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“Hey, Buck?” Sam calls out as he opens the door to Bucky’s room and takes a step inside. “Do you mind if I borrow--”
Bucky is lying propped up against the headboard of his bed with both legs stretched out in front of him. He’s got his phone in his hand, headphones in, and an extremely obvious erection tenting the light gray fabric of his sweatpants.
“Oh, shit,” Sam says, yanking his head back so he’s looking up at the ceiling instead of Bucky’s dick and fumbles for the doorknob with his right hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” Bucky sighs, sounding...defeated?
“Uh,” Sam croaks, turning his body slightly and settling his eyes on the lightswitch right inside the doorframe. He whacks the back of his hand against the doorknob, but manages to get a hold of it. “Not to point out the obvious here, but yeah, kinda think I am.”
“N--” Bucky starts, but Sam is already stepping out into the hallway.
“I’ll just leave you to--you know, do your. Nevermind. Bye,” he says quickly and way more loudly than he intends. He waves awkwardly over his shoulder as he closes Bucky’s door and power walks back to his room like one of the old ladies he passes on his morning runs.
Once safely inside, Sam takes about three steps toward his bed and freezes. He doesn’t actually need to be in here; he should go back to whatever he was doing before he barged in on Bucky looking all turned on and sexy, but suddenly he can’t remember what that was. It’s like his brain is stuck on a loading page trying to process what he’s just witnessed even as he tries frantically to control, alt, delete.
Unfortunately, Sam’s dick has other ideas.
“No,” he tells it. “Not happening.”
His dick twitches in response.
Not to say Sam doesn’t know exactly why he’s responding this way. Clearly, his dick is remembering the other times Sam has thought about Bucky with his dick in his hand. To say it ends well is an understatement. The second Sam starts picturing Bucky--Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s mouth, or Bucky’s anything, really--it’s just a race to the finish line. The first time it happened, Sam came so hard he swore he saw literal stars. He tries not to do it very often, since they are living together these days, but the more time they spend watching crappy sitcoms and eating late night take out, the more Sam has to bite his lip to keep from calling Bucky’s name when he comes.
Sam’s no fool; he knows when he’s in love. It was six months ago when he first recognized that what he feels for Bucky is more than just physical attraction, and another four or so since Sam was bored out of his mind in a McDonald’s parking lot on a stakeout and finally put it all together.
He’s in love. Not just kind of, or a little bit, but totally and completely head over heels in love . Sam hasn’t felt this way in… Well, it’s been a while. Maybe it’s part of the whole stealthy assassin thing Bucky’s got going on, but Sam has never felt so snuck up on by his own feelings. Like, Sam absolutely was not planning on falling in love with anybody anytime soon, especially not with Bucky. But here he is. And even though he’s come to accept it, it still surprises him.
His hand itches to reach down and palm himself, but he’s not going to. Walking in on Bucky during a private moment is not something he has the right to jerk off to. Sam’s not going to take advantage of that, no matter how hard he is.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Sam sits down on the foot of the bed with his hands braced on his knees and exhales slowly, then inhales through his nose. He repeats this a few times, but nope. His dick is showing absolutely zero signs of relenting.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Be like that.” Sam grabs a fresh towel and goes to take a nice, freezing cold shower. Predictably, that does the trick.
He spends the rest of the afternoon finishing up a report on their brief stint to Winnipeg the day before last. He doesn’t see Bucky at all, and he’s starting to feel pretty guilty about it when Bucky texts, asking if Sam wants any Chinese takeout. Sam checks the time and realizes that it’s almost seven.
Sure, he replies, and his stomach growls as if on cue. He doesn’t notice Bucky leaving the apartment because sometimes he’s like a goddamn ninja, but twenty minutes later the door is opening, and Bucky is calling out to let him know the food has arrived.
Sam closes his laptop and heads into the kitchen, where Bucky has two plates already set out and is pulling delicious-smelling containers out of a plastic bag.
“Hey,” Bucky says, and Sam smiles. “I got extra egg rolls.”
Sam opens the fridge and pulls out two beers. “Awesome.”
Bucky serves up the food while Sam puts on a random episode of Riverdale. It’s somewhat of a peace offering, because Sam’s not really crazy about it, but he knows Bucky likes it. He’d never admit it, but Sam knows that Bucky lives for the petty drama and mystery of young adult shows. Sam chalks his terrible taste up to him only being able to watch like, The Jack Benny Program or whatever as a kid. Bucky laughs when he comes over with their food and sees what’s on. He passes Sam a plate and a pair of chopsticks as they settle onto the couch and tuck in.
“Sorry about earlier,” Bucky eventually says, just as Sam is finishing the last of his lo mein. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Sam chews his final bite slowly, giving himself a few seconds to think. He hadn’t actually expected Bucky to be the one to bring it up, but it’s good. They should clear the air and all that so they can move past it. “Don’t worry about it, man. Your door was closed, I should have respected that.”
“True,” Bucky agrees. He pauses for a minute and then says, “I wasn’t actually doing anything though.”
“Well, you were clearly about to,” Sam points out, setting his empty plate down on the coffee table. Once again, the image of Bucky stretched out on his bed, sweatpants straining, pops into Sam’s mind and refuses to leave.
“Nah,” Bucky huffs, tucking his legs underneath himself. “Can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Sam asks, confused.
Bucky stares ahead at the TV for a few moments, chewing his bottom lip. The light from the TV accentuates the hollows on his cheeks when he tenses his jaw. “I can… get hard, but that’s all. I can’t finish.”
“Oh,” Sam says, because he really was not expecting that. The fantasy in his head stutters to a halt. He recovers quickly though and does his best to shift from horny roommate to sympathetic friend. “For how long?”
Bucky shrugs one shoulder, still not looking at him. “Sometime during the war I guess. I was just waiting for it to go away when you walked in.”
“Have you talked to someone about this?” Sam asks. He can’t decide if he should keep looking at him or stare at the TV like Bucky is.
“Like who?” Bucky asks, glancing down at his lap and fiddling with his fortune cookie wrapper.
