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The sun has been down for hours, but Sam is running hotter now anyway, thanks to the drinks. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it across his lap to better feel the breezy night air.

Sarah distilled the moonshine herself. She started out getting it from Carlos’ brother Wayne a little over a year ago, she’d told them earlier, and now she’s learning the tricks of the trade.

“You feeling it, huh,” she says, eyeing Sam while he resituates in his seat, leaning against the table for some support.

Sam snorts. “I’m feeling it? That stuff is so strong that even Bucky over here might be buzzing, and he can guzzle like a Hummer on a cross-country road trip.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Sorry, Sam, we can’t all be two-round lightweights.”

Sarah laughs. “You are a lightweight,” she co-signs as Sam purses his lips, side-eying Bucky.

Sam waves them both off. “Yeah, yeah.” The attitude he’s trying to put behind it might be more effective if his body wasn’t listing in the direction of his hand as he gestures. “That’s dangerous stuff right there.”

“That’s why I wanted to learn how to do it. Just to make sure everybody has a good time, and it doesn’t take much.” Sarah’s beaming. “Wayne and I might start a side hustle one day.”

Sam reaches to refill his glass, just a small one, and Sarah dares to thwap his hand. “Ah! You have to help me clean all this stuff up and get back up to the house.”

“I can do it!”

Bucky says, “You might want to master sitting up straight first.”

“You. You watch it. I can take back my invite for you to hang out on my dock and drink my moonshine—”

“My moonshine,” Sarah cuts in.

“— any time I want.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns to Sarah. “I’ll help you pack up the last of this stuff.”

“Thank you, Bucky.” Sarah very obviously makes it a point to glance toward Sam before she says, “You can stay as long as you want.”

Sam’s jaw drops. “Wow. No united front?”

“If you want Sam’s room, you can have it. He can sleep on the couch.”

“Whooooaa, okay. I do everything, but Ol’ Blue Eyes uses his midnight radio voice on you, offers to help with one thing, and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”

Bucky’s cheek twitches, brows knitting together. “Radio…”

“Oh my god, Sam,” Sarah says. “Be quiet and focus on getting your wobbly ass to the house.”

Bucky holds up a hand, leaning back in his seat and half-laughing. “I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

“You’re right in the middle of it,” Sam protests, but he’s already standing, and, well, if he sways to the side, that’s his business. Bucky’s hand braces his side, and it’s funny how he can tell it’s the vibranium arm without even checking because the coolness of the metal seeps through the fabric of Sam’s shirt. Sam shakes him off lightly, says, “I got it,” and he does, until he takes two steps forward, overcorrecting. He very clearly does not got it.

“See?” Sarah says. She gets a hearty laugh but offers no help at all.

At least Bucky catches Sam’s arm and keeps him from face-planting. Sam doesn’t try to prove anything this time, leaning into the support. “I meant to do that.”

“Mhm. I bet you did.”

Sarah, for all her talk, isn’t much better. That’s the handy thing about having a super soldier around who metabolizes everything so efficiently that his sobriety is rarely in danger. A) He can walk in a straight line, and b) he has the upper body strength to brace them both on the way off the docks after he and Sarah gather leftovers in bags, resigning themselves to really sorting things out in the morning, and he only grumbles about it a little.

“Neither of you is winning this competition if you ask me,” Bucky says.

“We didn’t,” Sam says at the same time Sarah says, “No, I am,” and then they both start laughing.

In the house, Sam takes the opportunity to peel off to his room while Bucky and Sarah continue. Sarah’s got the master on the second floor, but Sam can hear her shrugging off any more help halfway up the stairs.

“I’m good, I’ve got it,” she’s saying. “I’ve made it up on my own for the 30-plus years before now.”

“You sure?” Bucky asks.

“I’m gonna check on the boys anyway,” she says. “Thank you though. Goodnight, Bucky.”

Sam chuckles to himself as he drops onto his bed, intending to dutifully untie his shoes and put them away all nice and neat. He starts to bend forward and feels some mild spins coming on. Unfortunately the road to dizziness is paved with good intentions, so instead Sam flops backward and toes his shoes off, kicking them across the room.

