“This,” Sam gasps against the corner of Bucky’s mouth, fingers flexing in the collar of his hoodie, “is a monumentally bad idea.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. He drags his nose down Sam’s cheek, inhales deeply. “Yeah, it is.”
Sam can’t recall exactly how they went from discussing flag-smashing super soldiers to making out, but, well, here they are. Here Bucky is, pressing Sam up against the side of the plane with his arms braced on either side of Sam’s head. He smells good, of leather and earth and sweat, and Sam tries not to think too much about what it means that the way Bucky smells right now is making his dick twitch in his pants.
Last Sam checked, Torres was conked out in the cockpit. He hopes to god the kid will stay there for the next, say, ten to twenty minutes, because this moment right here has been a long time coming and there’s no stopping it now. A roll in the grass in Munich was all it took for them to finally barrel past the point of no return.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Bucky murmurs. He shifts his weight and begins to fumble with the button on Sam’s jeans.
Yeah, this is happening, all right.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Sam agrees, suppressing a shudder as Bucky presses an open-mouthed kiss to his throat. He shoves his hands under Bucky’s shirt, feels the muscles of his back work. “And it doesn’t have to happen again. We’re just mad about fake Cap, that’s all.”
“So mad,” Bucky says against the spot where Sam’s neck meets his shoulder, “so mad about that dickwad, we really need to blow off some steam.”
“That’s what I’m saying, we just need to blow off steam, and both of us happen to be— look, would you just— buddy, what exactly are you trying to do down there?”
Bucky pulls back. “I’m trying to get your dick out of your pants,” he says indignantly. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“What’s taking you so long?” Sam says. “Why aren’t you using both hands?” It’s a good thing they’ve already changed out of their gear, or he would’ve had to up his estimate by a lot of minutes.
“Well, excuse me for trying to be considerate here,” Bucky says. “Sometimes people get weird about me using this.” His metal arm whirs as he waves his fingers in front of Sam’s face.
“It’s your hand,” Sam says, pushing it away. “Feel free to fuckin’ use it, as long as you’re careful about it.”
“Fine,” Bucky says, “Jesus.”
There’s a blade of grass in the hair by his ear. Sam instinctively reaches up to brush it away, fingertips grazing Bucky’s earlobe.
Bucky does a full-body shiver against him. “Jesus,” he says again, in a completely different voice, and then he’s shoving Sam’s jeans and underwear out of the way, unzipping his own pants.
Sam groans when Bucky’s warm, callused hand curls loosely around his dick. His head falls back with a thud.
“Careful there,” Bucky mumbles, cupping the back of Sam’s head in his vibranium hand. It brings their mouths closer together, and Sam figures he might as well use this opportunity to kiss Bucky again.
Bucky tastes vaguely of salt and metal, and for some reason the way he tastes makes heat pulse low in Sam’s belly, too.
“We’re just working off some tension,” Sam tells both himself and Bucky, who makes a noise of agreement.
“Yeah, no, definitely,” he says, placing a soft kiss on Sam’s bottom lip. “We’re just two objectively attractive people helping each other get off, right? That’s all.”
“Exactly,” Sam says. “Glad to hear we’re on the same page about this.” He wraps his hand around Bucky’s dick, runs his fingers up and down the length. Familiarizes himself with the weight and feel of it in his palm.
Bucky’s breath audibly hitches in his throat. His pupils are blown, lips parted and glistening, and Sam is beginning to realize that ten to twenty minutes was probably too generous an estimate.
They jerk each other off, foreheads pressed together, watching their hands work. Bucky, Sam discovers to his amazement, is the kind of person who mutters things under his breath during sex. “Oh,” he says as he rocks his hips forward to meet the circle of Sam’s fist, “Oh, fuck,” and “Yeah, like that,” and even, at some point, something that could either be a sigh or Sam’s name.
“Never figured you for a talker,” Sam says, squeezing Bucky’s neck. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Bucky lets out a strangled sound and says, “Fu-uck.”