“A professional,” Sam clarifies. “You know, someone who can help you try and work through whatever might be holding you back.” He still has a lot of contacts back at the VA; Sam’s sure he can find somebody for Bucky to talk to, if he wants.
Bucky wrinkles his nose. “I’m not really comfortable with strangers helping me with this.”
“I get that,” Sam says, nodding in understanding. It’s clear that this is incredibly difficult for Bucky to talk about, even with Sam. He’s refusing to meet Sam’s eye and the tightness in his shoulders is so obvious that Sam’s neck hurts just looking at him. Knowing Bucky, he’d probably rather die than confide in anyone else about this. Sam’s glad that he feels comfortable enough with him to tell him though, because Bucky may not admit it, but Sam knows he’s his closest friend, and Bucky is definitely Sam’s as well. He wants to help.
“Hey, it might be a conflict of interest, me being your roommate and all, but you know if you ever need help I’m here, right?” Sam’s made a career of helping veterans overcome the psychological after-effects of war, and Bucky shouldn’t be doomed to a life without orgasms just because he isn’t comfortable finding a therapist for this kind of issue. It might be weird since Sam’s been having some not so innocent feelings about Bucky lately, but he’s a professional and a good friend. He can pull it together and examine this from a neutral perspective.
“You serious?” Bucky asks, turning to look at Sam with wide eyes. He stops messing with the wrapper.
“Of course,” Sam tells him. “But only if you’re comfortable with it.”
“Thanks, man,” Bucky tells him, sounding almost shy. It might be the light from the commercial playing, but Sam thinks his cheeks look a little pink. It’s horribly endearing. “To be honest, I didn’t realize you were into guys.”
“I--what?” Sam sputters. How the hell does Bucky know that? Did he catch Sam staring? Sam feels his heartbeat picking up and closes his eyes to try and calm himself. “Uh, yeah. I am. How did you work that out?”
Bucky gives him a sheepish grin. “I think the part where you just, you know, offered to help me jerk off was a pretty big hint. I don’t know many straight fellas that would be up for that.”
Sam, who has just grabbed his beer bottle off the table to give his nervous hands something to do, almost drops the damn thing out of shock. He what?! So much has happened in the last couple of minutes that Sam feels like he has whiplash. What the fuck made Bucky think he was suggesting he’d physically help him get off? Sam meant that he’d be willing to help Bucky figure out the root of his problem, what was prohibiting him psychologically from being able to finish. He sure as hell wasn’t propositioning him
“Um,” Sam starts and clears his throat. He sets his beer down again, folding his hands in his lap. How does he explain that this is all a misunderstanding?
Okay, Wilson , Sam thinks, back up. Where did things get off track? Sam thinks about what was said. He asked if Bucky had talked to someone, Bucky asked who, and Sam said a therapist. Wait, no. Sam said a professional. But Bucky must have known what he meant by that, right? Unless… Oh god, what if Bucky thinks Sam was asking if he’d seen a sex worker? And if Bucky thinks that’s what Sam is offering to do then... fuck .
“So am I,” Bucky says when Sam takes too long to respond. “Not straight, I mean. So you don’t… It’s not a big deal.”
“Thanks,” Sam swallows, stunned. He can’t think of what else to say. So Bucky likes dudes. That’s good to know at least. Sam’s just about to open his mouth to tell Bucky that while, yes, he is attracted to men, he was not putting the moves on Bucky, when he pauses. Bucky thought Sam was down to touch his dick in some capacity and didn’t turn him down. In fact, Bucky actually seemed pretty cool with the idea.
So now Sam has some thinking to do.
On the one hand, this is a bad idea. Like, really bad. Sam is a grown ass man and a trained counselor, so he’s aware that his feelings for Bucky probably won’t survive this type of encounter unscathed. Not to mention, there is absolutely no reason to think that Sam will be able to accomplish what Bucky’s hasn’t.
Oh the other hand, Sam is a little bit in love, and he hasn’t touched another man’s dick in literal years .
So yeah, he’s gonna do it. And if he gets his heart broken in the process, well, at least he saw it coming.
Guess there wasn’t that much to think about after all.
“Thanks,” Sam says again. “So yeah, whenever you need help. Just, uh, let me know.”
“Okay,” Bucky replies, smiling softly at Sam.
Sam smiles back, his chest full of so many emotions that it feels like it’s about to explode, and takes their plates to the sink to clean up. The rest of their Friday night passes by uneventfully, which has become pretty standard ever since Sam met Steve and got involved in all this superhero stuff. Turns out, superheroes don’t have social lives. They argue over whether to watch Chilling Adventures of Sabrina or House Hunters and Bucky’s dick, thankfully, is not mentioned again. Sam nods off at some point and doesn’t wake up until almost two in the morning. He groggily gets to his feet, the throw blanket he doesn’t remember snuggling up under falling from his shoulders, and stumbles back to his room.
At eight-thirty the next morning Sam has already finished his warm up stretches and is lacing up his sneakers for his morning run. He grabs his phone, keys, and wallet and heads out. It isn’t until the elevator door is opening on the fifth floor to let in a guy wearing a full arm cast--decked out in shitty signatures and Van Halen logos--that Sam suddenly remembers what happened the night before.
Right. So that’s a thing that Sam’s gonna do. He’s gonna get his hand on Bucky’s dick and help him jerk off, hopefully successfully. That’s cool. Just bros being bros, totally fine. Except for the part where Sam wants to nuzzle his face into Bucky’s chest and lay there for hours, hold his hand in the pasta aisle of the grocery store, and slow dance with him in their cramped kitchen.
Shit.
It’s entirely possible though that Bucky won’t take him up on his offer at all. Maybe their slightly awkward conversation last night is as far as it goes. That would be fine, of course. But what if Bucky does decide to ask Sam for help? Should Sam buy lube? No, Bucky probably has lube. Or maybe he doesn’t bother since--whatever, Sam has lube. He should probably do some research though, learn a little bit more about the psychology behind this before jumping right in. He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice that he’s reached the lobby until the Van Halen dude is gone and the elevator doors are sliding shut and he has to ride it all the way back up again.