Bucky appears at the door right as one strikes the wall just left of the door jamb. He glances at the wall where it hit, then back at Sam. “And here I was coming in peace.”

Sam scoffs. “I’m just trying to keep your reflexes sharp.”

“Then your aim needs work. What are you doing?”

“Getting into pajamas.”

“With what, telekinesis?”

“Hush,” Sam says, and somehow even lifting his head to see Bucky walking closer feels like it takes too much effort suddenly. “I’m working on it.”

“Alright, come on. Let me.” Bucky extends a hand, and Sam huffs just to protest needing to put willpower into anything, but he latches on and lets Bucky pull him upright. And, sure, starting to shrug off his jacket is easier when he isn’t horizontal. Sam does have to give him that.

Coordination isn’t his friend right now. The dizziness keeps prodding at the edges of Sam’s senses, like once it’s been awakened, there’s no staving it off. He just hopes he doesn’t puke. That would be humiliating. It hasn’t been that long since he shared some of Carlos and Wayne’s moonshine, has it?

Bucky grabs the edge of one sleeve, gives Sam something to leverage against as he struggles free. His polo has to come off next, the white t-shirt underneath getting caught up and exposing Sam’s back in a way he doesn’t intend.

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to reach back and separate them.

“Here,” Bucky says and does it for him. Sam feels kind of ridiculous holding his arms high while Bucky clears the top layer for him, chuckling. “What?”

“Nothing. Help me up again?”

Bucky takes a step in reverse, holding out both hands this time. The vibranium is cooler than his right hand, something that surprises Sam still sometimes. It’s hard to get a consistent read on that. The machinery is working so much that it seems like it should always stay warmer. He finds he imagines it like any computer even though he knows better. This upgraded tech from Shuri is more seamless than the arm Hydra designed, and yet there are still moments like this, where the contrast between flesh and metal trip Sam’s brain up enough that he pauses as he gets to his feet and stares down at the way Bucky’s mismatched fingers curl around his.

“I’m not undoing your pants for you,” Bucky says, flat.

Sam’s eyes snap higher, yanked back into the present. “You wish. Wait, is this the most action you’ve gotten since before Steve and I found you?”

“I’ve been out of cryo for more than four years, Sam. Well, not counting the five where we blinked out of existence.”

“So, is that a no, or…”

“I’ve been on dates.”

Sam snorts. “Really, you? Can’t imagine it.”

“I’m a good date,” Bucky says, frowning in mild offense. “I dated all the time before I shipped out.”

“I’m not sure ‘40s game translates to right now,” Sam says.

Bucky presses his lips together, mouth quirking once the way it does when he’s annoyed and pretending otherwise. Sam’s gotten to know that look well. Bucky says, “People don’t like flowers and dancing anymore, you mean? I think you’re wrong about that.”

“Oh, he dances?”

Bucky rolls his eyes again — expected; they’re gonna get stuck that way — and changes his grip, bringing his right hand up and sliding the other around Sam’s waist more as Bucky drags him closer in a flash. Unexpected. Sam has to blink a couple of times just to refocus his eyes. That’s how quickly it happens.

“Pretty effective way to get close to someone,” Bucky says. “And there’s usually music playing, so it’s fun. Everyone’s in good spirits.”

“I feel like I’m back in fourth grade right now.”

“Why?” Bucky makes a face, confusion obvious. “You were dancing like this in grade school?”

Sam says, “They taught us the box step. The waltz. Did a lot of counting out loud. It’s not the kind of dancing many people do outside of weddings anymore.”

“That’s awful. The future really got some things so wrong.” Bucky looks actively disgusted. “Vintage is interesting to people though, right? I’ve seen the specialty shops that sell the, uh, you know suitcase record players. Vinyl is still in. People with taste.”

“Vintage dates with a vintage man,” Sam jokes, letting his smile get wide. “Yeah, lucky for you, nostalgia’s in.”

Bucky glares. “I should dip you and accidentally drop you.”

“If you dip me, I will puke on you.”


“Projectile vomit right in your face.”

Bucky sighs. “You’re so romantic, Samuel. I’m sure your dates love hearing things like that.”

“Oh, that sweet talk is special. Only for you, Mr. Slow Dance to a Gramophone.”