When he comes, though, he’s quiet about it; he goes completely rigid against Sam for a moment, then picks up the pace again. He’s touching Sam’s dick just right, good long strokes, twisting his palm over the tip, lightly running his fingertips over the frenulum—
The plane lurches, pushing them even closer together. Bucky, forehead on Sam’s shoulder, metal hand on Sam’s hip to hold him in place, huffs out a breathless little laugh. It travels straight down Sam’s spine, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, and suddenly he’s coming all over Bucky’s hand, the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears drowning out the hum of the plane.
As they clean up, Bucky is smiling to himself, just a little.
“What?” Sam says, suspicious, bumping their shoulders together.
Bucky ducks his head, says, “Nothing.”
“C’mon, man,” Sam says. “We just got all up close and personal with each other’s dicks. Are you really gonna jizz all over my clean shirt and then refuse to tell me what you’re smiling about? That’s cold.”
“It’s just,” Bucky says, “that wasn’t half bad, is all.” He grins.
The guy grins now. It’s like Sam has unlocked a whole new level of Bucky. And all it took was a handjob.
Who’d have thought.
“Not too bad at all,” Sam agrees. “John Walker who?”
“Ugh,” Bucky says, “you just had to go and say his name,” but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sam gets comfortable on one of the narrow seats lining the sides of the plane. There are plenty of seats to go around, but Bucky retreats to sit on the cargo case in the middle of the hold and stare off into the distance. They sit in companionable silence for a while.
It’s kind of nice.
Sam doesn’t mean for it to happen again.
Bucky looks very handsome in the outfit Sharon picked out for him, though, and, well, when in Madripoor.
“Just so we’re clear,” Sam says, breaking away from the kiss, “we’re not doing this. I mean, sure, we can have sex, but it’s not like you and I are having sex. Okay? This isn’t going to be a thing.”
They’ve snuck away from the party; the sight of Zemo dancing was too much for them to bear. Sam much prefers it here, sitting on Sharon’s impractical designer couch with Bucky standing between his legs. His neck is already aching from the angle, his mouth already tingling with stubble burn, his dick already straining against the zipper of his pants, but whatever. It feels like something he has to state for the record.
“Yeah, I hear you,” Bucky says. He’s running his thumbs along Sam’s cheekbones almost tenderly. “And I couldn’t agree more. It’s just that there’s no one else at this damn party whose dick I can suck.”
“Aw,” Sam says, “don’t sell yourself short, I’m sure you—” but then Bucky drops to his knees without breaking eye contact, hands sliding down Sam’s chest and coming to rest in the V of his legs, and suddenly Sam can’t remember what he was going to say.
“There’s no one else at this party whose dick I feel like sucking,” Bucky clarifies from between Sam’s thighs.
His jawline is really something from this perspective. Sam reaches out to trace it with the pad of his thumb. Bucky leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, and Sam can’t resist the urge to press down on the center of his bottom lip. To feel Bucky’s breath come faster, his mouth go slack.
“You look good like this,” Sam says—because Bucky does, there’s no denying it—and he watches the words wash over Bucky like a wave. It’s intoxicating. He immediately wants to see it again. “You look good on your knees,” he says, redundantly, but Bucky’s whole body shakes with it, so.
Sam doesn’t know what he expected, but Bucky isn’t, uh, shy about any of this. He gets out Sam’s dick and dives right in. Swirls his tongue around the head, mouths along the shaft to nose at the base, then makes his way back up to lick at the head with soft, slow strokes of his tongue. He keeps switching it up, is really getting into it, and all Sam can do is comb his fingers through Bucky’s hair and hang on for dear life. Metaphorically, that is, because Bucky’s hair is too short for him to get a good grip on it.
“Wish you still had the long hair,” he manages, and fuck, now he’s wondering what it would’ve been like to run his hands through it, push it back from Bucky’s face. Tug on it, just a little, just to see what it’d do to him.
“You can still pull my hair,” Bucky says helpfully. Or at least that’s what Sam thinks he says. His voice is slightly muffled.
Sam threads his fingers into the hair at the top of Bucky’s head to tilt it back, because honestly, he could do with a moment to catch his breath. “What was that?”
