haha yikes

i guess i had to put this SOMEwhere

[matcha-chocolate]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[blows dust off blog]  Oh hey I wrote some mindless fluffy Samsteve instead of working on my other fic

[matcha-chocolate]

une goutte de miel

I wrote this ficlet way back in April! Just realized it shoulda been on my writing blog maybe haha. Prompt: Gabe/Steve

Gabe and Bucky had always been close, elbowing each other hard and muttering in hushed voices whenever Steve made a fool of himself in front of Peggy (so, often.) Gabe noticed when Bucky ate less and less and quietly told him he’d share his chocolate ration if he ate properly. Bucky went and sat next to Gabe when the other man was staring into space a little too long. “Ma wrote me another letter,” Gabe had said once. “Said her church got... ugly shit painted on the doors. You know... again.” Bucky frowned at the fire. He knew why. Gabe had told him. He didn’t know what to say, so he held out his last pack of cigarettes. “Thanks, Buck,” Gabe had murmured. “I’ll tell you ‘bout the next chapter in the book I’m readin’, hey?” Bucky (and Steve, when he had time) sometimes listened to Gabe read from one of the handful of French novels that had survived their long trek. He translated the plot as best he could, Bucky added disturbingly filthy jokes, and Steve drew hurried little sketches of the scenes that Gabe described. Sometimes all they had was 20 minutes before lights out. It was enough. Gabe never got to tell Bucky about the second chapter.

Captain Rogers was all square-jawed and determined during their missions after Bucky fell, and for the most part the other Howlies pretended they bought it, but Gabe had never found much use in pretending. He eased up off the damp log he’d been perched on, listening to the other Howlies talk about the latest batch of letters from their families and girls back home. He hadn’t gotten a letter from his ma, and had almost opened his mouth to tell Bucky that maybe no news was good news, but-- well. “A walk,” he answered when Dugan asked him where he was going. He waved off a few half-hearted offers for company. He’d been in constant motion since the train, hadn’t really stopped. Gabe Jones fought hard, but he felt big. He needed to... he needed to... shit, he didn’t know. Say goodbye. Punch a tree. Cry, maybe. It hadn’t really sunk in. Bucky wasn’t much of a talker, although Steve said he’d been much different before the Army. But he’d recognized the soul of another man that felt a little bit apart from the others, and the two had become friends. Steve had quietly joined them, and Gabe had realized that America’s great warrior was really fucking lonely. He never quite fit in either. Once Steve had kinda shyly showed Gabe a drawing he’d done of him. From the side, his lips quirked in a small smile as he read a book. Gabe thanked him and carefully tucked the drawing deep in his pack where it wouldn’t get wet. The drawing had been awfully tender, he’d thought, but maybe that’d been Rogers’ artistic style. Gabe had found a poem in one of his precious books that had reminded him immediately-- too immediately-- of Rogers. Before he could stop himself, he’d torn out the page, meaning to hide it somewhere in his tent, but he stopped himself. He might have misread this whole thing, and that’d lead to a whole mess of trouble in several worrying ways. He’d settled for leaving one verse under one of Rogers’ spare helmets. Steve’s eyes were soft the next time he saw Gabe, and he looked like he was about to say something-- but then they fell under attack and all thoughts of long eyelashes and soft lips contrasted with rough stubble were forced from Gabe’s mind... Now, Gabe swore quietly when his boot slid into the stream; he hadn’t been paying much attention to where he was walking. He looked up when a quiet voice called his name. Rogers. “You okay, Cap?” he returned, walking a little further. Steve Rogers was standing in the stream-- more of a tiny river, really-- water only coming up to his shins. He’d taken off his boots and socks and rolled his pants up. “... the hell you doin’, Steve?” “Hell if I know.” “Mind if I join you? Seems a good way to cool off your feet, at least.” “Freeze them off, more like,” Steve grumbled, but he gestured for Gabe to join him. Gabe fumbled a little with his laces, painfully aware of the strange intimacy of the moment. The voices of the other men were barely audible, the fire nothing more than a tiny dancing light between the trees. Steve hadn’t been kidding-- the water felt icy and Gabe swore under his breath, slipping and stumbling over the smooth river stones on his way over to Steve. Steve looked down at him, his mouth turned down at the edges-- not with hard-eyed determination for once, but sadness. Maybe he’d come out here to let himself feel, too. Gabe huffed out a breath, trying to pretend his feet weren’t cramping up in protest from the cold water, and felt his face heat up as Steve kept staring at him. “Wanted to say ‘thanks,’ but I never had the time ‘til now,” Steve said suddenly, looking down at his hands. “Thanks for what?” “Au fond de cette coupe où je buvais la vie... peut-être restait-il une goutte de miel?” Steve stumbled over the words a bit, but Gabe’s eyebrows shot up a bit nonetheless. Roughly translated, it was ‘At the bottom of life's cup that I drank, perhaps there was a drop of honey mild?’ The last two lines of the poem excerpt that Gabe had given him. “Your accent is terrible, Cap,” Gabe muttered, startling a laugh out of the other man. “I know, Peggy cringes every time I speak French to Denier. I ... that ... that was real nice of you, though.” Real nice. Gabe wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I read it every day,” Steve continued, softer now. “Helps. Some days it’s too much, but-- that helps.” Gabe nodded, murmuring that it was no problem. Steve was fumbling awkwardly in his pockets, pulling out a small crumpled-up paper bag. “I, uh. For the poem. I got you-- I heard you like chocolate.” He didn’t need to add that it was Bucky that had mentioned it. “Chocolate?” Gabe couldn’t help lighting up a little; he was used to making do with little, but chocolate was one of his great pleasures in life, and the idea that Steve had gone to the trouble of getting the hard-to-find treat for him... “Awfully romantic type of gift, Cap,” Gabe said jokingly. His heart was racing and he wasn’t sure-- it couldn’t be-- “So’s a poem,” Steve said wryly. “And don’t call me ‘Cap,’ we’re not in the field.” “Poem was thanks for the drawing,” Gabe smirked back. “Another romantic sorta gift, I might add.” Steve just hummed thoughtfully. “You gonna share that chocolate?” “You mean the chocolate, or...?” Gabe raised his eyebrows comically high, making Steve groan. “I mean the damn chocolate, Gabe.” Steve paused a little too long and Gabe felt a thrill go through him. Aha. “That was a pretty good drawing, Steve. When’d you do it? Don’t think I remember posing for that one,” Gabe said, muffled around a mouthful of sweet, if slightly gritty, chocolate. Steve tried for nonchalant, he really did, but his voice betrayed his nerves. “Was easy when the fella’s face is always in your damn mind.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

“Cap, you got somethin’--” Dum Dum started, stopping abruptly when Gabe raised his hand to wipe at the chocolate at the corner of Steve’s mouth, Steve leaning into the touch. There was the smallest hitch in the conversation around the fire, and then the silent equivalent of a shrug as the chatter started up again. Morita did nothing but mouth “Took ya long enough” at Gabe when Steve quietly took his hand as they sat beside each other. It still wasn’t easy. Gabe still turned to tell Bucky something at least once a day. Steve... Steve wasn’t even ready to look at the pain head on yet. Steve left another sketch-- this one much more detailed. Gabe, in darkness, the features of his face lit up by faint moonlight. The tenderness that had gone into drawing his mouth alone made his heart hurt. In faint pencil underneath were the words ‘une goutte de miel.’ A drop of honey. A little bit of sweetness. When Steve tentatively lifted the tent flap later, Gabe pulled him into a kiss and the world hurt a little less, was a little kinder to them as they fumbled with each others’ buttons, laughing nervously. “Least someone’s gettin’ laid,” Morita muttered in the morning, taking in their dishevelment and matching tiny smiles. Less than a month later, Gabe stood next to Peggy Carter, frozen in place. They’d just heard Steve’s voice for the last time.

Je voudrais maintenant vider jusqu'à la lie Ce calice mêlé de nectar et de fiel! Au fond de cette coupe où je buvais la vie, Peut-être restait-il une goutte de miel? (Now I want to drink until the last drop This chalice that mixes nectar and bile! At the bottom of life's cup that I drank, Perhaps there was a drop of honey mild?)

[matcha-chocolate]

Prompt:  “Your choice of samsteve, sambucky or all caps and adopting! A kitty cat!” by @spooky-redwing ! I know this prompt is literally months old, but I’m going through every single prompt  (except “green zucchini” because FUCK THAT.) The upside of me taking ages to do prompts? People forget all about them and they’re like fun surprise gifts!! Or something!

Their apartment made magazine spreads look like a joke. True, everything was second-hand, because Steve was cheap against being wasteful; and there were several huge bookshelves groaning under the strain of Sam and Bucky’s books; and the kitchen had a truly baffling number of wooden cutting boards, wooden spoons, wooden cups-- because Bucky had a thing for hand-made wooden utensils; and they’d had to change from light to dark decor after Steve’s paint spatters and charcoal smudges made Bucky pitch a fit; and Sam had a whole two shelves just for his records and god help you if you touched them without asking... But if you “pulled up the Googles” (Steve’s words) to look up “eclectic hipster apartment on a budget,” their home would have popped up first. It was a Pinterest addict’s wet dream. It would get dozens of “OMG GOALS” comments on Instagram. It was cozy, it was nicely furnished, and it perfectly reflected the three occupants. And then someone (Bucky. It was Bucky.) left the goddamn window open when all three of them were out on separate missions for a few weeks.

Sam got back first; his missions had been Stateside; something about the changing of the seasons really brought out the weirdo costumed villains. Sam had just fought an embarrassingly short battle against “Leaf-al Weapon,” and aside from general bruising, he’d have to contend with the inevitable YouTube videos of him getting dozens of pinecones fired at him. He’d already gotten messages from Steve and Bucky; Steve would be back that night, Bucky, tomorrow. He’d at least have a good few hours to shower, nap, maybe even finally break open the nice whiskey Director Fury had given him for his last birthday...  The first thing that Sam noticed was that the rain had blown in through the open living room window. The second, was that the place smelled really weird, kinda... fishy? Sam eased his heavy wing pack off his shoulder and heaved a huge sigh before moving over to the window and sliding it partially shut. So much for relaxing -- he spent 20 minutes mopping up the water and praying it wouldn’t fuck up the hardwood too much. He snapped a picture of the mop leaning forlornly against the wall next to the window, sending it in a text to Bucky with the message “Thanks, man.” Okay, maybe skip the shower and go right to the nap part of his plan. When Sam pushed approached his open room door, he reeled back a little. It smelled like... tuna? What the hell? He barely had time to wonder if something had happened to his emergency rations before he got his answer. A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness near the floor, and Sam steeled himself for fighting an angry raccoon (because that was what his life was like nowadays) when a mew pulled him up short. A cat? A cat wasn’t necessarily less dangerous than a raccoon if it was feral and scared, but... Sam liked cats. Sure, he was the Falcon, but he appreciated the way that cats liked you on their terms. He could dig it.  He cautiously flicked on the light and blinked at the intruder. It was small, just a kitten, really. Its coat was grey as the sky outside, the iconic ‘M’ of a tabby on its little forehead.  “Hey, little dude,” Sam said softly. The cat looked away and lifted a leg to clean itself with gusto. “Ah. Not a dude,” Sam amended. He moved slowly, but all the same the cat hunched defensively, its ears flattened. Sam stopped by the closet, not moving any closer to the small animal, and checked the cardboard box in the corner-- ah. Sam had an emergency food stash (they all did; old habits died hard,) and one of the things he always had was vacuum-sealed packages of tuna. It seemed the clever little thing had found it and chewed through the packaging to get to the food inside. That explained what it’d been eating, anyway... but... “You been poopin’ in here, cat?” Sam asked, turning to look at his companion. She’d edged away from him, but was no longer scared-looking, merely blinking at him now. Sam was pretty sure from his experience with his sister’s pets that if the cat had been relieving herself in his room, he’d’ve known immediately. That stuff stank.  Just in case, he checked his room, telegraphing his movements so as to not frighten the cat-- but she seemed to have forgotten about her nerves pretty quickly, because she hopped nimbly onto the bed and just watched him.  “Ooookay, well... you’re weird. Dunno what else I expected,” Sam muttered. After a moment’s thought, he pulled out his phone.  Human foods for cats Sam grimaced as he scanned the results; seemed like most things in the house wasn’t great for cats, especially kittens. Not even cow’s milk was great for them! Sam felt lied to by all those Saturday morning cartoons. He was halfway to Googling “nearby pet stores” when he paused. He should be looking for animal shelters, not a place to buy cat food and cat toys. The object of his deliberations was now sitting loaf-style on his duvet, watching with half-closed eyes. Her tail flicked now and then to show her interest, but otherwise she seemed relaxed.  Dammit, she was cute, big golden-green eyes and a pink little nose. Dammit dammit.  “Stormy,” he murmured, slowly extending his hand for her to smell. He was rewarded with a tentative sniff, which he took to mean she approved of the name.  There was one little problem: their apartment building had a strict no-pets rule. Sam muttered under his breath as he found a soft old sweatshirt, carefully arranging it into a little bed for Stormy.  “Okay, girl... you can sleep here for tonight and tomorrow we gotta find somewhere for you to--” He was interrupted by her looking away from where he was gesturing, putting her chin on her front paws, and closing her eyes.  The cat had gone to sleep in the middle of his sentence. In the middle of his bed.  “No,” Sam said firmly, crossing his arms. The cat didn’t even stir.  “No, you can’t sleep on the bed. No. I’m not getting cat hair on my sheets.” Stormy’s response was to put a paw over her face. Sam felt his shoulders sag; he was tired, he wanted a nap before the whirlwind of energy that was Steve Rogers got home, and this cat had the audacity to be in his bed being adorable. Not okay.  “Okay. You can sleep in here, but you. Are. Not. Sleeping. On. My. Bed.” --- “Sam? Sam, I-- oh.” Steve poked his head into the room through the half-open door and stilled, a fond smile softening his features. Sam was curled up on his side with his back to the doorway, snoring softly. He must have been really tired to have slept through the jingling keys and heavy footsteps that had announced Steve’s arrival.  Steve carefully backed out of the room, closing the door most of the way so that the hallway light wouldn’t bother Sam. Sam didn’t stir, but unnoticed by Steve, a small form slipped from the protective cocoon that Sam had inadvertently formed around her, crept to the edge of the bed and nimbly leapt to the floor. When Sam woke with a start in the early hours of the morning, the little cat was nowhere to be found. He felt surprisingly disappointed; he’d been half-dreaming of jingly cat toys, purring and soft little paws.  After a quick but thorough check, Sam had to admit to himself that she’d probably slipped back out through the open living room window, off to wherever her real home was.  He’d planned to get her a little collar and everything. Dammit. The expression on his face as he settled back into bed was pretty close to a sulk. 

“Mornin’,” Sam yawned hours later, shuffling into the kitchen. Steve, who was frowning at a food package of some kind, looked up with a smile.  “Sam! You’re up. I thought you might miss the whole day, you were sleeping so late.” “It’s 8:30, Steve.” “I know; I’ve been up for 3 hours already.” “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sam said dryly, leaning in to kiss the side of Steve’s head. “Way back in the 1960s, they invented this thing called ‘sleeping in,’ it’s a real damn shame you never got to try it.” “Wiseguy.” “One of us has to be, Cap. What you got there?” the last question was regarding the large canvas tote at Steve’s feet. Steve glanced down, a strange look of alarm passing over his features before he could school them.  “I got these... uh... hhhhealth snacks. They’re healthy... and you can eat them and-- they’re good!” Steve tore open the package in his hand and popped a few dark green biscuits into his mouth. Sam watched as Steve flinched, grimaced, and chewed like a man eating sawdust.  “Looks... tasty,” Sam deadpanned. Steve nodded, entirely unconvincingly.  “They’re good! And really healthy.” “Tell me one thing, though--” Steve looked strangely alarmed again. “Yeah?” “Are they healthy, though? You’ve only mentioned it 5 times, I think.” “Oh, ha ha, Wilson.” “And anyway, I was asking about all of that stuff,” Sam continued, gesturing again at the shopping bag. Steve bit his lip and shrugged his shoulders in a would-be casual way.  “Oh. I uh--” “Is that... rice?” Sam asked, moving towards the bag. Steve gratefully seized on the assumption, touching Sam’s arm to get his attention.  “Yeah, yes! Yes. Rice! I’m... bringing rice... to the potluck this weekend.” “Rice.” “Yep!” “A bag of rice?” “Ye-- no. No, of course not. I’m... going to watch the YouTune to find recipes?” “Are you asking or telling me, man?” Sam teased gently. He knew Steve was a little bit embarrassed about his horrible cooking skills-- especially since Sam and Bucky could throw down in the kitchen.  “I’m gonna cook a rice dish. For the potluck.” “Okay, baby. I mean... we got plenty of rice here--” “This is special rice.” “O...kay. And that?” Sam asked, gesturing to the large boxy shape straining the seams of the bag. “Is that a--” “Shelving unit!” Steve almost shouted. “It’s. A little bookcase. Got it on sale!”