“It isn’t all slow dancing. You start high energy, get your pulses going. Swing was still big then.”

Bucky pushes back, a yo-yoing imitation of a move that should probably be much larger. He does it smoothly enough that Sam wishes he could see more, wishes he thought he had the balance right now just to find out how well Bucky remembers routines he used to do in his twenties. Sam’s done his share of dancing in clubs, but the footwork of the 90s and 2000s doesn’t really require lessons.

Using Sam as an anchor, Bucky repeats the maneuver twice more. He pulls close to Sam when he returns to his starting position for good, even nearer than before. Their hearts are beating faster, and though it should be near-impossible through clothes, it’s like Sam can feel the throb of blood pumping.

“See, then you go slow,” Bucky says. “It’s more intimate. All about rhythm, you know?” Sam lets Bucky start swaying him gently, still mimicking as if he can hear the music change in his head. “It takes trust to lindy hop. You prove you’re good partners, and then you narrow the focus right to them, bringing all the attention to the eyes. One on one.”

Bucky’s eyes are… very blue. They seem lighter than Steve’s sometimes, though maybe the contrast between the eyes and the darker hair contributes to that. Sam’s not sure. He exhales slowly, the sound of it somehow large in his ears.

“You do that every time?” he asks, raspier than he likes.

Shrugging, Bucky shares a soft smile. It blends shades of sheepish and self-assured simultaneously, and Sam’s 80 percent sure that’s on purpose. “Enough times.”

“And what does it get you?”

Bucky’s eyes drop down, automatic. As Sam’s trying to gauge where they’ve landed — his throat? Are we talking hickeys? Is that what we’re doing to upstanding ladies on the dance floor? — Bucky leans in and presses their mouths together. Sam’s too distracted to catch on fast, and then it’s over as quickly as it’s begun.

“Shit,” Bucky says, those eyes shifty now. It reminds Sam of whenever Bucky’s trying to pull apart his nightmares, trying to evaluate which parts are memory and which parts are distortion. “I didn’t mean—”


Sam pushes up to close the gap and try again, better prepared. He’s a lot of things, but he refuses to be something to panic over.

Bucky makes a “hm” sound, taking his turn to be the one caught unawares. The super reflexes don’t let him dwell there long, hands going to Sam’s sides and flexing. Sam’s breath hitches, feeling the strength of him in just that hint. “Buck,” he breathes, heart thudding. Bucky could move him like nothing, feather-light, and somehow that thought makes Sam kiss him harder.

Bucky’s lips part, letting him in. Sam tilts his head as he brings a hand to Bucky’s hair, cupping the back of his head. The backs of Sam’s knees bump into the foot of his bed, but before he can lose footing, Bucky follows through on the suggestion of strength. He pulls Sam forward, lifting enough that Sam hovers a few inches taller than Bucky for a scant few seconds, and then Sam’s tipping back more deliberately. The mattress rushes up to meet his back. Letting his thighs fall wide is the least Sam can do, allowing room for Bucky to crowd him as they languish in the feeling of their lips sliding together.

Sam’s hot all of a sudden. Without the slight breeze of nighttime air, the booze and the moment tag team to ratchet up the fire in him. He starts tugging at the hem of his undershirt and Bucky obliges, helping to discard it. His fingers grazing along Sam’s ribs make him shudder, nerves electric, but he still bends his knees to bracket Bucky’s hips better.

At this rate, he’ll be fully naked before Bucky loses even one layer. With the city’s best homemade whiskey setting him alight, it’s hard to feel alarmed about it. He rolls his hips, vindicated when Bucky’s breath stutters, by how he mimics the move to chase pressure. It’s been a long fucking time since Sam’s found himself grinding against someone, the sharp pleasure of it every time they sync up just right, like a warm punch to the gut.

He pushes Bucky’s right hand down along his abs, slow and half-attentive while they make out. When they reach the waistband of Sam’s jeans, Bucky fumbles over the fly, freezes for a split second, and pulls away to look down at Sam’s face.

“Sorry,” he says. He shifts back onto his knees.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, hand lingering over Bucky’s left arm, a tether.

“I shouldn’t—you could barely walk here on your own.”

