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The room was cold in the way only government buildings could manage, with fluorescent lights humming overhead, walls stripped of personality, and everything sterile and eerily gray. Sam stood near the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, the folded stack of papers in his hand trembling ever so slightly. His shoulders were squared, his stance rigid, like he’d been holding the same position since sunrise.
When Bucky finally entered, his steps were quiet. Nothing dramatic, nor performative, only the heavy, tired gait of someone who hadn’t really wanted to come but didn’t know how to stay away.
Sam didn’t bother with a greeting. “You knew,” he said, voice low but sharp. “You knew, and you didn’t say anything.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to the file in Sam’s hand, his mouth pulled tight. “Didn’t think I was the one you’d want to hear it from.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Sam said, voice rising. “You were in the room. You stood there while they slapped the Avengers name on a team built on defense contracts and PR spin. You watched them cut me out.”
“I didn’t agree with it,” Bucky said, and now his voice had an edge, not anger, but weariness. “I didn’t vote, I didn’t endorse it. But it was already done before I could stop it. I didn’t think you needed me weighing in from the sidelines.”
“I didn’t need your permission,” Sam snapped, taking a step closer, “I needed your support. You could’ve said something. Could’ve told them that title still meant something. That it wasn’t just a name to throw around like it belonged to the highest bidder.”
“I’m not good at speeches,” Bucky muttered. “Didn’t think my word would change anything.”
Sam’s laugh was dry, bitter. “God, you really don’t get it, do you?”
Bucky flinched, barely, but Sam saw it. “I get it more than you think,” Bucky said, quieter now. “I’ve been on both sides of the press cycle, Sam. I know what happens when you try to fight people with better lawyers and cleaner records. You end up erased. Or rewritten.”
“You think I should just roll over and let them have it?”
“No,” Bucky said immediately. “I think you should burn the whole damn machine down if you have to. I just..” He shook his head, looking away for a beat. “I didn’t know how to stand beside you without making things worse.”
Sam took a breath, jaw tight. “So you chose silence.”
“I chose not to make you carry me, too.”
That gave Sam pause. Not for long, not enough to cool the heat burning through his chest, but enough. Enough to see it; the quiet guilt in Bucky’s eyes, the tension in his posture like he’d been bracing for a hit since he walked in.
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” Sam asked, voice low. “Carrying you?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky said. “Maybe.”
Sam stepped closer, toe to toe now. “You’re not a burden, Bucky. But you can’t keep stepping back like this and pretending it’s mercy. It’s just cowardice.”
The hit landed. Bucky didn’t flinch, not exactly, but his jaw tightened like he wanted to - like it hurt.
“I’ve seen what happens when I try to help,” Bucky said, and there was no bravado left in his voice, only rawness, hollow and cracked. “People get hurt. Or they die. And you - you don’t need that weight.”
Sam stared at him, breathing hard. “I don’t need your silence either.”
For a moment, it hung there; as thick as smoke, and as heavy as everything unsaid between them.
Bucky looked at him, his expression flickering between guilt, resentment, and something older - something vulnerable. “I’m not your enemy, Sam.”
“I don’t know what you are anymore.”
That served as his breaking point. It didn’t come with a shout, or a slammed fist, or some righteous monologue. It came with tension snapping taut between them, unbearably close, heat drawn in by proximity and old wounds. When Sam reached for him, it wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even conscious.
Their mouths met in a clash of breath and motion. It wasn’t a kiss at first, more like a collision. Something desperate, something broken. Sam grabbed Bucky by the collar, pulling him in like he wanted to crush him, like the sheer force of their bodies might make up for the distance they’d let fester.
Bucky responded like a man starved, hands clutching at Sam’s jacket, metal fingers curling hard into fabric, teeth catching on Sam’s lower lip. He kissed like he was trying not to feel anything, but every inch of him betrayed it; the tremble in his breath, the way he leaned in even when Sam shoved him back against the table.
“You should hate me,” Bucky rasped between kisses, lips swollen, breath shallow.
“I do,” Sam whispered, and then kissed him again like he didn’t mean a word of it.
Their movements were frantic now, ungraceful, hands fumbling at zippers, at buttons, pulling clothing aside without care for where it landed. The table behind Bucky groaned under their weight as Sam pushed him back onto it, following him down, straddling his thighs with a low, deliberate grind.
Bucky gasped, eyes fluttering shut. Sam swallowed it with another kiss, this one slower, filthier, tongue stroking deep like he meant to claim something. He slid a hand down Bucky’s chest, the other braced beside his head, fingers gripping the edge of the table like he needed something to keep him tethered.
“You should’ve stood with me,” Sam murmured against Bucky’s throat, lips brushing skin that was already damp with sweat.
“I wanted to,” Bucky whispered. “You don’t know how much.”
