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“Did you lock the door?” Sam asks, fingers tripping to get his goggles and cowl off.
“Of course I locked the door.” Bucky is stripping out of his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of his office chair. “D’you think I’m stupid?”
It’s a nice office. Senator Barnes sure is set up all cushy and lavish with a few thousand square feet all to himself (and Sam when he decides to stop by) and a mahogany desk and mahogany shelves filled with packets he’s never read and never going to read.
Sam flashes a gap-toothed smile. “Only when you’re actin’ stupid.”
Bucky scoffs but doesn’t reply, hands traveling south to unzip his pants. There’s no coordination in either of their movements, getting dressed down to the bare minimum of clothes to get their hands on each other. For Sam, it’s more difficult with the bulky Captain America uniform, but he unclips the belt and starts shoving the front of the pants down, not bothering with the top half.
“I’ve only got fifteen minutes until my next site visit,” Bucky reminds, rushing to unbuckle his own pants, flipping his belt out of the loops with a loud thwipping sound.
“Okay, and?” Sam replies with a scoff, tucking his underwear beneath his balls so his cock springs free, already half hard and flushed. “You only need three to get off.”
Seriously, Bucky is easy, emphasis on the easy.
Bucky snorts, lending Sam a toothy smile. His eyes get all crinkly at their corners when he does, and all Sam can see are those smile lines and that perfect salt and pepper look he has started on in his cropped beard. Any evidence of aging on him makes Sam all the weaker for him.
He’s going to get to grow old finally. He’s going to get to grow old and have grey hairs and wrinkles and smile lines and he’s going to get to do it safe and with Sam.
Fuck. Nothing’s ever gotten Sam hotter.
He leans forward, grabbing onto Bucky’s hip to haul him close and promises, “I only need five.”
Bucky keeps smiling, wide and pleased, as he lets himself be pulled in, his hands still on the front of his pants, frozen in place now that his attention is on Sam. It’s amazing how his eyes immediately get glazed over and his movements temper themselves, ready to be pulled wherever Sam wants to pull him.
It’s all the kind of confirmation that Sam needs to run his hand up Bucky’s metal bicep, fingers tracing over the grooves and slats, until it reaches the side of Bucky’s neck, drawing him into a hard kiss.
He fucking loves how Bucky always lets himself be dragged into kisses, ready and willing to melt into Sam’s hands, asking to be touched and molded and loved, sinking into his body and the movement. A pathetic groan pulls from the back of his throat, and Sam eats it up, swallowing it into his own mouth, tilting his head to kiss Bucky deeper and slipping his hand up into his black hair to grab a handful of it and tug. He likes it a little longer. Long enough to pull on, to guide Bucky’s head in whatever direction he wants (usually down onto his cock).
Bucky’s mouth parts like a lever has been pulled, and he whines, inviting Sam’s tongue in deeper.
“God, Senator Barnes,” Sam breathes when they part, noses still touching, squished together. He teases, “The things you do to me.”
Bucky laughs quietly, smiling at Sam like he hung the moon. He replies in a mocking voice, “Oh Captain, my Captain.”
Sam massages Bucky’s hair where his hand is still knotted and gives a random tug that has Bucky’s throat clenching and a whiny sound slipping out, cutting off any other jokes he wanted to make.
“Fuck, Sam,” he breathes, nipping at Sam’s bottom lip when they kiss again, finally going for his pants, unzipping them fully, and starting to crudely shove them down around his thighs.
Sam can’t help but smirk into the next kiss at the sound of clothes rustling and belt buckle clinking as it finally slides off.
The hand not tangled in Bucky’s hair reaches down to help him shove his underwear down.
Bucky grunts, hot against Sam’s mouth, “No prep, just—You in me. Now.”
Sam groans against Bucky’s mouth, doing his best to keep the volume low but struggling. He doesn’t exactly want everyone ever to know that Captain America is fucking Senator James Barnes in his office on his nice mahogany desk, but… well, he wouldn’t really mind if everyone knew. Then he could have bragging rights.
For the record, there isn’t an inch of this office that they haven’t fucked on.
Bucky looks especially hot with his hands gripping the shelves of that bookcase and his ass arched out. Oh, that squeaky, spinny chair is also a top contender.
He mumbles back between kisses, “You sure?” even though he knows that Bucky is.