He can’t be serious, Sam thinks. “Lying down solves that.”

“You're drunk.”

“And enjoying myself until a second ago,” Sam points out. While the 1940s chivalry is cute in a way Sam has to make a note to make fun of later, it’s harshing his buzz currently.



Sam rocks his hips, eager to communicate in spite of the perfect words eluding him. He tugs at the hem of Bucky’s shirt and gets him to topple forward, forehead touching Sam’s.

“What if you don’t,” Bucky starts but gets cut off when Sam’s hand snakes between them and cups Bucky through his pants. Sam maps out the shape of his cock, already really hard, and wonders how long it’s been for Bucky too as Bucky plants a hand near his head and fists the comforter so tightly that Sam hears something rip.

He rolls his head to the side a bit, trying to gesture with an almost-nod. “You’re paying me for that.”

“It’s your fault.”

“Doesn’t seem like you want to stop,” Sam says, doubling back to the heart of the matter.

He tips his chin up. Bucky pants after Sam pecks a kiss on his lips, holding his body taut. Sam’s seen Bucky in a lot of situations, from gruesome to sweetly helpful, but resisting temptation is so outside of anything Sam would’ve thought to imagine before this moment. He slides his other hand over Bucky’s shirt, feeling the one-two pattern of his heart. Traveling higher brings Sam’s fingers to Bucky’s tender jugular, the rhythm of it beating stronger there.

“I’m trying here,” Bucky whispers.

Sam traces Bucky’s jaw with this thumb, slips his hand into his hair, feeling the prickle of it rasp across his fingers.

“Then stop.”

When he pulls, Bucky surrenders. He covers Sam like a blanket, pinning him down and moaning as he gives into a kiss, and another, and another. Breaking apart isn’t ideal except for how it allows him to sneak his hands under Bucky’s shirt, luxuriating in getting to feel warm skin and the way Bucky’s breathing comes heavier from the exertion, the anticipation, the excitement.

Sam’s already proven his coordination is top-notch right now, and being horny and impatient isn’t helping. “You’ve gotta,” he says, “you’ve gotta do this.”

Bucky makes quick work of both layers, his dog tags jingling as they come free and swing back toward his chest. Going for their pants next only makes sense, and before Sam knows it, they’re down to their underwear, pausing briefly so that Bucky can close and lock Sam’s bedroom door.

Sam drags himself up the mattress by his elbows. His underwear drags partway down from the movement, and Bucky handles sliding them off fully the second he returns.

“Damn, you look good,” he says. The roughness of his voice, pure honesty, hooks into Sam like a jagged fingernail snagging a sweater and stretching out a single thread, gradually unraveling what they are in Sam’s mind at the seams.

“Yeah?” Sam asks and swallows. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens, the desire transparent. Arresting. It turns out that when a man doesn’t usually have much to say in the way of what he wants from the world that it’s thrilling for Sam to find out he’s on the list. At least his body is. At least Bucky surging forward to kiss between Sam’s pecs and then moving left to trace his nipple with his tongue while his right hand pinches the other is.

An exhale punches out of Sam’s lungs. This feels real now. The dizzy sheen of drunk audacity lifts for an instant, and Sam feels grounded by Bucky’s hands on his skin, craving. Bucky lays a trail of kisses down Sam’s middle. Sam feels shivery, stomach dipping as his lips come dangerously close to Sam’s cock and then fake him out by slanting to the slide. He grips Sam’s thigh with his vibranium hand, the plates shifting with a low hum, and kisses his way from crease to knee, looking up at Sam again on his way back down.

“That all?” Sam taunts.

There isn’t enough bass in his voice for it to totally read as goading. Bucky takes the bait anyway. He wraps his hand around the base of Sam’s cock and sucks around the head first, teasing the crown until Sam grunts, and finally slides his mouth down the shaft.

Sam is pulled under again, basking in heat. Bucky bobbing his head makes Sam’s toes curl. Tiny tremors rumble through his belly each time Bucky sucks in earnest. It’s been too long, way too long, and the fact that it’s Bucky getting Sam’s cock deliciously wet triples the adrenaline rush. He could crush Sam, easily. A fragile, ordinary body in the hands of a demi-god on earth. It’s not lost on Sam that the same hands that have tried to kill him, that would’ve meant a fight whenever they got this close once upon a time, pin him down and Sam only wants more.

