( 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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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.