He knows that Bucky is a borderline indestructible super soldier and, if everyone in the room is being honest, Sam usually spends time prepping Bucky for his own benefit, not for Bucky’s, because it just tends to make him feel better. Who can blame him? He likes taking care of his best guy.
But the healing factor and durability can really come in handy for quickies.
Bucky nods jerkily, mouth dropping open as his hips start to twitch forward and he says, “Now would be good.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” Sam replies, grabbing hold of Bucky’s hips and backing him up against his desk.
Bucky’s hands shoot back to catch himself on the edge of it, crumpling a paper in the process, and he agonizes, looking over his shoulder, “My pamphlets!”
“Man, fuck your pamphlets,” Sam replies in a scoff, promptly sweeping them off Bucky’s desk onto the floor to make room for him, backing Bucky up so close to the furniture that he has to fully fall onto it, bare ass flat on the mahogany.
Bucky sends a sideways glance to the loose sheets of paper on the floor before he focuses back on Sam, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and grabbing on to him. He warns lowly, “You’re cleaning those up when I go to my site.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Sam replies and raises his hand to his mouth to lick a hot stripe up his own palm.
Bucky watches him with half-lidded, heavy blue eyes and shiny, parted lips. His breathing is coming out in subdued, staggered little puffs. Sam smiles as he licks his hand again from the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger, staring straight at Bucky invitingly as he does.
Bucky mumbles, “I could’ve done that.”
“Maybe next time, baby,” Sam replies and grabs hold of his own cock with his wet hand.
As he rubs spit along his shaft, Bucky arches his hips up, shifting some off the desk like he can’t stand waiting. He grumbles to himself about getting comfortable, and Sam physically represses the urge to make a joke about his age. His pants have bunched up goofily around his thick thighs, and Sam almost wants to laugh at the thought of Bucky standing upright now because he wouldn’t be able to go a step without falling.
He can’t stop from grinning to himself crookedly at the mental image.
As if sensing what Sam wants to laugh about, Bucky fights his way out of one leg of his pants so he can widen them and beckon Sam to get between. He scoots forward, arching his hips up, and Sam presses closer to him, standing between his spread knees so their erections slide together.
The second their dicks touch, Sam’s brain goes foggy, reduced to nothing but clouds, the same type of view he has when he’s flying.
He grunts out against Bucky’s mouth, rutting their hips together, “Fuck,” and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh in response like something he said was funny.
“You’re wasting time,” Bucky says, grinding his hips right back, breath mingling. “You gonna fuck me or not, Captain?”
“You’re impatient. And annoying,” Sam warns under his breath, grabbing his cock in one hand, his other roughly gripping onto Bucky’s hip.
Helpfully, Bucky hikes one of his legs up around Sam’s waist, and he leans in to catch Sam’s lips in another rough, hot kiss. He murmurs, lips dragging against Sam’s, “And yours.”
“Yeah, you’re that too,” Sam replies, guiding his dick between Bucky’s spread legs. The second that his spit-wet tip nudges Bucky’s rim, his brain goes white.
His mouth has fallen open in several too-loud breaths, and Bucky isn’t far behind, their noses still touching, foreheads pressed together, air traveling back and forth between their mouths that are connected by a line of spit between their bottom lips.
Bucky’s arms wrap tight around Sam’s shoulders, his heel—and his sharp ass loafer—making purchase on the small of Sam’s back to steady himself. Sam doesn’t bother to tell Bucky to move before he starts to push in.
He goes slow and knows it’s only for his own peace of mind that he does. Bucky doesn’t need him to be careful with him, but Sam can’t help it.
Bucky sighs out shakily against Sam’s cheek, his whole body jerking immediately as Sam sinks in, his metal hand clenching tight to Sam’s shoulder, so roughly that Sam knows purple finger-shaped marks will bloom beneath his suit.
In return, Sam grabs Bucky’s waist, biting his fingers into the stupid white button-up he wears beneath his jacket. He snaps his hips forward with jerky thrusts until he’s buried to the hilt, and Bucky keeps on gasping, every breath hot and wet against Sam’s face. His hips grind forward into Sam until their stomachs are touching through their clothes, and it makes Sam crazy that they aren’t naked right now. He wants to touch. He wants to feel. He wants to suck marks on Bucky’s bare, flushed chest and leave bruises on his pudgy stomach.
Bucky sighs out, “Sam,” and that’s about all the encouragement Sam needs to start moving, jostling Bucky’s body back against the desk, one of Bucky’s shoes touching the ground while his other is slung over Sam’s hips, his stupid pants caught around one ankle on the floor while Sam’s are hanging around his thighs. How juvenile they’ve become.