Riley’s voice pops into his head, laughing as he says Sam has no real self-preservation. “You talk sense but you jump headfirst into chaos,” he’d said.

Yeah, well. To die would be an awfully big adventure and all. And technically he’s already done that too.

“Fuck,” he gasps, reaching to fist a hand in Bucky’s hair. He tugs, a reflex matching the way his quads tense and release as Bucky sucks hard again.

Bucky groans in answer, so Sam doesn’t bother being delicate, lets his fingers push and pull as they may. They both know Bucky can take it.

Sam could come like this eventually, even with whiskey dick, that’s how greedy he feels tonight. He pats Bucky’s shoulder though, saying, “Wait, come here. Come back.”

Bucky’s lips are ruddy as he obliges, begging to be kissed, so Sam does him the favor. He licks into Bucky’s mouth.

“You okay?” Bucky murmurs, slipping in a question between kisses.

Sam sort of nods, hums in a way he hopes sounds like yes. He’s too busy sliding his hands down Bucky’s back to focus on anything else, pushing into his underwear and squeezing his ass.

Bucky helps, finally working his way out of them. He has to press up to do it, and Sam watches his cock fall free, blood heavy and thick between his legs. Sam takes the liberty of reaching for him, stroking with a loose grip just to see how Bucky’s expression pinches, Sam half-smiling at the way his eyes flutter shut as he exhales through his nose, collecting himself.

“When’s the last time you got to fuck?” Sam asks.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh…”

“Want to try me?”

Bold of him to ask as if he hasn’t been out of the game for a long time, but Bucky is all lithe muscle. He’s hard, and he’s beautiful — it’s not like Sam’s missed that somehow — and Sam’s so charged up that he feels like he might start levitating without the wings at any second.

He stretches an arm over his head, rapping his knuckles against the side of his nightstand. He’s pretty sure it counts as an answer that Bucky does the work of looking. His eyes widen as he pulls out the bottle of lube.

“Prepared for callers?” he asks, smirking.

Sam laughs. “God, you’re old,” he says. “And that’s for me.”

He’s still making sure to show himself a nice time when he can. Just because no one else has been fucking Sam like he deserves doesn’t mean he can’t treat himself right.

Bucky squeezes lube into his right palm and encircles Sam’s cock, jerking him gently. “For this?” he asks, almost coy. Sam has to bite his lip to keep from moaning loudly. Bucky doesn’t linger, using a little more wet and finding Sam’s hole instead, rubbing the slick there. “Or maybe this,” he says and presses inside. “Both?”

He gets the vibranium hand involved. It’s so different, feeling metal slide along his cock while Bucky works him open with his other hand. And isn’t that a head trip, knowing Bucky touching him will be etched into his brain forever because Sam’s never felt anything quite like this before?

“Yeah,” he says. “Shit, Buck. You can—”

Bucky pushes a second finger in before Sam can finish. His rhythm is slow so far, exploratory, speeding up and curling his fingers based on how Sam reacts. Of course a fucking former assassin immediately zeroes in on his weakest points. Bucky adds a third finger quicker than he did the second. Sam keens, he’s not ashamed, and, sure, maybe being torn apart by a super soldier is actually the best thing that can happen to a guy under the right circumstances.

“Not used to you being easy,” Bucky says, mesmerized as he fucks Sam steadily. “Is this all I had to do to get you to cooperate?”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t think you want me to.” Bucky twists his fingers, searching, and Sam knows exactly what he’s after before he finds it and makes Sam’s back arch. “What was that you said earlier about my voice? Maybe it’s not Sarah it works on.”

Sam really does not want to think about his sister right now. He’s doing everything he can to stay quiet actually, so she doesn’t give him shit tomorrow about waking up the whole house with his private fun times. Sam grabs Bucky’s arm and hauls him closer to kiss him, ending the torture that way.

Bucky’s fingers retreat so he can find balance on the bed. A small miscalculation on Sam’s part, honestly, because it leaves him empty and desperate. He bites into the kiss, catching Bucky’s lip and liking that he sucks in a breath.