The long, exposed line of Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I think you got the gist of it,” he says roughly. He’s arching up into Sam’s touch, hands twitching against the insides of Sam’s thighs.
“You like that, huh,” Sam says. He files this information away for future reference. Praise kink, check; hair pulling, check. He strokes his hand through Bucky’s hair again, lets it settle at the nape of his neck. “So why’d you get it cut short?”
Bucky shrugs. “Just felt like it was time, I guess,” he says. He leans in again and, without hesitation or warning, sucks Sam down all the way to the back of his throat. His eyes slide shut, cheeks hollowing, and he just casually stays down there, the tight wet heat of his throat working around Sam’s dick.
Sam’s vision actually whites out for a second. His toes are curling in his shoes. For one overwhelming moment, he almost feels like he’s going to cry. “Holy shit,” he says when he can speak again. “How are you so good at this?”
Bucky pulls his mouth off Sam’s dick with a wet pop, says, “Hydra trained my gag reflex right out of me,” and then, when he sees Sam’s face, which must reflect the way he feels (like a bucket of ice water was dumped over his head): “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, Jesus Christ, I’m kidding, I’ve just been getting a lot of practice, spending a lot of time on Grindr, fucking hell, your face.”
“It’s not funny,” Sam says. “You’re not funny. I’m pretty sure my balls just retracted into my body.”
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t,” Bucky says, fondling them. “See?”
“You are terrible,” Sam tells him, “you’re a terrible person,” and Bucky shrugs and sucks him down again, happily moaning around him, and Sam leans back and settles in for the ride.
It becomes a thing.
And it makes sense, Sam guesses. After all, they are spending a lot of time together these days. By the time the Flag Smashers thing and the John Walker mess have been tied up in a neat little bow, they’ve settled into a familiar pattern. Sam would never admit this out loud, but he can hardly even imagine working without Bucky by his side anymore. It’s like Bucky is single-handedly filling the Steve-shaped hole in his life.
Among other things.
It makes sense that, whether they’re bored or frustrated, whether they have something to celebrate or find themselves in need of comfort, they always seem to fall into each other.
Feel like burning off some energy? Sam texts Bucky when he’s too keyed up to sleep the night before a mission, and Bucky replies Hell yeah and Coming over rn and Break out the lube :).
“Wanna fuck about it?” Bucky asks Sam after a particularly challenging rescue, and Sam does want to fuck about it, thank you very much. (“Well, I feel better,” he says afterward, because he does. Bucky’s eyes, bright with post-coital bliss, crinkle as he smiles. “Me too,” he says.)
“By the way, I overheard Major Hill refer to you as my partner the other day,” Sam tells Bucky while strapping a chute to his back. “How does that make you feel?”
Bucky glances over his shoulder at Sam, squints thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess we are partners now,” he says. “So much for fixing the Return of the Serum shit and never seeing each other again, huh? Should’ve known you wouldn’t get rid of me that easily.”
Sam makes a face at him.
“Oh, don’t you even try and deny it, Wilson,” Bucky says, slinging an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling him close, “I’m growing on you,” and Sam shoots back, “Yeah, like fungus, maybe,” and behind them Torres is laughing like something is really funny.
What are you wearing?? Bucky texts Sam when he’s down in Louisiana for a couple of days between missions, about to tuck in for the night.
Sam calls him. “What the fuck, Barnes,” he says quietly. He starts feeling around the bed for his AirPods, because this thing between them has been going on long enough that he can guess where this is headed.
“Oh, come on,” Bucky says in a low, lazy voice, drawing out the vowels. He’s probably already touching himself, may have already been touching himself for a while. How kind of him to include Sam in this. “It’s hardly the weirdest question I’ve ever asked you. Remember when—”
“I am not having phone sex with you if you’re curled into a ball on your living room floor,” Sam interrupts him. “That’s just too sad. I’m not doing it.”
A beat. “What if I’m curled into a ball on my couch?”
Sam says, “Bucky.”
Bucky says, “Sam.”
“You have a bed,” Sam says. “Use it.”
