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The first time they have sex, Bucky is in a rush.
He’s sort of perpetually in a rush, Sam has found, always wanting to dive head first—or metal fist first, rather—into things without thinking them through.
He doesn’t get paid for thinking, though, he gets paid for punching. So he punches. Sam won’t say shit about it. He punches too.
Sam kind of admires it, Bucky’s ability to throw himself all in with reckless abandon. Sam has to spend so much time thinking about things and considering his next move, taking care of others, making sure he takes care of himself, because if he dies, then there’s no one left to take care of others and—
Bucky doesn’t have the same self-preservation instincts. He’s worse than Steve in that regard. He fights like he’s not worried about dying. Hell, maybe he fights like he wants to.
Sam tries not to mention it in so many words. Bucky can only handle so much counseling before he gets ornery. Sam has to sneak it into their conversations like a parent smuggling broccoli in their kids’ meals.
Bucky isn’t good at being upfront about his feelings. He does that staring thing, and sometimes Sam can decipher the underlying meaning, but that’s all.
The whole time they’re working on the boat, Sam can feel Bucky doing it—the staring thing—against his back.
Blue eyes travel the length of Sam’s spine, his shoulders, his waist. He can always feel Bucky’s eyes glued to him, even when he can’t see him, and sometimes he acknowledges it in a tease. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Sometimes there’s comfort in letting Bucky stare while pretending he has the cover of ignorance.
He never acknowledges the moments where they brush together, though. He always plays innocent with those. The split seconds where Bucky becomes tactile seemingly for the sake of it, his flesh hand patting Sam’s hip as he passes by, or his hand lingering on the small of Sam’s back.
He knows the second he points it out, Bucky will quit, too overcome with the embarrassment of it. And he doesn’t want Bucky to quit.
Coaxing Bucky into trusting a person is like coaxing a stray dog to trust a cage.
Sam doesn’t blame him. If he had his brain and body played with mercilessly for seventy years, he wouldn’t be keen to trust anybody either.
That’s what makes it sort of surprising to him that Bucky keeps effectively feeling him up throughout their days together, like he doesn’t even think about it.
He appreciates the tension of it, sure, the one that fizzles and crackles between them and how Bucky doesn’t say a word about his touches, just keeps on touching and staring and smiling slightly when Sam makes a good joke or rolling his eyes when Sam makes a bad one.
Sam likes him.
How could someone not like Bucky, though, or at least like looking at him?
The soft black hair and the scruffy five o’clock shadow and the tense steel blue eyes and that jawline and the chin dimple and his pouty pink lips and the little furrow he gets between his brows or the scrunch of his nose when he’s pissed or the way he says Sam’s name like a warning or a plea and there’s never an in-between with him.
Yeah, Sam likes him.
Bucky likes him too, based on all the touching and the staring and the lack of acknowledging either, and the helping fix up the boat and hanging with Sam’s family, wedging him as an irreplaceable piece into Sam’s life, and this innocent act he does where he says, “oh, I’ve got to go book a hotel, yeah. Flight leaves early,” because he just wants Sam to ask him to stay but won’t admit it.
Which is why it doesn’t come as that much of a surprise when Bucky tells Sam he wants him in his own special Bucky Barnes™ patented way. Which is to say that, it isn’t with words, and it definitely isn’t outright but it is in a rush.
They’re in the hull of the boat, and Sam is working a wrench at one of the loose pipes, grunting in frustration as he tries to get it to tighten. He’s going at it with one hand braced on the wall of the ship, the other shoving at the wrench and the damn thing won’t give.
He hears Bucky’s footsteps come down the stairs and instinctively smiles to himself.
Bucky’s been trained to be quiet, for every footfall to be a whisper, so any time Sam can hear him before he sees him, he knows it’s on purpose.
Bucky’s right hand touching his waist when he gets close enough is another signal. He gives Sam a light pat on the side, and he doesn’t have to translate it into words for Sam to know to step away and hand Bucky the wrench.