Bucky’s breath hitched when Sam’s mouth found the hollow of his throat again, teeth scraping just enough to leave a mark before softening with a press of tongue. His hands were at Sam’s waist now, pushing the jacket back from his shoulders with a slow urgency that betrayed just how badly he needed something to hold onto something real. The fabric hit the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.
“We can still do good,” Bucky said, voice low and strained, caught between breathlessness and conviction. “It doesn’t have to be under the old name. The Thunderbolts - they’re not perfect. Hell, half of them barely qualify as stable. But some of them want to make things right. Like we did.”
Sam let out a harsh breath, not quite a laugh, more like disbelief sharpened into sound. He leaned back just enough to look Bucky in the eye, hands fisting in the front of his shirt.
“‘Like we did’?” he echoed, incredulous. “You think slapping a fresh coat of paint on a team of mercs and convicts makes them Avengers?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I didn’t say that. I’m not trying to replace what we had. I’m saying we can’t keep living like it’s still 2023.”
Sam’s fingers moved to the hem of Bucky’s shirt, pushing it up, knuckles dragging over skin that shivered beneath the touch. He didn’t pull it off right away. He just held it there, bunched in his hands, as if daring Bucky to keep going.
“You think I don’t know what year it is?” Sam muttered. “I’m reminded every goddamn day when I turn on the news and see your team smiling for cameras with my legacy stapled to their chest.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, not meeting his gaze. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”
“No,” Sam said. “It wasn’t.”
And still, his hands moved. He pushed the shirt up further, over Bucky’s head, yanking it off with more force than necessary, like he needed to punish the fabric for existing. He tossed it aside, then let his palms settle on Bucky’s bare chest, eyes roaming over old scars and pale skin flushed with heat.
Bucky didn’t resist. He sat there, bare from the waist up, chest heaving slightly under Sam’s touch. “You think I’m proud of it? That I wanted them to co-opt everything we fought for?”
“I think you didn’t stop it,” Sam said, and there was no venom in it now, only fatigue. “And maybe that’s worse.”
Bucky’s hand came up slowly, hesitantly - flesh, not metal - and he cupped the side of Sam’s neck, thumb grazing along his jaw. His touch was gentle in a way that cut deeper than any insult.
“I thought if I stayed quiet, maybe the world would forget me. That they’d forget the Winter Soldier. But maybe I was just making room for worse things.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, jaw working, as if debating whether to let the moment soften him. He didn’t, not entirely.
Instead, he grabbed Bucky’s belt, fingers deft and impatient, tugging at the buckle until it gave with a click. “You want to make it right?” he asked, tone rough and low. “Then stop hiding behind what could be and stand up for what was. Stop letting them bury us while we’re still breathing.”
Bucky’s breath shuddered out of him as Sam dragged the belt free, then reached for the button on his jeans. He wasn’t rough, but there was no hesitation, either; no pretense, only raw, focused motion.
“I’m trying,” Bucky said, hands gripping Sam’s hips like he needed the grounding. “I want to help. I want to fix it. Even if it’s not under the same banner.”
Sam shook his head, frustration bleeding into every motion as he worked Bucky’s jeans down his hips. “That name meant something. It wasn’t just a brand. It was a promise. And now it’s PR fodder for people who’ve never had to bleed for it.”
“And you think this-” Bucky leaned forward, catching Sam’s mouth again in another kiss, this one deeper, hungrier, “-isn’t a part of it? You think this isn’t us still fighting for what matters?”
Sam kissed him back like the answer was yes and no all at once, as if he couldn’t separate the bitterness from the desire anymore.
His own shirt came off next, Bucky’s hands pulling at the fabric like he was tearing down a wall brick by brick. He paused when it was off, fingers ghosting over Sam’s chest, the line of an old scar, the curve of muscle, his touch reverent even when his words weren’t.
“I didn’t want to lose this,” Bucky murmured. “You. Us. Whatever we had.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something quieter. “Then you should’ve fought harder.”
Bucky’s hands tightened on his waist. “I’m here now. I’m still fighting.”
They were skin to skin now, bodies pressed together with only the remnants of clothing between them, mouths moving in tandem between arguments and gasps. Sam’s fingers threaded into Bucky’s hair, pulling him closer, rougher, while Bucky’s metal hand slid down his spine, cold against fevered skin.
“Then don’t stop,” Sam whispered, lips against his ear, his voice ragged. “Not this time.”
Bucky’s mouth was warm against Sam’s throat, lips tracing a path down to his collarbone with careful, almost reverent touches, like he was trying to memorize the taste of him, one breath at a time. But Sam didn’t melt under it, he didn’t soften, not this time, not like he usually would.
Even as their bare chests pressed together, even as the friction made both of them shudder with tension too long ignored, Sam held the line. His hands were steady where they gripped Bucky’s hips, holding him down against the table like a pin in a map, like he couldn’t risk him slipping away again.
“I’m not changing my mind,” Sam said, his voice low and rough. “I don’t care how good your intentions are. The Avengers name stays with me. It’s not up for discussion.”