By the time he makes it out of the building, Sam’s worked himself into such a nervous ball of energy that he feels like he’s about to vibrate right out of his skin. Usually, he paces himself on his runs so that he can go for longer, spend a little more time outdoors getting some fresh air and enjoying the sights of the city. Not today. As soon as he’s out of the building, Sam is racing at full speed down the sidewalk toward the park, dodging the few people out and about this early on a Saturday morning. A little old man walking out of a bodega shakes his fist angrily as Sam swerves to avoid colliding with him.
Sam wishes he’d brought his headphones to drown out all of the what if’s flooding his mind. The familiar sounds of city life aren’t doing much to distract him from thinking about what the hell he’s gotten himself into. Instead, Sam pushes himself to run even faster, so all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart in his ears.
Sam does three loops of his normal route in twenty minutes, a personal best, before collapsing on a bench and startling some pigeons. He’d feel more accomplished about that if he wasn’t almost nauseous with exertion; he lays there with one arm draped over his eyes for as long as possible, breathing hard.
One mid-life crisis in the park later, Sam eventually makes it back to their apartment. He takes a shower, makes himself a protein shake, and spends about an hour answering his emails--seriously, don’t people know it’s Saturday?--before an alarm on his phone reminds him that he has lunch planned with Rhodey in half an hour.
Sam considers cancelling, but what reason would he give? Sorry, I can’t make it to lunch because I’m busy constructing a game plan to help my roommate jerk off? Yeah, no thanks.
So Sam drags his ass to lunch at some trendy Mediterranean place. It’s been a while since he and Rhodey have had a chance to chat; becoming the new Captain America has been going better than expected, Sam tells him, and he learns that Morgan is about to enter the first grade. Rhodey fills Sam in on some of the negotiations he’s been a part of regarding updating the Sokovia Accords post-blip.
Sam must seem distracted though, because at one point Rhodey peers at him and asks, “Are you alright, Sam?”
“Yeah, just a headache,” Sam lies and takes a sip of his coffee. Rhodey raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying Sam’s bullshit, and he panics, like Rhodey somehow knows exactly what Sam is up to, but Rhodey lets it slide and the conversation moves on.
On his way home, Sam stops at the grocery store to pick up some milk and ends up spending way too long standing in front of the lube in the family planning aisle--he grimaces--before realizing how ridiculous he’s being and heading to the checkout.
Finally home, Sam is just sitting down to start doing some research for the whole Bucky Situation, when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?” Bucky’s muffled voice asks.
“Sure,” Sam answers, leaning back in his chair.
Bucky comes in, a smug look on his face. He’s got on that maroon shirt that makes his biceps look incredible. “See what I did there?”
“Your cyborg brain finally worked out how to open a door?” Sam jokes.
“I knocked ,” Bucky explains, ignoring him. “And then asked if I could come in before entering.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck you. I said I was sorry.”
Bucky laughs and takes a seat on the edge of Sam’s bed. “I’m just messing with you,” Bucky tells him. “Are you free right now?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Funny you should ask,” Bucky begins, scratching the back of his neck. He looks down at his denim-covered lap pointedly, spreads his legs a little, and then looks back up at Sam. Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You still willing to help?”
Okay, so they’re doing this.
“You--yeah.” Sam licks his lips. “Yeah, sure. Right now?”
Bucky nods. “If that’s alright.”
“Of course.” Sam runs his hands up and down his thighs nervously. So much for research, he thinks. “How do you want to do this?”
“Um.” Bucky looks away from Sam, blushing just like he had the night before. “I don’t really know. I figured you could just--” he makes an awkward up-and-down motion by his crotch.
“Okay,” Sam agrees. That’s about what he was expecting. “But we’re doing this in your room. No way I’m letting you get jizz all over my nice clean sheets.”
Bucky lets out a short, surprised laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, pal,” he says as he gets to his feet and heads down the hall to his room. “We don’t know this is gonna work.”
“Well, only one way to find out.” Sam says, rubbing his hands together as they enter Bucky’s room. He’s not in here very often, but it’s nice. Bucky’s room doesn’t get the same early morning light as Sam’s, but it does have a great view of the park across the street. Initially, Bucky didn’t have any kind of personal items or knick-knacks for his room. It was just a bed, a desk, and a dresser, and it stayed that way for weeks. Sam understood without having to ask. Bucky had spent so long first without any belongings and then on the run that making a space truly his was not something that came naturally.
Now, he’s got a few books piled on his desk that he’s been making his way through, some of which Sam even recommended. There are about ten different pillows piled on Bucky’s bed for optimal comfort and a watercolor painting of the Brooklyn Bridge that they’d spotted at a sidewalk sale is hanging above his dresser. There’s even a row of small succulents lining the window sill that Bucky has slowly collected over the past couple of months. He says succulents are better because they don’t need as much water, so if they suddenly have to jet off to Nepal for two weeks, they won’t immediately die.
Sam’s eyes eventually land back on Bucky, standing awkwardly by the side of his bed. He seems to have lost his confidence a little.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Sam asks seriously, looking Bucky right in the eye.
“I’m sure,” Bucky insists, looking nervous yet determined.
“Just making sure. So what kind of, uh, position were you thinking?” he asks, straight to the point.
“I-I don’t know. I could try laying down?” Bucky mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and then uncrossing them again. He clears his throat. ”Is that too weird?”
“Not at all,” Sam assures him. Bucky peels off his jacket, tosses it over the chair at his desk, and lays back on his bed with his boots, jeans, and shirt still on.
“Man, if you’re jerking off with your shoes on, I can tell you right now what your problem is. You gotta relax a little, loosen up,” Sam teases.
Bucky glares at Sam, but pulls his shirt over his head and kicks his shoes off so they tumble to the floor with a thud. Next, he unbuckles his belt, sliding it off and placing it carefully on his nightstand. Once he gets to his pants, Bucky’s eyes flick over to Sam. Bucky hesitates, like he’s waiting for Sam to make fun of him. When Sam doesn’t, Bucky slowly slides down the zipper. Sam’s mouth goes dry, and before he even has time to recover, Bucky is hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and pushing them and his underwear down his hips and past his thighs in one fluid motion until he is completely, gloriously naked.
