WIP: SamBucky Post-Snap
Sam dropped into one of the chairs. 'Not really.' He spun the sketchbook around. Bucky had filled the page with half-finished figure drawings, crossing through them when they apparently failed to meet some internal standard. 'What's this?'
'Just practice.' Bucky grabbed the sketchbook and turned the page over. 'It's been a while…' Eighty years, actually, but who was counting?
'Would it help if you had a model?'
'Couldn't hurt.' Bucky twirled the pencil through his fingers. 'You offering?' He spoke in jest, but Sam replied with all seriousness.
'Maybe.' Sam looked around the room. 'Where do you want me?' He grinned and nodded at Bucky's rumpled bed on the opposite side of the room, then rose smoothly to his feet. 'That seems like a good spot.'
'Mmmm.' Bucky ducked his head, sharpening his pencil. Heat crept up the back of his neck. Christ, but his bed was going to smell like Sam. It wasn't an unwelcome prospect. Although he wanted his sheets to acquire the scent of Sam's body through much different circumstances. Beggars couldn't be choosers, as his mother would say. At the very least, it would provide fodder for his fantasies.
Sam reached for the hem of his shirt, and hauled it over his head. He tossed it over the back of the chair, flexing his pecs in the process.
One of Bucky's brows winged upward. 'Jesus…'
Sam chuckled, nonchalantly stretching his arms over his head. 'What? You forgot my name, old man? It's Sam. Not Jesus.'
'You don't need to…'
Sam interrupted him. 'You want to draw the human body, right?'
'Yeah.'
'Well, then…' Sam hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down until he stood in the middle of the room completely naked.
Bucky let his eyes travel over Sam, taking in the play of light and shadow over his body, his half-hard cock. 'Jesus Christ,' he breathed with heartfelt reverence. Every thought he'd ever had fled from his mind, save for the desire to lick every inch of Sam now on glorious display.
Sam stretched out on the bed, grinning cheekily at him. 'I don't think Jesus has a place in this conversation.' He arranged himself into a languid pose. 'Draw me like one of your French girls,' he chortled.