Bucky exhaled, head dropping to Sam’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to steal it from you, I’m trying to move forward. You’re the one holding onto a ghost like it’s going to save you.”
“And you’re the one letting them rewrite the ending.”
Sam didn’t want to keep talking about it. He didn’t want to hear the excuses, the hopeful what-ifs, the worn-out logic that Bucky always reached for when he didn’t know how to feel. He wanted to silence it, to drown it out under something heavier. Something he could control.
So he kissed Bucky again, open-mouthed and demanding, and then slid one hand down between them, palm brushing over the front of Bucky’s briefs where he was already hard and pulsing beneath the fabric.
Bucky choked on a breath, hips jerking upward instinctively. His hand flew to Sam’s shoulder, fingers digging in, but he didn’t pull away. His voice caught somewhere between resistance and surrender. “Sam..”
“No,” Sam murmured against his jaw. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this.”
He palmed him slowly at first, applying steady pressure through the cotton, watching the way Bucky’s face twisted; the way tension and want flickered through his expression like short-circuiting wires. The table creaked again beneath them as Bucky’s spine arched, involuntary, a soft noise slipping from his lips before he could bite it back.
Sam drank it in. He gripped the waistband next, tugged Bucky’s briefs down just enough to free him, the heavy length of him falling into Sam’s waiting hand.
“I told you,” Sam said, his voice calmer now, almost dangerous in its steadiness, “this doesn’t change anything.”
Bucky’s mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut, his breath stuttering as Sam stroked him slowly from base to tip. His flesh hand clawed for purchase against the edge of the table while the metal one braced against Sam’s side, trembling.
“I’m not trying to win,” Bucky managed to say, voice hoarse, barely holding together. “I just.. I want to build something again. Anything, with you.”
Sam’s jaw clenched, his rhythm never faltering. “You can’t build something on stolen ground.”
Bucky’s hips rocked up into his hand, helplessly chasing the friction, but his brow furrowed, not from pleasure alone, but from the hurt that still lingered behind every word. Sam saw it, knew it was there, but refused to let it take root.
“You think I’m naive,” Bucky said, breath catching, “but I’m not. I know they’re using us. I know we’re props in a bigger game, but I also know that you made people believe again. That shield, that name - it meant something because you made it mean something.”
Sam’s grip tightened slightly, pace shifting, and Bucky’s voice broke on a groan.
“Then why,” Sam asked, leaning in so close his breath was hot against Bucky’s cheek, “would you let them twist it into something it’s not? Why hand it over to the same people we used to fight against?”
Bucky didn’t have an answer, not one that could survive under Sam’s touch, under the way his thumb dragged slick over the head of his cock, under the slow, deliberate friction that made his hips buck and his thighs tremble.
So he stopped trying to speak.
Sam kissed him again, not gently, not lovingly, but like a dam breaking. Like he needed to keep Bucky’s mouth busy, needed to steal the words before they could ruin the moment, before they could crack the fragile truce between them.
Bucky kissed back with everything he had, with the ache in his bones and the heat in his blood, with regret and hope and need all tangled together in one desperate, gasping exchange. His hands found Sam’s back, trailing down the ridges of muscle like he could hold on just long enough to make it mean something.
But Sam wasn’t giving in, not to that.
Bucky tried to speak again, maybe to defend himself, maybe to plead, but Sam was done listening. He leaned forward, swallowed the words with his mouth, and kissed him so deeply it robbed the breath from both of their lungs. There was no hesitation in it now, no restraint. Just the kind of kiss that stripped a man bare in ways hands never could.
Sam pressed in close, their chests flush, his hand never still between them. He stroked Bucky with measured, controlled movements, just the way he remembered, because he remembered. Every twitch, every breath hitch, every spot that made Bucky’s jaw go slack and his thighs shake. He could read Bucky’s body like a well-worn manual, and right now, he wielded that knowledge like a weapon.
Bucky whimpered into his mouth, a sound that should’ve embarrassed him, but he couldn’t stop it. His metal fingers dug into the edge of the table, useless for grounding. He was flushed, panting, trembling under the weight of Sam’s control, and it was clear now that Sam wanted him there, helpless and undone.
“That’s it,” Sam murmured, barely pulling back to speak, lips brushing over Bucky’s cheekbone as he spoke each word like a quiet command. “You remember how this feels, don’t you?”
Bucky nodded, desperate, his eyes fluttering open only to squeeze shut again when Sam’s grip shifted, twisting just right. He gasped, a ragged, choked-off thing, and Sam took advantage of his parted lips with another consuming kiss.
“You always get like this,” Sam whispered against his skin, his voice dark and low. “Fall apart the second I put my hands on you. All that bite and fire, gone in a heartbeat.”
Bucky groaned, his voice wrecked with need. “Sam..”