“So, are you all talk?” Sam asks. It works to inspire Bucky to jerk his hips forward, his cock slipping along the dip at the top of Sam’s thigh, brushing against Sam’s own as he humps, eager. Sam can feel precome drip onto his skin. “Or do you actually plan to fuck me tonight?”

“Thought that’s what I was doing until you stopped me,” Bucky says.

“Well don’t let me hold you up.”

Bucky takes one of Sam’s pillows and stuffs it under his hips, folding him so that Bucky’s cock trails down the cleft of his ass. He uses more lube, stroking himself and tapping the head over Sam’s hole like he’s savoring the anticipation. Sam has to say his name again, too reedy to be dignified, just to get him to slide in finally.

He’s thick. Bucky feels big, carving space inside Sam, letting gravity bring him farther. It’s been so long that it almost feels like too much at once. He feels like he should tell Bucky to pull back and do it in increments, but he can’t make his throat work beyond a moan, taking it and taking it until Bucky’s hips are flush against him. Only then does Bucky pull all the way back, just outside, head bent down as he watches his cock split Sam open all over again.

Sam’s biting his lip so hard he worries he might break the skin. If they were anywhere else, he’d probably cry out, but he can’t, and that just makes the sensation of it more intense. All he can do is focus on how good Bucky fucking him feels, consumed.

“God, darling,” Bucky says, gradually picking up the pace. “You feel like heaven.”

Look, there are a lot of things Sam loves about being a Black man, but right now one of them is how much harder it is to tell when he’s probably blushing. There’s no reason Bucky’s incongruously sweet, man out of time babble should be doing it for him, and yet that’s something Sam has to know about himself from here on out. He’s so turned on.

“More,” Sam demands. “Harder.”

“I got you.” Bucky obeys, snapping his hips suddenly, and Sam doesn’t catch a whimper in time. He’s no more prepared when Bucky does it again. “Careful, sweetheart.”


“You can’t be quiet?” Bucky asks. “You like me that much?”

“I can’t stand you.” Sam doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. How irritating.

Bucky presses three fingers to Sam’s lips, a casual dam. Sam can’t help bracing his teeth around flesh, just grazing, and when Bucky adds slight pressure, Sam opens up and sucks, keying in on that to keep muffled.

“The way you look,” Bucky whispers, still working in and out of Sam’s hole.

Sam’s burning up. Bucky bends him more, seeking better leverage to drive into him harder, deeper on every thrust. He kisses Sam’s chin and then tucks his face against Sam’s neck, kissing there too until all he can do is pant hotly against Sam’s throat as he takes what he wants.

“Tell me,” Sam says, because, embarrassingly, he does miss the sound of Bucky’s voice. “How I look, tell me.”

Bucky groans. His lips are right against his ear. “Like you need it,” he says. “You need me.”

“You gonna give it to me?”

Sam brings his legs up, trying to make it easier for Bucky to drill him into the bed. Lying pressed skin to skin means they’ve only been getting hotter by the minute, but Sam doesn’t care. Booze, sweat, and sex; there’s nothing better for a humid night at home.

“What’m I gonna do with you, sugar?” Buck asks.

Anything, Sam thinks, surprising himself. He’s not sure if that’s the drink, the feel of Bucky rutting between his legs, or something worse. Better. Something bigger. “Anything,” he says because it’s true either way. Headfirst, right? “Quit calling me names.”

“You shiver when I do,” Bucky says, a smile curving against Sam’s ear. “Clench, too.”

He thrusts deep to punctuate the point. Sam still hates him so much sometimes. It isn’t fair that he’s so observant. He doesn’t want Bucky to stop.

Sam holds onto his arm and his shoulder, blunt nails digging grooves into Bucky’s flesh. Each time Bucky rocks forward, his abs rub against Sam’s cock, and it’s winding him up, making him leak between them. He’s so close, but he can’t quite get there.

“Bucky,” he whines. “Touch me.”

Cool air slips in as Bucky makes room. His hand finds Sam’s cock and pulls in tight counter strokes. As Bucky plunges in, his palm comes up around the crown. Back and forth. Sam throws his head back, jamming his skull into the pillow as Bucky kisses his throat, noses his Adam’s apple.