“Yeah, you’re always saying you need more space for your books,” Sam agreed, smiling fondly. “Sure am. I’m gonna... watch YouTune--” “YouTube.” “YouTube, yes. I’m gonna watch some... in my room. With the door closed. I need to focus. For the recipe.” “Steve, you don’t have to make up some story if you just want some alone time to jerk off, man. We’re all adults here.” “Wh-- I’m not! Not right now! I’m really gonna--” “Mhm. Okay, whatever weirdo stuff you’re doing, have fun.” Sam leaned up to kiss Steve on the mouth, and then made a face.  “Those health snacks taste rank, man.” Sam could have sworn he heard a weird jingling noise as Steve walked away with the bag. --- “Sammy,” Bucky groaned, slumping his considerable body weight on Sam’s shoulder. Sam absent-mindedly pat the top of Bucky’s head, hmmm?ing in response. “I missed you.” “You also missed like 10 showers, Barnes. Jesus.” “I was travelling for a week! No time for luxury.” “Basic hygiene? Not a luxury.” “Yeah, yeah. I’ll shower after you hug me.” “Ohhh, no. Ohhhh no no no no no.” “Take one for the team, Sammy. I been starved for affection and all.” “You were only gone for a month,” Sam grumbled even as he got to his feet and held his arms out to Bucky. “I was gone for a whole month,” Bucky sighed, sinking into Sam’s embrace and breathing him in (Sam was subtly trying not to breathe Bucky in.)  “Okay, I feel better. Thanks, Sammy. I... I really did miss you.” “I-missed-you-too-now-shut-up-and-go-shower.”  Instead, Bucky made a big show of kissing Sam’s neck and jawline, being as noisy as possible while Sam pretended to hate every second.  “Now that I’ve marked you with my scent--” “Aw, nasty.” “--gonna go see how Blondie’s doing.” “Mmm, I wouldn’t,” Sam said thoughtfully. Bucky’s eyebrows crept up.  “Why?” “Steve’s acting weird.” “... gonna have to narrow that one down a little.” “Weirder than usual. I think he wants a little alone time or somethin’.” “Oh. Well-- yeah, okay. I’ll go shower and... you can make me a late breakfast?” “Try again.” “I’ll go shower and we’ll make breakfast together?” “Ding ding ding.”

Steve heaved a huge sigh and then made a face as he smelled his own breath. He’d gotten so caught up in reading the ingredients on the bag of cat treats that he’d had to eat the damn things to hide them from Sam. They were disgusting, and even though Steve had frantically rinsed out his mouth in the washroom, the taste lingered.  “The things I do for you,” he smiled gently down at the small grey cat curled up on his desk. The kitten, which he’d named ‘Slate’ because of her grey coat, raised her head and watched inquisitively as Steve set out the litter box he’d just bought. She sat all the way up when he hefted the small bag of litter (that he’d claimed was rice to throw Sam off) and filled the box, and before Steve had even finished taping the bag shut, she had trotted over to the litter box -- “Oh, wow,” Steve winced, covering his nose. Such a small animal shouldn’t be able to make such a stink, he thought wryly as he slid his window open a little to air out the room. Slate finished her business, kicked litter over it (Steve was relieved) and then became intensely interested in attacking Steve’s shoelaces as he tried to untie his sneakers. He found himself immensely charmed (even though her tiny claws were really sharp.) He’d never thought himself to be a cat person, but she was rambunctious and clearly unafraid despite her small size. He could relate to that.  Listening to her ridiculous mmnyam nyam nyam nyam sounds as she wolfed down kitten food from a bowl Steve had pilfered from their kitchen just made him even more sure. He’d have to find a way to convince the other two to let him keep her. --- Bucky rapped loudly on the door, still towelling his hair from his shower.  “Steve? Hey, Sam says you’re jerkin’ it to some cooking videos or something--” “What?! I’m not!” “--but I’m lettin’ you know I’m back. You coming out soon?” Bucky heard a lot of shuffling and a very quiet “Shhh sh sh sh, be good” and ... decided he didn’t want to know. He was tired and wanted to play grabass have a nice breakfast with his guys. Whatever weird shit Steve was getting up to could wait.  “C’mon, Steve... Sam said he’d make his blueberry pancakes.” Sam didn’t have super hearing, but he still made a sound of protest from the living room, and Bucky corrected himself again. “Sam said I could help him make blueberry pancakes.” Bucky shrugged and was about to turn away from the door when it finally opened a crack, letting out the overwhelming smell of Steve’s scented candle. Steve was wearing a hoodie, which wouldn’t have been unusual except for the fact that it was the middle of summer and the man almost melted into the floorboards if the temperature crept above 30 degrees. He had his hands stuffed into the pouch pocket, looking shifty.  Bucky only took another moment to decide not to ask, yet again. He just wanted pancakes.  Sam, on the other hand, paused in the act of washing blueberries.  “Why the hell are you wearing a hoodie, Steve?” he asked. Steve was already sweating a little and his whole posture screamed I’m hiding something oh god please don’t notice.  “You feeling okay?” he continued, a thread of concern in his voice now. Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, knowing the signs when he saw it. Steve had probably gotten a bad tattoo or something, and was waiting for it to fade before the other two saw it. (It wouldn’t have been the first time, sadly.) “Yeah, just a little chilly,” Steve said, entirely unconvincingly. Bucky turned a flat look upon him then, crossing his arms.  “You’re chilly, Steve.” “A little.” “It’s August.” “Sure is! Autumn’s around the corner.” “You’re sweating.” “Because I’m warm now. In the hoodie.” “You think I was defrosted yesterday, Rogers?” “Jesus, Buck.” “What’re you hiding, Steve?” “Yeah, man. You’re fooling exactly no one here,” Sam interjected. His Single Unimpressed Eyebrow Raise couldn’t be beat, and Steve felt the sudden urge to blurt the truth-- partially spurred on by the fact that Slate, hidden in his hoodie, had just nipped hard at his fingers. She wasn’t happy being bundled up like that, but Steve didn’t trust her alone in his room. There were too many electrical cords to chew, too much paint to get into, too many irreplaceable objects to knock off of tables and break. “What’s with the third degree, guys?” Steve asked, scowling a little.  “Okay, fair. If you wanna act like a weirdo, that’s your right,” Sam said reasonably.  Steve was in the middle of agreeing when Sam continued: “But you’re on pancake duty now.” Steve slowly took his hands out of his oddly bulgy pocket and began shuffling over to Sam. Slate, no longer being gently held in place, immediately started squirming; but luckily Bucky was too busy getting the rest of the ingredients to notice, and Sam was measuring out buttermilk with intense concentration.  “You okay, Steve? Really?” he murmured. Steve opened his mouth to say ‘Of course--’ Unseen to the other two men, Slate leapt out of Steve’s pocket and darted down the hallway-- Steve whirled and tried to catch her-- -- and the bag of flour he’d been sifting into the bowl flew into the air, coating almost everything in a fine white powder. Sam, looking oddly artistic with his long eyelashes now dusted a stark white, slowly lowered his measuring cup and just. Looked at Steve.  “I’m going back to bed,” he said calmly. “Because this has to be a nightmare.” “Steve, what the hell was that?” Bucky asked rather less calmly. He’d just washed his freakin’ hair! “Shit-- I’m sorry, guys. I’ll clean it all up, I promise.” “That much is obvious,” Sam said, using his hands to fluff flour from his hair. Bucky grinned at him.  “You finally look your age, Wilson.” As Sam puffed up like an angry cat, Steve quickly scanned the floor for Slate. He saw a clear set of little pawprints in the flour and he hastily used his foot to scuff them, not wanting her presence to be detected.  In the end, the three of them cleaned up the kitchen together, and Steve finally stopped being weird, peeling off his hoodie. Sam declared that shirtless sweaty Steve Rogers was grounds for partial forgiveness for the flour incident. Bucky kept getting distracted; he could have sworn he kept hearing the faintest patter of small footsteps on the wooden floors down the hall.  Steve spent the rest of the evening peering under the couch and in corners, giving entirely unconvincing answers as to what he was searching for. 

Bucky’s eyes shot open and he took a second to remember where he was-- not draped heavily over Sam and Steve in one of their rooms, but alone in his bed. He usually slept alone for the first few nights after returning from mission; as much as he wanted nothing more than to be with the others, post-mission nights also meant nightmares, which meant staying away from the last people he’d want to hurt in a dream-induced panic. It fucking sucked.  But he’d woken up for a reason. He’d had some of Sam’s mama’s special tea to knock himself into a semi-peaceful sleep, so... Someone’s here. He felt his heart rate kick into high gear, his muscles already tensing for a fight. His gleaming metal fingers inched under his pillow, where he kept a large hunting knife, and-- Something small leapt onto the bed and immediately bit his toe. He just barely kept himself from kicking out in terror, realizing quickly that... it was a cat. A kitten, really, small and dark in the dim light from the outside street lamps. What the fuck? Bucky let go of his knife and willed himself to calm down; unless Hydra had really changed their tactics recently, he doubted the cat was here to kill him.  He cautiously moved his foot away from the playful (and sharp) kitten, sitting up in bed to get a better look by flicking on the bedside lamp. It wasn’t very large, but it didn’t seem to know that; it was already crouched for another ‘attack,’ its little tail swishing back and forth restlessly. It seemed to be grey, with dark swirling marks all over its body. It was... kind of cute, actually.  “How the hell’d you get in here?” Bucky muttered, feeling the smallest smile tugging at his lips. He’d always liked cats, had wanted to adopt one-- but he assumed the other two weren’t keen on them; plus, their building had a strict no-pets rule. Bucky was watching Little Grey (he wasn’t the most poetic guy, sue him) prepare to attack his metal hand and hid it under his blanket, thinking that it probably wasn’t great for little kitten teeth. Or any teeth, for that matter. He offered his flesh hand instead, cautiously extending it to her for her to smell. She didn’t hesitate before pouncing on it, all energy and an excess of bravery. She kinda reminded Bucky of Steve and Sam, although Sam would vehemently deny being reckless. Yeah, right.  Soon enough, Little Grey fell asleep with her tiny head cradled in Bucky’s hand, and the idea that something so small and helpless trusted him ... it was almost too much. He watched her little paws twitch as she dreamed, and even when he fell asleep he didn’t move an inch. He didn’t want to wake her. ---  Bucky was spared wondering how he was going to feed the cat in the morning without alerting the others to her presence; the moment Bucky woke, he saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed watching him. Waiting silently. Kind of creepy, actually.  Maybe the cat was more like him, after all.  Little Grey jumped nimbly to the floor, trotted over to the door, and let out an impatient mew.  “Shhh sh sh sh,” Bucky shushed her. He paused. He’d heard Steve make a similar plea yesterday when he was locked in his room, hadn’t he? The moment Bucky opened the door a crack, the kitten darted into the hallway. He... didn’t know what he’d expected, actually. He almost slipped on the wooden floor; his socked feet didn’t offer much traction as he tried to shuffle after Little Grey.  But it was too late. She’d disappeared into Sam’s room, having taken advantage of the partially open door. Bucky bit his lip and tried to make a hasty plan to scoop her out of there without waking Sam up. It shouldn’t be difficult; Wilson was a fairly heavy sleeper most of the time. If Little Grey could just keep quiet... Of course, she chose that moment to really let loose with a loud myaaaah that Bucky could hear clearly even from the hallway. And then two more loud, high-pitched mews followed.  He sighed and inched forward, already steeling himself to explain her presence.  “Stormy! Hey, you little thing, where’d you get off to, huh? Had me worried.” Sam’s voice rasped from the room, still hoarse with sleep.  Well, that was unexpected.  Bucky pushed open the door to discover Steve and Sam still tangled in the sheets, yawning and barely awake.  “--her name’s Slate,” Steve was correcting Sam. Sam scoffed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while scooping up the noisy kitten with the other.  “This is what you were hiding yesterday, Steve? Stormy?” “If by ‘Stormy’ you mean ‘Slate,’ then... yes.” Bucky entered the room fully, making the other two look up in varying levels of alarm.  “I can explain,” Steve started. “You left the window open, and I couldn’t kick her out--!” Sam protested. Bucky just shook his head and shuffled over to join them in Sam’s bed. “Her name’s Little Grey,” he said without further explanation. Steve made a face. “What happens when she gets bigger? ‘Little’ isn’t going to make sense...” “And what, ‘Slate’ is better?” Sam snorted. “What is she, nail polish?” The kitten was already playing, chewing on the string of Sam’s hoodie. He wasn’t even pretending to be mad about it, just watching her with a dopey smile. Steve gestured subtly to his phone on the nightstand, and Bucky picked it up and slipped it into Steve’s waiting hand.  Sam didn’t even notice them taking pictures of him cuddling and cooing at Stormy Slate Little Grey the kitten. “Okay, so. She played us,” Sam murmured. “Smart girl.” He looked up at the other two, and, seeing the pleading expression on Steve’s face, handed her over to the blond. She immediately started climbing his shirt, using her sharp little claws, but Steve barely flinched. “So... what now? Bucky asked. “Landlord won’t let us keep her,” Sam muttered. “We just moved here; we’ve got, what, 8 months left on the lease?” Steve sighed, hitching one shoulder higher so that the kitten wouldn’t tumble off. “She can be adopted out real easy, she’s cute...” Bucky offered without any real enthusiasm. There was a long pause.  “I mean... we can Internet search pet-friendly apartments, right?” Steve said moments later.  “Would be easy,” Bucky agreed. They both turned to look at Sam, who was chewing his lower lip and frowning.  “Okay, but one thing. If we’re breaking our lease, and packing up our whole life again for this little cat...” “Yeah?” “I get to name her Stormy.”

[matcha-chocolate]

like the sunset

Bucky couldn’t say why he did it, not exactly. He just knew that that was how you got to be friendly with someone. You teased ‘em. Right? And Wilson hadn’t exactly been averse to a little friendly ribbing. Mostly friendly. Usually.  “Don’t do it, Buck,” Steve said without looking up from his morning paper. Bucky scowled at his friend, bristling at the tone. He wasn’t a dog or a damn child, he was a grown man. If he wanted to put salt in Sam’s coffee, he was gonna. Almost as if Steve sensed Bucky’s quiet defiance, he tapped on his paper and raised an eyebrow, still not looking away from his coupons for oatmeal or whatever it was the man was reading.  “All right, but don’t come running to me if he gets mad. Sam loves his coffee.” Bucky wasn’t one for talking much first thing in the morning, but he figured the energy he was about to expend was worth it.  “Hey, Steve...” Steve finally glanced up, both eyebrows raised in question now. Bucky maintained eye contact as he poured a generous helping of salt from the box into Sam’s precious coffee, using the spoon to stir it in. Steve heaved a huge sigh and went back to his paper. 

When Sam finally emerged, yawning widely and rubbing at his eyes in an adorable way that made Bucky very briefly regret being such an asshole, Steve wasted no time in being a tattletale, because blah blah truth and justice and being a goddamn spoilsport. “Sam, don’t drink that; Bucky’s messed with it,” he said calmly. Sam was too out of it to do more than hmm? questioningly, easing into the chair at the kitchen table. Bucky looked incredibly innocent as Steve reached for his own coffee cup, which, if Sam had been more awake, would have been a hint-- Steve gagged and sprayed his coffee onto his newspaper, eyes watering; Sam jolted more awake, looking baffled.  “What the hell, Steve?” he rasped, his sleep-hoarse voice horrible and not at all endearing in the slightest.  “You put salt in my-- you jerk--” Steve’s speech was a little hard to follow, his tongue lolling from his mouth in disgust as he hurried to the sink to spit and rinse his mouth.  “This ain’t the bathroom, Rogers, that’s nasty,” Sam muttered, raising his own cup. Bucky busied himself looking as though he was distracted by Steve’s dramatic gargling to pay attention to Sam, but he was listening for the telltale gag. He never heard it. Instead, Sam hummed contentedly as he sipped his coffee, sliding back in the chair and unlocking his phone to check his texts. Bucky blinked, no longer hiding his interest. The man had just downed a mouthful of disgusting salty coffee without so much as a flinch. Bucky felt a little bit of admiration for Sam’s poker face. Or he did, until he took a gulp of his own coffee and promptly spit it all over himself. Wilson had switched the cups. Right under Bucky’s nose. Bucky was genuinely impressed-- or would be, once his mouth stopped tasting like a used coffee filter dunked in ocean water.  “Better luck next time,” Sam said  cheerfully, taking another long sip of his (or rather, Bucky’s) coffee. He flashed a small, gap-toothed grin smile at Bucky that made him feel... kinda weird. It was probably the bad coffee reacting in his gut. That had to be the explanation for the fluttering in his stomach.