But Sam shushed him again, gently this time; fingertips brushing his jaw, then guiding him to tilt his head so Sam could mouth at his throat, right over the spot that always made Bucky squirm. His kisses there were slow and indulgent, his strokes never losing rhythm, expertly keeping Bucky on the edge and not letting him drop.
“You take it so well,” Sam said, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. “Always did, even when you were pretending like you hated this.”
Bucky’s breath caught again. He arched up, his cock leaking and twitching in Sam’s hand, the tension in his gut coiled tight enough to snap.
“And look at you now,” Sam continued, a murmur laced with warmth, with power. “So fucking good for me.”
That broke something loose in Bucky, a soft, strangled sound torn from the back of his throat. His grip on the table faltered, and his whole body trembled, drawn taut with pleasure and shame and that deep, aching longing that had never gone away.
Sam kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then up to his temple; small, grounding touches that contrasted with the relentless rhythm of his hand. He could feel how close Bucky was, could see it in every muscle tensed beneath him.
“You gonna come for me, Buck?” Sam asked, breath warm in his ear. “Gonna let me have it? Let go, just like you used to?”
Bucky whimpered again, nodding helplessly, eyes brimming with emotion he couldn’t voice. His legs trembled where they dangled over the edge of the table, and Sam’s free hand slipped behind his neck to hold him steady, firm but careful, anchoring him.
“That’s it,” Sam whispered, slowing just slightly, enough to keep Bucky right at the edge. “You’re doing so well.”
With a shattered gasp and a full-body shudder, Bucky came in Sam’s hand, hips bucking, his voice breaking on a low, desperate cry. His metal arm clanged against the table, and his other hand scrambled for Sam’s wrist, not to push away, but to hold on.
Sam didn’t let go until the last tremor passed through him, until Bucky’s breath evened out in shaky exhales and he sagged back against the wood, limp and spent and thoroughly wrecked.
He kissed Bucky again, slower this time, gentler, a soft press of lips that still carried weight behind it.
“You still think I don’t know what you need?” Sam asked quietly.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were open now, half-lidded and dazed, fixed on Sam’s face like he was trying to memorize every line. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“You always did.”
Bucky hadn’t fully caught his breath when he tried again, voice hoarse, lips still damp from their last kiss. “Sam, listen, I - ”
Sam silenced him instantly, one hand on his jaw, thumb pressing just enough to tilt his head back and expose his throat. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he said, not cruel, but firm. Icy calm over smoldering heat.
Bucky swallowed hard, his throat moving beneath Sam’s hand, but he didn’t argue. His eyes flicked up, wide and dark, trying to read Sam’s face, trying to reach something beneath the steel.
“This isn’t a debate,” Sam said, shifting his grip to Bucky’s waist, steadying him as he slid down between his legs again. “And I’m not giving up the name. Not now. Not after everything.”
Bucky shivered as Sam’s fingers skimmed lower, deliberate, unhurried. He was still flushed and oversensitive, his cock softening but twitching slightly at the renewed touch. Sam didn’t stroke him again, not yet; instead he moved lower, brushing over the insides of Bucky’s thighs, grounding him with the weight of his touch and the sheer focus behind it.
“I’m not doing this with you for politics,” Sam muttered, reaching for the small bottle of lube he’d shoved into the drawer of the table weeks ago, when these meetings started getting heated, when he stopped pretending he didn’t want this. “This is for me. You’re for me.”
Bucky opened his mouth again, but Sam leaned down, kissed him deep and slow, and whatever protest was on Bucky’s tongue dissolved beneath the press of lips and the scrape of teeth. Sam poured the lube over his fingers, warming it between his hands, then nudged Bucky’s thighs wider with his own knees.
“You still want to talk?” Sam asked against his mouth. “Then tell me this: why do you keep coming back if you know I’m never gonna give you what you want?”
Bucky’s breath hitched. “Because.. I still want you.”
Sam nodded once, slowly, as if accepting the confession, then slipped a slick finger between Bucky’s legs and pressed in without warning.
Bucky gasped, hips twitching against the pressure. He was still oversensitive, his nerves buzzing from the orgasm Sam had wrung out of him minutes ago. But he didn’t pull away, instead gripping the table edge harder, lips parted, breathing shallow.
Sam’s finger curled deliberately, slow and purposeful. “That’s what I thought.”
Bucky shuddered as a second finger joined the first, more resistance now, his body tight from exertion, muscles straining from holding himself up. Sam moved with precision, stretching him with the same quiet confidence he brought to flight, to command, to control. He knew how to make Bucky feel everything, all at once; the burn, the fullness, the heat that flared up even through the sensitivity.
“You’re already shaking,” Sam murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “And I’m barely getting started.”
Bucky’s thighs trembled against Sam’s hips. “Too much..”
“No, it’s not.” Sam leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek as he worked his fingers deeper. “You can take it. You always take it.”
