[ sam wishes, in that deep, dark, buried part of him that is just far enough out of reach so as he's not entirely aware of, that he had better words for the way that bucky tastes. that there was a better way to describe the feeling of him, right in this moment, straddled across sam's hips. a better set of words to give for how it feels that sam has his hands on him, on the slick fabric of his trousers, how warm it feels to finally get his hands under bucky's shirt. there's a neediness eating away inside sam's gut, but it's something else. something that feels so satisfied and so right and so here, in this moment, in this kiss. it takes over every part of sam that can focus, every inch of him that has a thought - and all of them are bucky. bucky, over him. bucky, kissing him. bucky, whose hands are so gentle but so intent on sam's cheeks and the arch of his spine, that feels so, so perfect under sam's fingertips.
though, it's possible sam doesn't have words for this because he's not sure he's ever come this close. because of course there were girls in high school, stolen kisses and hands under skirts under bleachers. there were loud parties and late nights and the rush of getting caught when sam was still learning who he was. interwoven with that, too, are the soft brush of fingertips after drills. desperate moments after missions where they'd been sure it would be their last all caught up in the weight of what the world was supposed to be around them. followed, before he really knew it, by the one mission that was.
this is different than all of that, because this kiss, this adrenaline plus more fueled moment is more complicated than it has any right to be. part of sam tries to peek through it, to remind him what he's doing and with who. that these same hands holding him like this have nearly crushed his windpipe, among so many other things. that the spine his hungrily runs his hands up has held lifetimes worth of weght, of trauma, of abuse. same knows what bucky has done, has read the reports and looked into the files, and still when he kisses him, it doesn't matter. not that it goes away, because it is a part of bucky still, but it's not this part. it's not the larger part. it's not the part who he feels like bucky can become. plus- whatever it was that zemo gave them makes it much easier to slip out of his head, and into the present. into bucky's body, bucky's hands, bucky's mouth. there are red flags everywhere, and there always will be, but sam's always kind of liked the color red. ( and it always did find a way into his costume. )
bucky grunts, and god it's a good sound. the kind of sound that sam wants to hear again, and again. the kind of sound that sam does whatever it was he was just doing, again, just to hear it. he's thinking god, fuck, yes- and then, as if on cue, there are warm hands on his shoulders. sam's brain doesn't really catch up with where they've come through, too quick to simply recognize the feeling as a good one, and then he hears his voice. the low rasp, a brush of lips against his ear. sam shudders at the sound of it, his entire body reacting to the purr of zemo's accent, and how it feels like it runs down the length of sam's body. zemo. whose hands are finally pulling away at sam's jacket, and bucky is leaning away too, and through that shudder sam's head falls back against the couch and he lets the reaction course through him, not quite convinced he didn't just come from that. ]
Fuck. [ it comes out more like a groan, because he's somehow, already, hyper sensitive. because zemo pulls off his coat and sam moves to help the jacket slide off his arms and bucky is stripping where he sits in his lap, dog tags with his and steve rogers' name bouncing against his chest, and god damn. god fucking damn this is a bad idea.
and, as if reacting to sam's very thoughts, bucky's hand shoots out. sam tenses, out of reflex more than anything, before he realizes that bucky had gone for zemo. zemo, who was still leaning behind him. still there. who had orchestrated all of this from the beginning. sam closes his eyes for a moment, wills his heartbeat to settle. breathes, once, to get a handle on himself and how he's so turned on it's starting to physically hurt. his eyes open when bucky speaks, his attention entirely on him. on the hollow way he says i don't feel in control. ]
Hey- [ sam sits up from where he'd been leaning back on the couch, his eyes on bucky despite bucky's attention - those dark, direct eyes - being on zemo. he needs them on him, sam decides. and again, as if reading that very thought, bucky drops his hand. turns to address sam, and sam holds his gaze, too. not backing down from it. not scared, about that or about this, suddenly.
he's not sure when he got there - when all of this became okay - but bucky says stop me if i hurt you. or him. promise. and sam's hand lifts to wrap around the metal wrist. to hold bucky's hand, right where it is, his grip just as gentle as the press of bucky's hand. ] You're not going to hurt anyone. Him, or me. [ and maybe sam says it with too much conviction. maybe it darkens the mood a little. but sincerity and earnestness drips from his words. his free hand reaches across to settle on bucky's face, this time, a mirror image now. his thumb traces over the stubble on bucky's cheek, holding his attention. making sure that it's here. ] Hey- baby. I promise. You won't do anything bad.