Pays to have a super soldier around.
Bucky fixes the pipe tight, and Sam stays hovering behind him, their bodies about half a foot apart in the small space, Sam’s head tilted to the side to watch the muscles in Bucky’s shoulders move beneath his stupid blue Henley.
He wets his lips subconsciously, and his tongue is still darting out against his bottom lip when Bucky turns around.
Sam has to pull his eyes from Bucky’s chest hurriedly to meet soft blue. Bucky always says so much with just his eyes.
Right now, they’re saying, I saw you looking. Sam can tell based on how they dart down to his lips, then back to his eyes, back down, back up. I saw you looking. But it’s okay. I’m looking too.
He thinks about making another quip about watching the cogs in Bucky’s cyborg brain malfunction but decides better of it. Instead, he just watches them turn, watches Bucky stare at his mouth and think and think and stare some more.
Sam has half a mind to say, Well, are you going to do it or not? but decides to let Bucky take his time with figuring it out. Bucky so rarely thinks things through, and this is the kind of thing he should be allowed to think through.
When he finally decides, he locks eyes with Sam and there’s a set to his jaw and a firmness in his expression—the kind that tells Sam he’s sure this is what he wants.
At first, when their gaze catches, Sam is sure Bucky is going to lean in and kiss him.
He’s already buzzing with the anticipation of feeling Bucky’s scruff burn his mouth, tasting him, and languishing in the warmth of his lips which look so so fucking soft.
He can feel himself smiling because he knows it’s about to happen. Bucky’s going to kiss him. About fucking time.
He can see Bucky’s lips parting just a smidge and his eyelashes flutter, and this entire moment has only lasted a handful of seconds, but Sam is going to savor it for years.
Sam tilts forward, ready, and then, suddenly, Bucky is on the floor.
It happens so fast. One moment, Bucky is standing upright, wrench hanging limp at his side, staring at Sam’s face, and the next he’s on his knees, wrench clattering to the ground, head tilted up, lips still barely open, and blue eyes still needy.
His hands are in a rush to get at Sam’s belt, and Sam huffs a laugh of surprise, immediately fussing to help, their fingers fumbling together, bumping in the hurry to get his pants off.
He can’t help but say out loud, “Not what I was expecting, but—”
He’s certainly not going to complain. Anywhere he can have Bucky’s lips, he wants them.
Bucky’s mouth is curving up in the cutest smile like he’s fucking eager, his hands groping clumsily at Sam’s pant-legs to tug them down.
He says, yanking at Sam’s zipper—and there it is, the plea— “Sam, c’mon, man.”
Sam laughs, getting his fly open and his jeans to his thighs. “What, you got somewhere to be after this?”
Bucky doesn’t answer, blue eyes glued to Sam’s underwear and the steadily rising erection beneath the fabric. He licks his lips like he’s fucking hungry and Sam lets out a harsh sigh. Yeah, this is gonna be good.
It takes another second for Bucky to hook his fingers beneath Sam’s waistband and yank his briefs down.
The graze of Bucky’s metal knuckles against his hip is colder than Sam thought it would be—not that he’s dreamt about this exact moment for weeks or anything—and a shiver rolls down his spine, hips instinctively shifting forward.
His cock springs free from the confines of his pants and Bucky can’t get on it fast enough, mouth open and tongue out, tilting his head to catch Sam’s tip the second it’s exposed.
Sam gasps in shock, hand shooting forward to catch Bucky’s hair in a fistful, gripping tight. He vaguely thinks to himself how perfect Bucky’s long hair would have been for this, how he could have really gotten a hold of it and pulled. With his short hair now, Sam is left scrambling to get a grip, fingers doing little more than scratching back through messy black fluff.
Bucky hums appreciatively either way, sinking down without hesitation, jaw stretched, eyes open and focused right up at Sam to gauge his reaction. That’s not fucking fair. Sam is going to bust in a second just from those blue eyes batting up at him.