Sam forces himself to turn away so he’s not just standing there ogling Bucky’s abs and half hard dick. “Got any lube?” he asks, his voice unexpectedly rough.
“Yeah, second drawer.” Sure enough, when Sam opens the drawer, there’s a small bottle of Astroglide in between a switchblade and an extra phone charger. He grabs it and notices it hasn’t even been opened. Sam turns back to Bucky while he peels off the plastic cover and nearly chokes.
Bucky looks much more comfortable as he watches Sam fiddle with the lube while lazily stroking his dick. He’s propped up a bit on his mountain of pillows, legs open--one out straight and the other bent slightly at the knee--so everything is just right there . Sam tries not to stare, but the image of Bucky’s dick disappearing into his fist is a sight to behold. Sam looks back at the bottle of lube, but isn’t really seeing it. So much for his mouth being dry, now it’s watering, and all he can think about is sliding between Bucky’s legs and taking him into his mouth.
Fuck.
Sam peels the last of the plastic off the bottle of lube, giving himself a chance to get his shit together. When he turns around, Bucky is still pumping his hand idly as he watches Sam. His expression strikes Sam as carefully neutral, like he’s trying not to show too much. Too much of what, Sam isn’t sure, and he’s sure as shit not about to ask.
“So what, I’m just here for moral support?” Sam asks, putting his hands on his hips and trying his best to appear as nonchalant as Bucky.
“No, no,” Bucky chuckles and drops his hand to his side. “By all means, do your worst,” he says, like it’s a challenge.
“Oh, I will. I’ve got mad skills, you just wait.”
“I am waiting,” Bucky replies, shooting Sam a smirk that has him feeling more than a little weak in the knees.
Sam huffs and pats Bucky on the outside of his thigh to get him to scoot over. He does, and Sam sits down at Bucky’s side with his legs crossed. He pops the cap on the lube and pours some onto his fingers, warming it up a bit. He looks over at Bucky’s dick, now fully hard, and then at Bucky’s face.
“You ready?” Sam asks.
“It’s been eighty years, of course I’m ready.” His eye roll is at odds with the shaky tone of his voice.
If this was a hookup, Sam would take his time to set the mood. There’d be a lot more heavy kissing and at least some gentle touching before getting down to the good stuff. Not this time. Bucky’s already totally nude and watching Sam expectantly. Sam swallows his nerves and decides to just go for it, ignoring the heat beginning to gather pleasantly in his stomach.
The moment Sam’s hand touches him, Bucky sighs quietly and closes his eyes. Sam’s glad, it’s easier to concentrate without those piercing eyes on him.
He starts slow to give both of them a chance to adjust. It’s been a while since Sam’s done this for another guy, and the angle is kind of awkward. He scoots a little closer on the bed so he can bend his elbow a little and his knees brush against Bucky’s thigh. Sam moves his hand up and down in light strokes and lets his muscle memory take over. When he feels like he’s built things up enough, he tightens his grip a little bit and is rewarded with a soft noise of appreciation from Bucky.
With Bucky’s eyes closed, Sam lets himself really admire all that he’s working with. It’s...a lot. Like, not to be dramatic, but Sam’s pretty sure Bucky was chiseled by the gods themselves. His chest is impressively well-built, but still soft in a way that makes Sam want to rest his head on it for hours at a time. His legs are long and lean, and the muscles in his inner thighs flex occasionally under Sam’s gaze. His human arm is resting at his side just a few inches from Sam and Sam has to fight the ridiculous urge to lace their fingers together. And of course, Bucky has the most perfect dick Sam has ever seen. He knew going in that this might ruin him, and he was right, no other dick will ever compare to Bucky’s. The weight of him in Sam’s palm is satisfying in a way he isn’t quite sure how to describe.
Then there’s Bucky’s stupidly gorgeous face. Bucky is always beautiful to Sam, but even more so right now. He’s got his head tipped back in pleasure and his mouth open slightly, like what Sam’s doing just feels so good. His hair is a wreck, but Sam doesn’t think Bucky’s even touched it. Sam’s never seen him so at ease. He’s struck by a sudden desire to lean down and kiss him, but instead he shifts his focus to speeding up the pace of his hand.
Bucky grunts, and it sends tingles all the way down to Sam’s toes. He thrills at the thought that he’s the one pulling a sound like that out of Bucky, that he’s the one making him feel this way. Bucky still has his eyes closed, but his breathing has picked up. The blush on his cheeks has spread down his neck and even onto his chest.
Sam experiments with a couple of quicker strokes, focusing on the head. Bucky’s hips twitch upwards and before Sam can stop himself, he’s resting his left hand on Bucky’s hip.
Sam desperately wants to ask Bucky what he’s thinking about, what he’s imaging, because whatever it is, it definitely seems to be working. Sam continues with short, steady pumps and watches the way Bucky’s chest rises and falls. God, Sam’s never been so turned on in his life . His dick is achingly hard in his jeans, but he refuses to take either of his hands off of Bucky.
“Can--Can you go slower?” Bucky asks, breathing rapidly, and Sam obliges. Bucky groans and digs his heels into the mattress, pushing his hips up to meet each of Sam’s strokes. Sam moves with him, doing his best to stay in rhythm.
“Sam,” Bucky pants. He opens his eyes and gazes up at Sam, pupils dilated. He reaches out and grabs Sam’s wrist, not stopping him, just holding onto him.
“I got you,” Sam says, rubbing circles into Bucky’s hipbone. He feels like he’s under some kind of spell, like once Bucky locked eyes at him, the whole world slowed down. All he can see is Bucky, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s mouth. He can’t look away. He considers briefly that he should be worried, like maybe this actually is some kind of sorcerer nonsense, but he doesn’t care. He wouldn’t end this moment for anything.
“Sam,” Bucky gasps again, but Sam knows. He can see what’s about to happen even as Bucky, eyes still glued to Sam, opens his mouth in shock. Sam strokes him a few more times before Bucky moans. He pulses in Sam’s hand, warm liquid spilling onto his stomach and over Sam’s fingers, before breaking eye contact and throwing his head back.
Sam works him through it, even as Bucky arches off the bed and comes like, well, like it’s been eighty years. Sam keeps going and doesn’t stop until Bucky squeezes his arm. When he does, he notices how close he’s gotten to Bucky’s face and quickly sits back. His hand is absolutely covered in jizz, and his heart is racing so loudly that he feels like he’s the one who just came.
“Fuck,” Bucky says, low and raspy and incredible, and Sam thinks I wish . Bucky grins from ear to ear, looking utterly relaxed and maybe even a little dazed. He pushes his metal hand through his hair, the real one still holding onto Sam’s wrist. There’s a bead of sweat at Bucky’s temple and Sam wants to lick it.
“I think you cured my dick,” Bucky laughs, delighted.
Sam chuckles. “Glad I could help.”
“God,” Bucky breathes out. He finally lets go of Sam and pushes himself up on his elbows. “I forgot how amazing that felt.”
Sam makes some kind of noise of agreement, but he’s more focused on how his dick has apparently decided that this is a great time to start fucking throbbing . He’s this close to coming in his pants like a teenager and Bucky’s come is still on his hand.
“I’m gonna go take care of this,” Sam announces, motioning toward his hand. He unfolds his legs and swings them over the side of the bed.
He’s almost made it out of the room, when Bucky says, “Hey, you wanna watch a movie?”
What Sam wants to do is throw himself face first onto his bed and jerk off to the memory of Bucky coming for a week straight, but Bucky’s all loose limbed and happy, so he says, “Sure, let me just wash up.”
He grabs a tissue out of the box on Bucky’s desk and tosses the box over to him. It lands on the bed next to Bucky, who pulls one out and starts dabbing at the mess on his stomach, still wearing a dreamy smile.
Sam gets back to his bedroom and makes a mad dash for the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. He uses a tissue to wipe down his hand because he does not have time to properly wash up, and chucks it somewhere in the vicinity of the trash can. Shoving his pants down just enough to get his hand around himself, Sam groans in relief and lifts the hem of his shirt up out of the way. It only takes a few pumps before he’s coming onto the same hand that just got Bucky off, his head thumping against the door.
It takes Sam a few minutes of blinking at his shower curtain before he manages to drag himself over to the sink to wash his hands and splash some cold water on his face. He debates whether or not to change his pants in case that looks suspicious, but ultimately decides fuck it, it’s a Saturday and he’s not watching a whole movie in his jeans.
Sam has no idea what movie they watch. He sits through the whole thing but can’t for the life of him remember anything about the plot or what actors were in it. All he can focus on is the fact that about two thirds of the way in, Bucky falls asleep with his feet tucked under Sam’s thigh like it’s no big deal. He gives it about thirty seconds after the credits roll before carefully getting up and sneaking off to his room.
As long as no one calls with an emergency, he can sleep in the next morning. For Sam, that means waking up at about eight-forty. He forces himself to stay in bed for an extra twenty minutes dozing and playing around on his phone.
Eventually, he summons the energy to get up. He makes his bed, yawning widely, and decides that everything else can wait until he gets some coffee in his system. He forgoes a shirt and shuffles out of his room in just his boxers to fix himself a cup. As soon as he’s in the hallway, however, he is immediately hit with the mouth-watering smell of frying bacon.
Sam wanders into the kitchen to find Bucky standing over the stove with his back to Sam. He must have taken a shower, because the back of his hair looks a bit damp. There’s the familiar sound of sizzling and as Sam watches, Bucky sets down a plate full of crispy bacon. Sunlight streams in from the window by the refrigerator, highlighting the steam wafting up from the plate. A bowl of strawberries sits to Bucky’s left, the coffee pot beside it is percolating quietly. As Sam slowly inches closer to their little breakfast table, he watches Bucky pick up a spatula.
“Morning,” Bucky calls over his shoulder. “Pancakes will be ready in just a few.”
Bucky flips the pancakes in the pan before putting down his spatula again and moving over to the coffee pot. He pours a cup and tosses in three spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream, just how Sam likes it. Then he turns to face Sam and smiles so brightly it’s like looking at the sun. Sam’s so stunned by the softness of it all that for a moment, he feels like he can’t breathe.
Bucky grabs the bowl of strawberries and brings it and the coffee over to Sam. He sets the strawberries on the table and hands the mug out to Sam. Sam takes it, their fingers brushing. Steam curls up from the coffee and Sam inhales it deeply. He takes a sip and closes his eyes. It’s perfect.
He looks back up at Bucky, about to thank him, but Bucky’s not looking at Sam’s face. He’s looking at Sam’s chest. Sam glances down, expecting to find something on him, but there’s nothing there.
“What?” he asks, lifting his shoulders and tilting his chin down to get a better look.
Bucky raises his eyes up to meet Sam’s. “Nothing.”
“So. Pancakes,” Sam says to change the topic. He pulls out a chair and sits down.
“Yup. Recipe’s straight outta 1943,” Bucky says. He goes back to the stove.
“Yeah?” Sam pops a strawberry into his mouth.
“No, of course not. I googled it,” Bucky laughs, flipping the pancakes onto a plate Sam hadn’t seen earlier already stacked high. “I barely remember anything from the forties, you think a recipe for pancakes managed to stick?”
“Man, just the other day you were talking about a Honus Wagner card that you traded some idiot for in 1941. I don’t know how your mind works,” Sam grumbles into his coffee.
Bucky brings over some maple syrup and a can of whipped cream and sets them in front of Sam. Sam knows for sure they didn’t have half of these things in their fridge yesterday. Bucky must have gone out this morning to pick them up, which is odd because Bucky normally takes the whole “lazy Sunday” thing very seriously. Sam doesn’t usually even see Bucky until well after noon on Sundays. It seems that getting his dick to work for the first time since the forties has really given Bucky an extra boost of energy and Sam’s not about to complain if this is Bucky’s way of saying thank you.
