[ The air feels charged with whatever mood's driving them onwards. And when Sam allows himself to think, to reflect, to be healthy, he knows exactly why they're like this, why the door of the hotel room Sharon's swung for them is barely closed before they're on each other. The need for closeness and release both physical and emotional isn't surprising at all, but given what happened Sam had honestly worried Bucky would treat him like something fragile. Instead they nearly tumble, nearly break a lamp or two, all teeth and tongues and greedy hands.
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
( bucky's pissed. or — he feels a thousand, a hundred thousand, different things and it's so much easier to just be angry than face those daunting emotions, like shadows living on in the back burner of his skull. it's a simple equation, he thinks. math that anyone can understand. in no world will bucky barnes ever be worth the sacrificial martyrdom of captain america. it wasn't true for steve, it isn't true for sam, and everyone else seems to know it except for the guy himself. sam is worthwhile, sam is priceless, and he's made up of more than the red, white, and blue streaks that don his body when he heads out in the name of honesty fucking equality, liberty. foundational stuff even a man from the forties can understand. bucky is a pipe bomb constantly waiting to explode. everyone keeps a distance, to avoid the blast radius, and they should.
at the end of the day, sam is flesh, blood, bones. bucky is too, except for the milliliters of nazi experiment super solider serum permenately taking residence against his red blood cells. he would've been fine. and if he wasn't? that would've been fine, too.
he isn't going to get philosophical about the worth of a life, but he knows he's mud and dirt compared to golden sam. it was a stupid move, about the stupidest thing he ever could've done and bucky — he wants to punch him in the face for being careless, and kiss him on the mouth for being alive. he lands somewhere in between, kissing sam as brutally as he can, until his lips are bruised and bitten and bucky feels one singular molecule of satisfaction with the thought that he might just be, inexplicably, alive beneath him. he already knows it's not enough, not with the way he's feeling. drowning in the weight of his own self-loathing. surviving off air and the impossible, heavy thought that sam thinks he's worth taking a fall for alone. )
Don't.
( when they part it comes out roughly, bucky's hands already going to the zippers of his suit, knowing exactly how to effectively get sam naked by now, that he's almost turned it into an art. don't. don't die for me. don't think i'm worth it. don't ever, ever do something that fucking stupid again. )
Don't grab control. It's mine.
( he doesn't let anyone else see him when he's pissed, because everyone else acts like bucky's solution to an argument is to grab a machine gun and kill the problem. which is — not exactly unfair, but at least sam fights back. at least sam doesn't treat him delicately. bucky gets his suit off enough to unveil his chest, and gives him an ungentle shove down to the bed, manuvering him upwards to the headboard. )
Fuck you, man. ( he says it almost softly. his hands go into the bedside table, and he pulls out handcuffs. coldly, he drops them on sam's chest, taking a seat astride his stomach, like he's going in for a pin. it's as close to asking permission as he's going to get. ) Grab the headboard.
Oh, not Bucky. No, Bucky doesn't frighten Sam. Couldn't if he tried, honestly. Sam didn't fear the Winter Soldier either, not like he should have.
No, what frightens Sam is the thrill he feels at the way Bucky is growling and manhandling him. It's not something he's dabbled in. It's not something people would think to dabble in with Sam like this. But all bets are off when one partner is a daring thrill seeker who takes on the weight of the world, and the other is a super soldier who can't always handle meaning the world to his partner.
The cold metal of the handcuffs goes straight to Sam's dick. So does the way Bucky straddles him, heavy on his midsection. Sam groans. Rolls his hips to chase friction he's not getting right now.
There's a moment that stretches between them in which Sam debates yielding and fighting. He's tired, he's hurting, he's not sure it's smart to let Bucky work his adrenaline and fright out on Sam like this.
But they're alive, they're alive, they're alive.