Bucky sucks dick like he fights. Efficient, purposeful, and beautiful. His head bobs quickly up and down, effectively fucking his own throat on Sam’s dick, showing no sign of gag reflex or restraint.
He never takes his eyes off Sam, and his hands are bracketed on Sam’s sides to hold him in place, cold metal thumb pressing firmly to Sam’s hipbone. Sam didn’t have any plans of going anywhere. He could stay here forever as far as he’s concerned, bathed in the wet warmth of Bucky’s feverish mouth.
He keeps one hand in Bucky’s hair, still trying to find purchase, his other clumsily landing on top of Bucky’s metal one, flesh drawn to the sense of coldness that’s lingering on otherwise hot skin.
He’s heating up by the second, chest rising and falling rapidly, breath coming in gasps, the only noise in the air the sound of water lapping calmly against the sides of the boat, Sam’s erratic breathing, and Bucky’s sucking sounds.
It’s loud in here.
Sam’s eyelids are fluttering as he listens and watches, Bucky holding nothing back with how quickly he’s getting Sam off, like it’s fucking life or death or something. Spit accumulates at the corner of his pink lips before it starts running down his chin. He just keeps looking up at Sam.
Sam’s breathing is hitching, and he chokes, “Buck—” as a warning.
He can’t last like this, not when Bucky’s lips are so soft and his throat is so tight and his blue eyes aren’t moving anywhere but Sam’s face.
His cheeks are getting flushed, and his eyes are starting to get glassy. Fuck. Sam grips the back of his head.
He repeats, firmer, “Buck.”
Bucky nods his head, staring up at Sam expectantly, and Sam knows what it means, so he lets go.
His knees just about buckle beneath him, his fingers clawing at Bucky’s downy hair while gripping at Bucky’s metal hand as he spills down the back of his throat.
Bucky—God fucking bless him—drives forward until his nose is touching Sam’s pubic hair and swallows.
He keeps on swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing obscenely, and throat constricting over and over as Sam gasps and shudders his way through it.
He’s had a lot of good orgasms before but this is probably ranking in the top ten, especially when Bucky sits back on his heels, mouth shiny with spit and cum, and opens his mouth, sticking his tongue far out, to show Sam it’s all gone.
Sam lets out a distraught groan that fizzles into a laugh as he looks down at Bucky in disbelief.
His eyes are wide, chest heaving beneath his clothes. He thinks about how juvenile this is, hiding in the hull of the boat with his shirt still on and his pants barely around his thighs, Bucky on his knees in the cramped space between the wall, piping, and Sam’s crotch. The wood can’t be very comfortable on his knees. He doesn’t seem to care.
Bucky is looking up at him, mouth still open, head tilted up, and eyes glazed over.
At the sound of Sam laughing, Bucky’s mouth pulls into a grin and his mouth carefully closes, glistening red lips curving into an adorable smile.
Sam wants to kiss him. Maybe lick his messy chin, who cares. He comments, dazed, “You’re good at that.”
Bucky chuckles, clambering to his feet. His hands slide off Sam’s hips, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his right hand. Sam feels kind of disappointed by that. He keeps admiring Bucky’s flushed-out cheeks and bruised lips.
He smiles to himself and leans forward, reaching for Bucky’s hip, ready to pull him in for a messy kiss and taste his own cum off his tongue.
Bucky’s smile falters all at once, and he flinches back like he’s been struck, brow pulling in.
Sam’s smile fades too, and he asks, “What is it?”
Bucky can’t step back from him because the pipes are in the way, so he shuffles to the side instead, face hot red and blue eyes troubled. His lips are swollen and shiny. He responds, fumbling, “I should get back to—”
Sam blinks in alarm. “What?”
The guy cannot be serious.
“Thanks for, uh—” Bucky stumbles over his own feet in his hurry to get to the stairs, barely flashing Sam a half smile as he makes his getaway. Even worse, he manages a thumbs up with his metal hand as his other hand moves to wipe his mouth again. “Thanks.”