“How many pancakes do you want?” Bucky asks as he moves back to the counter.
“Three,” Sam replies and Bucky dishes them out. He brings over their plates and passes one to Sam. They taste amazing . Sam hasn’t had pancakes this good since he was little and his grandma would make them for him and his sister. He tells Bucky as much before he tears into them.
“Thanks,” Bucky says and smiles a little sheepishly. “I think the buttermilk really makes a difference.”
Sam hums in agreement.
“So,” Bucky starts after they’ve eaten in comfortable silence for a few minutes. “I was wondering--”
Sam’s work phone starts ringing in his bedroom, cutting him off. “Sorry, one sec,” he tells Bucky and goes to get it.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Morning, Sam,” It’s Maria Hill. “We just got word that a Hydra extremist has resurfaced in Belarus. Our source says he currently only has about four or five men with him, but that he’s trying to round up a lot more people for his cause. We need you guys to bring him in before he can cause any real damage. Can you be ready in twenty?”
“Of course,” Sam says, already opening his closet and pulling out his flight suit.
“Great, this shouldn’t take too long. I’ll call you once you’re on the jet to brief you,” Maria says and hangs up.
Sam jogs back to the kitchen. “Maria called, there’s a situation with some Hydra wannabe in Belarus,” he explains. Bucky nods and grabs their plates to take them to the sink.
“Wait, wait.” Sam stabs the last two thirds of his pancake with his fork and shovels the whole thing into his mouth. “Wheels up in twenty,” he mumbles through his chewing.
Belarus ends up being a lot more complicated than Sam expects. He’s got jet-lag haze fogging up his brain and a killer headache from where he got headbutted earlier on top of that, so he really just wants to go home.
Four bad guys ended up being six, which was a very unwelcome but ultimately manageable surprise. They’d had to split up at one point, which is always kind of scary, because Sam trusts Bucky with his own life, but he’s not sure how much he trusts Bucky with Bucky’s life. Sam took a knee to the stomach at one point and Bucky showed up right afterward with a split lip and a pretty adorable frown, looking otherwise no worse for the wear. It’s not so much that Sam is really injured, per se, just that the effort it took to avoid getting really injured has left him feeling pretty pummeled all the same. Part of those efforts involved running--by Sam’s phone’s estimation--about 9 miles in an ungodly short time frame to catch up with the asshole who tried to get away. And he thought he felt nauseous after his run on Saturday.
The flight home takes just about ten hours and then they have to debrief at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, so by the time he and Bucky make it through the door of their apartment, Sam can barely keep his eyes open. All he wants to do is pop a few Advil and crawl into bed, but the dishes from the breakfast Bucky had made are still soaking in the sink. Sam cannot stand waking up to a messy kitchen, so even though his body protests with every step, he shuffles over to the sink, turns on the hot water, and grabs a sponge to get started.
“Hey,” Bucky says, touching Sam’s elbow lightly. “You look dead on your feet. Let me take care of this.”
“Nah,” Sam yawns. “I’m okay.”
“Sam,” Bucky says softly. He carefully takes the bowl Sam’s been scrubbing with his eyes closed and the sponge out of his hand. Bucky snags the dish towel from it’s hook above the sink and uses it to dry both of their hands. He gently maneuvers Sam out of the kitchen with one hand on his waist and another on his shoulder. If Sam were more awake, he’d be having feelings about Bucky’s hands on him, but as it is, he lets Bucky guide him all the way to the doorway of his room without any real awareness of his feet moving.
“Goodnight,” Bucky says, and gives his shoulder a squeeze before backing up.
“Thank you,” Sam says as he strips out of his clothes.
“No problem.” He hears the door click quietly as Bucky closes it.
Once Sam is down to his underwear, he doesn’t even bother finding pajamas; he just flops down onto his bed and passes the fuck out.
Thursday afternoon, Sam and Maria attend a meeting with the joint chiefs of staff in D.C.. Sam has a few talking points prepared and he thinks he does a pretty good job, but Maria does the majority of talking, so Sam mostly just has to nod and look present. The meeting drags on far longer than either of them expects, and by the time it’s finally over, they’ve decided to just grab an early dinner in D.C. before taking the jet back to New York.
Sam gets home around six, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing his keys on the counter. He pours himself a glass of water and leans back against the counter to check his missed messages. Luckily, the world did not descend into chaos while he was busy, but he does have several texts from his sister about getting together on Saturday for his nephew's soccer game.
Bucky comes in a few minutes later while Sam is scrolling through the news headlines. “Hey. How’d it go?”
Sam sets down his drink. “Good. I mean, I didn’t have to do much more than show up, but everyone seems happy,” Sam tells him.
“Nice,” Bucky says, nodding. He goes to lean against their dining table.
“So, I was wondering,” Bucky continues, eyes dancing across Sam’s face. “How would you feel about helping me out again? With the, uh. You know,” Bucky clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.
Sam’s stomach does a flip. He definitely hadn’t forgotten, but with everything else that’s been going on the last few days, he hasn’t had much of a chance to really think about it.
“Yeah,” Sam says, wetting his lips. A prickling heat races down his spine. “I can do that.”
“Cool,” Bucky says, and now that Sam’s looking, really looking, he can see that there is a faint flush on Bucky’s cheeks and his eyes are a bit more dilated than usual. His navy sweatpants are looking pretty tight too.
“Right now?” Sam asks. He sets his phone off to the side and hopes he doesn’t come off as too enthusiastic.
Bucky grins. “Now works.”
Sam follows Bucky to his room. He tries his best to act cool, but a satisfying heat begins to build between Sam’s legs with every step he takes down the hall.
Thankfully, he’s not nearly as nervous as he was the first time. Probably because now he knows how good it is, he knows what Bucky feels like in his hands, what he looks like when he falls apart with Sam’s name on his lips. It's actually a little embarrassing how much Sam wants to do this. He’s surprised that the waves of anticipation rolling off of him aren’t knocking Bucky over.
