Chapter Text
“Which hand do you use to jerk off?” Sam asks Bucky one time after their morning training, nonchalant like it’s a perfectly normal thing to ask. The gym is busy at this time of the day, so Bucky glances around them to see if anyone’s heard.
Because what the hell.
So Bucky only says, “What the hell, Sam.”
“I’m serious.” He does not look or sound serious in any shape or form, but there is genuine curiosity in his eyes.
Bucky lets his gaze linger on the sweat sliding down Sam’s collarbone. He looks away. “My right hand,” he mutters.
“Why?”
“I’m right-handed. It’s not that complicated, man.”
Sam has this thoughtful look on his face.
Sam and Bucky take turns cooking breakfast on Sunday mornings after training. They usually go to Sam’s place because one, it’s closer to the gym, and two, Sam’s kitchen is superior in every way.
When Sam’s flipping pancakes at the stove, Bucky opts to watch the way his running shorts cling to his ass. It’s perky and round and perfect and Bucky wants to smack it, suck on it, and kiss it better.
One month in, Captain America’s ass is the only thing Bucky thinks about. And looks at, apparently.
Sam’s telling him about the latest cringe-inducing thing that had come out of Ross’s mouth. Bucky’s listening, he really is. But the mid-morning sunlight is filtering through the kitchen window and hitting Sam in all the right places, and Bucky remembers—they haven’t had their weekend sex yet because Cap Sam here was too busy working on Saturday.
So Bucky sidles up to Sam, puts an arm around his waist as he hugs him from behind. Sam lets out a low, amused chuckle as Bucky presses his stirring cock between Sam’s asscheeks. “You’re a fire hazard,” he tells Bucky.
“And you’re depriving me.” It sounds more like a whine than anything but Bucky doesn’t care, just licks the back of Sam’s neck, sweat and grime and all, and he’s fucking delicious.
Sam keeps cooking, and Bucky doesn’t stop him, because as much as he wants Sam right now, he wants food even more.
They don’t bother with the dishes after breakfast. Bucky doesn’t remember who finished eating first, because the next thing he knows they’re stripping each other in Sam’s bathroom with an urgency that really should be illegal for a Sunday, but well.
The shower is a quick and clumsy ordeal. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like shower sex, but it’s wet and slippery and water tends to get in his eyes, so it almost ends up being more trouble than it’s worth.
(He feels like a grumpy fossil with thoughts like this. Fucking hell.)
By the time Bucky carries Sam to bed, they’re still half-wet and probably about to ruin Sam’s mattress. Neither of them is clear-headed enough to care, because Sam only pulls him down and captures his mouth in a kiss that asks for more, more—
“You’re beautiful,” Bucky breathes into Sam’s mouth, feels Sam’s fingers thread through his damp hair. He pins Sam against the bed, who stares at Bucky through half-lidded eyes, mouth parted as he breathes hard but steady.
“Take me,” Sam says—begs. “I want you.” It comes out strangled and raw, and Bucky’s breath hitches at the surrender in Sam’s eyes. He lays a hand on Sam’s chest, feels his heart flutter beneath his palm with a vulnerability that makes Bucky want to gently ruin him.
“How do you want me,” Bucky asks, imprinting the question on the dip between Sam’s collarbones. “Tell me, Sam.” He mouths a trail up Sam’s throat, feels the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
“I want—inside me,” Sam mumbles, dazed, hands clutching at Bucky’s shoulders. “I know we haven’t really talked about it but—I want you, please.” His words tumble, haphazard, and Bucky looks up at him, curious and soft.
Sam’s right; in their one month of dating they have never quite, well, ventured to penetrative sex. It’s something they haven’t discussed either, and Bucky’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s because neither of them knows what the hell they’re doing or even what or how exactly they want each other.
Bucky wants Sam, of course he does. In an ideal world he would have Sam in every way imaginable. And if Sam’s expressed any hint of not wanting anal sex then Bucky wouldn’t even entertain the thought.
But here they are.
“I’ve never done it,” Bucky admits, lamenting the fact that he’s probably killing the mood, but it needs to be said. “Which means I might accidentally hurt you.” With that, Bucky rolls off of Sam to lie beside him. They remain quiet for a moment, watching the sunlight spilling across Sam's wall.
Later, cheeks still flushed, Sam says, “I’ve never done it either.” Glancing at Bucky, Sam continues, “The last time I felt this clueless, I was a goddamned teenager.”
Bucky sighs, rubs a hand on his face. “Relatable.” He sits up and pouts at Sam, feeling a little ridiculous and embarrassed. “I’m sorry for blue-balling the both of us. I think that was a first.”
Sam, unbothered, looks at Bucky with a small sly smile. “Well, there’s a way you can make up for it.”
“Yeah?”
Sam’s gaze drops to Bucky’s metal hand. “Get me off with that.”
Bucky flexes his prosthetic, looks at Sam with a raised brow. “Is this why you asked what you asked this morning?”
“Duh,” Sam says. “I wanna know how it feels. C’mon, Buck.”
This, he can do.
Sam spends the next few days sending Bucky links to articles about ‘How to have anal sex’ and ‘Anal sex for beginners’. In return, Bucky sends Sam links to toys that they can put up Sam’s ass in preparation for his dick.
Bucky orders a few and has them shipped straight to Sam’s place. Bucky knows Sam receives them when Sam messages him eggplant emojis with no context.