Then he’s skittering up the stairs to get away and, this time, the noise his shoes make as they clamber upstairs doesn’t seem purposeful.
* * *
The second time they have sex, Bucky is in a rush again.
Sam has known better than to bring up the first time because he knows the second he wants to talk about it on his terms, as opposed to Bucky’s, Bucky is going to run away and deny, deny, deny.
So Sam is waiting for Bucky to bring it up first. But he doesn’t. Not in words, anyway.
Classic.
It’s the night before they’re going after Karli, and Sam is showering off the nerves, rubbing soap across his shoulders and his stomach, water cascading down his back before hitting the drain in a patter-patter rhythm.
Over the sound of it smacking the smooth floor, he hears the door open.
There are Bucky’s footsteps again, the ones he makes when he’s being loud on purpose to let Sam know he’s there. The way he asks for consent to enter without having to force himself to say it.
Sam lets out a huff, glancing at the shower head. He says, squinting against the spray of water, “Isn’t enough room for us both in here if you’re looking to get clean.”
But he knows Bucky is looking to get dirty, and Bucky says as much in the sound of his belt coming undone and his clothes hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Sam listens to him strip, and a small lump forms in his throat at the thought of seeing Bucky naked.
He’s seen it before, briefly, in photos pinned in SHIELD’s files that Steve gave him years ago. The grainy, poorly framed ones showcasing the Winter Soldier’s physique, where Bucky’s hair is long and greasy, and his blue eyes that Sam sees so much emotion in are vacant.
This is so much different than that. This is seeing Bucky naked because he wants to be naked. This is seeing Bucky naked because he wants to be naked, and he wants to be naked in front of Sam. This is a lot different.
Sam wets his lips and tastes shower water. He says as he looks at Bucky’s silhouette through the foggy glass door, “Careful when you run away this time, you might slip on the floor.”
A small huff of laughter returns, and then the shower door opens, and Bucky climbs in with him.
Sam tries to be polite with his ogling at first. He wants to rake his gaze up and down Bucky’s body, to take it all in and devour him with nothing but his eyes, to memorize all the features he has yet to see up close. But he doesn’t want to make Bucky uncomfortable—because he knows this is a vulnerable thing he’s doing and Bucky scares easy—so he keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face.
Bucky looks back at him with unblinking blue irises as he situates himself across from Sam in the small shower stall in Sam’s bathroom attached to Sam’s bedroom in Sam’s house.
Nothing is his anymore, Sam thinks to himself. Nothing is just Bucky’s. Not Steve. Not the shield. Sam could be, though. If he wanted Sam to be.
The water starts hitting him and flattening his dark hair down. It melts against his forehead. He’s looking at Sam expectantly, like he’s waiting to be told what to do, even though he’s the one who elected to sneak into Sam’s bathroom and drop his clothes on the floor.
He’s also looking like he’s daring Sam to look back.
So Sam does because he’s not one to turn down a challenge, his eyes darting to Bucky’s pelvis, mapping his curly pubic hair that, surprisingly, hints toward a chestnut brown than just pure black. The water runs down Bucky’s chest to his crotch and makes them darker.
For a brief second, in the back of Sam’s head, he recalls that in all the photos of the Winter Soldier, he was smooth.
His brow pulls in just slightly before it softens out.
He reaches without asking to touch Bucky’s creamy hips and rub his thumbs appreciatively over Bucky’s Adonis belt. Bucky seems to take it as a sign immediately, and his own hand jerks forward to wrap around Sam’s dick.
Soap has run down Sam’s torso and gathered in his pubes. Bucky makes quick work of sliding his hand up and down Sam’s length to spread suds on his shaft.
Within a moment or two, through a rush of friction and heat, Bucky’s handjob starts yielding bubbles.
Sam won’t let Bucky do what he did last time—get Sam off and then leave without taking care of himself—so he moves his hand down and wraps his fist around Bucky too.