So Sam holds Bucky's blue eyes, reaches up, curls his fingers around the solid wood of the headboard. Still wearing the suit, he wonders if Bucky needs to own Sam or Cap now, or if it's both he needs to lay his claim on. They both know that out there in the field, Bucky cannot control Sam. That there will come a day when Sam dies, and chances are it will be for someone else. That someone might be Bucky. In here, though? Perhaps in here Sam can be... ]
Yours... [ A beat - he means both control, and Sam himself. And Sam doesn't know how this works, or what Bucky wants, knows they'll need to have an actual damn conversation about this later, but for now, perhaps... ] ... sir.
( his breath lodges, sticking like peanut butter to the roof of his mouth. sir. it seems like a small word on paper, but in the heaving of breaths and here, between them, with bucky's weight settling astride sam on top of a bed, it feels huge. bigger than huge — monumental. shifting of tectonic plates big, bucky given something he didn't even know he wanted until sam put it out into the universe. his severe, angry expression softens. different code words that unlock the meat in his heart rather than the one in his brain. his metal hand cups the side of sam's cheek carefully, a cold thumb rubbing against a blooming bruise at the corner of his eye.
it's a gift. not just sam giving himself, but the reality of a title, a sense of belonging. he doesn't have to be winter soldier or failed experiment or liability or a risk to homeland security. he's sam's sir. he's in charge. he gets to protect him. when sam flings himself off a building like the misguided hero he is, trying to save something not worth dying for, bucky is the one who gets to fit the not quite shattered pieces back together again. )
That's right.
( the faith in him does more to soothe his anger than actually fucking sam probably would. it's less about fury and more about soothing now, and a single word did that to him. soundly, bucky gathers up the cuffs and weaves them through the gaps of the headboard, latching sam's wrists in place, one right after the other. now he's at his mercy. how merciful does bucky feel like being?
truth be told, bucky hates violence. it's just that he's very, very good at it. but — maybe he could be good at something else, too. something, something, old dogs and new tricks. )
Stay still.
( it's a simple instruction, more or less just tasting the weight of responsibility on his tongue. bucky eases down, fitting himself between sam's legs, hooking his fingers on the pinching sides of his suit and tugging down, showing off his toned stomach. a part of him, an ugly part, wants to say you can't sacrifice anything if i keep you handcuffed here. but — taking the martyrdom out of sam would be a little like clipping a bird's wings. he isn't what anyone would imagine as a saint, but bucky can't think of another word that fits except, of course, cap. bending down, bucky laves a hot line from his chest down to his navel, pushing and pushing on his suit to make more room. once his cock is out, bucky nips at the root, shaking his head. )
I hate when you do shit like that. ( he should save talking for later. he knows it. it doesn't even sound important when complimented by his tongue lolling out, curving around the head of his cock. ) You make me so mad, Sam. Jesus Christ. Tell me who you belong to, again.
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For @coincides
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
no subject
at the end of the day, sam is flesh, blood, bones. bucky is too, except for the milliliters of nazi experiment super solider serum permenately taking residence against his red blood cells. he would've been fine. and if he wasn't? that would've been fine, too.
he isn't going to get philosophical about the worth of a life, but he knows he's mud and dirt compared to golden sam. it was a stupid move, about the stupidest thing he ever could've done and bucky — he wants to punch him in the face for being careless, and kiss him on the mouth for being alive. he lands somewhere in between, kissing sam as brutally as he can, until his lips are bruised and bitten and bucky feels one singular molecule of satisfaction with the thought that he might just be, inexplicably, alive beneath him. he already knows it's not enough, not with the way he's feeling. drowning in the weight of his own self-loathing. surviving off air and the impossible, heavy thought that sam thinks he's worth taking a fall for alone. )
Don't.
( when they part it comes out roughly, bucky's hands already going to the zippers of his suit, knowing exactly how to effectively get sam naked by now, that he's almost turned it into an art. don't. don't die for me. don't think i'm worth it. don't ever, ever do something that fucking stupid again. )
Don't grab control. It's mine.
( he doesn't let anyone else see him when he's pissed, because everyone else acts like bucky's solution to an argument is to grab a machine gun and kill the problem. which is — not exactly unfair, but at least sam fights back. at least sam doesn't treat him delicately. bucky gets his suit off enough to unveil his chest, and gives him an ungentle shove down to the bed, manuvering him upwards to the headboard. )
Fuck you, man. ( he says it almost softly. his hands go into the bedside table, and he pulls out handcuffs. coldly, he drops them on sam's chest, taking a seat astride his stomach, like he's going in for a pin. it's as close to asking permission as he's going to get. ) Grab the headboard.
no subject
Oh, not Bucky. No, Bucky doesn't frighten Sam. Couldn't if he tried, honestly. Sam didn't fear the Winter Soldier either, not like he should have.
No, what frightens Sam is the thrill he feels at the way Bucky is growling and manhandling him. It's not something he's dabbled in. It's not something people would think to dabble in with Sam like this. But all bets are off when one partner is a daring thrill seeker who takes on the weight of the world, and the other is a super soldier who can't always handle meaning the world to his partner.
The cold metal of the handcuffs goes straight to Sam's dick. So does the way Bucky straddles him, heavy on his midsection. Sam groans. Rolls his hips to chase friction he's not getting right now.
There's a moment that stretches between them in which Sam debates yielding and fighting. He's tired, he's hurting, he's not sure it's smart to let Bucky work his adrenaline and fright out on Sam like this.
But they're alive, they're alive, they're alive.
So Sam holds Bucky's blue eyes, reaches up, curls his fingers around the solid wood of the headboard. Still wearing the suit, he wonders if Bucky needs to own Sam or Cap now, or if it's both he needs to lay his claim on. They both know that out there in the field, Bucky cannot control Sam. That there will come a day when Sam dies, and chances are it will be for someone else. That someone might be Bucky. In here, though? Perhaps in here Sam can be... ]
Yours... [ A beat - he means both control, and Sam himself. And Sam doesn't know how this works, or what Bucky wants, knows they'll need to have an actual damn conversation about this later, but for now, perhaps... ] ... sir.
no subject
it's a gift. not just sam giving himself, but the reality of a title, a sense of belonging. he doesn't have to be winter soldier or failed experiment or liability or a risk to homeland security. he's sam's sir. he's in charge. he gets to protect him. when sam flings himself off a building like the misguided hero he is, trying to save something not worth dying for, bucky is the one who gets to fit the not quite shattered pieces back together again. )
That's right.
( the faith in him does more to soothe his anger than actually fucking sam probably would. it's less about fury and more about soothing now, and a single word did that to him. soundly, bucky gathers up the cuffs and weaves them through the gaps of the headboard, latching sam's wrists in place, one right after the other. now he's at his mercy. how merciful does bucky feel like being?
truth be told, bucky hates violence. it's just that he's very, very good at it. but — maybe he could be good at something else, too. something, something, old dogs and new tricks. )
Stay still.
( it's a simple instruction, more or less just tasting the weight of responsibility on his tongue. bucky eases down, fitting himself between sam's legs, hooking his fingers on the pinching sides of his suit and tugging down, showing off his toned stomach. a part of him, an ugly part, wants to say you can't sacrifice anything if i keep you handcuffed here. but — taking the martyrdom out of sam would be a little like clipping a bird's wings. he isn't what anyone would imagine as a saint, but bucky can't think of another word that fits except, of course, cap. bending down, bucky laves a hot line from his chest down to his navel, pushing and pushing on his suit to make more room. once his cock is out, bucky nips at the root, shaking his head. )
I hate when you do shit like that. ( he should save talking for later. he knows it. it doesn't even sound important when complimented by his tongue lolling out, curving around the head of his cock. ) You make me so mad, Sam. Jesus Christ. Tell me who you belong to, again.