Edited 2021-05-06 05:01 (UTC)
i look at the timestamp and i pretend i do not see it
[maybe he should have guessed at the delightful implication of - what, jealousy that zemo lay hands on him? that james would bristle at him for that slow, sensual slide down the stunning sculpture of sam's biceps. he'd have trailed his hands right back up and along the sliver of skin exposed along his neck if given the opportunity - and based on that full-body shiver that he knows he's sent straight down sam's spine and twisting hot in his gut - sam would have enjoyed it. maybe too much, too quick - but the beauty of this little concoction he's drummed up for them is that it's meant to enhance not only experience, but longevity. repetition. not a problem for someone like james with his unfair advantage of supersoldier enhancement and endurance mixed with years of strenuous activity. more than one round should be a walk in the park for him (idly it strikes him - how many rounds could james manage, if left to his own devices with the right incentive? and what feral, inhuman amount would it look like with drugs that actually have an effect on him now?)
still, he cannot help but note that despite all of sam's reservations, objections, and trying so resolutely to remain the voice of reason amongst the chaos zemo has hand-crafted for his own amusement and the overall good of their merry little band - even he is not so iron-willed that he can resist both the temptation of the beautiful creature that is james barnes in his lap. or, apparently, the novelty of a low sokovian accent whispering in his ear in time with clever, deft hands on his person. it's good, because as patient and poised a man as he is - they are wasting precious time he has no scale of measure for.
his attention is drawn back to james in a split second with every inch of skin that is suddenly put on display - and it strikes him as a terrible oversight that he has hardly taken the time to appreciate just how lean and hungry he looks since the last time they were together in berlin. it wasn't just the hair he shed - it was the bulk of muscle he would imagine came with the confusion of being on his own without a sure-fed diet of essential nutrients for peak performance. he cannot say he minds, though that flash of silver against his chest makes his eyes narrow into something half-lidded for two distinct and warring reasons. first: he wonders if they are james' - or perhaps steve rogers. a specter looming over them who wasn't invited to this party. secondly: it makes him briefly wistful for his own, long blown to hell in the ruins of sokovia and now one with the earth as ash and dust. those thoughts have no place here, but it's that split second that distracts him from the too-quick movement of practiced reflex.
he shouldn't be disappointed that it isn't the kiss of metal around his throat for the second time today, but is instead a warm palm and flesh and blood fingers flexing around his throat. there's something thrilling about it that sends a hot rush pooling into his gut, cock throbbing behind the noticeably strained inseam of fine wool and tailoring. besides the initial flinch, he looks perhaps much too at ease with james quite literally holding his breath for him - and there's an even sicker twist that he could squeeze just hard enough to make him see black, then white, then nothing at all -
but it's gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitch around a soft exhale as he watches the attention drop just like his hand to something more meaningful. ironically he doesn't want to hurt zemo, which is just as well for the purpose of this excursion. watching the tender moment unfold is more of what he was seeking between them, and sam does not disappoint in a touching display of understanding. protection. he mirrors james' affectionate stroke, and it's as stark a contrast as the glittering lights of hightown against the seething midnight of madripoor's dark skies from their bickering earlier in the day to this right here.
hey - baby, sam says, and zemo lets out a small hum of pleased acknowledgment at the easy petname, as if it were directed at him instead.)
he gives them both a moment, letting it sink in without intention of ruining it further. and only when the silence settles comfortably and it has fully passed does he chime in once more.]
It's just as Sam said. No one will be hurt.