It seems to alarm him—like Bucky thought it wasn’t on the cards to be naked and have his dick touched—as he lets out the sweetest, choked-up little gasp, blue eyes bugging out, hand stuttering where it’s around Sam.
His eyes jerk to Sam’s like he’s posing a question. He looks stunned. Seriously, did the guy think Sam wouldn't want to touch him?
“What?” Sam prompts, voice breathy with adrenaline as his dick is hardening rapidly in Bucky’s palm. “It’s not all about me, baby.”
Bucky’s eyelids are fluttering rapidly, and his perfect lips are parted in stuttered noises that keep getting caught up in his throat. His hand is jacking Sam off like it’s a fucking race. Sam’s alright with that. Gives him some encouragement to win.
He fists Bucky’s dick roughly, dragging his hand up and down, coaxing Bucky to full hardness—he’s a good size, a nice warm weight in Sam’s palm, and the prettiest shade of pink—and then working harder.
Bucky’s chest is panting, up and down, up and down, to match the movement of his stomach. He looks exquisite like that, falling apart in Sam’s hand, and Sam knows he looks much the same, the two of them reduced to panting and the slick sounds of water and soap on erections.
Sam glances down at their hands, where their arms are crossed over one another to hold each other’s cocks and their wrists are working rapidly. Bucky’s is going faster than his and Sam blames that super soldier serum bullshit. God, his stamina must be incredible. Sam wonders how long it will take Bucky to—
Bucky comes all over Sam’s hand with a desperate moan that borders on a sob.
It’s warm and thick across Sam’s skin, and Sam laughs in delight, smiling big as he looks up at Bucky’s face.
Bucky’s mouth is slack, and his eyes are wonderfully glassy. His cheeks are ruddy, and he’s sucking in air by the gallon. He’s struggling to hold himself up now, it seems, bracing his weight on the shower wall with one hand, the other still stripping Sam’s dick, albeit sloppier now.
Sam keeps smiling and remarks tenderly, “Good job.”
The whimper that he gets in return and Bucky’s hand pausing on his dick to process whatever emotion he’s feeling is enough to have him coming too.
It builds up in his stomach like a tightness he can’t push down even if he wanted to and he groans rough in his chest as he fucks into Bucky’s palm a few times to ride out the strength of it.
The only noise alongside the fall of the water into the drain is their breathing, labored and shallow.
Sam can’t stop smiling. He hopes Bucky can see how hard he’s smiling.
“Dammit,” Bucky says, sounding on the brink of exhaustion, fighting to catch his breath, eyes glued to Sam’s softening dick and his own cum-streaked hand, “I wanted that on my face.”
“Fuck, that’s hot.” Sam lets out a broken, astounded scoff. He promises, “Next time.”
And he means it.
Bucky’s eyes dart to meet his and a fucking shy smile tilts his lips up. How dare he look shy right now, the bastard.
He’s blushing something awful, all the way down his strong chest. Sam wants to come there too, all over Bucky’s pert nipples and the divots in his abdominal muscles. In his fucking belly button, who gives a fuck. He wants to mark him all over.
Sam wipes Bucky’s cum on his hip and Bucky snorts to himself. He repeats, somewhat withdrawn, his hand sliding off of Sam’s cock, “Next time.”
That seems like an invitation to talk about it.
Bucky reaches his hand to his mouth to suck Sam’s cum off his fingers one by one.
Sam can’t begin to suppress the hunger that traverses his face as he watches Bucky do it. He says, pained, “You gotta let me, man.”
“Let you what?” Bucky asks, playing innocent, licking his palm.
“Kiss you.” Sam looks up at him through dark, water-clumpy lashes. “I thought you were gonna kiss me on the boat, and then you didn’t. Cop out of the century. That was evil.”
Bucky’s smile fades again—just like last time—and his brow pinches in. He puts his palm beneath the spray of the water to get the rest of the cum washed off and then wipes the rest off his hip.
He reaches for the bar of soap in the wall cubby to help him clean up, avoiding Sam’s eyes.
He tries, withdrawn, “Listen—”
Sam’s always listening to him.