“I’m not callin’ you that, Barnes.” “We’re sharing the shield, Sam. That technically makes me Captain America too.” “Okay-- one: I’ve been Captain America longer than you. And two: we can’t both have the same call sign.” “We can be Cap1 and Cap2,” Bucky grumbled, kneeling beside Sam on the warm concrete. They were both on the rooftop of an old apartment across from an office building, waiting for a signal from Steve to crash a meeting between Hydra lackeys and A.I.M. interns. A low-level threat, to be honest, but any meeting between the sometimes at-odds groups was never a good thing.  “I’d better be ‘Cap1,’ kid,” Sam scoffed. His red-tinted goggles were settled on top of his head, the dark red fingers of his gloves lightly resting on the famous shield resting between them. Bucky thought of putting his own hand on the shield just to be a jerk, which led to the thought of interlacing their fingers, which was a baffling turn for his line of thinking to take, what the fuck “I’m not a goddamn kid-- and I’ve known Steve longer, so I’d be Cap1,” Bucky shot back without any real heat. Sam huffed out a quiet laugh, his eyes dark and warm like sun-warmed earth and why was Bucky thinking of this  “You’re acting like a kid. I’m Cap1. End of.” “Technically, I would be ‘Cap1,’ Sam would be Cap2, and Buck would be Cap3,” Steve said, his voice a little tinny over the comms.  “If we wanna get technical--” Sam started, before stiffening and throwing himself flat. Bucky was nonplussed for a beat too long and Sam reached up, grabbing his hand and yanking the other man down into an awkward splayed position.  “Nearly got spotted,” Sam said, breathing a little heavily with adrenaline. Bucky’s pulse was racing, too, and it had nothing to do with the bored-looking A.I.M. scientist that had glanced in their direction mere seconds ago. It had everything to do with Sam’s fingers wrapped around his hand-- even if his elbow was throbbing from it banging into the goddamn shield.  “All good? No movement by the west entrance. They’re still outside smoking.” Steve heaved a sigh that crackled over the comms; the man was really bad at staying still for periods longer than 20 minutes.  “They’re not shootin’ at us, so I don’t think they made us,” Bucky offered, trying to distract himself from Sam’s proximity.  “Okay, good. Maintain positions.” “We know how to run a simple surveillance op, man.” “I know, I know. Sorry. Hey-- you were saying ‘if we wanna get technical’ just now. About the ‘Cap’ thing?” Steve was clearly bored, trying to entertain himself by chatting with them as they waited for A.I.M. (or Hydra) to do something punch-worthy. Sam turned his head and locked eyes with Bucky for one long, strange moment. Then, almost as if he’d zoned out, Sam shook himself and released Bucky’s hand, grinning a little abashedly. It was still a nice smile, Bucky thought miserably, even if their faces were pressed against the dirty concrete roof.  “Yeah, Rogers. If we wanna get technical, Isaiah Bradley is Cap1.” “Shit. Shit, you’re right. I-- sorry.” “S’okay. Everyone forgets.” There was an awkward pause.  “We could always ditch ‘Cap’ altogether,” Bucky suggested. “I’ll be W.S., you be Falcon, Steve can be...” “C’mon guys, don’t--” “Nomad,” Bucky and Sam finished in perfect unison.  “It’s not all that bad. I was just throwing out ideas--” “Yeah, you wanna be ‘Nomad,’ you gotta leave the apartment more than once a week. You gotta, y’know... roam.” “It’s a symbolic name, Bucky.” Steve was sounding distinctly disgruntled. He’d given up the mantle of ‘Captain America’ some time ago, and when he had suggested the name change to his two best friends they had cried laughing. They’d sworn to bring it up at every opportunity, and had been pretty damn vigilant about it.  “Symbolic of you being really bad at picking names, maybe,” Sam muttered. The roar of machinery cut through the casual mood and the three men went silent as they took in the sight below them. It was hard to see exactly what the thing was, but the small group of scientists and lackeys had gathered around to watch the demonstration. Whatever it was, it had a lot of flailing metal tentacles  and blades. Probably not for helping little old ladies across the street, then.  Steve was already halfway towards the group, his triangular shield deflecting a few scattered laser blasts from the few guards that had attended the gathering. Sam jumped to his feet, his wings unfurling in a flash of proud crimson, but when he glanced down to pick up the shield, Bucky heard it. The unmistakable fwip of something small coming fast towards them.  “Get down!” Bucky called, roughly shoving Sam out of the way. He got shot in the ass for his trouble.  “You two don’t need to come down, I got them all!” Steve called cheerfully mere minutes later. He was almost drowned out by the screech and clanking of tearing metal; after quickly knocking out the A.I.M. and Hydra representatives, he’d gone about dismantling the machine with great ease.  “Barnes, you ok? Barnes?” Sam was standing above him, and he was really handsome, and his mouth was real nice even when it was turned down with worry like it was now, and his arms were really good, and Bucky’s butt kind of hurt. A lot.  “Barnes, fucking say something.” “Hhhhahahahaha.” “Okay, you’re-- what? Man, is that -- Barnes, you got a bigass dart sticking out of your asscheek, you seriously can’t feel that?” “Ow,” Bucky agreed amicably. He barely flinched when Sam reached down to pluck the dart out, just lost in suddenly feeling really good.  “You touched my ass,” he said, making Sam roll his eyes.  “Yeah, Bucky. Only way to get the damn thing out. Sit still so I can check your vitals.” “S’okay that you touched my butt. I wanna touch your butt.” “I’m gonna ignore that.” “It’s big. It’s a big butt.” “Shut up, Barnes,” Sam murmured, checking Bucky’s pulse and seeming somewhat satisfied with the result.  “And what’s wrong with big butts, anyway?” Sam asked as he gently held open Bucky’s eyelids to check his pupils. They were blown wide open, which wasn’t great. Even if the dude did look like he was having a grand ol’ time.  “Why’re we talking about butts?” Steve interjected.  “Your idiot friend decided to play the hero. Got hit by a dart and now he’s loopy,” Sam sighed. He sounded exasperated, but he still mouthed Thanks at Bucky, who gave a wobbly thumbs-up. Far from being concerned, Steve let out a hastily-smothered bark of laughter.  “Is he okay?” he managed.  “Dunno--” Bucky tried to sit up, still looking like he was on cloud nine. “I’m fine and so’s my butt and so’s Sam’s butt and listen, hey Sam, big butts are great! They’re fine. Like Mr. Stir-a-bunch says, ‘I like big butts’--” “It’s ‘Sir Mix-a-lot’ and I will literally pay you in gold to not sing that,” Sam said, horrified.  “I got some information out of one of the scientists,” Steve cut in.  “By ‘got some information,’ did you mean ‘threaten to punch them until they talked’?” Sam asked.   “No! Well... a little.” “We gotta talk about your interrogation methods sometime, Rogers. What’d they say?” “My methods are effective, Sam. Anyway-- they said that it’s a truth serum and they were going use it on the others in case they turned on each other. Supposed to make you say whatever’s on your mind, so they’d spill their secret experiments and the like. Real honour among thieves, here.” “--you other brothers can’t deny, with a-- wait, can I say ‘brothers,’ Sam? Sam?” “I mean... I guess it’s not the worst thing you could sing from a rap song, Barnes. Also, shut up. We gotta get you to a hospital to make sure you’re not dying.” “Okay. Something somethin’ round-thing-in-your-face you get sprung, wanna pull up tough--” “Steve, I hope to god you have the Jeep ready to go because I’m about to throw your friend off the roof.”

Bucky remembered all the lyrics on the way to the hospital, and he regaled the unamused doctors with several renditions of Sir Mix-a-lot’s magnum opus. 

“I hate that song,” Steve groaned several hours later. “It’s stuck in my head.” Bucky was draped heavily across them on the couch, out cold as his enhanced body fought off the effects of the dart. The doctors had cleared him and attempted to give him some shots to counteract the effects, but he’d shown real fear, flinching away from the needles and latex gloved hands. He’d been advised to let his body do its thing, instead. (No doctors were harmed by a panicking drugged-up supersoldier.) “Yeah, well, at least he wasn’t pointing at you every time he said ‘baby got back,’” Sam groused. His legs were falling asleep under Bucky, he was tired, and he kept finding himself humming snatches of the same song that was haunting Steve.  “S ‘cause Steve don’t got back. He’s got... he’s got a back. Back-back. Not butt-back,” Bucky mumbled, his voice muffled from being wedged into a pillow on Sam’s lap.  “Again with the butt thing. I got a perfectly serviceable butt, thanks,” Steve said, a little huffy. (’Nomad,’ clipping coupons, and his comparatively flat ass-- all favourite topics of teasing for Sam and Bucky.) “Yeah, serviceable. Sam’s got a ‘donk--” “No. We’re cutting off your access to the Internet.” “--built for comfort,” Bucky finished, cutting across Sam. “I can’t fucking wait for this stupid drug to wear off,” Sam sighed. Steve had a barely-concealed look of glee; he was getting some pretty good ammunition for driving Sam crazy in the future. Ahh, friendship. “The drug? I feel fine,” Bucky said, shuffling upright. His voice certainly sounded less dreamy, and his eyes were clear and focused. Steve immediately smacked him in the back of the head, making Bucky yelp.  “You’ve been asleep on us for two hours.” “You’re comfortable!” Bucky grinned a little. “Sam’s thighs--” “I’m going to bed,” Sam said loudly, getting up. Bucky sat up a little more, fending off Steve’s old-man grumbling with a dismissive wave.  “Hey, Sam.” “What, man?” “You got real nice arms too.”  “Fuck off.” “And... thanks.” Bucky’s voice was a little quieter, and Sam flashed him a brief smile.  “Oh, don’t worry... you’ll owe me.” Bucky felt his stomach do that thing again, and it couldn’t have been coffee this time. He felt Steve’s eyes on him the entire time he watched Sam leave the room. “What, Rogers?” “You forget how to flirt or something, Buck? That was pathetic.” “Shut the hell up, Steve. You know I can’t remember shit any more,” Bucky sulked. Steve just waggled his eyebrows, not buying his friend’s fake woe-is-me act.  “For the first time in my life, I’m better at flirting than you. You can’t blame me for wanting to bask.” “Better? Says who?” “Says her,” Steve said, holding up his phone. Bucky read the messages on the screen for a moment, his eyes widening slightly. He sighed, braced himself, and explained ‘spam bots’ to his friend. No, no one was that pretty and funny and still single. He was just trying to save his friend from getting scammed, but Steve was adamant, shooing Bucky off to bed. “Rogers, if that woman is the real deal, I’ll give you twe-- no, fifty bucks.”

B.B.: [21:35] You got a nice smile S.W.: [21:36] at least uv moved on frm my ass. thx. ur rly weird but thx. B.B.: [21:37] Sorry.  S.W.: [21:37] np. cant sleep? B.B.: [21:37] Nah. You? S.W.: [21:38] nope. S.W.: [21:38] got n e other corny shit to tell me? mayb it wll put me 2 sleep B.B.: [21:38] I got plenty S.W.: [21:40] ok. shoot. B.B.: [21:41] Really? S.W.: [21:41] yea.  B.B.: [21:42] sometimes you wrinkle up your nose when you laugh really hard and it’s cute S.W.: [21:43] jesus lmao. ma used 2 call me her little bunny wen i was a kid cos i did taht S.W.: [21:43] how much can i pay u to forget u evr read that B.B.: [21:44] All the money in the world wouldn’t make me forget that

B.B.: [21:46] you talk to me like we’ve been friends for years and I tried to kill you and it makes my chest hurt sometimes S.W.: [21:46] i still hav nightmares about u  Sam regretted sending the message almost immediately; he was exhausted from their long day, and was perhaps a little too honest. But it was true; he’d had dreams where him getting thrown across the room meant he didn’t get up. Or that he was trapped in his body, watching Bucky murder Steve. Or that it hadn’t been his steering wheel that the Winter Soldier grabbed, but Sam’s own neck. Or-- “Can I come in?” Sam hesitated. He wasn’t sure he was up to heavy emotional labour, but putting off the talk would just keep him up with anxiety all night.  “Yeah.” Bucky poked his head into the room, looking rather more tired than Sam had expected.  “Think my body’s crashin’ after the whole... dart thing,” Bucky offered. Sam hummed thoughtfully and beckoned him further into the room.  “Been a long day, Barnes. Longer even for those of us that had to hear ‘Baby Got Back’ 20 times today.” “You’re the one that said me n’ Steve should watch VH1 to catch up with pop culture.” “And never have I regretted anything more. Sit down, man.” “Where? No chairs in here.” “What kind of maniac has chairs in their bedroom?” “Me. Steve. Normal people.” “Just sit on the bed or the damn floor, Barnes, I’m sick of craning my neck to look at you.” Bucky sat gingerly on the edge of Sam’s bed, suddenly seeming shy.  “Do you really have bad dreams about...” Me nearly brutally murdering you a bunch of times? “Yeah.” “Oh.” There was a distinctly uncomfortable pause and Sam hugged himself, mentally casting about for something to say. “I don’t think you’re gonna hurt me.” again. “I know you now. You’re not that guy anymore.” “You sure about that?” Bucky asked, his voice a little bit harsher than he meant. Sam frowned.  “Yeah.” “How?”  “Well, for one-- you haven’t tried to kill me for singing in the shower yet,” Sam muttered. Bucky let out a surprised huff of laughter.  “I haven’t what?” “Every single person I’ve dated says I’m the worst singer they’ve ever heard.” “Well... you’re better’n me.” “Hmm. I-- you know what, Barnes? You’re right.” “My gift to you. Someone that’s a worse singer than you.” “Pass.” “I won’t hurt you, Sam.” The comment seemed to come out of nowhere, but Sam had been waiting for it. “I know.” “I don’t wanna. I-- I never did.” “I know, man.” “I’d die before I do again.” Sam sucked in a sharp breath.  “That’s... pretty heavy, Bucky,” he said carefully. Uncharacteristically, Bucky was maintaining steady eye contact with Sam.  “Nah. ‘S true. Before I hurt you or Steve again, I’d--” “Okay, I get it. Thanks.” Awkward as it was, Barnes was clearly trying to offer comfort the only way he could manage.  “Can we go back to you telling me weird compliments instead?” Sam joked weakly.  “I used to be real poetic, y’know. If I was tryin’ to go with you I’d probably say something about your eyes.” “Jesus, Barnes. You had that one ready to go?” “Been wanting to say it for a while.” “That dart was a hell of a drug, huh?” “It’s not the dart and you know it.” “It’s not the... okay, the only other option is--” “I’m trying to flirt with you, okay?” “Oh. Yikes.” “Is that a ‘yikes, no, stop’ or...” “It’s a ‘yikes, you’re bad at this.’ I’m okay with the concept of you flirting with me, it’s the execution that’s lacking.” “What? Okay, hold on to your horses--” “Dude.” “Just let me... okay. Your eyes are like when the sun’s going down in the summer and the sky’s all orange and the air’s still kinda warm and right at the edge of the horizon there’s the little strip of darkness. ‘S almost black.” Sam blinked a few times, at a loss for words, but Bucky wasn’t done yet.  “That damn horizon -- always made me want to go to it and get lost in it. Like I could catch the sunset... like I could touch it. That’s what your eyes are like.” “You’re such an asshole.” “Me? Why?!” “Because that was good.” “You’re... mad because my flirting was good.” “Yes, and now I’ve gotta let you take me out to dinner.” “Oh, you do, do ya?” “Yeah. Dammit, you might even get a kiss out of this.” “This before or after the dinner?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully. Sam pretended to think it over.  The soft little sound that Sam made when Bucky nipped at his neck made getting shot in the ass with a dart more than worth it.