[he could make a crude joke about nothing hurting unless it's desired, but this has developed into something far more sweet than even he anticipated. he won't ruin it, not when it's as delicious as any delicacy under his tongue. it's brazen of him, but he rests his elbow comfortably against the top of the couch behind sam's head, leaning to perch his other elbow against sam's shoulder and press his chin to a curled fist. better view of the action, closer to pick up his strings as the puppet master. his free hand slides down sam's front, slow and non-threatening, but only to gather at the fabric and pinch it between two fingers.]
James - help him with this.
It's so much more preferable to be skin to skin - to feel that warmth, the intimacy of it.
[his head tips lightly, gaze fixed on the man he's just instructed even as his lips brush the shell of sam's ear once more with the intention of sending another shudder through him from head to toe, prompting the physicality to take the forefront once again. it drops to a sultry whisper:]
Don't you want that?
[and then he's pulling back - hands-off once more to give them both the space to carry out his suggestion.]
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though, it's possible sam doesn't have words for this because he's not sure he's ever come this close. because of course there were girls in high school, stolen kisses and hands under skirts under bleachers. there were loud parties and late nights and the rush of getting caught when sam was still learning who he was. interwoven with that, too, are the soft brush of fingertips after drills. desperate moments after missions where they'd been sure it would be their last all caught up in the weight of what the world was supposed to be around them. followed, before he really knew it, by the one mission that was.
this is different than all of that, because this kiss, this adrenaline plus more fueled moment is more complicated than it has any right to be. part of sam tries to peek through it, to remind him what he's doing and with who. that these same hands holding him like this have nearly crushed his windpipe, among so many other things. that the spine his hungrily runs his hands up has held lifetimes worth of weght, of trauma, of abuse. same knows what bucky has done, has read the reports and looked into the files, and still when he kisses him, it doesn't matter. not that it goes away, because it is a part of bucky still, but it's not this part. it's not the larger part. it's not the part who he feels like bucky can become. plus- whatever it was that zemo gave them makes it much easier to slip out of his head, and into the present. into bucky's body, bucky's hands, bucky's mouth. there are red flags everywhere, and there always will be, but sam's always kind of liked the color red. ( and it always did find a way into his costume. )
bucky grunts, and god it's a good sound. the kind of sound that sam wants to hear again, and again. the kind of sound that sam does whatever it was he was just doing, again, just to hear it. he's thinking god, fuck, yes- and then, as if on cue, there are warm hands on his shoulders. sam's brain doesn't really catch up with where they've come through, too quick to simply recognize the feeling as a good one, and then he hears his voice. the low rasp, a brush of lips against his ear. sam shudders at the sound of it, his entire body reacting to the purr of zemo's accent, and how it feels like it runs down the length of sam's body. zemo. whose hands are finally pulling away at sam's jacket, and bucky is leaning away too, and through that shudder sam's head falls back against the couch and he lets the reaction course through him, not quite convinced he didn't just come from that. ]
Fuck. [ it comes out more like a groan, because he's somehow, already, hyper sensitive. because zemo pulls off his coat and sam moves to help the jacket slide off his arms and bucky is stripping where he sits in his lap, dog tags with his and steve rogers' name bouncing against his chest, and god damn. god fucking damn this is a bad idea.
and, as if reacting to sam's very thoughts, bucky's hand shoots out. sam tenses, out of reflex more than anything, before he realizes that bucky had gone for zemo. zemo, who was still leaning behind him. still there. who had orchestrated all of this from the beginning. sam closes his eyes for a moment, wills his heartbeat to settle. breathes, once, to get a handle on himself and how he's so turned on it's starting to physically hurt. his eyes open when bucky speaks, his attention entirely on him. on the hollow way he says i don't feel in control. ]
Hey- [ sam sits up from where he'd been leaning back on the couch, his eyes on bucky despite bucky's attention - those dark, direct eyes - being on zemo. he needs them on him, sam decides. and again, as if reading that very thought, bucky drops his hand. turns to address sam, and sam holds his gaze, too. not backing down from it. not scared, about that or about this, suddenly.
he's not sure when he got there - when all of this became okay - but bucky says stop me if i hurt you. or him. promise. and sam's hand lifts to wrap around the metal wrist. to hold bucky's hand, right where it is, his grip just as gentle as the press of bucky's hand. ] You're not going to hurt anyone. Him, or me. [ and maybe sam says it with too much conviction. maybe it darkens the mood a little. but sincerity and earnestness drips from his words. his free hand reaches across to settle on bucky's face, this time, a mirror image now. his thumb traces over the stubble on bucky's cheek, holding his attention. making sure that it's here. ] Hey- baby. I promise. You won't do anything bad.
i look at the timestamp and i pretend i do not see it
still, he cannot help but note that despite all of sam's reservations, objections, and trying so resolutely to remain the voice of reason amongst the chaos zemo has hand-crafted for his own amusement and the overall good of their merry little band - even he is not so iron-willed that he can resist both the temptation of the beautiful creature that is james barnes in his lap. or, apparently, the novelty of a low sokovian accent whispering in his ear in time with clever, deft hands on his person. it's good, because as patient and poised a man as he is - they are wasting precious time he has no scale of measure for.
his attention is drawn back to james in a split second with every inch of skin that is suddenly put on display - and it strikes him as a terrible oversight that he has hardly taken the time to appreciate just how lean and hungry he looks since the last time they were together in berlin. it wasn't just the hair he shed - it was the bulk of muscle he would imagine came with the confusion of being on his own without a sure-fed diet of essential nutrients for peak performance. he cannot say he minds, though that flash of silver against his chest makes his eyes narrow into something half-lidded for two distinct and warring reasons. first: he wonders if they are james' - or perhaps steve rogers. a specter looming over them who wasn't invited to this party. secondly: it makes him briefly wistful for his own, long blown to hell in the ruins of sokovia and now one with the earth as ash and dust. those thoughts have no place here, but it's that split second that distracts him from the too-quick movement of practiced reflex.
he shouldn't be disappointed that it isn't the kiss of metal around his throat for the second time today, but is instead a warm palm and flesh and blood fingers flexing around his throat. there's something thrilling about it that sends a hot rush pooling into his gut, cock throbbing behind the noticeably strained inseam of fine wool and tailoring. besides the initial flinch, he looks perhaps much too at ease with james quite literally holding his breath for him - and there's an even sicker twist that he could squeeze just hard enough to make him see black, then white, then nothing at all -
but it's gone as quickly as it came, and his lips twitch around a soft exhale as he watches the attention drop just like his hand to something more meaningful. ironically he doesn't want to hurt zemo, which is just as well for the purpose of this excursion. watching the tender moment unfold is more of what he was seeking between them, and sam does not disappoint in a touching display of understanding. protection. he mirrors james' affectionate stroke, and it's as stark a contrast as the glittering lights of hightown against the seething midnight of madripoor's dark skies from their bickering earlier in the day to this right here.
hey - baby, sam says, and zemo lets out a small hum of pleased acknowledgment at the easy petname, as if it were directed at him instead.)
he gives them both a moment, letting it sink in without intention of ruining it further. and only when the silence settles comfortably and it has fully passed does he chime in once more.]
It's just as Sam said. No one will be hurt.
[he could make a crude joke about nothing hurting unless it's desired, but this has developed into something far more sweet than even he anticipated. he won't ruin it, not when it's as delicious as any delicacy under his tongue. it's brazen of him, but he rests his elbow comfortably against the top of the couch behind sam's head, leaning to perch his other elbow against sam's shoulder and press his chin to a curled fist. better view of the action, closer to pick up his strings as the puppet master. his free hand slides down sam's front, slow and non-threatening, but only to gather at the fabric and pinch it between two fingers.]
James - help him with this.
It's so much more preferable to be skin to skin - to feel that warmth, the intimacy of it.
[his head tips lightly, gaze fixed on the man he's just instructed even as his lips brush the shell of sam's ear once more with the intention of sending another shudder through him from head to toe, prompting the physicality to take the forefront once again. it drops to a sultry whisper:]
Don't you want that?
[and then he's pulling back - hands-off once more to give them both the space to carry out his suggestion.]