“I haven’t—” Bucky struggles to think of the words, his face all pinched up— “Not since—So it’s hard to—I mean, I might be—Y’know?”
Sam smiles fondly. “I don’t know.”
Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, shoulders sagging. “Listen, man, sex I can do. Sex, I get. But I haven’t kissed somebody since the goddamn ‘40s and I’m probably not that good at it so I don’t want you to be—”
He shuts himself up, but Sam hears the word disappointed all the same.
“Buck, I wouldn’t be.” Sam scoffs in surprise, eyes widening as he pulls back, water still hitting them. They can never be more than a couple inches from each other, their legs practically slotted together. He starts to wonder, “Wait, how can you have—”
The 1940s are before Steve went into the ice, before Bucky was taken by HYDRA. That’s forever ago. How can he have practice with sex in recent years and not practice with kissing? Those two kind of go hand in hand, don’t they?
Bucky’s staring at him with big blue eyes, and if Sam didn’t know better, he’d say the emotion in them is shame. Oh.
Oh.
He thinks about the photos in the file. His stomach turns in revulsion and he fights the urge to gag but he knows a pained sound slips between his lips anyway.
Bucky repeats tensely, “Sex, I get.”
Sam knows his expression has turned sad, and he can see Bucky start prickling at the sight.
In a moment, Bucky is moving to catch the shower door with his metal hand.
“Buck—” Sam tries, but Bucky is already stepping out of the shower, wet feet padding across the ground, leaving wet marks in his wake.
Sam knows better than to try and talk about it after that.
* * *
The third time they have sex, Bucky tries to be in a rush.
It’s the first day Sam ever called himself Captain America, ever used the shield in front of anyone but Bucky or his nephews, and even though the TV in his living room isn’t on, he knows the news is showing images of him with the headline The New Captain America displayed loud and proud.
His stomach is a mess of knots and emotions he can’t name. He’s pretty sure that some of it is elation—pure, genuine, white-hot elation—but the rest of it might be fear and unease and caution, but maybe also freedom, this sense of being free and proud and scared all at the same time.
He’s shaky with adrenaline and exhaustion when they get home, stripping out of his gear and leaving the shield abandoned on the coffee table in the living room. He doesn’t have time to think about it or to worry right now. It’s overwhelming.
Karli was just a kid. And he is Captain fucking America.
Nothing feels real and, yet, somehow, everything feels too genuine.
He keeps thinking about Bucky’s hand patting the small of his back against the shield and lingering there when he said, “Nice job, Cap.”
It makes his chest burn to think that Bucky believes he deserves the title. Steve trusted him. The world is going to have to trust him too.
Bucky is following him through the house, everything eerily quiet except for his footsteps, watching Sam strip the uniform off, and set it aside in a pile—cleaning will be done later, Sam can’t even think about it right now.
Bucky asks quietly, trailing after, “You okay?” like he can see the waves of unease rolling off Sam.
It’s kind of sickening, honestly, how much it means to Sam that he asked.
He turns over his shoulder, in the middle of the hall, almost to the bedroom now, stripped down to his shirt and briefs while Bucky is still fully dressed in uniform, showing off the glint of his metal arm in the dim domestic lights of Sam’s house.
Sam sighs, shoulders slacking, as he says, “You gotta let me, man.”
Now who’s the one that’s pleading?
“What?” Bucky’s lips twitch up in a curious smile, and he asks, “Kiss me?”
Sam offers back a shrug, his own lopsided smile showing up so he flashes the gap in his teeth and says, “Yeah,” as if that’s a question that needs to be asked.
“Hm. Alright,” Bucky returns with a crooked smirk. “But only cuz you look good in stars and stripes.”
The second he has permission, Sam is crossing the few feet between them to grab Bucky roughly by the metal arm.
Bucky’s smile drops swiftly and his eyes widen and his lips part as Sam presses their bodies close together, chests bumping, and drags Bucky into him.
