Buck, but I think you might be the worst liar I've ever met."
Bucky scowls, but Sam laughs, patting his cheek consolingly.
"That's okay," he says. "It might not work in the field, but terrible liar isn't a bad trait for a boyfriend."
He wrinkles his nose. "Do we have to go with boyfriend?"
"What?" asks Sam. "You want to go back to co-worker?"
"Are those the only options?"
Sam laughs. "Well, there's husband, but you might need to work your way up to that."
Bucky's face goes warm, but he can't be all that embarrassed when Sam is grinning at him that way. "Why don't we stick with partner and we'll negotiate the rest later?"
"Deal," says Sam. Then, with a squeeze of Bucky's hand: "Come on, Barnes, let's go start this party and pretend half the neighborhood didn't hear us almost defile the porch."
"I wouldn't have actually let us get that far," grumbles Bucky, but Sam looks at him with a raised eyebrow and he's less sure than he'd like to be about it.
He lets Sam pull him along, their hands still joined as he unlocks the door and steps into the house. In the darkness, Bucky can hear AJ's muffled giggles, and he knows that Sam can, too, when there's a long pause before he flips on the light.
Everybody springs out from behind hiding places: couches and the dining table, the half-wall of the kitchen and the coat closet right by the door.
"Surprise!" they shout, mostly in sync, and the boys punctuate it with little confetti poppers.
"For me? Y'all shouldn't have!" says Sam, and maybe his performance is a little hammy, but Bucky's not sure anything could stop him from staring adoringly at Sam, not when he's grinning this big at so many of the people who love him.
He knows he's going to have to share Sam for the rest of the night, so he seizes the opportunity while he still can. He uses their joined hands to reel Sam back towards him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," he murmurs, and then lets go.
Instead of moving away and right into the crowd, though, Sam leans back into him.
"Thank you, baby," he says.
His voice is warm, and when he moves into the party, he keeps Bucky by his side all night long: stays in his orbit, holds his hand, ducks under his arm when they're squeezed onto the couch or on chairs by the firepit. It's a claim, just like the truck and the cookout and those kisses from the front porch, and even if it's shared, the heat of it feels almost as good.
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