#soft sam

“ah—mmhhh, fuck! fuckfuckfuckkkk..” sam’s voice was high-pitched and muffled, face shoved into the pillow, ass up. your thrusts were rough and unrelenting; hard, quick, mean, almost. his pretty face was scrunched up as he let his mouth hang open, breathless gasps and moans slipping past continuously. “there we go, good boy,” you praised him softly though he barely heard you—the sound of skin slapping against skin was atrociously loud.

his noises were filling your ears, it was a majestic sound that got so rudely interrupted by a call; your phone rang.

sam’s eyes opened, barely, but he looked over to the nightstand and turned his head to glance back at you. you didn’t let up, you kept fucking him like there was no tomorrow. he mentioned your name and cut himself off with a moan, his hips stuttering as he just so happened to try to meet your thrusts. looks like he didn’t want you to stop. not that you would.

when you reached for your phone, sam’s glossy eyes widened in disbelief and he almost tried to push himself up. “hey- w- wait—” he muttered softly, shaking his head. “relax.” you told him, one hand firmly on his hip, the other now to your ear as you answered the phone.

“yeah?” you said flatly, your eyes locked on sam’s panicked ones. were you being a prick? maybe. but you could be a bigger one. you snapped your hips forward, earning a raspy moan from sam who just buckled forward with a loud “shit!”

“no, i’m actually..” you breathed slowly, keeping your thrusts deep but more leisure as sam just shook his head, pressing his forehead to the pillow. “-quite busy right now.”

another pathetic moan left his lips as you continued just talking on the phone, as if you weren’t pounding him from the back. he called your name again, softly, trying not to be too loud just in case the person on the other end heard him. it earned a small dissatisfied groan from you—his sounds were your favorite thing.

“jesus christ, are you done?” you ask bluntly, your hand moving from sam’s hip to the small of his back. “i told you, i’m busy.” and with that, you ended the phone call.

Sam, huffing a quiet laugh, reread the message four times before he unfolded the song request. It's always the usual: 'I'm On Fire' by Bruce Springsteen.

"Before I call it a night, I have one more request," Sam smiled. "We have one more request from from a dear old friend of mine. Stay out of the sun, Icarus."

Sam leaned back in his chair as the opening chords vibrated through the small room. He wondered who Icarus really was. From this tiny booth, they were just another name on a screen—flirting from behind a keyboard, allowing Sam to be himself without the big smiles or polished answers expected of him.

Sam let the music fill the silence, feeling a strange comfort in the distance between him and Icarus—the freedom to drop the act, even if just for a little while. But the screen’s glow couldn’t replace real life, and as the last notes faded, reality crept back in.

The booth door creaked open and Joaquin popped his head inside, grinning wide. “We're done. Unless you want to go for another two hours?” he teased.

Sam and Joaquin started the campus radio station—WGHR, Wilson Golden Hour Radio—freshman year as a side project, and it quickly became their favorite late-night escape from classes and the chaos of college life. They both grew in popularity, but it was Joaquin who took to the social scene. Sam stayed the voice—the steady presence behind the mic that students tuned in to hear when everything else felt overwhelming. The contrast between them was clear: Joaquin chasing parties, connections, and late-night chaos, while Sam held the calm center, the familiar voice that grounded the campus through its highs and lows.

“WGHR can’t run itself, man.” Sam yawned, the Louisiana drawl slipping into his speech as the minutes ticked by.

Joaquin laughed, shaking his head. “Man, you sound like you need a break from all this. Come on, there’s a party at Sigma tonight. You should come.”

The lie in Sam's mind was forming quickly, but his wingman was even quicker. "No, Sammy," He wrapped his arm around Sam's neck, "If you stay in this room any longer, you're gonna turn red from the neon signs."

Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I got class tomorrow."

Not a lie.

Joaquin smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “All the more reason to loosen up tonight. One night won’t kill you. Besides, you’ve been cooped up in that booth for hours, running everyone else’s lives through a mic but never living your own.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, the weight of textbooks and assignments pressing down on him. The thought of stepping out into the chaos of a crowded party made his chest tighten—but Joaquin’s words stirred something else beneath the surface.

A flicker of rebellion. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, he deserved a night away from the pressure.

“Fine,” he said finally. “One night.”

Joaquin’s grin widened. “Hay un Dios.”

Joaquin had already disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sam with a plastic cup sweating in his hand and a rapidly beating heart. The music thumped around him, bass reverberating through the floor, and the flashing lights made it hard to focus.

He tried to imagine how his sister, Sarah, would react—how she’d laugh louder, dance without hesitation, and make friends in every corner. She was so much more at ease in these moments, the spark in her eyes always brighter than his own.