Sam kisses him like he’s never craved anything more in his entire life. He doesn’t know if he has.
Bucky melts right into it like butter on a hot plate, slumping into Sam’s firm chest, his right hand steadying itself on Sam’s side, fisting his t-shirt like he just needs something to hold onto. He tugs.
When Sam smothers Bucky’s mouth with his, Bucky lets out the smallest whine, and Sam can feel his face scrunch up, the bridge of his nose and his forehead, like he’s in pain.
Sam runs his tongue along the seam of Bucky’s lips, and Bucky opens up a second later like he’s gasping for air underwater.
He tastes warm and like sweat. Sam can’t get enough of it, pressing closer and closer. Once they start, the little noises that Bucky is letting out just won’t stop coming.
Every time Sam shifts to kiss him in a new way, Bucky lets out these needy whines that get swallowed up in the back of his throat.
He kisses Sam back in biting movements, eyes screwed shut, like he’s trying to sear every second of the exchange into his memory and has to really focus on it to do so.
Sam doesn’t know why. He’s going to keep giving him more memories to replace it.
He licks into Bucky’s mouth, and one of his hands instinctively slides up to hold Bucky by the jaw, cradling his face, fingers pinching into his cheeks to hold his soft cheeks.
Bucky whimpers weakly.
Sam leans back and Bucky chases the movement, bumping their noses together like he’s trying to nuzzle into Sam’s face, his eyes still shut tight, breathing shaky.
Sam whispers between their mouths, an order, “Don’t run away this time.”
“Okay, sure, I—Okay—” Bucky nods in jerky movements but doesn’t open his eyes. He swallows down a pathetic sound. “Do that again first.”
His voice is slightly trembling like he’s scared that Sam is going to say no.
Sam leans in to let their mouths meet again and Bucky is downright violent this time when he presses back.
He kisses how he fights.
His hands are grappling with Sam’s clothes and there’s a growl rummaging in his chest. Sam lets him kiss like that for a second, lets him get out the energy and the panic at being kissed for the first time in a hundred fucking years and trying to figure out how he feels about it. He seems to feel pretty fucking good.
His cold metal fingers start pushing past Sam’s waistband, desperately clawing at Sam’s skin.
He pleads, breaking the kiss between words, “C’mon, Sam, please.”
The way he says please makes Sam groan against his mouth, and he says back, panting, grabbing both of Bucky’s wrists to get him to quit. “Okay, okay, but—”
Bucky is still chasing his mouth when they part, his blue eyes open and wanting, staring at Sam with blown-up black pupils.
Sam’s half tempted to let him rush through it again, just so he can get Bucky under him as soon as possible. But he knows what he wants, and he knows what he deserves, and he knows what Bucky deserves too.
“We do it my way,” he says, out of breath, and Bucky blinks inky lashes at him in bewilderment.
He hasn’t made an attempt to pull away from Sam’s grip around his wrists as he swallows down any apprehension and nods. His lips are flushed. “Sure, uh—Yeah. Okay. What does that mean?”
Sam smiles at him, carefully giving him his hands back, before reaching up to smooth back Bucky’s messy, sweat-dappled hair. He says, “It means don’t rush me.”
Bucky exhales from his nose in a sharp breath before he promises shallowly, “Okay.”
Which is how Sam gets Bucky naked on his back in his bed, sheets crumpled up between one flesh hand and one metal one.
The stress of being Captain America—the fear that maybe he’s not making the right decision—drains away when they’re like this. When they’re just two people in bed together, stripped to nothing, and Bucky is beneath him, avoiding his eyes.
Sam is so used to Bucky staring at him that this feels bizarre. But Bucky’s blue eyes are unfocused on the far wall while Sam hovers over his body, knuckle-deep inside him.
He coaxes in a quiet voice, tilting his head to the side, his other hand absently stroking down Bucky’s stomach, “Look at me.”
Bucky huffs a nervous laugh. He’s squirming uneasily, hips canting up, knees bent on either side of Sam. He risks a glance over, toying his bottom lip between his teeth until it’s red.
