(x)

446.

Bucky scowls and tucks just the ends of his fingers into the jeans that’re riding low on his hips, hunching his shoulders and scowling off to the side, his dark hair loose and tousled, one strand caught at the corner of his mouth. It’s bright sun and red brick and stark shadow, it’s the superhero angle of his jaw, it makes him look like he’s shrugging off the weight of a world that’s inclined to settle on his shoulders.

It’s a cover shot, no question. It’s – he’s – fuckin’ beautiful.

“You’re thinking about pizza, right?” Clint says, and manages to keep snapping even with the butterflies that swirl around his stomach when Bucky turns to face him, startled, lush mouth parting in surprise before it curls into a grin.

“Do not even talk to me about pizza,” Bucky says, his voice soft but still a little scratchy – metallic threads sewn through dark velvet, something brought out for only the most special occasions. “I haven’t had Sal’s garlic crust since November.”

“Well call me when they start letting you wear shirts,” Clint says, “I’ll take you out for mozzarella sticks and a pepperoni pie.”

Bucky’s scowl comes back, staring straight down the lens like he wants to murder it. It really shouldn’t be as hot as it is; Clint clears his throat and focuses on framing things right.

“Quit talkin’ about food,” Bucky says, growls rather, and Clint drops into a crouch so he can get a new angle and – and because of the convenient way his jeans bunch up, conceal things, maybe a little.

“Be good for five more minutes and I’ll buy you an ice-cream,” Clint tells him, and Bucky pulls one foot up to rest against the wall behind him. He tilts his head back, looks at Clint through half-lidded eyes, brings one hand up to rest against his collarbone.

“I’ll be good for you,” he says, husky and low, and he’s – Clint understands that he’s playing, that he’s trying to get Clint back, that it doesn’t mean – but that doesn’t stop Clint blushing all the way up to his ears.

end-o-the-line:

(x)

376.

winterhawkkisses:

Reality returned slowly. Sound first, high-pitched whistle (a song) that meant someone, somewhere, was watching a (get on) television, walls and rooms and corridors away. The strange dry clean taste of oxygen; scent of (nerves) bleach and blood and poor quality food and all the ways it had reappeared. Scratchy sheets and waffled blankets; the uncomfortable angle of (know) his neck.

And threaded somehow through it all, woven over and under and between it, a pleasant voice made deliberately obnoxious and still somehow the best thing he’d ever heard.

“ – know a song that’ll get on your nerves -”

Bucky’s eyelids were weighed down with ten ton trucks, impossible to open, but maybe there was something in the smile his brain was wearing, even if the rest of him wouldn’t respond.

“Hey,” a voice said, warm and drawling, “you’re back.”

He didn’t remember anything past the corner of El Paso and Mason, sure as hell couldn’t recall whatever the hell made it hurt so much when he shifted his arm just the slightest.

“Hey no,” the voice said, dismayed, “no, stay here, you’re going full on deep end -” crash into frozen water, the only thing cryo could ever be compared to – “so we need to edge you up to where it’s shallow, with me.”

Somehow depth became clear and green-blue; somehow there was golden sand and rippled light and a pair of legs treading water – truly hideous purple shorts – stupid choices in every scar on him and fuckin’ exuberance in the sheer volume of them.

Bucky sucked in a breath like he was breaking the surface, and the wave of approval was almost a touch – tanned fingers tangled in salt-stiffened hair.

“That’s better, right?” His voice was warm like sunlight. “Float right here like a boat. I’m great at boats.”

“Guide Barton!”

The new voice was cold and edged around with teeth.

“Aw,” the warm voice said, “busted.”

“What have you been told about bothering the unbonded? If you cannot remain at your assigned post you will -”

The voice faded quicker than it ought to – senses were messed up for a while after a zone – but sun-warm words somehow still made their way through.

Yes! Sentinel AUs are my favorite. Thank you!