Sam took a slow breath, reminding himself he didn’t have to be like her. He just had to be here—present, open, willing.

But his chest tightened, a knot of nerves and anticipation twisting inside him. It was one thing to show up, another entirely to let himself be seen.

He scanned the room again, feeling the weight of the noise pressing in, when his eyes landed on someone leaning casually against the kitchen counter—tattoos trailing down one arm, dark hair tousled just right, and a smirk that seemed to challenge the chaos around him.

James “Bucky” Barnes sat only miles—or maybe inches—from Sam. He couldn’t tell. Their worlds had always seemed far apart. Sam, the golden boy, and Bucky, the… everything else.

Sam didn’t despise him. Didn’t like him either. The opinion he’d formed of Bucky from the one time they’d met was just… bland.

They first crossed paths during freshman orientation week, at the campus coffee shop that doubled as a popular hangout.

Sam was hunched over a mountain of textbooks, headphones in, trying to drown out the noise and focus on his reading. Bucky burst in late, drenched from a sudden rainstorm, shaking off water droplets and muttering under his breath.

In his rush, Bucky accidentally bumped into Sam’s table, sending a half-full coffee cup teetering dangerously close to Sam’s open notebook. Without missing a beat, Sam reached out and steadied the cup, saving his notes.

Now, Sam stared at the mess that was Bucky at the party.

Same careless charm. Same presence that drew attention without trying. But this time, he wasn’t soaked in rain—just the soft glow of party lights, leaning into the noise like he belonged there.

Bucky glanced up from his spot at the counter, catching Sam’s stare. That same smirk curved his lips, a silent acknowledgment.

Sam’s chest tightened again. Maybe bland hadn’t been the right word. Maybe he’d just wanted it to be.

He took a sip of his drink—immediately regretting it. Too sweet, too strong, too everything. With a sharp inhale, he forced it down, the burn lingering in his throat.

And before he could think twice, his brain overrode his body. His legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the back door, out of the crush of voices and heat.

The cool air hit him like a reset button.

Sam was a sophomore in college. Straight‑A student. Reliable. Predictable. The kind of guy professors trusted and classmates turned to when they needed notes. He was the golden boy everyone expected him to be.

A picture of his parents sat on his dorm room desk, a constant reminder of everything he was proving himself for. They wanted him to be better than them, to rise higher, go further—but they never gave him the instructions on how.

On his senior night of high school, he’d broken down in tears at the thought. How do you become better than the people you already put on a pedestal? How do you carry that weight without it breaking you?

He exhaled sharply, the party noise muffled behind him. For a fleeting moment, he let himself breathe, unshaped by expectation.

And then—

"Got a light?"

Sam turned, and there was Bucky, stepping into the night with that same easy smirk he always seemed to carry. A cigarette hung from his lips in the most careless manner possible, like it was just another accessory to his effortless cool.

Sam felt a flicker of jealousy—of how Bucky moved through the world like it belonged to him, no weight, no hesitation.

“I don’t smoke,” Sam whispered softly.

Bucky shrugged, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers. “Didn’t ask if you did. Just figured you might have a light.”

Sam shook his head. “Sorry. No.”

Bucky tilted his head backwards, then dipped it forward again, patting down his pockets in search of a lighter. When he came up short, he slipped the cigarette back into its box with an easy motion and leaned against the railing beside Sam.

The quiet felt eerily comforting compared to the music that vibrated the deck beneath their feet. For a moment, they just stood there, two very different worlds sharing the same pause.

Bucky glanced sideways, his smirk softening just slightly. “You don’t look like you wanna be here.”

Sam let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “What gave it away?”

“The way you’re holding that cup like it’s a shield,” Bucky said, nodding toward Sam’s hand. “And the fact that you’re out here instead of in there.”

Sam looked down at the cup, realizing he was gripping it too tight. “Yeah, well… parties aren’t really my thing.”

"Mine neither."

Sam turned to study him, surprised by the hint of honesty in Bucky’s tone.

“I know you,” Bucky said after a beat. “You’re the voice on WGHR, right? The one who plays Springsteen for that Icarus guy.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard. “You listen to the station?”

Bucky looked genuinely offended, his brows pulling together. “Who doesn’t?”

Sam blinked, a small laugh slipping out despite himself. “Didn’t exactly have you pegged as a late-night radio guy.”

Bucky tilted his head, smirk softening just a little. “Guess you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I knew you at all.”

“Fair,” Bucky said, glancing back toward the party before returning his gaze to Sam. “But yeah, I listen. Your voice makes the night feel… quieter. Easier.”

