bitches don't want romance, they want a ginger cat named sam
it's me, i'm bitches
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bitches don't want romance, they want a ginger cat named sam
it's me, i'm bitches
@fvlcxns
A lot of futz had happened in a very short amount of time. That, combined with the fact that Steve looked like he was going to bite anyone who dared suggest he go home and let someone else sit with Sam -- so Clint hadn't really had a chance to see her yet. But she went home with Peggy, and so once the dust settled, he came by for a visit. "Hey, if it isn't my fellow feather friend," he said, when she opened the door. He smiled gently. "Came to see how you were holding up. We could talk, or there's like three new episodes of Dog Cops out on that one streaming service Peggy has that I don't. I'm shameless," he shrugged.
Saw the guy today and it made me so nervous I was shaking for like an hour afterwards
when: November 2019 – early in the morning where: the Sandoval house who: @basswccd
Outside, the world was still blinking to life – sky heavy with the threat of more snow, thick clouds shaded in stark grey and a strange off-white. Inside, everything was quiet, and it would remain that way for a while yet, as she padded downstairs barefoot and bleary-eyed, slippers forgotten in the kitchen.
His words had been on repeat ever since their conversation, looping itself over whatever background noise there was, bringing to mind that look in his eyes. The question she could see still lingered. The way they both knew that if he pressed, this thing between them might break. Impulse had made her send him a text late at night, and then she’d fallen asleep, heart soaked through with something she didn’t want to name, dreamless in the dark.
Had he been vulnerable, or was she reading too deep into it? Was the subtext she thought she could see an invention of her own? (Was that notion an excuse for her selfishness? That if it wasn’t real for him, she shouldn’t feel bad for the way she kept things vague?)
She put the kettle on the stove. Forgot about the slippers. Caught view of herself in the hallway mirror and said fuck it to the messy bun she’d piled her hair into, as she went back upstairs to grab her phone–
and then someone knocked on her door.
Out of habit, she avoided the creaking steps; walked silent through her house, feet getting cold.
The door opened just a tiny bit, before she could see who it was:
“Sam?”
Handsome, tired Sam, about as surprised to see her as she was to see him, it felt like.
“Hello.”
“Hey,” she said, keenly aware that she was in one of Dante’s old tees, white with a faded red script that read KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE; oversized and much too big. The chain around her neck was visible, the ring an outline beneath the fabric. She wanted her slippers. Wanted a clean face and a chance to think things through. She'd never been more aware of how the house didn't feel like entirely like her own, not even now, several years into her life in Blackrock.
“–– I’m so sorry, I.. sent you that text, and then I fell asleep. Do you– d’you wanna come inside? I’ve got coffee brewing, ‘f you want some.”
@flylikefalcon
Steve was passable in the kitchen, but breakfasts were his specialty. Mornings had always felt special to him. A new day. A new start. Especially when so often, the nights were long and cold, and seemed never-ending, like dawn might never come. But it did. Every day, the sun rose, scattering the dark and the stars, lighting up the horizon with a brand new light and warmth that every person on the planet could feel.
Sam Wilson felt like that in Steve’s life. The dawn of a new day, filled with promise and potential, something you could count on. Steve could set his clocks by Sam Wilson, the dedicated man who had never hesitated to step forward when someone needed him. So on this morning, Steve got up early, spent a few hours in the kitchen, then walked to the warehouse with a tupperware tucked under one arm and a rectangular package in the other.
Sam was outside, maybe just back from a run, or maybe just enjoying the morning, when Steve walked up. “On your left,” he said, smirking a little. He held out the tupperware first. Inside were two pancakes, one laying on top of the other cut into the shape of a star. A rough approximation of the shield they both carried now. “Happy birthday, Sam. I got you a little something,” he said, holding out the package too. No matter what universe he was from, Steve wanted him to know he was welcome here. That he was still a dependable light in Steve’s life, and deserved to feel that same loyalty directed back at him.
@flylikefalcon
(✉ → Superior Air Force): Word on the street is, it’s your birthday (✉ → Superior Air Force): we had this tradition off-world, for a pilot’s birthday (✉ → Superior Air Force): it was called ‘going to a bar and having a drink’ (✉ → Superior Air Force): i think we should try it
SunnySam
Art by JG GenesisKeys.