“Do it for me,” he says. “Let me feel you.”

It’s not right on command by sheer force of will. Sam holds out until his orgasm finally rips through him involuntarily, Bucky jerking him diligently as he locks up and then relaxes as if his bones have disappeared. He whites out, dimly aware of Bucky still fucking him, not as forceful but no less insistent. Sam says, “Babe — Bucky,” touching his face and using what modicum of effort he has left to lift for a kiss as Bucky goes still and finally, finally fills him up.

Goddamn, Sam’s missed sex. He’s missed someone pushing him to his limit, and then letting him cling during the comedown. His arms loop around Bucky, holding on despite feeling all of Bucky’s weight now that he’s less cautious about how much he makes Sam bear. It’s really, really great.

“You killed me,” Bucky says. “One hundred and six years, and you’re the one who finished the job.”

Sam chuckles. “Sure, drama queen.”

He tightens anyway, shifting just to remind them both that Bucky’s still snug inside him. Bucky lets out a sensitive little huff of breath. Triumph.

They don’t pull apart until he’s almost completely soft. Even then, Bucky only tips to the side, leaving one hand over Sam’s belly, trailing higher until it lies across Sam’s chest, the heel resting in the middle dip, over his heart.

“Are you trying to grab my tit?” Sam asks.


So he is.

Sam says, “I mean, they’re great. I worked hard on them; I can’t blame you.”

“I’m going to the couch,” Bucky announces and doesn’t move an inch.

“No, you’re not. You’re dead, remember?” Sam moves onto his side and scoots into Bucky’s space. “Hey. Don’t leave me lonely here.”

Bucky scoffs. “You want to cuddle with a corpse?”

“The body’ll be warm for a few more hours,” Sam tosses back, pleased when Bucky’s arm slides around him firmly. They can trade snuggle shifts if Bucky wants, but it’s Sam’s room, so he gets first dibs on being little spoon. He might regret not taking the time to at least half-ass clean up by the morning, but his limbs are still too languid to care right now.

Bucky’s lips brush across his neck, high on his back. Sam startles and Bucky swipes his fingers back and forth over Sam’s belly, soothing. “Sarah’s gonna know then, tomorrow,” Bucky says.

“Probably.” Sam’s not really worried about what she might assume. Big brother does what he wants. “That okay?”

Bucky hums, pensive. The pause isn’t exactly reassuring. He can practically feel Bucky thinking, and Sam’s still learning how to guess which ways those gears turn. The guy kissed Sam first, and he didn’t seem to hesitate about pounding Sam into the mattress, but it would be foolish to assume very much about Bucky is predictable.

Sam’s half a second from looking over his shoulder when Bucky asks, “Would you want a date?” He clears his throat. “I’ve, uh, heard vintage is in, you know.”

Sam smiles, interrupted by a yawn. “Think I’ve heard that too,” he says, drowsiness starting to encroach. It’s helpful because it means he’s already exhausted his adrenaline. He can’t manage to get too het up as he spins out the possibility.

They’ve built something admirable the last few months, a team founded on respect and mutual goals. Sam’s proud of that. He doesn’t like thinking about how they could ruin it, if something like dating doesn't work out, like breaking a bird’s left wing before the right one has fully healed. They owe it to each other, after years of violence and sacrifice, to be cautious. Or, fuck it, to be real, Sam has been thinking a lot about wanting to be treated with care. The world won’t do that for him. It would be nice if he could have at least one person who does. Should Bucky have to be both? Teammate and solace.

Then again, Bucky’s come is in his ass at this very second, so that complicates trying to be noble about any of this. The sex doesn’t feel like something he’ll be able to say no to after today. Bucky in general already doesn’t.

And, shit, he does miss dancing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Take me out.”

They can figure it out. They’ve done it before.

Bucky gropes, settling when he finds Sam’s hand. “Then okay.” He lets Bucky interlock their fingers.

“Night,” Sam says. He sighs when another gentle kiss is pressed to his skin. “You still owe me for the comforter.”

Bucky laughs airily behind him. “Remind me in the morning. Night, Sam.”