He chances, Sam still being extra gentle with how he’s fingering Bucky open, “Feels unfair.”
“What does?” Sam prompts, scissoring two apart to make Bucky gasp and arch his back just barely off the bed.
Bucky tries again, his eyes darting to the ceiling now, tone strained, “Shouldn’t I be giving you all the attention? S’your big day, Cap.”
Sam laughs, offering a flushed, gap-toothed grin. “Mm-mm. This is what I want.”
He can’t imagine anything better to relax him. All he wants Bucky to give him is Bucky.
Bucky sighs, closing his eyes, back curving up again when Sam presses in deeper. All he wants is to see Bucky slow down, to see him unravel in Sam’s hands. To know he can take care of him. He wants to take care of him and, by extension, take care of himself too. This is what he needs to get his mind off everything else: to focus it on Bucky.
He asks, “Keep looking at me?”
Bucky opens his eyes. Big baby blues. He’s chewing his lip like he’s eating it. To keep him from gnawing a hole through the sensitive skin, Sam leans in, pressing their bare chests together, and kisses him. Bucky breathes through his nose and opens his mouth obediently for Sam to slip in.
He sighs and hums his way through every kiss. Sam’s becoming obsessed with how vocal he is. He keeps taking his time with fingering Bucky open, even as Bucky starts squirming and his whines become impatient.
“Sam,” he says when they part for a breath, noses squished together, “C’mon.”
He’s starting to sound pissed and his nose is crinkling up.
Sam snickers against his mouth and kisses him again. Now that he has, he can’t seem to stop. He can’t get enough of how Bucky presses his whole body back into it. How he savors every kiss he gets like it’s going to be the last one he ever does.
“Be patient,” Sam says. Not commanding, not ordering. It’s him begging a little bit too, for this to last as long as he needs it to.
Bucky grumbles, arching up. His thighs are shivering against Sam’s sides. Sam lingers in Bucky’s vulnerability. How much he trusts Sam to do this. He wants to say something stupid like that he thinks he’s beautiful or that he loves how Bucky looks beneath him, but he’s trying to lock that up. He wants Bucky to keep looking at him. The second he starts waxing poetic, he knows Bucky will train his eyes on the wall and won’t look back.
“Okay,” Sam decides after several more long minutes of prep, when Bucky is prickling with sweat and panting and his chest is pink. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Fucking finally,” Bucky exclaims and Sam laughs hard as he puts on a condom.
He says in a teasing voice, “You’re cute.”
Even that is enough to make Bucky wince like it hurts.
Sam tries to be cautious when he pushes in, pressing his tip to Bucky’s hole and looking at him with a cocked head, waiting to see if Bucky has decided against this.
“Well?” Bucky prompts impatiently, shifting his hips up, rocking back against Sam’s cock touching him. “Come on, man.”
He’s got that adorable irritated scrunch to his face. Sam can’t help but smile. Bucky glances to the side like he’s trying to avoid it, so Sam takes the initiative to grab Bucky’s chin with one hand and use the other to guide himself inside.
Bucky gasps long and loud as Sam slips in, mouth falling open, Sam’s fingers squeezing his jaw to keep his head facing forward so he gets to watch. There’s nothing like it. The way that Bucky’s eyes momentarily loll back and the tension leaves his expression and his body pushes right back into Sam like it’s begging him to come closer.
Sam, of course, has to oblige, sinking in deep, taking it slow, never letting his eyes leave Bucky’s face. He wants to brand it into his brain, the face that Bucky makes when Sam spreads him open. Bucky’s flushed chest is rising and falling in quick succession, and he’s making those choked-up little noises that sound just as wounded as they do wanton.
“That’s it,” Sam breathes, eyes dragging over Bucky’s face and his body, feeling Bucky’s legs shake on either side of him. “That’s really good, baby.”
Bucky’s body clenches at the pet name, and that makes Sam pant, hips jerking forward.
“Goddammit,” