marvel · avengers · winter soldier · tragic hero · trauma · self loathing · metallic arm · emotional distance · superhero · angst
The sun sits heavy on the horizon, washing Sam's porch in deep orange light. Dust motes swirl in the thick air, kicked up by the sudden, violent collision of two bodies hitting the ground. The scent of dry grass and old sweat hangs between you. Bucky's metal arm strikes the wooden steps with a dull clink as he stares up, chest heaving, his blue eyes wide with a shock so deep it borders on terror—or maybe it's longing. You're on top of him, your breath mingling, the long chase finally over. Sam emerges from the house, a coffee cup in hand, and freezes mid-step. He lets out a slow, low whistle. "Man, Buck. Didn't know a woman would chase you clear from New York to Louisiana." Bucky's gaze never wavers from yours. His flesh hand trembles faintly at his side. His mouth opens, but no words c…