“Stop bossing me around,” Bucky says, even as Sam hears him moving around.
“You like it when I boss you around.”
“No I don’t. Who told you that?”
“Your praise kink.”
“I don’t have a praise kink,” Bucky says. “Do I have a praise kink?”
“You absolutely have a praise kink,” Sam tells him.
“Huh,” Bucky says. More rustling on his end of the line. Then: “What are you wearing?”
“Mid-rise briefs and a T-shirt,” Sam says monotonously. “Why, what are you wearing?”
Sam can’t help it—he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Even though officially the house is as much Sam’s as it is Sarah’s, nowadays it feels like he’s sleeping under his sister’s roof when he’s here. Maybe it’s because of that, or maybe it’s because of the fact that she and his nephews are currently asleep under the same roof, or maybe it’s just because he’s tired, but Sam doesn’t join in. He’s perfectly content just to lie here in the dark, idly palming his half-hard dick, and listen to Bucky pleasure himself.
Bucky, as usual, is pretty talkative about it. He tells Sam what he’s doing and which hand he’s doing it with. Tells him how good it feels, how wet he is. Tells him he’s teasing his hole open, slipping two lubed fingers inside, can’t get the angle right, it’s not the same without Sam, which inevitably leads to:
“I wish you were here,” Bucky says, “I miss your hands, they always feel so good on me, miss your mouth, your beautiful mouth, the way you taste, fuck, the way you smell—”
He sounds like he’s close, and Sam gets an idea.
“Stop touching yourself,” he demands. “Hands off.”
Bucky makes a whining noise in the back of his throat. It’s a wonderful mental image, Bucky splayed out across the bed, metal hand twisted into the sheets; head thrown back on the pillow, chest heaving, eyes closed. His dick throbbing and dripping as he clenches and unclenches his fist in the air, waiting for Sam to tell him what to do next.
“Touch the tip of your dick with your left hand,” Sam says, and Bucky breathes in sharply, “massage it between your fingers, c’mon, do it for me,” and Bucky moans in a way that Sam has never heard him moan before, which is impressive—Sam could have sworn he’d heard Bucky’s entire repertoire of moans by now. He presses on: “Yeah, just like that. You’re being so good for me, Buck.”
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky says in a wrecked voice. His next moan sounds more like a sob.
This was a lot quicker than Sam thought it would be. “You good?” he asks.
“So good,” Bucky gasps, “so good—”
“See?” Sam says, vindicated. “Praise kink.”
“Sam,” Bucky gasps, “Sam,” and then he’s silent for a long time.
Sam’s eyes drift shut as the sound of Bucky’s breathing gradually returns to normal.
“So,” Bucky says just when Sam is about to check in on him again, “how’s your week been?”
They talk for a while. Bucky asks about Sarah, and AJ, and Cass. The boat repairs, the kitchen renovations. He tells Sam about the book he’s reading; something with alchemists and dragons. Sam can tell that he’s about to drop off to sleep from the way his voice keeps dipping lower and the way he’s starting to stumble over his words. It’s cute. They should end the call, probably, but this is nice.
Even so, Sam can’t stifle a yawn.
“Yeah, I’ll let you go,” Bucky mumbles, and he yawns, too. “When will you be back in town?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Sam says. “Try not to miss my hands and my beautiful mouth too much, all right?”
“All right,” Bucky says sleepily, “good night, love you,” and Sam says, “Love you too,” and hangs up the phone and spends half the night staring at the ceiling with alarm bells going off in his head and a confused erection tenting the sheets.
The following afternoon, Sam heads straight for Bucky’s sad little apartment.
“Did you mean it?” he asks when Bucky opens the door. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, just stalks into the room.
Bucky is wearing a plain black T-shirt and a guarded look on his face. “Mean what?” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
“You know what,” Sam says.
Bucky shouldn’t be looking this good in a plain black T-shirt. It’s offensive. Sam wants to fist his hands into it and pull him close and kiss him breathless.
“Of course I meant it, Wilson,” Bucky says in a deadpan voice. “You’re, like, my only friend. I’m miserable when you’re not around.”