Bucky seems to be much more relaxed about the whole thing as well. He pulls his shirt over his head without any of the awkwardness of before, and Sam gets to enjoy the view of his back muscles flexing as he lowers his arms. Bucky yanks his pants down next and leaves them in a pile on the floor so that he’s in just a pair of perfectly fitted black briefs that make his ass look fucking fantastic. He pads over to his bedside table, fishes out the lube—now in the top drawer—and tosses it to Sam, who catches it easily.
“Same position as before?” Sam asks, rolling up sleeves.
“Works for me,” Bucky says, laying down on his bed. Without any hesitation, he raises his hips and shoves his underwear off, tossing them off to the side. He’s already completely hard and just as beautiful as Sam remembers.
Bucky gives himself a couple of quick pumps to take the edge off as Sam sits down next to him and pours some lube on to his fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky watching him almost impatiently. It makes him wonder how long he’s been like this and what exactly got him so turned on.
Since Bucky didn’t say anything about it last time, Sam rests his hand on Bucky’s hip again just so he can touch as much of him as possible while he has an excuse. Bucky’s dick twitches as soon as Sam reaches for him, and the satisfied groan he lets out goes straight to Sam’s own dick, and he has to force himself to breathe in slowly to steady himself. Unlike last time, he doesn’t feel like he needs to start off slow or build things up, so he doesn’t. He just uses the same amount of pressure Bucky seemed to enjoy last time and sets to work, pumping his hand smoothly and twisting a little on the upstroke.
“God, Sam,” Bucky sighs and his hips are already beginning to squirm under Sam’s palm.
Sam keeps his strokes short and even. Bucky doesn’t seem to have any objections though. He closes his eyes for a moment, but opens them again so he’s watching Sam’s hand with a look of intense focus, like he’s hypnotized and can’t look away. Sam can relate--his eyes have been drawn to Bucky’s softly parted lips for a concerningly long time, long enough that he’s worried Bucky’s going to notice. But looking away isn’t even an option.
Bucky’s got a few days worth of stubble on his cheeks, which Sam privately thinks is an especially good look on him. As he watches, Bucky bites his lip and his mouth falls open again in a silent moan, eyes still fixed on Sam’s hand moving up and down his dick. Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it takes everything Sam has in him not to close the distance between them.
Bucky’s metal arm stretches out, and his fingers tangle in the sheets. Another rush of desire courses through Sam. It’s not exactly the arm itself that he finds attractive, but the fact that he’s making Bucky feel so good that he has to hold onto something is pretty mind-blowing. Sam feels hot all over, like molten lava is coursing through his veins and slowly pooling low in his stomach, simmering sweetly.
A part of him wants to slow things down and take his time--he doesn’t want this to end too soon--but Bucky’s hips have begun thrusting up into Sam’s hand, so he speeds up to match Bucky’s pace.
Every noise that Bucky makes, every moan, every barely audible sigh sends sparks racing all throughout Sam’s body. The fire in his stomach is reaching a boiling point, and every little thing Bucky does is winding this want inside him tighter and tighter until Sam feels like he might explode.
“Fuck,” Bucky pants. His voice is wrecked. His hips stutter in their movements and his hand comes down to rest on top of Sam’s, threading their fingers together as if subconsciously. Bucky pulls Sam’s hand up to rest on his chest, and the whole thing is so hot that the volcano inside Sam finally erupts.
“Can I blow you?” Sam blurts out.
“Wha--?” Bucky blinks up at him, startled. The movement of his hips slows just a little, but doesn’t stop.
“Sorry, forget I said that. I just--”
“No! I mean yes. God, yes, please do that. If you want,” Bucky stammers, his dick pulsing in Sam’s hand.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, slowing his strokes.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding quickly.
Sam smiles and squeezes Bucky’s fingers before reluctantly pulling his hand away so he can move down between Bucky’s legs. He pushes Bucky’s thighs apart and settles himself between them so that Bucky’s perfect dick is only a few inches from Sam’s mouth. He strokes him a few times and brushes his lips along the side before taking Bucky into his mouth and sucking.
Bucky gasps, the muscles in his thighs trembling as he visibly struggles to keep from arching into Sam’s mouth. Adjusting, Sam rests his left palm on Bucky’s hip again to help keep him steady, while using his right to work what his mouth can’t quite reach. It’s been so long since Sam’s done this that his jaw aches a little already, but it’s so worth it. He hallows his cheeks a little more, getting lost in the rhythm of it and Bucky moans deeply in return.
Sam looks up and sees Bucky watching him with rapt attention. As they make eye contact, Bucky’s hand comes down to rest lightly on the back of Sam’s neck. He rubs his thumb behind Sam’s ear and Sam hums without thinking, closing his eyes.
Bucky’s dick twitches in his mouth and Sam is shifting his hips as subtly as he can to relieve some of the unbearable pressure when Bucky says, “Wait, wait.”
Sam immediately pulls off and stills his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. He’s clearly overstepped and made this weird. He tries to move away, but Bucky catches him by the wrist.
“No, no,” Bucky says in a rush. “You didn’t do anything. I just… I think you should know that I can do this.”
Confused, Sam looks down at Bucky’s dick. “You can suck your own dick?” he asks.
“What? No, I can jerk off. Masturbate. Whatever,” Bucky says, avoiding Sam’s eyes now. “What we did the other day, it, um, got things back up and running.”
“Oh,” Sam says, still not really understanding what the problem is. “That’s great, Buck.”
Bucky’s forehead wrinkles; he looks frustrated. Sam wonders if he should take his hand off of Bucky’s dick, but Bucky is kind of holding him in place.
“It is,” Bucky acknowledges. “But it makes this,” he gestures toward his dick, “really shitty of me.”
“I’m not following,” Sam tells him, totally lost.
“I asked you to help me jerk off even though I can do it myself now,” Bucky grits out. There’s a different kind of tension in his muscles now; his hand is still gentle where he grips Sam’s wrist.
“Oh,” Sam says, starting to understand. Bucky seems to think that Sam should be upset by this on some level. He definitely isn’t; this is more than Sam ever thought he’d get. Maybe it’s a little sad, but he’s so into Bucky that he’s willing to take pretty much anything Bucky has to offer.