Another stroke inside, slow and devastating. Bucky arched with a soft cry, his cock twitching again despite the afterglow. His eyes were glassy now, breath breaking into little gasps he couldn’t muffle.
“You know what this is?” Sam asked, his voice still soft, even as his fingers twisted just right, brushing Bucky’s prostate and making him curse under his breath. “This is mine. Not the name. You.”
Bucky whimpered, desperate and strung out, body caught in that space between too much and not enough. Sam’s fingers never stopped moving; stretching, curling, pushing him right to the edge of overstimulation and keeping him there. The sweat on Bucky’s skin glistened in the low light, his metal hand flat against the table now, helpless.
“And you’re gonna take what I give you,” Sam growled, kissing down his throat, “because you know I’m the only one who knows how to ruin you like this.”
Bucky could barely nod, could barely breathe, but he didn’t fight it. He gave himself over with a low, ragged moan, his body pliant beneath Sam’s hands, his mouth hanging open in something between surrender and need.
Sam kissed him again, slow and deep, fingers still working inside him, keeping him open, keeping him right where he wanted him. Not moving forward. Not letting him fall back.
Just holding him in place, trembling and full and silent.
Bucky was pliant now, breathless and flushed, thighs trembling against the table, lips parted in a daze that hovered somewhere between wrecked and reverent. His body twitched around Sam’s fingers with every movement, slick and stretched and still fluttering, every nerve raw and open.
Sam pulled back slightly, watching the way his chest rose and fell, slow and heavy, sweat clinging to his hairline and collarbones. He looked thoroughly fucked already, and Sam hadn’t even taken his pants off.
“Look at you,” Sam murmured, dragging his fingers out slow. Bucky whimpered at the loss, hips shifting like he didn’t want to be empty. “Always take me so well. Like your body remembers what it’s supposed to do.”
Bucky tried to lift his head, dazed eyes catching Sam’s for a second before he faltered again. His voice was ragged. “Please - ”
Sam slid his hand up to Bucky’s jaw again, cradling it, thumb stroking over the corner of his mouth before pressing between his lips.
“You want this?” he asked, voice low and sure, already knowing the answer. “Then open up.”
Bucky obeyed without hesitation. Sam slid his slick fingers into his mouth, watching the way Bucky’s lips closed around them, the way his tongue moved, obedient, slow, worshipful. He sucked like it meant something, like he needed it, hollowing his cheeks as Sam pushed deeper.
“S’what I thought,” Sam said, his voice a quiet growl. “You always get like this. Sweet. Quiet. Desperate.”
Bucky moaned around his fingers, and Sam’s cock twitched hard against the press of his jeans. He eased the fingers out after a few slow thrusts and reached for his belt one-handed, never breaking eye contact.
“You gonna stay good for me?” Sam asked as he unfastened his fly, voice edged with heat but still controlled. “Let me take what I want? Let me fuck you like you need it?”
Bucky nodded, already breathless again. “Yes. Sam, please..”
Sam dragged his pants and briefs down just enough, his cock hard and leaking, the tip flushed dark with want. He slicked himself up with the wet from Bucky’s mouth, using slow, steady strokes, just enough to coat himself. He hissed at the sensation, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“You feel so fuckin’ good every time,” Sam murmured. “Tight, hot, like you were made for this. Made for me.”
He grabbed Bucky’s hips and guided him fully onto his back across the conference table, positioning him with practiced care; one hand steady at the back of Bucky’s thigh, lifting and adjusting, the other wrapping around his own length as he lined himself up.
Bucky’s knees bent open, shaking slightly, the edge of the table creaking beneath his weight. His eyes locked on Sam’s face, wide, dark, and helpless.
Sam held that gaze as he pressed in.
The stretch was slow, deliberate. Sam groaned low in his throat as the head of his cock slid past the tight ring of muscle, feeling Bucky’s whole body tense and clench around him. He gave him time, pushed in an inch, waited, then eased deeper, savoring every second of the way Bucky gritted his teeth and took it.
“That’s it,” Sam breathed, voice cracking under the strain. “God, Buck. So fuckin’ tight. You still feel like home.”
Bucky let out a broken moan, hands scrabbling for purchase along the table’s edges, eyes fluttering closed as Sam bottomed out; full and heavy inside him, staying there, buried deep and unmoving for a breathless beat.
Sam reached up and gripped his jaw again, guiding him to look up. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Bucky obeyed, barely managing it, and Sam gave him a slow roll of his hips, not enough to thrust, not yet, just enough to let him feel it.
“You remember this?” Sam asked, barely above a whisper. “How good I fuck you? How good you sound when you’re falling apart for me?”
Another thrust - slow, full, devastating. Bucky cried out softly, head pressing back against the wood, body already clenching too hard, too soon.
“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” Sam said, breath ragged. “And you’re gonna love every second of it.”