Sam finds himself caught up in it, the rest of the world and responsibilities bleeding away as he focuses on Bucky beneath him, Bucky caught between his desk and Sam’s hips smacking into his. Their skin slapping is audible in the office, but all Sam can hear are the punched-out little noises Bucky is making, how every one hitches up and scratches his throat on the way out.
He grips onto Bucky’s hips to drag him closer, feeling them buck up into his grip every time he drives forward, Bucky meeting him halfway, using his hold on Sam’s shoulders and the foot on his back for leverage to keep him close. His thighs are shaking.
Sam looks down to watch them move, to see where Bucky’s pink dick twitches and leaks between their bodies, and he slides home between Bucky’s obscenely spread legs, and his thighs jiggle with every thrust.
Sam is shaking too, breathing hard, not bothering to say a word. Sometimes talking is pointless. He doesn’t have anything to say that Bucky doesn’t already know.
No, they don’t say a word at all until Sam hits the spot he’s supposed to and Bucky’s entire body spasms in his arms, promptly tossing his head back and gasping out a frantic, “Fuck.”
“Quiet,” Sam warns, and immediately finds himself bothered by Bucky facing the ceiling instead of him. So he grabs Bucky’s black tie and uses it to haul Bucky forward.
Bucky squeaks as he’s yanked in for another kiss by the neck like a dog on a leash, and Sam doesn’t let go. He holds the tie hard, wrapping it around his fist and pulling down so Bucky has to stay in place, has to keep kissing him, has to keep close.
Bucky is whimpering loud and unhindered against Sam’s lips, and Sam does his best to muffle the sounds in his own mouth. All his cute little noises sound like ah, uh, uh. Sam wants to eat him.
Bucky claws at Sam’s back and grips onto the stupid material of the costume and whines like an animal. His hips snap into Sam’s every time they move forward. He’s the perfect fucking picture. His muscular legs spread on either side of Sam’s body, thighs shivering and jumping every time Sam fucks into him. His stupid crumpled white shirt that Sam is definitely going to make him come all over that he’s going to complain about. His pretty pink cock that’s trapped between them, already leaking, precum dampening the tip. His black hair is covering his forehead and getting messier.
His mouth is open, and so are his baby blue eyes, focused right on Sam’s face. He won’t stop staring, pupils blown, like he’s enamored, like he’s in awe, like he’s in love.
His pink lips are shiny, twisted up in the slightest, dazed smile at the sight.
His tie is still trapped in Sam’s fist, biting into his handsome throat because it’s been pulled so tight. His breathing is turning into wheezes as he struggles to breathe.
Sam yanks on it harder to make Bucky keen and writhe.
“Sam, Sam,” he chokes, hoarse and ruined, grabbing frantically onto Sam’s shoulders. His foot keeps slipping down to Sam’s ass before he has to hike it up again, their bodies rocking together against the desk.
Every time Sam shoves in with a particularly sharp thrust, the desk squeaks back a centimeter on the ground. Eek, eek, eek.
“Yeah?” Sam prompts, eyeing Bucky over, sweat on his hairline and his upper lip. He can feel the orgasm building in his stomach, vibrant and exciting. “You gonna, baby? You gonna come for me?”
“Uh-huh.” Bucky nods jerkily, expression dazed and face flushed out. “Uh-huh.”
That’s what Sam likes to hear. Just a few more moments and then he—
The door creaks open.
“Hey, Sam, Isaiah just called and—Oh my God!”
Sam and Bucky snap their heads to the side in alarm at the open door where Joaquín is standing, white-knuckling the frame, a mortified expression on his face.
Sam has seen veterans with less intense hundred-yard stares than that.
Joaquín repeats, shell-shocked, “Oh my God! Oh my God, I’m so—I didn’t—I—The door was unlocked. I—I’m so sorry.” He turns and rushes out, slamming the door shut so loud behind him that it feels like the room quivers.
Silence rattles Bucky’s office for a few, painful seconds, everything silent except Bucky’s soft wheezes, trying to catch his breath as Sam releases his tie.
Sam sends his eyes slowly to Bucky in a glare. He says blankly, “Thought you said you locked the door.”
“Okay.” Bucky winces, cheeks pink. His voice is hoarse. “I admit I may have forgotten to lock the door.”