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Sam is beautiful. It’s not something Bucky’s dared to say out loud. He doesn’t have a death wish involving suicide by sheer protracted mortification alone. Because Sam would never, ever let him live that down. This thing between them isn’t really an excuse to let slip every insane thought that floats through his head. Just because he’s got Sam on top of him, naked and grinding down against him, sweat to sweat and thighs tangled— that doesn’t mean he can tell Sam how badly he wants to see his eyes. Wants to see Sam open them, that blissed out look, those deep and dark browns that leave his expression so plain and readable, every emotion laid bare. While Sam’s breathing heavy against the nape of Bucky’s neck and dragging the slick hard fire of his body against his cock, he can’t bring himself to confess a damn thing. Can’t say it outright how much more he wants, how even this is not enough. Where he wants Sam’s restless wandering fingers in his hair and how he wants to be steered with a sharp, tugging snap at his scalp to every intimate carnality Sam deigns to share. Or how he loves the heat of him, how the glow of the long-gone sunset seems to still bounce off Sam’s shoulders like a halo. The way his mouth goes slack, bitten-red lips lush and inviting.
And yeah. Sam’s fucking beautiful and its a problem for Bucky in more ways than one. How could it fucking not be? He wants to do far crazier things than just admit the fact out loud.
He wants to take Sam and make him feel it.
Make him feel everything he does to him and more.
But that’s the last thing he could ever let himself do. He’s beyond lucky to have this much. He doesn’t even deserve what Sam so gives to their little ill-defined but generous arrangement. It’s what keeps him locked in place, heels stamped against the bed to leverage his weight and follow Sam’s rhythm. And if Bucky could just let it be enough— if he could just let it—
His resolve knuckles under his hunger for all of a moment. Bucky rocks into Sam, hard enough to make him hiss. He loves the sound of it and it does something to whats left of his brain. Makes him feel less culpable for his actions if it means Sam will sound like that for him. He rolls his hips again and again and doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. Sam’s barely holding on and even one-handed it’s left to Bucky to hold him in place so he doesn’t careen off the bedside.
Sam comes like that, the length of him pressed to Bucky’s, both trapped in the heat of their bodies with slick and come. Sam’s bent back, arched along his spine in the shape of every last one of Bucky’s wettest dreams as he groans that last of his release. Collapsing to Bucky, he’s down but not out with a dedicated grip around Bucky’s still-hard erection. He’s still shivering when he nips at Bucky’s ear, demanding:
“You been holding out on me, Buck?”
Bucky should shut him up with a kiss. He should grin and lie. Anything but the truth. But he shakes his head, throwing his arm over his eyes as if it would save him from his own admission.
“You have no idea.”
Sam’s brow furrows and Bucky feels the disapproval in the next slow drag across his cock.
Fuck. He should take it back. Part of him knows Sam would call his bluff but he should try anyway. He has to salvage this. Has to save this from himself.
“That so?” Sam muses as Bucky swears under his breath. Normally, he loves the feeling of Sam around him. His mouth. His ass. Those hands, especially. The tight controlled grip and the dexterity in Sam’s wrists, wringing him for all he’s worth. How determined Sam gets once he’s settled on a method for getting him off. How he doesn’t back down against Bucky’s superhuman stamina.
But now Sam’s eyes bore down into him, searching. Looking for possibilities.
Part of Bucky freezes and the rest of him rejoices. But stuck in the middle of the two impulses, all he can do is panic.
“Fuck. No, wait. Sam, just forget I said that—”
“Nah. Can’t do that.” Sam’s thumb flirts with the top slit of his cock and he can’t think anymore. It’s too damn much. “See, Buck… I don’t remember asking you to take it easy on me.”
He wills himself to breathe. In and out. In and out. “What if I told you it was for your own good?”
Sam gives him an almost scathing look that shouldn’t be hot but somehow is.
“Jesus. No, Sam, I mean it. I mean it, mean it. What if…” Bucky swallows. His every thought is compromised by Sam’s hand still stroking him. “Its asking too much.”
“How could you possibly know that if you haven’t even asked me?”
He snatches for Sam’s wrist, holding him steady. He needs to get the words out. “Maybe I just know… and I can’t… I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want to lose… this.”
Sam leans forward but doesn’t kiss him. From this close, he has to feel Bucky’s heart hammering away. Fear on top of fear. He has to stop this. He cannot ruin this. This is all he has. This is all he wants. He won’t give it up for something as foolish as wanting Sam this badly, wanting to unleash something he has no idea if he could ever cage back up. It isn’t worth it. None of it. All the things he doesn’t say and doesn’t ask for and doesn’t let himself believe. He can trade it all for any little bit of Sam he get his hands on, for as long as it lasts.
“You just know, huh?” Sam scoffs. “Just like you knew I wouldn’t kiss you back? Just like you knew I wouldn’t want to touch you like this?”
“That’s different,” Bucky protests. That first kiss had been agony. Wild and stupid, adrenaline-fueled lapse of sanity. Under fire, needing to touch him before it was too late. Even if it was the one and only time, or so he’d thought until Sam dragged him back to the safe house. But this was a different beast. Bucky had what he needed. Most everything he wanted. Pushing for more was a bad idea. Pushing for more could cost him. “This, the way we've been. It's good. Really good. I don't want...”
“Right,” Sam rolls his eyes. Shy of patronizing, somehow zeroed in on just the right nerve to hit. “Just admit your chickenshit and get over yourself.”
Bucky blinks. The world-ending humiliation evaporates at the competitive smirk on Sam’s lips. In a half second’s time, he’s got them flipped over. Sam’s flush to the mattress, winded but satisfied with himself. Because of course he is. And maybe Bucky will regret this. Maybe it will be a long time coming before he can forgive himself for letting Sam so easily work his way under the skin of better judgement. But Sam's groan as Bucky works the length of him in the palm of his hand draws him further from reason. The parts of Sam that go taut under his touch, the parts of him that turn pliant as he kisses and sucks a line down his neck and collar bone. Its always been a dangerous combination; everything falls away and all he can think is more.
“Alright, then. You asked for it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
His kisses stop below Sam's navel. He hovers over the thatch of dark curls and grips Sam's cock at the base. Any other day he would start slow. Lap at him, feel him shudder, let him set the pace. But Bucky is ravenous and its only now that he can feel how deep the wanting goes.
He wants to be inside him. Needs it more than anything.
Turning, Bucky leans to the bedside stand. The lube they'd fished from the drawer earlier lay there discarded, uncapped. He fumbles with it, as its more of a two-handed job and Bucky hates to wear his prosthesis to bed. The metal is too cold and the sensation read-out dulled and distracting; it didn't register the softer movements or gentle urging or Sam's heat beneath him, so honestly what was the point? But even dazed as he is, Sam gets with the picture well enough to help squeeze the tube onto his finger tips. He braces both hands to Bucky's shoulders at the first press between his legs. Feather light at first, then harder, circling. One finger, than two, working Sam open and he isn't smirking anymore. His face is twisted up, teeth gnashed. He almost looks hurt - he does look hurt - and Bucky's stomach drops but his pulse picks up because he can't say he doesn't love it. Those beautiful hips rise and fall, moving in tandem with the intrusion pressing deeper inch by inch.
Sam could probably come like this, if Bucky let him. He could slip his hands back around his cock, let him ride his fingers until he couldn't take it anymore. He'd shiver and shake and just come apart with Bucky's finger stretching the soft, velvet heat inside him.
But he cracks one eye open to catch Bucky's attention. Still daring, still hungry.
The thought is errant and feral and out of place, but all Bucky can think is of course. Sam never takes the easy way out. He wouldn't be Captain America if he didn't want things the hard way.
Christ .
The next kiss is sloppy, a little too desperate, heavy and airless and wringing oxygen from their lungs. If Bucky kisses him any harder he's going to bruise that perfect mouth. So naturally, he kisses him harder. Moaning, Sam breaks away, restless and aching, emitting a low, animal noise. Bucky doesn't feel entirely in control of his limbs after that. He knees Sam's legs open further, pins him down his hands. Without further ceremony, Sam does the honor of reaching down to line them up; Bucky's painfully erect length to his opening. And there's a twisted part of Bucky that knows this is the part he's been craving most. The way it feels to not have to think where his hands go, where his hunger is enough or too much. Always so damn careful not to push or hurt or take. Its a sick, dizzy part of him that misses those strings that kept the Winter Soldier free of consequence or questions. He didn't have to think, then. He didn't have to understand. His muscles, tendons, and ligaments never had to stop and calculate how much pressure to exert, how much time to take.
Back then, there was always a voice whispering no, pleading not like this.
Now, everything screams in unison, telling him yes , god yes , more , please , just like that .
Except the cries for more aren't coming from inside him. They're coming from Sam. There's tears in his eyes as Bucky pushes in, in, in. His mouth is hung open, tongue out, sobbing as Bucky thrusts. They’re beyond rhythm, beyond pacing. Bucky is nothing but a hungry, throbbing force deadset on his target; on Sam and that gasping-panting-begging he can’t hold back. Bucky strains, wetness streaming down his face. He’d been so scared to tell Sam before how beautiful he was and now there’s tear drops mingling with the sweat in his skin. Bucky can’t care. He can’t help it. He can’t do anything but what he’s doing, giving Sam everything inside him. Everything Bucky’s kept pressed down to the bone, jailed under his own fear and disbelief. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing, nothing but Sam matters. Nothing and no one else.
The pleasure of it swells up through him, higher and higher. Reminds him of the way it felt when Sam spread his wings and drove them up through the aether, halfway between heaven and earth.
He feels Sam coming around him, tightening and digging half-moons into his skin. He’s mouthing words that might be pleas but Bucky can’t hear it over the roar of blood in his ears.
He gives one last thrust, impatient thrust and the dam breaks inside him. White hot light and orgasmic shivers. He comes and comes, filling Sam but god he could swear he feels it the other way around, that Sam’s buried inside him, that he’s delved somewhere so deep and warm inside him that Bucky could never hope to get him out.
After, when the fog lift and Sam can speak again, he swats at Bucky’s hip.“Tell me right now… and I mean right now… is there anything else you’ll holding back from me? Because I swear if you are—”
Bucky kisses him blisteringly hard. Sam kisses him back with both hands cupping his face, in a way that imports meaning. As if he held something precious.
“And honestly Buck, if you think the best orgasm of my life means you don’t have to explain yourself you’ve got another thing coming…”
Chuckling low, he knows should say something in his own defense. How scared he was. How relieved he feels now. How there’s nothing he’ll ever trust the way he does Sam at this moment. Not ever again. But Bucky doesn’t have the strength yet. Maybe he won’t ever.
“Really, Barnes? You’ve been holding out on me all this time and you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”
“Of course I do,” he mumbles. He yawns, drifting down to nuzzle against Sam, hiding his face in the safety of the crook of his neck and he finally, finally lets himself say it. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”
fin.