He pulled back, just enough to build friction, and began a steady rhythm, deep and punishing, each thrust sliding in slick and hard. Bucky gasped with every movement, his cock already hardening again, twitching against his stomach.
Sam leaned in, breath hot against Bucky’s mouth as he drove into him again and again, praise spilling between clenched teeth. “You’re so good for me. Always were. Letting me ruin you like this, fuck, baby, you were meant for it.”
Bucky moaned, mouth open, hands reaching for Sam blindly, and Sam caught them, held them to his chest, pinning him open as he thrust harder, deeper.
Bucky was gasping now, his voice fraying into ragged little cries with each thrust, his body jolting under Sam’s as the rhythm turned relentless. Sam’s hips snapped forward, the slap of skin against skin echoing loud in the otherwise still conference room, the heavy oak table creaking beneath them like it might finally give in.
“You still with me?” Sam growled, leaning in, lips brushing Bucky’s cheek.
Bucky could only nod, his mouth open but too gone to speak. His body was a trembling mess beneath Sam, stretched wide, slick with sweat, and completely at his mercy. His cock had long since returned to full hardness, flushed and twitching against his stomach, already leaking again from the constant grind of Sam’s thrusts hitting just the right spot every time.
Sam kept one hand firm on Bucky’s thigh, the other braced beside his head, muscles flexed with every motion. He was panting now, sweat running down his chest, jaw clenched as he tried to pace himself; but Bucky was so fucking tight, and hot, and still clenching around him like he wanted to drag him in deeper.
“You’re takin’ it so well,” Sam murmured, leaning down to kiss him. “Look at you, Buck. Fallin’ apart for me.”
Bucky whimpered against his mouth, and Sam swallowed the sound greedily, licking into the kiss as he fucked harder, deeper, until the table beneath them thudded with each thrust. It was primal, desperate, and still somehow tender, the way Sam’s lips lingered on Bucky’s even as his body pounded him into the wood, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to break him or cradle him.
Bucky tried to speak again, a broken noise against Sam’s lips. “Sam, too - can’t - ”
“Yes, you can,” Sam whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Look at you, baby.”
That word undid something in Bucky, made his breath stutter and his hands scramble for something to hold onto. His metal fingers clamped down hard on the table’s edge, while the other hand found Sam’s back, fingers digging into muscle like he needed to anchor himself or fly apart.
Sam shifted, adjusting the angle, and Bucky choked, not in pain, but overwhelmed, and utterly wrecked; his body arched as his cock jerked once, twice, before spilling across his stomach in thick, messy stripes. He came hard, harder than he expected, trembling through it, his voice cracking with a sob as Sam kept moving.
“That’s it,” Sam breathed, not stopping for a second. “So fuckin’ beautiful when you come. Goddamn, Buck.”
Bucky was crying now, not from sadness, not really, just overwhelmed, overstimulated, his body still twitching with every thrust as Sam pounded into him like he couldn’t stop. His own come was smeared across his skin, warm and slick between them, but Sam didn’t let up.
He grunted as he drove in harder, faster, the table shaking now beneath them with every jolt. Bucky was beyond words, sobbing softly against Sam’s mouth as he took it, eyes glazed and wet, lips swollen and parted. He was gasping into every kiss, moaning with every thrust, his body jerking helplessly as Sam fucked him through the aftershocks and into another wave of dizzying sensation.
“Stay with me,” Sam said, voice cracking under the weight of it, his own climax building fast and sharp in his gut. “Just a little more, baby. You’re doin’ perfect. So fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky nodded through the tears, his legs shaking, thighs spread wide and trembling. He kissed Sam back, sloppy, desperate, grateful, even as the next wave of overstimulation made his whole body twitch. He could barely breathe, could barely think. But he wanted this, wanted Sam.
Sam growled low in his throat, thrusts losing rhythm now, breaking into deeper, needier rolls of his hips. His fingers tightened on Bucky’s hip, holding him in place, and with one final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep and came, hard, spilling inside Bucky with a groan torn straight from his chest.
He collapsed over him, panting, his body still trembling with aftershocks. Bucky was a mess beneath him, flushed and glassy-eyed, skin damp, lips bitten red, still twitching from the overstimulation.
Sam cupped his face, kissed him slow and full, like he was trying to soothe what he’d just broken. “You’re incredible,” he murmured between kisses. “You took it all. Let me wreck you. Christ, Bucky.”
And Bucky, ruined, aching, overwhelmed, kissed him back with everything he had left.
The air was thick with heat and breathlessness. Sam hadn’t moved far, he was still inside Bucky, chest to chest, slick skin pressed against trembling muscles. The only sound for a long, suspended moment was the slow wind-down of their breathing and the faint, distant hum of traffic outside the window. But beneath that silence, something still pulsed - unfinished, unresolved.
Bucky stirred.
His hands flexed weakly where they’d fallen, fingertips twitching as though even that small motion was too much. He turned his head slightly, jaw tight, the sweat at his temple catching in the low light. His voice came rough and cracked, barely audible, like it had to fight its way out of a throat still raw from moaning.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Sam tensed above him.
Bucky felt it instantly, the way Sam’s body locked up, breath stalling in his lungs. There was no kiss this time, no softness, only a stretch of silence between them, thick with tension.
“We’re still not..” Bucky tried again, but his voice faltered when Sam shifted his weight, hands bracing beside his shoulders again. “You can’t just.. Sam - ”
Sam’s hips moved, slow at first, deliberate.
Bucky gasped, his body jerking, still oversensitive, still slick and wrecked. He hadn’t even begun to recover, and Sam was already rolling his hips again, pushing deeper, harder. The table creaked beneath them once more.
“Why the hell do you always pick now to talk?” Sam asked, his voice low, simmering.
Bucky’s fingers clawed weakly at his arm. “Because it matters. You can’t just keep ignoring what they’re doing - ”
Another thrust cut him off. Bucky cried out, his words dissolving into a broken moan as his overstimulated body clenched reflexively, wrung dry and still not given a moment to come down.
“They’re not the Avengers,” Sam said, sharper now. “And they never will be. But you - you’re still running defense for them like they didn’t sell themselves out.”
“I’m not - fuck - I’m not running defense,” Bucky gasped, eyes fluttering as Sam drove in again, deeper, grinding against his sweet spot like he knew exactly where it was, like he’d mapped it years ago and never forgotten. “I’m just saying - just listen - ”
Sam thrust harder this time.
Bucky’s back arched, a broken sob catching in his throat. His body spasmed beneath Sam’s weight, legs twitching, one arm thrown across his face like he couldn’t bear the sensation.
“I am listening,” Sam said through gritted teeth, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Bucky’s chest. “But you keep talking like they’ve earned something. Like they deserve to carry a name they don’t even understand.”
“I never said that,” Bucky choked out, his voice cracking, breath hitching as Sam kept moving. “Just, fuck - just that we can’t - can’t keep fighting like this..”
Sam’s rhythm never faltered. If anything, it grew more insistent, more punishing. Each thrust sent Bucky’s body jolting against the table, already shaking under the strain. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, not from pain exactly, but from the unrelenting sensation, the way Sam’s words struck just as deep as his body did.
“I’m not fighting you,” Sam said, quieter now, voice hoarse with frustration. “I’m fighting for what we built. What we bled for. You think I like this? You think I want to be in some goddamn legal room filing copyright claims instead of building something real?”
Bucky didn’t answer, he couldn’t.. He was too far gone, every nerve lit up and burning, his body pushed past every threshold until all he could do was feel; every breath, every thrust, every word Sam dropped into the air between them like it might explode.
Sam leaned down again, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s, their mouths barely inches apart. His voice dropped, softer but no less intense.
“I’m not gonna let them rewrite our history, Buck. Not after everything.”
Bucky shuddered beneath him, mouth opening in a soundless gasp as Sam angled his hips just right, just cruelly enough, and stole the last bit of breath he had.
“I know it hurts,” Sam murmured. “But I need you on my side. Not theirs.”
Bucky let out a broken, wrecked sound, his body trembling violently with every motion now, overstimulated beyond belief, eyes wet, breath stuttering.
“I am on your side,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “I always was.”
Bucky was trembling.
His body was slick with sweat, muscles twitching beneath the press of Sam’s weight, his vision blurred with overstimulation and a deep, frustrated ache that went far beyond the physical. He barely registered the moment Sam slowed, the rhythm faltering, the heat between them suspended mid-motion, until the pressure was gone.
Then he pulled out without a word.
Bucky gasped, the sudden emptiness cutting through him like a slap, his hips still tilted, legs still spread, chest heaving. His heart thudded wildly in his ribs, his body crying out for a climax that never came. He blinked at the ceiling, momentarily frozen, disbelieving.
And then he felt it, the rustle of Sam’s movements. The sharp zip of his pants. The wet, heavy sound of him tucking himself away.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open. His head turned, slowly, almost like it hurt to move. He stared up at Sam, barely able to process what he was seeing; the way Sam stood at the edge of the conference table now, fully upright, straightening his clothes with a practiced efficiency that felt brutal in its detachment.
“Seriously?” Bucky rasped, voice hoarse and raw. “You’re just.. leaving me like this?”
Sam didn’t look at him. He was buttoning his shirt with sharp, almost angry motions, jaw clenched so tight Bucky could see the strain in his temples.
“We’re done,” Sam said. Flat. Final.
Bucky sat up on his elbows, wincing. His whole body screamed with the effort. “The hell we are.”
Sam turned, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his mouth was tight with barely held-in restraint.
“I’m not doing this with you anymore,” he said. “Not when every time we touch, it ends like that.”