That admission sat between them for a beat, heavier than the casual tone Bucky tried to carry.

"You sure you don't have a light?" Bucky asked again.

"Still no."

Bucky shrugged and flicked his cigarette back inside his mouth with a casual flick of his wrist. “Then I better head back to the party. Don’t want to miss all the fun.”

He started to turn away, but then paused, the corner of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes locking onto Sam’s with a sharp, deliberate gaze.

“By the way,” he said, voice low enough to pull Sam closer despite the space between them, “I’m Bucky.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the moment. The name hit him like a quiet thunder—unexpected, electric. Without thinking, Sam blurted out, “I know.”

Immediately, regret flickered across his face. Why’d he say it so plainly? Was he overstepping?

But Bucky’s smile didn’t waver. Instead, it softened, warmth flooding his gaze. There was something genuine there—an unspoken understanding that made the air between them pulse with possibility.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Bucky said, stepping just a fraction closer. His voice was smooth, confident, but carried a softness that unsettled and intrigued all at once. Sam’s heart hammered, a strange mix of nervous excitement and something deeper stirring in his chest.

He never said his name on the radio. No one cared to ask—it was just the soft voice behind the speakers. So to hear Bucky say it aloud made Sam’s chest tighten, as if it held the weight of every secret he’d never spoken.

That’s completely normal, right?

Bucky turned and melted back into the chaotic glow of the party, but the weight of his words lingered—wrapping around Sam like both a promise and a question.

“And that was ‘Iris’ by The Goo Goo Dolls,” Sam said, playing a hand-clapping sound effect. He adjusted the microphone with such ease you’d never guess he was shaking from anticipation.

Sam took a deep breath, the familiar buzz of the station calming his nerves just enough. Tonight was different, though. The memory of Bucky’s smirk lingered in his mind, making the usual late-night routine feel charged with possibility.

It had been two days. Yet, the affect stayed on him. He hated it. Enjoyed it. Wanted to understand why he couldn't get that damn smile out of his brain.

“Before I start the next track up, I want to go ahead and read some of you guys’ notes.”

Sam’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, then slowly began scrolling through the messages.

“Bob from Willmore Hall says consider joining the Thunderbolts—a small but mighty soccer team. They just need one more player.”

He chuckled, voice softening. “With a small p.s. saying, ‘please, we’re desperate.’”

Another message popped up: “From Steve R. on the debate team — hear it for our hometown heroes, the Avengers! Last night’s football game was our best yet.”

Sam winced, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, Steve, we’re still 1-4. But hey, there’s always room for a comeback.”

The chat lit up with jokes and encouragement, but Sam’s mind wandered, the buzz of the station mixing with a persistent thought of Bucky’s smirk.

Then, a small alert that seem to light up the whole room.

Sam read it out loud -

how was your party? - icarus

A genuine smile spread across Sam’s face. He’d mentioned earlier that he’d been to a party, but he’d never expected anyone to actually care. For a moment, the distance between the mystery of Icarus and the real world felt a little smaller—like maybe someone was paying attention.

Sam hesitated, then smiled softly. “Party was… chaotic,” he said into the mic, voice quieter than usual. “Not really my scene, but I survived.”

He glanced around the empty booth, the silence feeling less heavy somehow.

Almost immediately, his screen lit up with a new message:

don't tell me you nursed your drink all night - icarus

Sam chuckled quietly, the warmth in his voice coming through the mic.

“Guilty,” he admitted. “It was mostly me holding onto that cup like a lifeline.”

Almost instantly, the screen lit up with a new message from Icarus:

funny. I don't think I know you well enough to assume you were just standing on the balcony clutching your drink - icarus

Sam smirked, shaking his head. “Maybe not,” he said softly, voice steady. “But you’ve been around since the beginning of the show. You know me more than I know you.”

He let the moment hang there, brushing off the flirty undertone. Another message didn't come through.

Sam queued up another song.

Sam clicked play on the next track, the soft notes filling the booth as he leaned back in his chair. The silence from the chat felt heavier now, the usual stream of messages paused, leaving a quiet space that made his thoughts louder.

His eyes flicked to the glowing screen, half expecting another message from Icarus, but none came. Instead, he found himself tracing the faint outline of a smile lingering in his mind—the one Bucky had worn that night.

He laid his head againts the computer desk, not worrying about whatever played next. He had selected the perfect nighttime playlist. He slowly drifted off until a well-deserved sleep.

On the screen, just above his head and out of sight, another message popped up.

still don't have a light huh? - icarus

Then, just as fast as it was made, the message was deleted.