Steve’s date turned out to be tiny, smart, funny, and gorgeous. Flawless brown skin. Large dark eyes sparkling with mischief. And a beautiful mouth that was spreading into a slow smirk-- “So,” Sharon Carter said, “I hear we’re owed fifty bucks.” She laughed when Bucky scrambled for his wallet, and said he could buy them all ice cream instead. “Wonder if I can date her instead,” Sam murmured later on as he and Bucky walked behind Sharon and Steve. The sun was going down, and they’d decided to take a walk on the beach to enjoy the last warm rays.  “I wouldn’t blame you, but she seems pretty gone on Rogers,” Bucky snorted. Sam shoved him lightly.  “I’m messing with you, Barnes. Who else is gonna tell me corny shit about how my eyes look like the sunset?” Bucky looked at Sam, who didn’t look away or roll his eyes for once. Bucky wanted to touch his face, still awestruck after all this time by the way the light made his skin glow with warmth, touching his lips, his eyelashes. His eyes. His eyes, which were amber shot through with gold one moment, deep dark mahogany the next.  “Who wouldn’t?” Bucky responded.

in case you’re wondering what my Sharon Carter looks like

[matcha-chocolate]

bam n sucky

Anon: Sambucky - "shipname: sucky" I know who sent this ask 😘 (Okay, honestly? I’ve been sitting on this one for almost 2 weeks and I’m still not happy with it. But ... here it is. Sorry.)

People can bond in the weirdest ways when they have screaming nightmares in common. Neither of them literally screamed anymore, mind you. Bucky would start, an awful strangled sound-- but he would muffle it, biting down on his hand instead. Not quite enough to break the skin. He’d gotten past doing that. Progress. Kinda. Sam, though. Sam woke not with a yell or a scream but an awful, ragged intake of breath that had his chest tightening and his eyes fluttering wildly before he could wake up. He didn’t talk to anyone about it. Definitely not progress. 

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky asked, making Sam almost jump out of his skin.  “Barnes, what the fuck? You know better than to startle a military man; I damn near garroted you.” Bucky made an amused hum. “It’s cute that you think you could get the drop on me, S--” “I literally kicked your ass across two lanes of traffic.” “I was distracted. That doesn’t count.” “Why’re you up?” Sam asked, not getting into yet another argument over who would win in a fight. (Sam would, in a fair fight. He would. He would!) “Nightmare,” Bucky said, not elaborating. Sam moved into the dark living room where Bucky sat, mostly shrouded in shadow on the couch.  “Shitty deal, Barnes. Hell... same here. That kinda night, huh?” “You were having a nightmare? Oh. Ohhh. Is that what those sounds were?” Bucky asked. Sam could see that he was cleaning his knives, because that wasn’t a fucking creepy thing for an ex-assassin to do at 2 in the morning or anything.  “What the hell did you think they were?” Sam returned, flopping onto the couch beside Bucky. Bucky didn’t respond, which wasn’t unusual, but he was also avoiding Sam’s eye, which was odd, because he had that whole stare-meaningfully-until-you-figured-out-he-was-mad-about-the-missing-Poptarts thing going for him.  “Barnes, I ain’t a mind-reader. What did you think I was doing?” Sam had an inkling, but he wasn’t about to ignore an opportunity to annoy Bucky as much as the man aggravated him. “Dunno, what lotsa grown men do alone at night,” Bucky muttered, and Sam had to try hard not to guffaw (Steve woke up at the drop of a pin, and if he found them both up he’d want to go for a run or something hideous like that.) “Jesus Christ, Bucky. That’s... so far off. You got a dirty mind.” “Not dirty, just logical.” “If you say so, man.” There was a companionable silence then, and Sam heaved a sigh. He still felt all wrong, feverish and achy like he’d run a marathon the day before. He idly traced his fingers over one of Bucky’s knives, the cool metal giving him something to distract himself. Bucky darted a glance at him without stopping his own task, and they just kinda... sat there for a while.  Bucky spoke first, surprising both of them: “You wanna talk about it?” “Nah.” Bucky just hummed his agreement, setting his knife down with a soft clink on the glass of the coffee table. Sam was still running his fingers over the flat of the blade nearest him, his legs tucked under him in a way that screamed I want to talk about it and also I’m adorable wait no Bucky what the fuck stop that you gotta get more sleep.  “You like that one?” Bucky tried again, gesturing to the knife under Sam’s fingers. He wasn’t great at small talk anymore, but he’d never really had to do that with Sam. They just kinda acted like assholes to each other, laughed, and ... well. Spent a lot of time together. A lot of time.  Sam just nodded, looking over at Bucky for the briefest of moments. Bucky could sense that he was on the right track, talking about inconsequential things until Sam felt like he could say whatever it was that was bothering him. “Got that one in Italy, I think,” Bucky continued, nodding to the knife that had Sam’s attention. “Don’t remember when, but -- looks pretty new.”  Sam nodded again, looking at Bucky for longer now, interest clearly written on his beautiful (whoa whoa what the fuck, Barnes) features. Grateful that the dark probably hid the sudden warmth in his face, Bucky cleared his throat before speaking again.  “I ever tell you ‘bout the time I went to this restaurant in Italy?” Sam shook his head, the ghost of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.  “Ohh, boy. Okay, so get this -- I, it’s probably not in my files, but I b... I broke free a coupla times. Could think ok on my own, mostly.” He tripped over the words, the memories difficult to parse even years later, but Sam just moved his hand from the knife and squeezed Bucky’s arm, silently comforting him. Sam always knew what to do; Bucky wanted to fucking help him, and he couldn’t even get out a funny story right. Fuck.  “Any-- anyway, I’m s’posed to kill this guy, right? He’s the restaurant owner. I don’t-- I dunno why I was... gonna... doesn’t mater. I go in, charm the wait staff, just a tourist enjoyin’ his food, right?” Sam mm-hmmed to show he was still listening, his hand still resting lightly on Bucky’s forearm. Neither of them made a move to separate, and Bucky found himself... looping their arms together. Sam was offering comfort to him; the least he could do is offer it back.  “I think I’d been out too long. Thawed out, y’know?” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and bitter, but Sam huffed out an amused sound beside him.  “I settle in, near closing. Order this pasta dish-- fuck, nothin’ fancy, just noodles and sauce, y’know? But jesus christ, when I take a bite I fuckin’ wake up, I’m thinkin’, what the fuck am I doin’ here? And you know what I did, Sam?” “What?” Sam asked, speaking for the first time in a little while. Bucky wanted to lean into him, drawn by the body heat, the way that Sam’s whole face was soft with sleep and contentment (contentment from being near Bucky, which was a hell of a thing, considering the start they’d gotten off to.)  “I ate my whole plate so fast the chef came out to fuckin’ watch me.” “If a guy was chewing on a plate, I’d go watch too.” “Shut up and listen. So he says somethin’ like ‘You must be hungry,’ and I say ‘I could kill for another plate’--” “Nice. Joking about murder to your assigned hit,” Sam muttered, his arm still relaxed against Bucky’s ribs. Bucky snorted in agreement. “I’m a classy guy, Wilson. So then I... hell, this is a shitty story.” “Why?” “Nothin’ happens at the end of it. They laughed, I laughed, an’... I just left. Didn’t do nothin’ to the guy. Just had a coffee and then left. Could barely walk, I was so full.” His voice had gotten quieter, and truthfully, the story wasn’t that interesting but... he’d had a whole evening to himself, clear-headed, doing what he wanted, eating what he wanted, not killing or hurting anyone, and him sharing that story with Sam meant.... something. He didn’t know what. “Hell of a story, Barnes,” Sam smirked, nudging Bucky in the side a little. “I laughed, I cried, I contemplated the meaning of life--” “Shut the fuck up; you got a better story?” Sam was quiet for so long that Bucky worried that he’d overstepped, reminded Sam of something he wasn’t ready to discuss, but then-- “They used to call us Silo.” “Sorry, the hell’d you just say?” “I think this is the first time I’ve heard you say ‘sorry,’ Barnes.” “I’m runnin’ outta ways to tell you to shut your trap, Wilson. Explain the ‘Silo’ thing.” “You want me to shut up, or you want me explain?” “Sam,” Bucky groaned, amusement tinging his voice despite the annoyed scowl he was giving the man.  “Okay, so-- Silo. I dunno, it was stupid. I guess me n’ Riley were tight--” “Ooooh-ooh-oooooh...” “I hope you break a hip.” “Mhm. G’on.” “So, y’know like... Bennifer and Brangelina,” Sam said, gesturing vaguely. Bucky suddenly looked shifty; he didn’t like to be reminded of his weird E!Hollywood addiction too much. Suffice it to say, he very much knew what Sam was referring to. “That... you two’d’v’e been ‘Siley,’ then, no?” “Yeah, but-- okay, so Riley was... this white boy-- even whiter than you--” “Objection.” “Shove it up ya ass. So, he’s literally the epitome of a corn-fed country boy, and grain silos, countryside, so... I dunno, ‘Siley’ became ‘Silo’ real fast.” “That’s stupid.” “So’s strapping a rocket-powered kite to your back and jumping, but...” “Yeah, I guess I meant you’re stup-- ow!” Bucky was cut off by Sam swiftly flicking his ear to get him to shut up. Then, surprisingly, Sam heaved a huge sigh.  “We went everywhere together. He came to visit my ma when we had time off.” “Sounds nice. You ever see his folks?” “They... wouldn’t... yeah, no. No, they weren’t jumping for joy over Riley’s black boyfriend, so...” “Fuck ‘em,” Bucky said venomously, his arm tightening briefly. Sam made a soft sound that was almost a laugh.  “Thanks. ‘S what Riley said. And... yeah, he was gonna go back and tell them to deal with it or he’d cut them off, and--” Sam broke off, pulling his arm out of the loop of Bucky’s. Bucky felt his chest constrict unpleasantly at this loss of contact with Sam, but then Sam leaned his body weight against him and Bucky couldn’t help the small smile that appeared unbidden on his face.  “Move your arm,” Sam muttered, huffing exasperatedly when Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Like-- put it around me, damn Barnes, ain’t you ever tried to neck with someone before?” “Have I-- wh-- I mean, of course I fuckin’ have, sure, but--” Bucky broke off, realizing that Sam was fucking with him-- but his face was all hot and he’d unthinkingly draped his arm around Sam, pulling him closer. Sam, for his part, fitted himself against Bucky’s side as though this was a totally natural thing to do.    Sam continued as though there’d been no interruption, “He was gonna tell his parents. To take him... and me... like we were, or he wasn’t gonna talk to them anymore.” “Did he?” Bucky asked, quiet because he felt like he knew the answer, and it wasn’t a good one. “Nah. Got hit the next day,” Sam said shortly. Bucky squeezed his shoulder -- I’m listening -- and Sam took a shaky breath in.  “Know what they said over the comms? They said. They said ‘Shit, Silo’s down,’ like we were the same person. And it felt like I was falling too, so I was thinking Damn, yeah, Silo’s down -- like I wasn’t even Sam, I was just a ghost up there already, y’know? Know what I mean?” Sam’s voice was quiet. “Yeah.” “I was falling. In my dream. Me and Riley. Silo. But we never hit the ground, just always fuckin’... falling. And I could never catch him.” Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he squeezed Sam’s shoulder again.  “You’re gonna bruise me, man.” “Sorry,” Bucky murmured, loosening his grip slightly. “That’s the second ‘sorry’ tonight, Barnes. Must be a special occasion.” “If you hadn’t just told me just about the saddest damn story I ever heard, I’d lay into you.” “You’d do what now, gramps?” “You’re older than me!” “Sure, mhm. I know one of us snaps his fingers to big band music, and it ain’t me.” Bucky scoffed, but didn’t bother to reply... and the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence again. Sam was staring at the glint of the street lights outside off of Bucky’s knives. Bucky was staring at... Sam. The streetlights were doing some pretty great things to the contours of the man’s face.  “Sucky.” “Fucking what?” Bucky turned to look at Sam (which was a bit awkward because his arm was still around him) and grinned in that I’m-really-tired-and-everything-is-funny way.  “If you combined our names. We’d be ‘Sucky.’” “That’s a shitty power couple name.” “Well it’s either that or ‘Bam,” Bucky said. “Wait, power couple?” “Yeah, man,” Sam said around a truly enormous yawn. “The chemistry is undeniable.” Bucky scowled, sure Sam was fucking with him -- and even looking at his teasing grin, he... still wasn’t sure.  “Chemistry,” Bucky said flatly.  “Yep.” “I just told you bout eatin’ spaghetti and then getting shoved back in the freezer an hour after.” “So? Not like my story was happy-- wait, shit. Barnes, you didn’t fucking say Hydra got you back after the... pasta whatever.” “Yeah, well. Wanted a Disney ending for you.” “Disney,” Sam said, sounding remarkably as unimpressed as Bucky just had.  “Yeah, Wilson. You gotta have a cute Disney ending for a pretty guy.” Bucky was tired, Sam was fucking beautiful, and there was only so much brain power Bucky could devote to pretending one of those things wasn’t true. “Okay, wait. Wait. I’m not disagreeing but. Are you fucking with me, or hitting on me?” “...yes.” “Your idea of flirting is weird pasta stories and blurting that I’m pretty.” “Yep.” “Why pretty?” “Ask your eyelashes, Wilson. Damn things look like one of those whatsit. Revlon. Mascara.” Sam looked nonplussed before pouting and fluttering his eyelashes a little, startling a laugh out of Bucky.  “See? It worked. You’re flirtin’ back,” Bucky smirked. Sam wrinkled his nose.  “Who says I’m flirting? You didn’t even ask me out to dinner.” “Ah, hell. Sam, wanna go to dinner with me?” “No.” Bucky blinked. But hadn’t he--? “I prefer brunch dates,” Sam said smugly.  “I swear to god. Okay. Brunch. I can’t believe you made me say that word.” “It’s a better combination than ‘Sucky’!” “Don’t insult Sucky. Sucky is pure romance.” “You’re fuckin’ sucky.” “Oh, I’ll show you sucky, Wilson.” Bucky’s voice had taken on a darker quality and he moved his hand from Sam’s shoulder to lightly cupping the back of his head.  “Yeah?” Sam breathed, clearly with the program. “Show me, then. Bet I’m better than you at it.” “Only one way to find out.” “Uhhh, actually, let’s... not.” Steve said, faint but clear from his room upstairs. His super-hearing had its downsides.  “Or, can you wait to show each other after I’m outta the house?” Steve continued, his voice plaintive. (They didn’t wait.) 

[matcha-chocolate]

my dads can beat your dad up

@samwichwilson​ asked: Can you talk to us about Three Men and a Spiderbaby?

Oh my god hahahaha okay let’s do this

Steve Rogers Captain America “Call Me Steve” is A Lot. His smile is wholesome, his muscles are quietly humming ‘America the Beautiful,’ and his whole aura is somewhere between Mr. Rogers riding a tank through a wall and a Golden Lab that has been taught to use a rifle somehow. Peter had made a kind of weird squeak when Captain America “Call Me Steve” had casually offered to have him over for dinner (as a gesture of good will, he’d said. No hard feelings about that brawl in the airport, right?), which the man had graciously ignored. “Dinner?” “Yeah, you interested?” Captain America “Call Me Steve” asked, leaned casually against the wall as though Peter didn’t have literal colouring books with his image at home (they were from when he was a kid, okay?) “….like, at your house-place?” The words fell from his mouth before he could stop them, and he wondered if he could convince Mr. Stark to fling him directly into the sun. He was sure the man had some invention that could handle such a task. Or maybe Peter could work on one? Captain America “Call Me Steve” looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Yes, at my house… place.” Peter didn’t care that the amusement was plain in the older man’s voice; he was just glad that Captain America “Call Me Steve” seemed charmed rather than irritated. Because Peter Parker was a frickin’ nerd. “I gotta ask my Aunt,” Peter mutters now, frowning a little. He’d promised her -- no more lies. And he wanted to keep it; she was too important to him. Captain America “Call Me Steve” nods as though that’s the most understandable thing in the world. “I can put in a good word,” he says. “It’s just a little get-together, us and the gang... thought you deserved a burger just as much as any other Avenger.” Any. Other. Avenger. Peter’s mouth feels dry; Mr. Stark hadn’t officially asked him to join yet, but he’d provided backup for a couple of their missions without much trouble (there was that time that his webbing got caught on that flying saucer, but...) and the team seemed to like him. Even if they did ask him about his homework a lot. (Aunt May says yes, sure, of course. She sounds a little bit breathy when Captain America “Call Me Steve” hands Peter his phone back.)

Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier is staring hard at Peter, and Peter is wondering if this is his last night on earth. The man has barely blinked in the last 15 seconds (Peter counted), and while his facial expression isn’t exactly threatening, it has a calculated blankness to it that is a little bit unnerving. Peter just wanted to play Monopoly, is that so bad? “Kid,” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier says, finally leaning back in his chair and taking a huge swig of his beer, “what’re you, 13?” “I’m gonna be 16 soon,” Peter says, bristling a little. Everyone’s always calling him a kid; he’s fought off bad guys and is hardly ever late for class and he’s only 2 years off from being able to drink in Quebec, Canada! Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier nods, looking suddenly ... happy? “You’re good at jumping over stuff, right?” The question puzzles Peter, but he’s already nodding, knowing that this was yet another chance to prove himself. Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier leans in closer to Peter, glancing around conspiratorially. “Cap’s got a trampoline,” he says in a low voice. “Yeah, I know. Previous neighbours left it. The point is--” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier is fucking insane. Peter is so excited. “Nice one, kid!” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier yells. Peter can barely hear him over the air rushing past his ears. It had seemed like a good idea for Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier to throw Peter as hard as he could at the trampoline, for Peter to use his natural acrobatic talents to turn the resulting upward spring into an awesome midair flip. They wanted to see if Peter could get airborne. For science.  

Captain America “Call Me Steve” looks really worried. It’s hard to tell from up here.

Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is the best. Just.. the best guy. He’d pushed past Captain America and Bucky Barnes to shimmy up the street lamp, helping Peter get untangled from the dangerous wires with no indication that the pair of them could get electrocuted at any second. But then, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) wasn’t scared of anything, he didn’t have any powers (Peter wasn’t 100% on that, because some of the stunts Sam Wilson [a.k.a. The Falcon!] pulled with those wings didn’t seem possible no matter how long Peter thought about it) but he ran kept up with Captain America “Call Me Steve” no problem. And now he was bandaging Peter’s arm. He’s the best. Peter decides he’s gotta let Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) know. “I know, man,” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) says, shaking his head. “You told me like 4 times. Not arguin’, though. You got a hell of an adrenaline high right now, huh?” Peter likes that Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) calls him ‘man,’ and not ‘kid’ or some variation thereof. “You can’t let Barnes talk you into stupid shit,” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) says, and Peter also likes that he doesn’t censor himself, he talks to Peter like he’s any of the team. He braces himself for a lecture, though. He and Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier had been pretty stupid even if it was totally worth it. Instead, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is saying, “You can’t arch your back that much when you’re at the apex of your jump or you’ll overshoot your target. Next time--” Next time! There’s a next time! “--I’ll show you a coupla tricks I picked up from flying. Bet you’ll stick the landing better next time.” Sam Wilson (a.k.a The Falcon!) is nice and funny is bandaging Peter’s arm and is just as crazy as Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier.

Peter can’t help it; he knows he looks a little bit sad when it’s time to go home. He’d had so much fun; Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier and Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) made great Monopoly game partners, both of them ruthlessly trying to destroy the other. Peter had sneakily used their distraction with each other to win the game. They were both impressed. Captain America “Call Me Steve” had given Peter the biggest burger he’d ever held in his hands. It was perfectly done and Peter didn’t even mind that it had pickles because Captain America “Call Me Steve” had made him a burger! For him! Specifically! And now it was time to go and he would probably never get to hang out with them like this again-- “You busy next weekend?” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is asking, leaning against Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier. He’s got a beer in his hand and his aviator sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his t-shirt and he’s so cool. “No,” Peter says. His voice doesn’t squeak. Score. “Ask your Aunt May if you can come over; we’re doing sushi,” Captain America “Call Me Steve” says, sauntering over and standing close to Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) Peter says he will, already excited because he knows Aunt May will say yes. Captain America “Call Me Steve” tells him to bring his history homework, if he needed help with it. Peter laughs, thinking he’s joking. He’s not.

Update #1: Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier loves Say Yes to the Dress, but don’t tell anyone.

Update #2: Peter just came back from movie night with Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!), and Captain America “Call Me Steve” Rogers. He’d been brave enough to bring Mary Jane. He also realized that it was something like a couples movie night, sometime around the time Sam Wilson leaned his head on Steve Roger’s shoulder. He also makes another realization when Bucky Barnes drapes his arm across the back of the couch, easily resting against the other men’s shoulders. Oh. Oh, okay. Peter thinks that’s really modern of them, especially considering two of them are, like, 100 years old. Later on, Peter kisses MJ for the first time. Bucky ruins it by turning on the porch light and whooping. Steve apologizes, but he’s got that ‘Haha Not Really’ look. Sam laughs until he cries, and threatens to Snapchat the look on Peter’s face (he doesn’t.) MJ covers her face, but she’s laughing too. Peter hopes it’s not at his kissing skills (later she tells him it’s not. He chooses to believe her.)

Update #3: It’s kinda weird having three sorta-kinda-dads who are all varying levels of Fucking Irresponsible (Sam’s words, shortly before dive-bombing Bucky into the pool), but Peter (and later, MJ) never misses a Sunday night dinner at the Wilsonrogersbarnes residence. Unless there’s, like, giant robots to fight or something? But then they go for dinner after anyway. Peter’s pretty psyched about the whole thing; Steve’s gonna let him throw the shield later on!

ETA: Steve shouldn’t have let Peter throw the shield. Next door neighbour demanding payment for windows. Bucky’s laughing, Sam’s doubled over, and Steve is really pink as he tries to calm his 90-year-old neighbour. Peter wonders if Sam will let him try out the Falcon wings if he asks really really nicely.

[matcha-chocolate]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For @buckyskillingme , for the @beefybuckyswap Beefy Bucky Exchange! BAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUCKY! I hope you enjoy your fic. It’s barbershop quarter fluff featuring animals! ANIMALS!!!!!

[matcha-chocolate]

looee tooshay

@samwichwilson - sambucky headcanon: him touch penis Honestly, you’re the worst person i’ve ever met -------------- Sam didn’t care what Steve said about Bucky having been a suave ladykiller* in the past; the man was terrible at flirting.  *considering recent events, perhaps that word ought not be used to describe an ex-assassin He didn’t even have the ‘sullen, scowling bad boy with a sad past’ thing going any more. No, he’d found himself in the modern world, all right. He was a fucking dork. “Sam, what happened to the Spice Girls?” Sam concentrated really hard on his Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He had a few choice words for whoever it was that introduced Steve to sugary breakfast cereals, because it was all the man ever bought now.  “Sam.” Sam was deeply engrossed in how loudly he could chew until Barnes’ voice was drowned out. So far, no such luck. “Sam.”

“What what what what, Barnes, what?” Sam grit out, finally looking up. He was sleep-rumpled, his face still creased from his pillow and his mouth twisted into an unhappy sort of semi-pout. It was 4am (too early), it was overcast (pressure headache), and most importantly, it was Saturday (Sam’s day off.) “What happened to the Spice Girls?” Bucky repeated, reaching over Sam to grab the tub of cream cheese instead of asking like a polite, well-mannered human being. “Uuuuggggh,” Sam replied, his groggy irritability taking over for a second. Then he heaved a sigh. Barnes had stayed up all night because of... well, who knows, the guy was clearly wired in that ‘48 hours without sleep and I feel great!’ kind of way. He was just trying to make conversation with Sam. “They broke up? I think? Or-- wait, there was some kinda reunion thing? My sister lost her damn mind over it.” “Aww, hell, did they really break up?” Bucky asked, looking despondent as he slathered an upsetting amount of cream cheese onto his bagel. “Think so, man. Sorry.” “Damn.” Bucky paused, and then perked up again. “Wanna watch their videos on YouToo?” “Youwhat?” “Y’know. YouToo! Videos, and ... well, just videos.” “YouTube, Barnes. Tube.” “What th’ hell’s it called that? YouToo makes sense, like... I’m watchin’ a video, and you too.” “Barnes, shut the...” Sam trailed off, idly sucking the last of the overly sweet cereal milk off his spoon. (He didn’t notice Bucky ardently watching him.) “You know, I don’t know why it’s called YouTube? Maybe something to do with TV or...” And that’s how they spent 10 minutes Googling the history of YouTube, and almost 2 hours watching Spice Girls videos (Bucky fell asleep about 40 minutes in, slumped heavily against Sam. Sam allowed it; the guy seemed exhausted.)

“What, like a learning exchange?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised. It was the next Saturday, this time 5am, and he’d found Bucky wide awake again. “Well, I dunno. I guess. I ask you bout lotsa stuff, and I thought... I could tell ya stuff.” “Stuff.” “I know stuff!” Bucky said, slightly defensive. Sam hid a huge yawn behind his hand, waving the other dismissively. “Yeah, I know you know stuff. What kinda stuff you wanna teach me?” “Dunno. What you wanna know about?” Sam thought for a moment. 50 Ways To Garrote Your Man-- While Keeping Your Hair Perfect! Perfecting Your Thousand-Yard Stare and Other Makeup Tips How Punching Nazis Can Help YOU Get the Ridiculously Hot Body of Your Dreams!! Sam blinked. That last one had come out of nowhere. He cleared his throat. “Uhhh. I dunno, always wanted to learn French...” “Languages?” Bucky asked, furrowing his brow. Sam felt a stab of worry; he wasn’t sure how Barnes felt about his multi-lingual ability, considering how he’d gotten it. But Bucky’s face was lighting up now. “Yeah, I could do that. You uh... if you got Saturdays free, we could do an hour? I’m. I c’n teach. I used to tutor my little sister.” The man was quieter now, getting the far-off look that he and Steve got sometimes. “That’d be pretty cool, Barnes,” Sam said, feeling a little hot in the face for some reason. Bucky nodded, seeming to come back to himself. “Okay! So. Got another culture question for ya. Then we can do some a’ the French basics. Yeah?” “Oui.” “Wilson, it’s one word. How’d you get the accent so janky? Jesus, I’m gonna have my work cut out for me.” “Fuck you, Barnes.” “You wish. Okay-- Backstreet Boys vs. N’Sync. What was up with that?” Sam and Bucky smoothly ignored the You wish, even though there was just the faintest hint of pink in Bucky’s cheeks for a few minutes.

2:08 am. Saturday. 4 months later. Sam pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyelids, seeing spots when he finally eased off. He’d been given more ‘homework’ by freakin’ Barnes; translating a long list of phrases without the help of a dictionary or Google Translate, which Barnes would check over in the morning. Sam was exhausted. He’d actually picked up the basics blazingly fast -- not that he was paying attention to the praise that Barnes heaped on him, shut up -- and had come to look forward to his Saturday mornings. (Steve had been banned from the language lessons for interrupting every few minutes with a ‘Well, actually, in this particular dialect--’ comments.) A message flashed on his screen; his sister, 4 hours ahead of him, was awake. He opened his camera and waved to his younger sister, who saluted him with her cup of coffee. Since it was early, they typed instead of using audio: Sarah W. 💗: Sammy sammy sam sam S. Wilson: jfc sis ur hyper today Sarah W: 💗: I have a long weekend!! Going 2 the spa S. Wilson: u fancy Sarah W 💗: do u have your HON HON HON FRONSH LESSON today S. Wilson: lol u know i do Sarah W 💗: R U GONNA TELL LE PROFESSOR YOU WANNA SMASH S. Wilson: obv not jfc Sarah W 💗: if you don’t I WILL S. Wilson: Sarah NO Sarah W. 💗: SARAH YES S. Wilson: how do u make bold?? S. Wilson: o nvm i figured it out Sarah W. 💗: tell him LUI TOUCHER LE PÉNIS Sam couldn’t help it; he let out an ungainly wheeze, shaking with laughter at his desk. “L...lui... toucher... le pénis,” Sam read aloud, actual tears starting in his eyes. His sister was ridiculous. “Christ, Wilson. ‘Him touch the penis? That’s pretty bad grammar,” Bucky said from the doorway. Sam just barely refrained from yelping, instead whipping around to stare at the source of the voice. “What the hell, Barnes!” “Your door was kinda open,” Bucky shrugged. “And your light was on. Figured you’d want some company.” As he spoke, he moved further into the room-- much like he had many times over the last few months. Sam and Bucky had become late-night companions (not like that, Sarah, oh my god), since they both had trouble staying asleep all night. Maybe they’d fallen asleep tangled together more than a few times on Sam or Bucky’s bed. No big. “I was just talking to Sarah,” Sam said, still laughing a little. It was only when Bucky smiled and said “How is she?” that Sam remembered that Bucky and Sarah occasionally exchanged pleasantries. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly as he read the conversation. Sarah, watching with wide eyes, waved and gave Bucky a thumbs up. Bucky grinned at her. “Listen, Sarah is wild, Barnes. I don’t--” Sam started. “If you wanted to ask something like that, you’d say...” Barnes leaned forward and murmured it into Sam’s ear, afterwards huffing out an almost shy laugh. Sam, feeling distinctly feverish as he had with increasing frequency around Barnes lately, repeated the phrase. “Pretty good, Wilson,” Banres murmured. He paused. “If you were serious, the answer is yes,” he continued in French. Sam frowned for a few moments, mentally translating. When it clicked, he sort of-- twitched. “Really?” “Yeah.” Bucky bit his lower lip briefly before switching back to English. “I’ve been sleeping fine the last couple months. Just been gettin’ up early to see you.” “Jesus, Barnes. We’re a couple of idiots,” Sam said, laughing slightly. “So have I. We coulda been sleeping in all this time, man.” “Dunno. I don’t mind.” Bucky’s eyes were on him, intense and searching. If you were serious, the answer is yes. Slowly, tentatively, the two men edged towards each other and found that the answer was an emphatic oui. Sarah W. 💗: OMG SAM UR MAKING OUT WITH HIM Sarah W. 💗: Sam do u know u still have your camera on Sarah W. 💗: EW EW EW OK BYE

[matcha-chocolate]

Sam: We shouldn't do this. Steve (his Heroic Jaw of Justice™ protruding with Annoying Inconvenient Righteousness™): We have to. - the demanding lovely @imafuckingreverseracist Okay, that prompt was already like an entire fic, how the fuck am I supposed to... hhhh OKAY HERE WE GO  Sam wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly.  “Sorry, Director-- you want me to what?” Fury was already holding out the folder to Sam, and he waved it irritably.  “You’re going to be partnering with Rogers on this assignment. Black tie. Subtle profile, no need for shadow conditions. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Sam looked at Steve standing at attention beside him, his own folder held primly behind his back. He was definitely a little pink in the face, though.

“And... St-- Commander Rogers requested me specifically, you said?” Sam said slowly, taking the folder from Fury. Fury didn’t even spare Steve a second glance, merely nodding. “Rogers says you two are a good team. Isn’t that right?” “That’s right, sir,” Steve said gravely. There was an uncomfortable pause as the three of them ignored Steve’s pink cheeks. He coughed once, twice, awkwardly. “Well?” Fury said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Sir?” Sam asked, straightening his stance. Something about Nick Fury made you never want to slouch. “Why are you two still here? Don’t you have an assignment to prepare for?” Fury said dryly, dismissing them by turning his computer and clacking away at the keys. Sam waited until they were in the elevator to turn to Steve and hiss “What the fuck, Rogers?” “I know, I know--” “We said we’d keep our personal lives and work lives separate! That means you don’t request me for missions.” “We did say that, but ... I dunno, when I got the mission parameters, I kinda panicked and uhm. Asked for you.” Sam allowed himself a moment to be touched that Steve’s first thought in a moment of crisis was to reach for Sam. Then he got pissy all over again. “What could have made you so jumpy, Steve? Honestly.” “Let’s... just go over our folders tonight, okay?” “Fine. It’s your turn to cook, which means--” “I know. Takeout.” They exchanged a fond smile, and then straightened up and moved apart subtly as the elevator doors slid open and a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents got on with them.

“Alexander and Rory Phillips,” Sam read aloud, glancing between the two folders. “This is why you freaked out?” “I didn’t freak out.” “It’s just a role, Steve. You’ve gone undercover as a couple before...” “Not since we started seeing each other,” Steve mumbled, looking frankly ridiculous in his shower cap. They were going undercover, and Steve was becoming a brunet to fit the part. He also dreaded putting in the contacts that would tint his eyes green, but it was all for the good of the mission. Sam, for his part, grumbled considerably because he’d had to shave off his goatee and wear glasses, as well as a small silver hoop in one ear. (”It makes me look like I’m an undergrad again,” he groaned.) Steve raised a hand to scratch under the shower cap, but Sam gently caught him, stopping him. “Hey,” he said, more seriously, “is that what’s bothering you? Pretending to date someone else? It’s just acting.” Steve shrugged miserably. “I’m no good at acting,” he sighed. “I’d just be missing you the whole time, wishing it was you on my arm.” Sam shook his head, disbelieving. “You are genuinely the corniest man on the face of the planet.” “You love it.” “Eehhhh...” Ignoring Steve’s pretend outrage, Sam continued, “I don’t know why Fury went along with this. We shouldn’t do this.” Steve tilted his head, all righteousness and bravery. “We have to, Sam.” The effect was rather ruined by the soft pfffff of air squeezing out from under his shower cap.

“Can I get you another drink, Alex?” Steve asked, leaning in so that his lips almost brushed Sam’s ear. For all Steve opined his poor acting, he was playing the part of the lovestruck newlywed to perfection. He’d barely kept his hands off Sam-- or rather, ‘Alexander’-- all night. “Oh my god, Rory, are you trying to get me drunk?” Sam laughed, shaking his head. The other couple they were standing with chuckled indulgently, their arms around each other. They were a striking pair, the woman almost ethereally beautiful with sleek blonde hair, the man... much the same. Surprise, surprise, they were the undercover Hydra agents that Fury had sent Sam and Steve to suss out. The woman kept giving Sam the once-over in a way that made his skin crawl, but he grit his teeth and hoped it looked like a smile. “So, Alexander,” the woman said, “how is it that you know the Senator?” “I did some freelance work for her a few years ago,” Sam said breezily. “We kept in touch, and since Roro and I just moved nearby...” Sam didn’t have to worry about the Senator corroborating his cover story; she’d been the one to get in contact with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place. Steve’s mouth twitched a little at the nickname Sam had given him, but he continued to play his role well. He even snaked his arm around Sam’s waist during one of the woman’s lingering looks, which Sam thought was a little... much. “And how about you, Rory?” the man asked Steve, tipping his glass in recognition. Steve cleared his throat and Sam steeled himself to save Steve from an awkward lie. “I just go where he goes,” Steve laughs. “A little like a lost puppy, if you will. I’d follow him anywhere.” Sam was impressed; Steve sounded absolutely sincere, and the hand on his hip squeezed lightly. The blond couple cooed over them again, warming to them. Sam and Steve played along, and it was surprisingly easy to play the married couple. Sure, they had been casually dating for a couple of years, but... Who ‘casually’ dates for a couple of years, actually? Plus, they lived together. Hmm. Sam... felt like he was missing a puzzle piece. Before Sam could ponder much longer about that, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Smiling apologetically, he pulled it out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen and sighed as though put-upon. “Sorry,” he murmured, holding up the phone and pointing. His screen showed a picture of an older black man with the contact name “[Dad]” underneath. “He’ll want to know how to move went, I didn’t call him last weekend...” “He’s gonna blame me for that one, I bet,” Steve sighed, chuckling. Sam rolled his eyes and answered the phone, moving away from the group. “Dad? Hi, what’s up?” “You and Rory can’t call an old man?” Fury asked, using their agreed-upon code. (Update?) “Sorry, pops. We had a lot of stuff to unpack in the new place, you know? Almost done, though!” (Gathering intel. Marks close to trusting us.) “When can I come see y’all? Your mama worries you’re getting skinny without her cooking.” (Anything usable? S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ready for backup.) “Hmmm. You and ma free on the 5th? Me and Rory were gonna try a new restaurant-- we keep hearing they do a mean squid stew.” (5 minutes. We’ll try to get them to mention Hydra.) “All right, Alex. Don’t you cancel on us, now.” (Exactly 5 minutes. Get it done.) “’Course not, pops.” (Roger that.) As soon as Sam rejoined Steve and the other couple, he could tell that the 5 minutes weren’t even needed. Steve’s body language was tight, radiating fury in the way that only a certain evil organization could bring about. “Alex, honey,” Steve said, his jaw tight, “Trigg and Steph were just telling us about another event.” Uh-oh. “Were they?” Sam asked, the warning in his tone evident to only Steve. “Oh-- dad and mom are dropping by on the ... 4th,” he amended, mentally calculating how much time had passed since he’d spoken to Fury. “Ah, okay. We’d better get the place ready before then,” Steve murmured, relaxing significantly when Sam looped his arm through Steve’s. “So-- what’s this about a party?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows playfully at the blonds. They looked slightly uncomfortable -- which wasn’t surprising, since they weren’t keen on inviting a Black man to join their little squid Nazi club. But then Trigg smiled sharkishly. “Yes. Well, we have an exclusive little club here in town; we were so hoping that you’d join us. We were going to join them in a few minutes, in fact.” For some reason, his eyes kept darting down to Steve’s chest -- which would usually be understandable (have you seen Steve’s chest?), but Trigg hadn’t shown much interest in either of them until just now. Sam chanced a glance at Steve’s suit jacket, and with a sick lurch in his stomach, he saw it. A green contact was stuck to the dark material, which meant that Steve had one blue eye, and based on his size and the way he’d undoubtedly stiffened up at the word ‘Hydra’ while Sam was away, the two blonds had put two and two together. They weren’t inviting them to a party, so much as they were trying to lure Steve and Sam to their deaths. “Looks like you dropped something, Rogers,” the woman hissed. Steve’s hands balled into fists immediately, blowing any kind of cover they might have had left. Sam often said he wasn’t a spy, but Steve really, really wasn’t a spy. He was pretty good at punching, though, so he lay the man out with a clean sock to the jaw. Sam, never being keen on punching women, settled for sweeping her legs from under her, even as she scrabbled in her small purse for her pistol. “All right, that’s enough,” Fury said, pushing his way through the crowd. “Not bad, Wilson. Rogers, you did... about as well as expected.” Steve took no offence, merely shrugging as he bent over to haul the groggy Trigg to his feet. 

“That was pretty good, Steve. At least until your damn contact fell out,” Sam said later, stretching his aching back as Steve pored over the new folders Fury had handed them. “That whole ... I’ll follow him anywhere thing. Cute. Convincing.” Steve looked up, his dark hair still offputting. “Convincing? It was true.” “Mhm.” “Sam, hang on-- look at me, c’mon. What do you think this is?” Sam looked up from the yoga mat where he was awkwardly tilted forward, working the kinks out of his lower back. “What what is?” “This. Us.” Sam frowned. “What? I mean... we’re. Dating? No?” “Yeah, but-- Sam, I’m in this. I meant it, I’ll follow you anywhere. As long as you’ll have me.” Sam didn’t know what to say to that, and after a pause, Steve came to kneel next to him on the mat. “I’m gonna be corny.” “Noooo...” “Yes. Having you on my arm felt right. Being able to kiss you, dance with you and not worry about anyone judging me, felt right. I don’t care about work knowing any more. I just want to be with you, in any and every way you’ll have me.” “Pervert.” “Wh-- not like that! Well. Yes, also like that, but... I’m trying to say I love you, Sam.” “Wow.” “And I want to be with you.” “I’m...” “And I think I want to get married.” “You what?” “And adopt 3 kids.” “Wait wait wait stop stop. How long you been ... I dunno, writing ‘Mr. Steve Wilson’ all over your binder?” “How long we known each other?” “Okay, I need a moment. You gave me a lot of things to respond to, man. Run them by me again.” Sam smiled slowly and Steve rolled his eyes, knowing that Sam was just fishing now. “Fine. First: I love you.” “Right. Me too. Next?” “I want to be with you.” “Done. Moving on?” “I... I want to get married.” “Okay. Next?” “Wait, really?” “Yeah, sure. You gotta ask more romantic, though. And get ma’s permission.” “Of course, Sam. I can call her n--” “Sit down, Rogers. It’s 11 at night. What’s next on the list?” “Kids.” “Can I talk you down to one to start with?” “One, and a dog?” “One, and a cat.” “I hate cats.” “But you love me. You said. You a liar, Rogers?” “No! Of course I’m n--” “I can’t believe I’m getting a cat,” Sam said excitedly, yelling in surprise when Steve suddenly pulled him down on the mat, covering his face and neck with overjoyed kisses. ( “Contact me when you have news that me ‘n’ the entirety of the team hasn’t known for 4 years, Rogers,” Fury would drawl boredly when Steve finally worked up the nerve to tell the Director about himself and Sam.)

[matcha-chocolate]

SamBucky + sigh - @sarsaparillaswords​ “Barnes, you’re increasing the carbon dioxide in here by like 80%,” Sam muttered, not even looking up from his newspaper. The ex-assassin had been staring off into space for the last 20 minutes, occasionally heaving the loudest, most put-upon sighs.  “What’s your problem, man? Miss Steve? He’ll be back in a few months...” Bucky made a face. “He keeps texting me. ‘Remember to be nice to Sam, Buck,’ and ‘Are you eating? You should try sushi!’ -- like I haven’t been out in the world longer’n him--” “So why the dramatic sighing, Barnes?” Bucky didn’t say Because I was just remembering how your eyes look in the sun. Instead, he said “Was thinking about cats.”

“Cats?” “Yeah. You know when they stare at the air all creepy-like?” “...yeah?” “What if they’re seeing ghosts?” Sam took his coffee out on the balcony, trying hard not to react to Bucky’s stupid snorting laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky, sigh any more and we’ll get condensation on the windows.” Bucky risked a sideways at Sam, taking in the muscles of his arms as he moved his hand from the gearstick to the steering wheel. That purple t-shirt was going to be the death of him. He unconsciously sighed again. The way you smiled at me when I made you coffee makes me want to be the one to make it for you every morning for the rest of our lives. “Barnes. What is it?” “If mermaids are half-human--” “Bucky, what the fuck--” “Wouldn’t their skin get all wrinkly and like... slough off?” “Barnes, that’s disgusting.” Sam wrinkled his nose as he glanced over his shoulder, signalling to change lanes. He frowned a little. Dammit, why didn’t mermaid skin get all fucked up? “We can google it.”

“What’s with the sigh now?” It had become a sort of game by now; since Bucky wasn’t becoming any less enamoured with Sam, his pining and sighing wasn’t going anywhere. At least it was fun to make up a new reason each time, trying to draw a laugh out of Sam. You loaned me your hoodie last week and it smelled like you and now I don’t want to give it back. Also, I stretched the hell out of it. “In my day, this was a luxury,” Bucky said, gesturing to the bowl of microwave popcorn that they were sharing. Sam hummed thoughtfully. “Because it was expensive?” “Nah, because we only had enough heat to pop one kernel at a time.” “Shut the fuck up, Barnes.” “A bowl this size would take days.” Sam pelted Bucky with a handful of popcorn. “That’s hours and hours of labour, Sam. Ungrateful whippersnapper.” It was the ‘whippersnapper’ that made Sam lose it, leaning against Bucky for support as he shook with laughter. Bucky’s shoulder felt warm long after Sam moved his hand. 

Bucky closed his eyes against the bright sun, enjoying the warmth of the grass beneath him. Sam had insisted that they go to a nearby park and get some fresh air, fearing that they were becoming antisocial shut-ins. He heaved a huge, happy(ish) sigh. “Yeah?” Sam asked from beside him, the amusement apparent in his voice. He enjoyed the silly shit that Bucky came up with to hide whatever was really bothering him. It wasn’t the worst way for him to cope, so Sam didn’t press too much. I thought I heard you crying last night and it took every fibre of my being not to come hold you. “Do you think the first ever human to try cow’s milk was shunned by his tribe?” Sam laughed, rich and happy. Bucky’s heart hurt a little. “Okay, I’ll bite. What the fuck are you talking about?” “Just imagine-- they go over and start sucking on the cow’s udders--” “The rest of the tribe is saying ‘Oog is a freak, man,’” Sam added, making Bucky sputter with surprised laughter. He has a terrible sense of humour. Upgrade this infatuation to love. Shit.

Bucky wasn’t sure how to react when Sam called him to join him on a date. Not like that-- not quite. Sam’s date had stood him up (Bucky seethed at the very idea), and since there was a reservation at a nice restaurant going to waste, Sam had invited him to have dinner. 

“Just come eat some pricey steak and don’t think too much about it,” Sam had said breezily. Bucky had swallowed hard. “Oh...okay.” Now, Bucky was seated across from Sam, and the candlelight was doing wonders for his already attractive features, bringing out his cheekbones and expressive brown eyes. “Damn, not even some good wine and steak can stop the melancholy, Barnes?” Sam said, his smile a little bit forced. Bucky sat up, painfully aware that he’d been staring woefully at Sam and, yes, sighing. “What’s wrong, man? I know you brush it off with jokes, but... something’s bothering you.” It’s you. “It’s you.” Dammit. “I mean-- not like that.” “Then explain, ‘cause that was kind of a shitty thing to say,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow. “I can’t stop thinking about you. And your stupid annoying laugh. And your loud music. And your ugly handsome face.” “My ugly handsome face,” Sam repeated, laughing a little. “I dunno, this is hard for me. Cut me a break.” Sam smiled. “Now, why would I do that?” He signalled to the waiter and Bucky’s heart sank. Sam was eager to leave, and he’d fucked up a perfectly good friendship-- “Can you bring another bottle of wine and... hmm, some garlic bread? And -- Barnes?” Bucky made an inquisitive sound, feeling wrong-footed. Sam’s smile was slow but certain, his eyes holding some mischief in them even by the dim candlelight. “Wanna order dessert? We’re gonna be here a while.”

Bucky sighed, his mouth hot against Sam’s neck. Breathless, Sam laughed softly. “Thought we took care of the sad sighs,” he murmured, his fingers busy undoing Bucky’s shirt buttons. “Mm-mm,” Bucky hummed. “Wasn’t a sad one.” Soon enough, he had Sam sighing in an entirely different way.

[matcha-chocolate]

I’m combining prompts again! These are from @samwichwilson​ Sam + cooking   and samsteve + vodka

“It’ll be good for our spirits,” Steve had said.  “I read that it’s good for forming closer bonds,” Steve had mentioned not-at-all-casually over breakfast. “Don’t you want some fresh air?” Steve had called loudly on one of their runs, as he lapped Sam.  “We both have some time off coming up, don’t we?” Steve mused as he did chin-ups, barely sweating. Sam, breathing hard through his 64th pushup, finally snapped.  “I’m not going camping, Steve. Shut. Up. About it.” Steve just grinned sheepishly. Sam groaned, because he knew a ‘I’ll drop it... for about 2 days’ look when he saw it. 

“The mountains must be beautiful this time of year,” Steve had murmured against Sam’s neck late at night, his arm pulling the other man close to his chest.  “This again,” Sam muttered sleepily. “Steve, why are you so obsessed with this?” “I never went as a kid,” Steve said mournfully. Sam made an unimpressed snort.  “Me neither. Try again.” “It ...looks like fun?” “Paying good money to buy a tent and camping supplies, leaving my warm apartment-- which already HAS sleeping and cooking and showering amenities, might I add-- to get my ass bitten by mosquitoes and bears?” When Steve spoke, his voice shook a little from repressed mirth. “Are the bears and mosquitoes in cahoots, or--” “I’m leaving you.” “C’mon, Sam,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to his lover’s skin. “Please. I promise it’ll be fun.” “... don’t make me regret this, Rogers.”

Sam sincerely regretted meeting Steve Rogers sometimes. The object of his annoyance was currently trying without success to tie a tarp over their tent. Because it was raining (of course.) And their tent was leaking (fantastic.) And it was leaking because Steve Rogers was still a cheapass despite having a pretty sizable bank account (Sam understood why, but shut up.) “Okay, I think I got it!” Steve called, sticking his head into the tent and positively beaming. Nothing -- not the bad weather, not the shitty tent, not even the absolute swarm of mosquitoes that adored him-- nothing was dampening his spirits. He clambered ungracefully into the tent, dripping water, and then shook his head to get the water out, spattering cold drops of rain all over Sam and his sleeping bag. Sam shot him a poisonous glare that Steve totally missed. And what was the point of glaring at someone if they didn’t notice, really?  “How you holding up, Sammy?” “Don’t call me ‘Sammy,’ Rogers.” “Aw, geeze. You’re grumpy, huh?” “Die.” “Great! Okay, let’s get some dinner going...” Sam tried to hold on to his bad mood, he really did. He was damp, he was cold, and he could only think that right at that moment, he could be home with ESPN and some good whiskey, but noooo. But Steve was... he was so damn happy to be out here with Sam, fussing over him and setting up their little heat stove, rubbing his arms to warm him up, making him hot cocoa... Sam softened a little.  (Steve’s wet t-shirt being plastered to his ridiculous torso helped to cheer him up, too.) “What’ve we got to eat?” Sam asked, his voice slightly muffled from the sleeping bag being pulled up near his mouth. Steve rifled through their supply pack, pulling out a somewhat baffling assortment of food.  “We’ve got... Spam, beef jerky, raisins, I think this is a potato, and... Skittles? You like Skittles, right? Oh hey-- a carrot!” “Rogers, did you just close your eyes and grab random shit off the shelves at the supermarket?” “Uh...” “Rogers, did you not go to the supermarket?” “I spent a lot of time looking for a reasonably-priced tent! I ran out of time!” “Oh my god, you just took whatever was left in our pantry.” “I was ... being resourceful?” “You were in the war, man, how do you not know how to pack supplies?!” “I wasn’t in charge of the supplies, I was in charge of punching holes in Nazi tanks!” “Ohhh. My god.” Sam shuffled out of his sleeping bag and made his way over to Steve, who was looking decidedly sulky (but only because he really had fucked up on the food.) Sam sat on his haunches near him and placed his hands on either side of Steve’s face.  “I love you, but you’re an idiot.” “....you love me?”  Sam blinked. He hadn’t meant to...  “Well, yeah. Guess so.”  Steve positively glowed, leaning forward to kiss Sam soundly on the lips. “Me too. The love thing, I mean. But about you.” “You’re a disaster,” Sam muttered, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. Steve shrugged, still smiling like a dope as he watched Sam unzip a small section of their pack.  “Lucky for you, some of us thought to go to the corner store yesterday.” “I read somewhere that raisins can go in stew,” Steve offered, trying to be helpful. Sam considered for a second.  “Why not? Chuck ‘em in.” The beef(jerky), carrot, potato, and now raisin stew ... smelled surprisingly good. Sam had come through with a few ready-to-heat pouches of soup, and they’d decided to combine the things that seemed least troublesome into some kind of soup-stew-meal-thing.  “I bet I can find some wild onions!” Steve said suddenly. Sam looked up, frowning.  “It’s pitch black and storming out. Onions aren’t worth all that--” “I can see fine. I’ll be right back, okay?” “You don’t know how to pack for a camping trip, but you can spot onions at night during a storm?” “Yup. Not the first time I’ve done it.” Sam shook his head and went back to stirring the stew.  Picking onions shouldn’t take two hours. Sam was damn sure of that. He chewed fretfully at his lip, glancing at his phone again. He’d called and texted Steve several times; the storm wasn’t letting up, and Sam was slowly becoming more and more worried. Rogers could take care of himself, but he was also a magnet for trouble.  Sam heaved a huge sigh and squared his shoulders, coming to a decision. Turning off the heat of their little camping stove, Sam put on his jacket and shrugged into the heavy pack. Would he ever get a break from saving Rogers’ dumb ass? Sam was immediately soaked to the bone upon exiting the tent, the cold water trickling down the back of his neck. Camping was the worst.  Sam used his hand to shield his eyes from the rain, squinting to see if he could pick out where Steve had wandered off. Using the flashlight in his pack, he swept the ground in front of him, looking for a familiar boot print-- and behind him, he heard the sound of tearing fabric. Whirling on the spot, Sam aimed the beam of the flashlight at the tent, and nearly had a heart attack when the cold flash of an animal’s eyes caught the light. Bears.  Seriously. Bears. Sam was a brave man, but knowing that if he’d stayed another 5 minutes in the tent, he’d be a dead brave man made him feel a little faint. One of the massive animals gave an inquisitive huff and moved towards him, and Sam bolted the other way. Usain Bolt who?

“Sam? You okay?” “It’s raining, you went missing and aged me 5 years, our tent got attacked by bears, and I just fell off a cliff.” “Yeah, that hill up there’s a doozy. Wait, bears?” “A doozy. I accepted my death on the way down, Steve. This is how I was gonna die. Running from bears, in the rain, falling off a cliff.” “The fall wasn’t that long.” “Let me be dramatic. Please. It’s been a shitty night.” “I-- you’re right. I’m sorry, Sam.” “Thank you. Also, fuck you for dragging me camping.” “Noted. I’ve got some good news, though!” “What could possibly be good news at this point?” “I see lights over that way,” Steve said, pointing. Sam noticed even in the dim beam of the flashlight (which had somehow survived the fall) that he was covered head to toe in scratches. Steve never got the hang of falling with grace, which was something Sam had had to learn fast during the trial runs of the Falcon wings.  “If that’s not a decent hotel, I’m going to murder you,” Sam said matter-of-factly, offering his hand to Steve to pull him up.  “Fair,” Steve nodded, leading the way towards the lights. 

The front desk attendant looked terrified as the sopping, bloodied and limping men stumbled into the elegant lobby of the hotel. Steve’s patented Captain America Smile, Sam’s charming witty banter, and a Stark black credit card got them a pretty nice room.  “Ooowww!” “Holy shit, Steve, you’ve been thrown off of buildings. You’ve been thrown through buildings. You’ve been shot more times than I can count. Quit whining, they’re just scratches.” “I gotta act stoic in front of the troops. I mean, the team. The serum made me stronger, not immune to pain. And there are a lot of damn scratches and you’re pouring vodka all over them.” “Gotta disinfect them,” Sam said cheerfully. He’d already tended to his own surprisingly few cuts (see? learning to fall properly paid off), but since his field kit had been lost in the bear attack (seriously. bears.) he had to make do with the overpriced tiny bottles of vodka in the minibar and the boxes of band-aids that the woman at the front desk had worriedly pressed into his hands upon them checking in.  “I’ll heal up in a few hours, Sam, geeze.” “Sorry, did the serum make you immune to infection? Because I seem to remember someone getting a pretty nasty infection from a splinter because oh, the serum.” “Point.” “Damn right,” Sam muttered. He dabbed at the last (and worst) of Steve’s scrapes, gentle with his hands even as he grumbled about how foolish his boyfriend was.  “Sam,” Steve said quietly sometime later, halfway through tucking into a hamburger mercifully provided by room service.  “Hmm?” “I uhm, when I fell off the cliff...” “Yeah?” “I just. I thought of you. I was worried about you and-- and I thought, ‘What if I never see him again?’ It made me feel sick.” Sam looked at him for a long moment before putting aside his mostly empty plate and scooting closer to him. He took Steve’s hand in his, threading their fingers together.  “Yeah, Steve. Welcome to being in love.” They passed the tiny vodka bottles back and forth as they told each other about their camping mishaps while apart. It turned out to be a lot funnier on the retelling than when it had actually happened. That, and vodka made everything hilarious. 

“You still cold?” Steve asked into the darkness. Sam mumbled sleepily and Steve took that to mean ‘yes,’ because he was soon shuffling closer behind Sam, holding him and letting his body heat warm Sam. “I hate you slightly less,” Sam sighed, finally content. “Music to my ears,” Steve yawned. They would both wake up with the warm afterglow of love. And pretty nasty hangovers.

[matcha-chocolate]

I decided to combine two prompts from Anons: Sambucky + domestic and Sambucky and "you weren't supposed to hear that" This one will probably be a little shorter than the others, because I’m dying of exhaustion tired but I’m determined to do as many of these as I can, while I’ve got the inspiration 😩 “Dun, dun dun... another one bites the dust,” Sam sang, watching Bucky scowl at the potted plant. The poor thing had finally died, refusing to be revived with water, sun, or plant food. It was the 5th plant Bucky had killed in the last 2 months. 

“Shut it, Wilson.” “You’re right. I don’t want to enrage the plant murderer.” "Yeah, that’s right. I’m comin’ for your mint.” “Don’t touch my fucking herbs, Bucky Barnes.” Sam knelt next to Bucky, using his shoulder to nudge him playfully. “You can’t just murder my plants because yours keep committing seppuku.” “Oh, haha. I dunno what I’m doing wrong... these are supposed to be easy, right?” “Yeah, man. Super easy, my ma used to grow them and they were fine with just about anything.” “Shit.” “Don’t worry about it, Barnes. Your lemon tree is doing real good...” Sam stood and offered Bucky a hand up. “I’m even using one of the lemons for dinner, huh?” “Great, yeah,” Bucky murmured. He looked sadly at the anthurium’s shrivelled leaves and sighed.

“C’mon, baby, please please... just one little flower for me,” Bucky was muttering to the droopy plant. He startled as Sam cleared his throat behind him. "You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he groaned, drawing a laugh from the other man. “Like I’m not used to you bein’ a weirdo. Another anthurium? Why you so obsessed with these plants, anyway? Your peace lily is fine, the succulents are doing great--” “Just... I want this one to bloom.” “Why?” “What, a guy can’t like flowers?” Sam just laughed, kissing Bucky’s smiling mouth. “You’re weird, Barnes.” “And yet you’re with me.” “Never said I wasn’t weird too.”

Bucky used his hip to nudge the fridge closed, his arm full of ingredients. It was his turn to cook, and although Sam usually insisted on helping, Bucky had put his foot down. Sam had had a long week, and he wasn’t going to let the man run himself ragged when Bucky was perfectly capable of making a good dinner. Well. A decent dinner. He apparently went a little heavy with the salt. “You sure you don’t want help?” Sam asked, poking his head into the kitchen. “Been cookin’ dinner with one arm all my damn life, Sam,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes. Sam scowled; his boyfriend had been born with one arm, and Sam knew that that had nothing to do with what a bad cook he was. “You know damn well I didn’t mean that. Last time you tried to make coconut rice you used an entire-ass tin for one cup of rice.” “Well... you could taste the coconut, right?” Sam shook his head, silently resolving himself to make a good show of eating whatever over-seasoned dish Bucky presented for dinner. You’d think that a white guy from the 30s would under-season food, but no. “Where’d anthurium #5 go, Bucky? Croaked?” Bucky carefully repressed his urge to look furtive. The plant was far from dead, but he didn’t want Sam to know that yet. It’d ruin the surprise. “Yeah,” he lied easily. “Threw it out. Hey, come taste this?” Sam allowed Bucky to feed him a spoonful of the sauce that he was mixing together for their chicken. “Damn, Barnes. This is really goo-- Bucky, no!” “What? What’d I do?” Bucky asked, having just added about 3 tablespoons of salt to the sauce, effectively ruining it.

Sam cracked an eye open, groaning faintly as the bright morning sun shone through a slit in the blinds. He was mildly hungover, courtesy of Bucky and Steve taking him out for pre-birthday drinks the night before. Red wine was the devil. Sam rolled over in the bed, sighing when he saw that Bucky wasn’t there-- and based on how cold his spot was, he’d been gone a while. It’s not that Sam was being bratty or anything; it just sucked to wake up on his birthday in an empty bed. A loud thud-thud-thud came from the front door, making Sam sit up. That had to be Bucky, and if he was kicking the door instead of knocking, it meant that his arm was occupied. Maybe with cake, Sam allowed himself to hope. “Happy birthday. You look like shit,” Bucky greeted him. Sam grabbed the large box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts from his hand, slapped him upside the head, and pretended to close the door behind him-- but Bucky slipped inside the apartment easily. It was a well-worn routine by now. “I feel like shit, but some angel brought me fresh doughnuts,” Sam sighed, breathing in the warm sweet scent. He quirked an eyebrow at Bucky. “If you see him, tell him thanks. He’ll be easy to spot-- he’s the guy who doesn’t tell his boyfriend that he looks like shit on his damn birthday.” “Mhmmm,” Bucky hummed, kissing Sam’s neck as Sam bit into a doughnut and groaned with pleasure. “Happy birthday, Sam.” The smile Sam turned on him was pure sunshine, and it never failed to make Bucky smile softly in return. “Thank you, baby.” It wasn’t that often that they used cutesy nicknames for each other, preferring Wilson and Barnes for their teasing, but it was a special occasion. “One minute, I got somethin’ for you,” Bucky murmured before pulling the front door open and disappearing for a few minutes. Sam busied himself eating far more doughnuts than could have been healthy (it was his birthday, dammit), content to sip at the tea that Bucky had thoughtfully set to brew as Sam slept. “Okay. Uhm... happy birthday. Again.” Sam stared at the large, heart-shaped flower perched delicately among the healthy-looking green of the plant’s leaves. “You got it to flower? How...?” “I asked Cynthia across the hall to take care of it for me. I... I know these were your ma’s favourites, and she... she wanted me to try to grow ‘em for you after she-- you know.” Sam’s mother had been sick for a long time, passing away a few years ago. Sam’s smile was decidedly watery. “Sh-she used to say giving an anthurium was giving someone your heart.” “I remember,” Bucky said quietly. Sam looked momentarily nonplussed before his face softened. He took the plant from Bucky, fondly running a finger over the waxy red flower before setting down the pot. Then he was kissing Bucky-- his forehead, his nose, his mouth; he even raised his hand to his mouth and pressed little kisses to his knuckles. “What’s all that for?” Bucky asked, red-faced and gruff. Sam smirked. “You loooove me.” “I take it back.” “You just gave me your heart because you’re in love with me, Barnes.” Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but then just shrugged, laughing. “Yeah, so? What, a guy can’t be in love?”

[matcha-chocolate]

Samsteve and honey!! Bc they're so good!!! :*  - @permashift (Apologies to Brampton and CBC for teasing ya. It’s with love.) I’ve been instructed to make this prompt smutty too! Ohhh lord.  [initiate flustered blushing protocol] “It’s all they had left.” Sam crossed his arms, defensive.  “And whose idea was it to wait until the last minute to get liquor?” “And whose fault was it that we were on mission until the last minute?” “Fuckin’ Ross, that’s who,” Steve muttered, heaving a sigh as he surveyed the sad selection of snacks and booze that he and Sam had managed to procure on December 31st at 7 in the evening. Most stores were cleared out, people stocking up for their New Year’s Eve parties.  “Okay... forget it. I’m just glad we have something to eat,” he amended, smiling a little. Sam looked slightly less mulish and flopped onto his hotel bed. 

“I gotta tell you, I didn’t predict spending the new year in a shitty motel in -- where are we?” “Brampton, Ontario.” “Canada. What are we doing in Canada, Steve?” Sam moodily picked up a pack of Starburst, tugging at the thick wrapping. “Well, Alpha Flight had a situatio--” “It-was-rhetorical-I-know-why-we’re-here-we-just-finished-the-damn-mission,” Sam snapped. Steve grinned wanly as he nudged his glasses up his nose, knowing that Sam was just irritable because of the alcohol situation. “I mean... honey whiskey,” Sam muttered. “Wanna open one? A toast to my first ever serum-free mission?” Steve’s voice caught a little, but his smile was genuine. Ever since the incident that had stripped him of his powers, Steve had had to work hard to earn his spot running missions along Sam again. On the plus side, he could get drunk again. Sam was watching him closely, sucking on a pink Starburst. “Yeah, okay,” he said thickly around the candy. Steve busied himself opening the whiskey and pouring a healthy measure into two styrofoam cups while Sam fiddled with his phone, looking for music to play. (They’d already tried the television. Whatever ‘CBC’ was, it fucking sucked.) “Classy,” Sam grinned when Steve pressed his drink into his hand. “All right, well... here’s to a good first mission with your new and improved bony ass.” Steve choked on his drink -- partially from laughing at what Sam had said, partially because the whiskey was gross, sickly sweet and cloying. Sam made a face as he swallowed his own drink, his expression mirroring Steve’s. “Told you, Rogers. This shit is disgusting.” “Yeah, no kiddin’,” Steve muttered. He paused. “Want another?” “......yeah, okay.”

“Naaaaah nah nah, if you wan’ set the mood, you play this kinda stuff,” Sam said, gesturing his phone. A woman’s sultry voice snaked from the tiny speakers, seeming to fill the small hotel room. “I gotta take your word for it,” Steve guffawed. “Stuff I’d’ve used is-- what-- oldies now?” He paused thoughtfully, his cheeks pink from the alcohol. Well. Partially from the alcohol. “Not that I... not that I really had any ladies to set the mood for. Fellas, yeah, but--” Sam’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t comment on this revelation. Steve, however, had different ideas. “Never told anybody that. Huh.” “Did you want to? Tell people?” “No... well... not everybody.” “Worried it’d taint your reputation?” Sam grinned, taking another swig of whiskey. They’d long stopped caring about the sickening taste, focusing instead on its effect. Steve was thrilled to be able to feel the buzz of alcohol again, and it had loosened his tongue considerably. “Taint my reputation? As what?” Sam bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to laugh. Steve noticed, and his eyes narrowed. “Sam, taint my reputation?” “Weeeeeeeellllllll,” Sam drawled, turning to look at Steve, “people have this kind of. Idea. That you’re, y’know. A virgin.” Steve blinked a few times. “Oh.” “Just, ‘oh’?” “Well, geeze, you made it sound like it was somethin’ bad. Nothin’ wrong with virgins.” “Course not. I didn’t mean--” “Oh I know you didn’t mean, Sam. But nah, ‘course I’m not.” “You’re-- what? Not?” “Nah, not for ages. Doubt they put that in the history books, though. ‘Steve Rogers liked baseball, painting, and fuckin’ men twice his size.’ Not ‘xactly family-friendly.” Sam’s eyes widened ever so slightly. This definitely hadn’t been the way he’d seen the conversation going, but he couldn’t ignore the uptick in his heartbeat. Steve liked to... hmmmm. “How ‘bout you, Sam?” “Me?” “Yeah, we’re spillin’ all the secrets tonight, ain’t we?” Steve looked intensely interested, his glasses long discarded on the bedside table. His blue eyes were dark, half-lidded as he gazed at Sam. Sam felt himself blushing furiously. “Uhhhhh.” “Shit, sorry-- I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable...” “No, it’s fine. I just. Not-- I guess I am? Uh. With men. I’ve never-- yeah. No.” Steve rested his chin on his hands, humming thoughtfully. “Okay. Nothin’ wrong with that,” he teased, winking. Sam huffed out an embarrassed laugh. “Almost -- I almost kissed Riley once. I, uh... wanted to.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Still want to try?” No one had ever accused Steve Rogers of being a coward. Sam found he’d been more than half hoping to get such an invitation, because he was nodding vigorously, putting his drink aside. The closeness of their bodies, the soft mood music, the way that Steve tended to bite his lip when he looked at Sam-- a lot of things slotted neatly into place in an instant. Oh. Ohhhh. “Look, we’re both... pretty wasted, so-- just a kiss. Okay?” Steve was saying, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Sam nodded, heart pounding. “If this doesn’t, uhm, if I don’t like--” “We’ll stop. Are you sure you want to...?” Sam leaned forward, his lips slightly parted, and Steve could see the flush of red under his brown skin, across his high cheekbones. His eyes were dark as rich earth, framed by thick curling lashes. Sam had never looked more beautiful. Steve pressed a cautious kiss to Sam’s warm lips, leaving enough room for the other man to pull back-- but all that happened was that Sam sucked in a sharp breath and pressed closer to Steve. The taste of honey was thick on Steve’s tongue, but Sam... Sam tasted of honey and the Starburst he’d been eating all night, his mouth hot against Steve’s. When Steve eased his tongue past Sam’s lips, licking his way into a deeper kiss, Sam knew there was no question left to answer. “St-- okay. Wait. Fuck.” Steve was pulling back, his lips kiss-bitten and pink. Sam was breathing a little heavily, the alcohol making his head swim pleasantly. He wanted more. He wanted Steve’s lips again, wanted his hands on him, wanted-- “Fuck, Sam. I ... we shouldn’t have...” Sam felt as though he’d been slapped. “What?” “No-- no no, not like that. Sam. That was amazing. It’s just... hell, I want you. Real bad. But not like... this.” Steve gestured to the empty liquor bottle on the floor, and the half-empty one standing precariously on the edge of the nightstand. They were drunk. Sam let out a frustrated sigh, knowing Steve was right. “Okay. You’re right.” “Ain’t I always?” “Shut the fuck up, Rogers.” Sam moved to go get a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and cringed. “Goddammit, I’m hard. Ow.” “Same here,” Steve muttered, shifting awkwardly on the bed. He grinned. “Well, there’s a perfectly good shower. We take the edge off-- seperately -- and watch cruddy movies until we pass out?” “Ah... yeah, sure.” Steve got up and made his way over to Sam, tilting his head up slightly. Sam, taking the hint, leaned down to kiss him, slow and hot. “Happy New Year,” he murmured against Steve’s lips.

There were worse ways to start off the first morning of the new year than slowly working himself onto Steve’s dick, Sam thought. “Sam, how-- fuck,” Steve rasped, his hands gripping Sam’s hips as the other man straddled him. “How,” he started again, “the fuck are you doing th-- god--” “I never... skip... leg day,” Sam said breathlessly, a tiny frown on his face as he adjusted to the stretch. Steve had spent what felt like hours slowly kissing, licking, and opening Sam up, to the point where he’d all but demanded to be fucked. Steve would usually have retorted with a smartass comment, but Sam gave an cautious, experimental roll of his hips, groaning low with pleasure. Steve was rather preoccupied from there on out. The new year is for learning new things. Sam learned that one of his new favourite things was riding Steve until they were both trembling and moaning and swearing and grabbing mindlessly at each other-- --Steve learned that the crush he’d been harbouring on Sam was a lot bigger than he thought, and... in fact, on their third go (January 2, 3:18am), Sam’s back arched, he sighed Steve’s name like a prayer, and Steve realized he loved him. “Excellent choice,” Sam would say later when Steve quietly murmured it into his ear. “I’m very lovable.” He laughed breathlessly as Steve kissed down his neck. “Okay, okay, I love you too. Christ, Rogers...” They didn’t drink any more of that awful honey whiskey, but their kisses were still sweet, still intoxicating.

[matcha-chocolate]

stevesam + steve is an ass eating champ - @clayappuzzo​ [TYPES WHILE AGGRESSIVELY BLUSHING]

The man was infuriating. He out-ran Sam, he always won Scrabble with some bullshit word that had fallen out of use decades ago, he charmed Mama Wilson on the first go, he took to technology as fast as Sam could show it to him, his paintings were hanging proudly in their living room -- not because they were his, but because they were actually that good, and even fucking Redwing, the world’s most irritable cat (don’t ask, Sam’s 2 year old niece had named it) took to Steve immediately. Sam didn’t feel jealous or inferior, it was just... kind of annoying. Steve had even smugly said “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know,” before proceeding to make Sam honest to god worry that the neighbours would think he was being murdered.  Steve Rogers was good at everything (except singing. Yikes.) Sam wasn’t complaining. Not now, anyway.

Sam barely entered the bedroom after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, when Steve was suddenly in his space.  “Challenge.” The single word made Sam’s heart speed up a little. Challenge. It meant Steve was in a mood, and the only person almost as stubborn and daredevil as Rogers, was Wilson. So far, ‘Challenge’ had entailed Being Quiet While Getting A Life-Ruining Blowjob (Steve - 1, Sam - 0); Coming Untouched (Steve - 2, Sam - 1); Edging Marathon (Steve - 3, Sam - 4); Mild Restraints (Steve - 5, Sam - 5); Mild Restraints: Blindfold Edition (Steve - 5, Sam - 8)... “What’s got you all worked up?” Sam asked, slightly breathless because Steve was already mouthing at his neck and pressing his hips against him. “Saw something. Online.” Sam let his head fall back with a soft groan; Steve had trailed his fingers up his thigh and was tugging insistently at Sam’s towel. ‘Online’ usually meant something that would have Sam an absolute wreck; there was nothing that Steve liked more than taking his lover to pieces and holding him after.  “Okay?” Steve breathed, his fingers just skimming Sam’s bare thigh through the gap in the towel. Sam felt his cock twitch, the heat from Steve’s hand being so close already winding him up.  “Okay. Challenge.” “Good. Lie down, please.” The please got him every time. Steve was perfectly fine being casual and teasing in their day-to-day interactions, but this... the polite commands said with ease...  Sam made to lie on his back, but Steve shook his head and gestured for him to turn over. Sam followed suit and glanced back, a tiny frown on his face. He bit his lip, meeting Steve’s heated gaze. Oh, Rogers was in a mood.  Steve made a sound of satisfaction and Sam felt the mattress dip under the other man’s weight as Steve joined him on the bed. Steve’s voice was low, rough in the way that it got when he was really turned on.  “Jesus, look at you. Hands and knees, if you would.” Sam glanced quickly at Steve, who tilted his head - Alright? Sam nodded his acquiescence before following Steve’s request. He wasn’t sure where this was going just yet, but if it was what he was starting to suspect-- “Sam.” It was just a word, gruff and breathy all at once. Sam let out a small groan when large hands gripped his ass, a little bit rough, a little bit possessive.  “Sam...” Steve didn’t continue, instead bending to lightly nip at one of Sam’s ass cheeks, drawing a soft grunt from him.  Okay, he could kind of guess what Steve was getting at now. Sam felt hyper aware of Steve’s every move, feeling the sharp but pleasurable sensation of Steve biting and kissing his burning skin. The noises he made-- the moans and hard exhales -- sounded as though he was getting as much out of it as Sam was-- Sam found himself rocking back a little when Steve made to spread his cheeks, opening himself up in a way that was a little obscene, a little bit shameless. Steve let out a strangled groan.  “God, Sam-- you want this? Yeah?” Sam couldn’t speak; he was achingly hard and he felt like every fucking nerve ending was electrified. Instead, he canted his hips back a little more, and that was answer enough.  The first feather-light stroke of Steve’s tongue drew a moan out of both men, Sam’s eyes fluttering shut. Steve ran a little warmer than the average person, so the feeling of his tongue against Sam’s skin was nothing short of exquisite. Sam was dying to touch himself, but almost as though he’d read Sam’s mind, Steve’s grip tightened just enough to keep him in place without hurting him.  Steve’s went about turning Sam to jelly with teasing licks, his tongue just barely fluttering over his hole. Occasionally he’d pause to press wet kisses to Sam’s cheek, or just squeeze Sam’s ass hard enough to make him moan. Sam felt like he was dying, desperate to stroke himself-- but the minute he made a move to do so, Steve tutted.  “Don’t do that, Sam.” His voice wasn’t disapproving, just gently commanding-- and Sam let out a frustrated sound that turned into a drawn-out sigh when Steve returned to his ministrations with vigour. Sam was lost in the sensation, true-- but part of what was driving him crazy was the sounds Steve was making, unabashed grunts of pleasure and low groans as though he’d never had his mouth on anything better than Sam’s ass.  “Steve-- please--” Sam finally rasped, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up and not touching himself, as instructed.  “Please?” “I --” “Tell me what you need.” “Touch me. Please--” Sam let out a sharp moan when Steve finally, finally touched his cock, his pace unforgiving but almost punishingly gentle in the way he knew Sam liked.  “Move forward a little. On your knees. Hands on the wall.”  Sam let out a sound like a sob; Steve wasn’t going to let him touch himself, which meant he was going to take him to pieces even more.  “Okay, Sam?” Steve asked, checking in. Sam nodded before moving.  “Thank you, Sam. Can you press your thighs togeth-- yes. Fuck, you’re wet--” Steve’s breath hitched as he slid his own cock between Sam’s ass cheeks, rocking his hips back and forth even as he jerked Sam off.  “Ahh--!” “Let me hear you, Sam. Please.” Steve’s voice was a little bit shaky now, his movements becoming stuttered as he drew close-- but he wouldn’t finish until Sam was done. He never did.  “Steve, fuck, I want-- let me come, please... I can’t...”  Steve breathed out hard, steadying himself. Sam was usually fairly quiet in bed, so his vocalizations were both precious and almost enough to send Steve over the edge.  “Steve-- Steve--” And Sam’s hips rolled forward with the force of his orgasm, coating Steve’s fist, dripping down his cock and balls, adding to the slick slide between his legs. Steve hastened his pace, Sam’s cry still ringing in the air, and when Sam reached back to spread his own ass cheeks, Steve’s vision almost whited out with how hard he came. “Let’s call that a tie,” Sam murmured sleepily against Steve’s neck, the two of them tangled around each other, unable to do much else than pant and exchange the occasional exhausted kiss.  “A tie? Mmm... let’s have a tie-breaker, then.”

[matcha-chocolate]

SamSteve, word: appreciate - @backtozain​

“It’s fine,” Sam said as he eased himself onto the worn couch. Steve could afford expensive, luxurious furniture if he’d been so inclined, but it seemed wasteful when there was perfectly comfortable second-hand stuff to be had for much less. “It’s not fine, you took a direct hit. I should’ve been there--” “Me and my ribs know where I got hit, Steve,” Sam scoffed, wincing as he moved the wrong way. The bandages around his midsection were stiff, stark white against his brown skin. The angry red of his injury was just barely visible at the edges of the bandage, and Steve fought every instinct not to go haring after the A.I.M. agent who’d blasted Sam point-blank with some experimental laser.  He wanted to murder the coward. Instead, he poured his anxiety into fussing over Sam. 

“At least let me get you painkillers.” “I’m not due for another 3 hours.” “Water?” Sam silently held up his full water bottle, unable to hide another flinch. The healing gel that the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors had applied would speed up the process, but it would still be a couple of rough weeks. “Are you hungry?” “You cookin’?” Sam asked, doubt written clearly on his face. Steve smirked, knowing that he was somewhat infamous for making food that was described as ‘burnt water,’ ‘a food-like substance’ and ‘a blatant assassination attempt.’ “Just grilled cheese.” “I can handle that. But... Steve, I really don’t need all of this fuss. Just prop me up near some ramen packets and leave the painkillers in reach.” Sam smiled, but it was tired and a little pained. Steve frowned slightly. Sam always laughed off his own problems, focused as he was on helping others, and Steve had realized something very important recently. It was going to be a little bit awkward to explain to his friend that he was in love with him, though. “You might not need the fuss, but when was the last time someone took care of you?” “The doctors--” “I don’t mean just that. I mean... someone to look after you.” Someone like me. Sam made a movement like a shrug, but then seemed to think better of it. “Just let me do this for you, Sam. Let me show my--” Love. “--appreciation. You’ve been working your ass off lately.” “No more than any one else.” “Sit down and put on the Internetflix, Sam. That’s an order.” Sam laughed pretty hard, pausing to groan in pain now and then. “In.. internetflix...” “Is that not right?” Steve asked, perplexed. He was pretty sure that’s what it was called. “Ahh, it doesn’t matter. Sit down, relax, and I’ll have something for you to eat soon.” “Yes, dear,” Sam joked. Steve felt a hot flush creeping up his neck. Sam hadn’t been serious, but that had felt nice. Being called ‘dear.’ “Is it so bad? Me wanting to do this?” Steve asked, his voice a little quieter. Sam was scrolling through the choices on Netflix, distracted. “Dunno. Usually a girlfriend or my ma that fusses over me like this,” Sam replied, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. “Would that... would that be so bad? If it was like that?” Steve was looking very carefully over Sam’s head, at the sun sinking outside. He couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. It was out, and he couldn’t take it back. “If it was like you being my ma, or...?” There was a teasing edge to Sam’s voice, but he had turned carefully in his seat so he could look properly at Steve. “Definitely ‘or.’” Sam was frowning slightly. “You asking me out, Cap?” “You saying yes?” “Depends on how good this grilled cheese is.” (The grilled cheese was terrible. The tentative kiss that Sam pressed to the corner of Steve’s mouth was wonderful.)

[matcha-chocolate]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

A little thang for my Samsteve lovers on Discount Chocolate Valentine’s Day! It wasn’t that Sam was bored. They were just… comfortable. That tended to happen when you’d been dating for almost 5-- no, 6 years (that had been a source of a huge argument; Steve counted ‘On your left’ from Sam’s Car Gets Fucking Wrecked [And Other Adventures] as their anniversary, whereas Sam counted from ‘Home is home, you know?’ from Tony’s Murderbot Fuck-up-apalooza.) That was also 5 years of disastrous Valentine’s Days.

Read the rest here!

[matcha-chocolate]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

I can’t believe it. It’s done. I’m finished. I started this in May 2016 and I’m finally finished and it ended up at 80K and I’m in shock, how did I write so much???? 

And people read it??? How why I’m

Anyway, here are the last two chapters! Y’all.  80,000 words.

[matcha-chocolate]

KSHAJKHSAKJHA AND NOW IT’S PASSED 500 KUDOS listen I know that’s a small number for the big fanfic names out there and they can get like 800 kudos on a 5K fic within a week and a half but this means a LOT to me Dang! Wow! Whoa. And it’s not even my best writing tbh