Bucky swung his legs off the table slowly, still naked, still shaking. His hands planted on the wood behind him for balance, but his glare was steady. “Then what the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Sam bit out. “A mistake. Habit. Anger. Take your pick.”
“You don’t get to pull me apart like that,” Bucky growled, hurt bleeding through the sharpness of his voice, “then walk away like you’re the only one who’s allowed to feel betrayed.”
Sam flinched, just slightly.
Bucky saw it, and pushed forward, reckless now, like he couldn’t stop himself. “You think this is just about a name? About a damn trademark? It’s about trust, Sam. You think I didn’t fight for everything we had? That I didn’t bleed just as much as you did for that title?”
“Then why side with them?” Sam snapped, finally losing his calm. “Why stand in every room and play the reasonable one while they take everything we stood for and turn it into a brand?!”
“I’m not siding with them,” Bucky barked, standing now despite the ache in his legs, still bare, still undone. “I was trying to mediate. Because the last thing this world needs is another war between people who used to fight together.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Sam said, voice low, bitter. “You’re not the one who has to live with the weight of that shield every single day. You’re not the one they expect to be something perfect when all they want is a symbol to sell.”
Bucky stared at him, chest rising and falling.
“I never asked you to be perfect,” he said, quieter now. “I just wanted you to trust me. To talk to me before you went nuclear.”
Sam laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was sharp and hollow and pained. “We’ve never been good at talking, Buck. That’s why we fuck instead.”
Silence dropped between them like a blade.
Bucky looked away first, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His body still ached, his skin still flushed with the imprint of what they’d just done. But the heat had gone cold now, replaced with something bruising, unspoken.
Sam stepped back, just once.
Bucky didn’t follow.
Sam didn’t speak again. He just turned, slow, deliberate, and walked toward the door with a soldier’s poise, spine straight, steps even. The sound of his boots against the tile echoed through the room like the tick of a closing clock. Each step carried a finality Bucky felt in his chest like a hollow collapse.
The door loomed open ahead of him, haloed by the golden light from the hallway beyond, a sharp contrast to the dimmed shadows of the conference room. Sam moved into it without hesitation, already pulling distance between them, already leaving.
Bucky watched him go, frozen in place.
The table beneath him was still warm, still damp with sweat and the ghost of Sam’s touch. His thighs trembled as he tried to shift his weight, to stand properly, to regain a scrap of composure. But the motion sent a jolt of pain through his hips, a dull, lingering ache that reminded him of just how thoroughly he’d been taken apart.
His right leg buckled under him.
He caught himself on the table’s edge with a sharp intake of breath, metal fingers splayed wide across the lacquered surface. His palm left a smear of sweat behind. He hated the sound he made, small, involuntary, half-swallowed, and hated even more the knowledge that Sam had to have heard it.
Still, Bucky made no move to speak. The words were there, thick in his throat, but they had no shape. They pressed against his chest, burned behind his sternum like regret, but refused to become anything useful. Anything real.
The silence felt bottomless.
Sam reached the doorway. He stepped past the threshold, and for a moment, the bright corridor light cast his silhouette in sharp relief. The tension in his shoulders was unmistakable, that rigid, restrained posture that meant he was either holding back fury or grief, and maybe didn’t know which. Bucky had seen that stance on battlefields and in funeral homes. It always meant the same thing: Sam was bleeding somewhere no one could see.
Then, just as Bucky started to believe he was truly gone, Sam stopped.
He didn’t turn right away. His head dipped slightly, just enough to suggest hesitation, or maybe weariness, before he looked back over his shoulder.
Their eyes met, only for a moment.
Bucky felt the weight of it like a stone between his ribs. He tried to straighten, but the tremor in his legs gave him away. He stayed half-leaning against the table, naked, raw, breath shallow and face flushed with heat that wasn’t desire anymore. His body screamed with unresolved tension, his skin still burning with overstimulated nerves and deeper, unspoken humiliation.
Sam’s gaze didn’t soften. It didn’t flicker with regret or tenderness or love.
It was pity.
Worse than hatred, more cutting than indifference. It was the look someone gave a person they couldn’t fix; a man unraveling, clutching at old patterns and colder comforts, too proud to ask for help, too broken to admit he needed it.
The pity was brief, but it landed with precision.
Sam didn’t linger, nor did he say goodbye. He just turned back toward the hallway and walked out, footsteps receding like a slow, rhythmic betrayal. The door swung gently behind him, then clicked closed with a finality that echoed louder than any argument they’d ever had.
The room was silent again.
Bucky didn’t move.
He stayed slouched against the edge of the table, one arm braced for support, the other limp at his side. His breath rattled in his throat, tight and uneven. He could still feel Sam in the room, the scent of him in the air, the heat he left behind, but the man himself was gone.
Gone, and somehow still pulling pieces of Bucky with him.
The silence stretched on. Bucky didn’t fill it.
He didn’t cry.
But he didn’t stop shaking, either.