“Your heart's racing. Now, I know being pressed up against me is exhilerating and all, but I'm trying to concentrate on picking this lock."
In Bucky's dreams, whenever Sam shoves him up against a wall and presses his body flush against Bucky's, the events that follow tend to involve fewer weapons.
(Not none, necessarily: Sam is competent enough with a knife for it to feature in Bucky's dreams, and last month they got themselves into a situation at an abandoned circus where Sam had to use a horsewhip to disarm the self-styled ringmaster, and Bucky will be having inappropriate thoughts about that for the foreseeable future.)
Whatever is happening right now, however, is less something out of Bucky's dreams than it is an extremely specific exercise in embarrassment. Infiltrating a literal castle during a black tie gala had been risky enough, but breaking into the office in the residential wing is just asking for trouble.
Although party guests move freely up the staircase and around the upper floor, Sam and Bucky's target leads them down a roped-off hallway, and though it's shadowy enough to be hidden from a distance, any security guard worth their salt would be able to clock both of them at the end of the corridor.
Bucky is about to start picking the lock on the office door when Sam swears quietly behind him. He turns around immediately, only just suppressing the impulse to put himself between Sam and whatever is coming for them.
"What is it?" he asks, when he can't see anything in the hallway. "What's wrong?"
"Redwing flagged a guard," says Sam. "He's making his rounds early; he'll be here in thirty seconds."
Bucky is already reaching for his tranq gun when Sam plants a hand in the center of his chest and pushes him back against the door.
He gapes as Sam plucks the lockpicking set out of his hands, then leans in, his mouth right next to Bucky's ear, and murmurs, "Play along."
Understandably, having Sam pressed up against him has fried Bucky's brain a little, so Sam appears to decide that a demonstration is in order. He takes Bucky's left hand and settles it on his waist, and even though the vibranium's sensors are slightly dulled, Bucky feels the heat of Sam radiate up through his palm, and it's like it brings him back to himself.
The mission-focused part of his brain clocks what it is that Sam is trying to do, and he moves his hand to pull Sam even closer, dropping his head down to mostly hide his face in the crook of Sam's neck. As he turns his head just enough to get a vantage point on the entrance to the hallway, the corner of Bucky's mouth brushes over the side of Sam's neck, and he feels Sam's breath hitch against his chest.
"There's a tranq gun in my jacket," Sam murmurs, his breath hot against the column of Bucky's throat. "And you don't gotta be so gentle, Barnes, you can manhandle me if you need a better line to get a clear shot."
It's an extremely courteous consideration, the kind of thing that makes Sam such a great partner in the field. Unfortunately, Bucky barely hears it, because he's busy silently listing off the names of every single saint that he can think of, desperately aware of every inch of him that's in contact with Sam and desperately worried that he's about to embarrass himself over it.
He doesn't consider that it might be weird to be completely silent for that long until Sam gives him a little nudge and softly asks, "You comfortable, Buck? If this is weird, we can just fight our way out of here."
"M'fine," is all that Bucky manages, even though he would welcome a chance to punch something right about now. Sam shifts just slightly as one of the pins on the lock drops, and Bucky has to resist the urge to bury his nose in Sam's neck, right beside his pulse point.
"Are you sure?" asks Sam. "Because your heart's racing. Now, I know being pressed up against me is exhilarating and all, but I'm trying to concentrate on picking this lock."
Bucky laughs a little, which he has to guess was Sam's real goal. "I'm okay," he says. "Just wondering where this guard is."
Sam hums in acknowledgment. "Waylaid by another guest, I'm guessing. Redwing clocked an unknown obstacle and our guy's been there for a minute."
"Got it," says Bucky, before they descend into silence again. It's fine for a moment, and then Sam makes a quiet little noise of triumph as the next pin drops, and something about his enthusiasm has Bucky overwhelmed again. He casts around for something to bring up and settles on, "So lockpicking, huh? How long have you been hiding that?"
"What?" asks Sam, and Bucky instantly knows he made a mistake, because he can hear the smirk in that voice. "You're the only one who's allowed to have sexy spy skills? The rest of us can't have misspent youths?"