Bucky finally lifts Sam’s hand away from his dick, which has softened somewhat during their conversation.
“It didn’t even occur to me what a dick move that was. I’m really sorry.” He sighs and says quietly, “I just wanted you to touch me again.”
Sam swears his heart skips a beat, and he wants desperately for Bucky to mean what he thinks he means--that he specifically wanted Sam to touch him, and not just because he’s the only one around. Based on the way Bucky’s looking at him--like he’s expecting him to run for the hills--Sam’s thinking he’s right.
And sure, maybe in some alternate universe where Sam was just doing this as a favor to his buddy, he’d be mad, but he was certainly less than forthcoming about his reasons for wanting to help in the first place, so he figures they’re about even.
Sam decides to just put everything out there. “I really wanted to touch you again too,” he tells him. He rearranges the hand Bucky is holding so that their fingers are interlocked and there can be no mistaking his meaning.
Bucky’s eyes widen; he looks down at their hands, then back up at Sam. “Yeah?” Bucky asks. He looks bafflingly uncertain.
Sam nods reassuringly, bringing Bucky’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Bucky’s breath hitches.
“Then why aren’t you up here kissing me, Wilson?” he asks. It would sound a lot smoother if he weren’t grinning like a sappy idiot, but even so, it sends butterflies fluttering in Sam’s stomach.
Sam smiles and crawls his way up Bucky’s body until there are only a few inches between them. Bucky stares at him for a moment like he can’t quite believe what’s happening before glancing down at Sam’s lips, and that’s all it takes. Bucky’s hand is on the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him down as Sam leans into him.
The first touch of Bucky’s lips against his own is so warm and gentle that Sam feels his whole body melt. Bucky’s lips are very soft, which is surprising because he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who really cares about chapstick, but Sam’s definitely not complaining. He kisses Sam carefully, the stubble on his cheeks a delicious contrast to the smoothness of his lips and Sam can’t get enough. He thinks fleetingly that he wouldn’t mind spending several days doing this and nothing else.
Bucky kisses Sam so thoroughly that Sam feels almost dizzy with desire and when he sighs, Bucky takes the opportunity to sneak his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Bucky cups Sam’s face in his hands, guiding him into a new angle. In return, Sam pours everything he has into the kiss, hoping he can convey even a fraction of this feeling.
Bucky groans into Sam’s mouth, and then his hands are all over the place, sweeping down his chest and up his sides. He tugs at Sam’s shirt as Sam kisses along his jaw.
“Kinda think you’re overdressed,” Bucky murmurs and Sam can feel his throat vibrate with each word.
Sam laughs and leans back so he can pull his shirt over his head. Bucky attacks his belt at the same time and between the two of them, they get Sam naked pretty quickly. As soon as his underwear is gone, Bucky is dragging him back in so Sam ends up straddling his lap. Sam kisses him, still laughing--he can feel Bucky’s smile against his lips. Bucky reaches down, stroking him loosely and Sam’s laugh trails off into a groan.
“Does this mean I can go back to sucking your dick?” Sam asks, rocking into Bucky’s hand.
“Nah,” Bucky says, nosing below Sam’s ear. “Like this.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Sam fumbles around in the bedding for the bottle of lube while Bucky sucks on Sam’s lower lip. It takes a few moments of searching before he finds it wedged under Bucky’s leg. He manages to squeeze some into his palm without looking and bats Bucky’s arm away so he can wrap his fingers around both of them.
Bucky moans and it’s the best sound Sam’s ever heard. He presses his smile into Bucky’s shoulder, feeling a little bit like he’s dreaming. He’s been imaging this very scenario for so long that it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening. But it’s hard to ignore how real everything is when Bucky is panting in Sam’s ear and their dicks are sliding against each other.
He pumps quickly, Bucky’s hands running down his back and over his thighs and kissing Sam like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take long before Bucky goes still beneath him, his hips twitching, and comes into Sam’s fist. Bucky pushes Sam’s hand away after a few seconds and takes over stroking Sam’s dick. From there, it’s only a few minutes before Sam is pulsing in Bucky’s hand, his forehead pressed to Bucky’s temple.
They lie like for a while, sticky and a little sweaty, but Bucky’s got his arm wrapped around Sam’s waist, holding him close. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever been so content. He’s no super-soldier, but Sam knows he’s a pretty bulky guy--he’s gotta be crushing Bucky by now. He rolls off to the side, making sure to keep their legs tangled so Bucky knows he can touch him if he wants. Sam peers over at him only to find him gazing at Sam's naked body with sleepy appreciation.
“So. You sure you’re not just into me because I got your dick working again?” Sam teases, stretching his arms up above his head and showing off just a little.
Bucky rolls his eyes and turns on his side to face Sam. “Trust me, I’m sure,” Bucky promises. “It’s been a thing.”
“A thing?” Sam asks.
Bucky nods. “For how long?”
Bucky’s nose scrunches up adorably and he looks flustered. “I don’t know, awhile. Probably right around when Steve gave you the shield.”
That was almost a year ago. A giddiness Sam hasn’t felt since his high school girlfriend first told him she loved him bubbles up in his chest and comes out as a rushed, “Bucky, I’ve been gone on you for months .”
It’s maybe one of the mushiest things he’s ever said, but Sam can be embarrassed later. Right now, Bucky is smiling at him like he hung the fucking moon and leaning in to kiss him deeply.
They trade slow, leisurely kisses for an indeterminately long time. Sam’s mind remains blissfully, beautifully empty until his eyes start to feel too heavy and he rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder.
“Wanna go to that new Italian place tomorrow?” Bucky murmurs.
Sam cracks an eye open. “Are you trying to make an honest man out of me, Barnes? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure dinner is supposed to come before I end up in your bed.”
Bucky chuckles. “Well, I’m a little out of practice. Think you could show me the ropes?”
“I think I can do that,” Sam says around a yawn. “I’m staying here, by the way,” he adds, settling down with his head on Bucky’s chest.
“Like hell I’d let you leave,” Bucky says and Sam falls asleep to the sound of Bucky’s heartbeat.