“I’m serious,” Sam says. “Did you mean it?”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t mean to say it,” Bucky says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It just slipped out. You know how it is. Speaking of slipping—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Sam says. “Did you mean it or not?”
Bucky swallows. Blinks, looks down, then up at Sam again. A muscle in his cheek twitches. “Look,” he says, “what do you want me to say here?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, slowly. He unfolds his arms, stands up straight. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”
Sam’s heart is pounding in his chest.
“The truth is that I’m fuckin’ crazy about you,” Bucky says. “You’re a badass, and you’re smart, and funny, and you have the kindest soul and the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met in my entire life. And I’m a hundred and six years old, and I grew up with Steve Rogers.” He’s speaking in an even voice, but he isn’t meeting Sam’s gaze. “Also, you’re very easy on the eyes. And great in bed. I’m just saying. Would you like me to keep going? ’Cause I can. Just say the word and I’ll keep going. I’ve been composing love letters to you in my head for months now. Hell, I even deleted Grindr the day we hooked up for the first time.”
“Buck,” Sam says. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like a chasm is opening up in the center of his chest. Like his big, stupid heart wants to leap right out of it, into Bucky’s arms, make a cozy little home for itself there. Take it. It’s yours.
“Hey, no,” Bucky says. “Don’t look at me like that. Please don’t feel sorry for me. I knew what I was getting into. You were very clear from the start about what this was, and what it wasn’t. I’m the one who wasn’t up front with you about my feelings. I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have… Just forget I said anything, okay? This doesn’t have to change things between us.”
He turns up the corners of his mouth. It’s the exact same kind of smile Steve forced onto his face to try and convince Sam that I’m fine, no, seriously, Sam, I’m fine when he was badly constipated in the French countryside after eating nothing but baguettes for three weeks, and Sam was beginning to worry that he, a fugitive, would end up having to carry Steve, a very heavy and stubborn fugitive, into a rural hôpital.
“No,” Sam says, because he remembers saying it, of course he does—This doesn’t mean anything, and he meant it, too, genuinely believed it at the time—but what he also remembers, with stunning clarity, is Bucky cradling his head; Bucky shivering at a gentle touch; Bucky kissing him softly, lovingly. “No, hold on.”
Bucky’s thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Bucky’s arm pulling him close. Bucky’s voice, wrecked and beautiful, gasping his name.
Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
“I’m pretty sure I’m crazy about you, too,” Sam says, and Bucky’s whole face lights up.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” Sam says, still processing. “I… yeah.”
Bucky pushes away from the counter. “So you saying it back wasn’t just a knee-jerk reaction from being half asleep?”
“Apparently not,” Sam says.
“You actually meant it?” Bucky asks, crossing the space between them.
“Apparently,” Sam says. “Yeah.”
Bucky is standing in front of him now.
“You look offensively good in a plain black T-shirt,” Sam says. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Seriously?” Bucky says, but he’s smiling. “I come out with a heartfelt declaration of love and you tell me I look good in a T-shirt?”
“Offensively good,” Sam corrects him, “and hey, cut me some slack. I was balls deep in denial until about five seconds ago. You had months to prepare.”
“You’ve got a point there,” Bucky says. He takes Sam’s face between his hands and kisses his forehead. Then he says, “So, I bought a mirror.”
“Um,” Sam says, mind reeling with the fact that Bucky just took his face between his hands and kissed his forehead. “Congrats?”
“Well, I didn’t actually know the conversation was gonna play out like this,” Bucky says. “I would’ve bought flowers as well as a mirror. But seeing as you were—how did you put it?—balls deep in denial, the flowers will have to wait.”
Sam’s body goes all warm inside at the thought of Bucky picking out flowers for him. He guesses it’s a sensation he’s going to have to get used to.
Bucky takes Sam’s hand, laces their fingers together. “Wanna fuck me between my thighs?” he asks. “You can take me from behind while jerking me off. In front of the mirror. That’s why I brought up the mirror.”
“Sure,” Sam says, stroking Bucky’s cheek with the back of his free hand. “Just as long as I get to kiss you. During. And after.”