"Of course other people are allowed to have mysterious pasts," says Bucky. "Now tell me where you actually learned it."
"Wait just a minute," says Sam, "how do you know I didn't-"
"Sam."
Sam sighs, gusty and put upon and silly enough that Bucky knows he isn't seriously upset. "Fine. I read about it in a Hardy Boys book when I was eleven and I borrowed some old padlocks from Carlos and a book from the library and taught myself how."
There's half a second where Bucky absorbs the most adorable anecdote he's ever heard and Sam finally gets past the last part of the lock, and when he whispers a delighted, "yes!" to himself as the doorknob turns, Bucky can't help it anymore.
"Hey, Sam?" he murmurs, after he presses the door shut behind them.
"Hm?"
But Sam must see something in Bucky's eyes, because he doesn't wait for an explanation, just meets him halfway to press their lips together.
When they move apart, both of them cognizant of the ticking clock, Sam smirks at Bucky. "It was the sexy lockpicking, wasn't it?"
But Bucky shakes his head. "It was you," he says. "Just you."
Hi. Your tags on the performing arts as a kid survey made me chuckle. Color guard is definitely on the American pep squad nonsense spectrum. Color guard marches on the field with the rest of the band, spinning colored flags to the music. Some of them also spin these big, hard wooden rifles. Majorettes are baton twirlers who are also part of the color guard. If you ever do a YouTube search for HBCU matching bands, you will get a good example of the whole spectrum of color guards marching and performing on the field during football game halftimes. Well-funded high schools with a decent budget for marching band will have a color guard, but many smaller high schools do not. So, there is some unnecessary information today! Have a good day.
Every time I find out a new thing about US high schools I think that it can't possibly get any more alien to me. Then I learn they teach people how to twirl wooden rifles and I am reminded that my imagination is a limited, paltry thing.
Flags I kinda get, although I still think it's bizarre (are kids in US schools allowed to not be in a team? Are they allowed to just do the school bit of school? Are they allowed to simply exist and then go home at home time?). Flags are pretty. Wooden rifles is so...
I'm not saying that training children in some weird facsimile of militaristic pride might come across as a bit brainwashy. But... you have children march around a field with fake guns? I can't help but find that a little disturbing.
Is that just me?
It probably looks really impressive and involves a lot of skill. I'll have a look for some videos when I get a moment. The concept itself is fucking wild to me though.
Okay, I tried to do Remy's accent justice, apologies if I butchered it 😂
Logan narrowed his eyes as he took in Remy's outfit. "Why the hell are you wearing that?"
"D'ya like it? Remy t'inks he looks good, non?"
"You're wearing my uniform," Logan growled.
Remy grinned, unrepentant. "It's 'alloween. Relax, cher. Remy'll give it back."
I have a western AU to self-rec. it was the prize for my Fandom Trumps Hate auction this year.
Is That a Ten-Gallon Hat, or Are You Just Enjoying the Show? by OriginalCeenote (WIP | 24,687 | M)
Locals nicknamed their dusty, deserted little town “The End of the Line.” Bucky was beginning to think that the name fit, if the dilapidated buildings and the watered down gin that he’d choked down in the saloon were anything to go by.
His only consolation could be found in his weekly trips to the mercantile to purchase his supplies. There was just something about the young, strapping, ornery bastard that ran the till.
I want to give you this love letter because of your fic, “Like That? Just Wait, I’m on a Roll” When I read this, I was so delighted because it was so soft and you wrote Sam & Bucky so cute together.
I love fics that can make me smile super hard and that’s exactly what you did. Thanks so much for writing this and allowing us to bask in the goodness that is this story 💛
“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?” SamBucky or Winterhawk. Either will work. :)
It becomes a game, after a while. Like pin the tail on the donkey, except it’s Make The Winter Soldier Smile. More fun, and also significantly more dangerous.
“I’m gonna win,” Clint boasts. “He likes me.”
This actually might be true, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Clint doesn’t need anyone else to boost his ego.
“You all need to leave him alone,” Steve says. “Stop betting on this.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re losing,” Clint points out, and Sam hides his own smile as Steve splutters his way through excuses. “Anyway. I’m gonna win. I have a foolproof plan. Just you wait.”
But it’s Sam, surprisingly, who ends up alone with Bucky next. It’s not even on a mission---it’s on the roof of the tower, at three in the morning.
“The hell are you doing up here?” Sam asks as he lands. He keeps the wings open---there’s something messed up with the folding mechanism, he thinks. He needs to look at it.
Bucky eyes him for a second, and Sam half expects a “fuck off.” But then Bucky sighs and shifts, holding out his hands. There’s something white curled up in them, something white and soft and---
“Is that a cat?”
“Her name is Alpine,” Bucky says softly. “I---I bring her up here sometimes. When I can’t sleep. It helps. To sit with her. Look at the city.” The words tumble out of him, and he almost sounds afraid, like he think Sam is going to yell at him.
“Cool,” Sam says, deciding not to ask any more questions about it. Bucky will tell him if he wants. “Mind if I sit with you for a bit? Need to do some wing maintenance anyway. Don’t wanna lug these inside if they won’t fold.”
Alpine hisses at him when he steps closer, and he stops, eyeing her. He’s not a cat person, but he’s usually fairly decent with animals.
“I think she thinks you’re a bird,” Bucky says, sounding amused, and then he smiles. Small, and a little unsure, but it’s there. “A giant, terrifying bird.”
Sam stares at him. “Am I in an alternate universe, or did you just crack a smile for me?”
“For her,” Bucky says, petting the white fur. “But you can count it, if you want. Win the betting pool.”
Sam grins. “You know about that, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs. “Don’t be. I think it’s funny.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he smiles again. It changes his whole face, makes the lines smooth out, takes some of the stress and tension away.
Sam likes it so much.
“Good,” he says dumbly, words suddenly hard to reach, and taps the Falcon suit. “Help me out of this, would you?”
⏱ What’s the fic you spent the most time on? (Was it worth it lol)
from the fanfiction ask prompt
I think that's a tie between Of Broken Dreams and Ain't No Rest. They're both super close in word count ((a whomping 300k+ words each!)) and while I started OBD first, I wrong ARN along with it and finished them each within a few months of one another.
Yes, it was totally worth it! As stressful as it got sometimes, I loved the characters and their growth and two entirely different universes. It was also great to interact with readers so much!
“Am I your lock screen?” From the prompts list. SamBucky or Winterhawk.
“Am I your lock screen?” Bucky fumbles with his phone, nearly dropping it on his face. Clint stifles his amusement and holds up his hands in apology. “Sorry, thought you knew I was here.”
“How would I know, Barton, you’re almost as silent as Natalia is,” Bucky grumbles. “What do you want?” His cheeks are flushed and he won’t meet Clint’s gaze, so Clint does the only logical thing. He swipes Bucky’s phone. “Hey!” Bucky cries, leaping off the couch.
Clint dances away, keeping the phone steady enough that he can see the picture. “I thought I saw myself on here,” he grins. “Why am I your lock screen, Barnes? And why this picture? There are better ones.”
Bucky’s cheeks get redder and he mumbles something that Clint’s aids don’t manage to pick up. “I said I like that one,” he bursts when Clint raises an eyebrow at him.
“Okay,” Clint says slowly, “But why?”
“Because you look happy in it,” Bucky says reluctantly. “If I’m having a bad day, I just have to pull it out and look at it, and it reminds me that things’ll get better. And it makes me feel like you’re there for me.” His voice sorta trails off near the end, and he’s still refusing to look Clint in the eye and scuffing his toes along the ground.
“Bucky,” Clint says gently, “I am here for you. Anytime.”
“Not in the way I want you to be,” Bucky mutters.
Clint smirks. “Says who?” Bucky’s head shoots up and he stares at Clint. “All you gotta do is ask the question, sweet cheeks. Never know what answer you might get.”
“What if it’s not the one I want?” Bucky asks.
Clint shrugs. “Won’t know until you try.”
Bucky takes a deep breath. “Willyougoonadatewithme?” He asks, all in a rush.
Clint beams at him. “I’d love to, honey bunches.” He slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and says, “’Sides, don’t you think the real thing will be better than a picture?”
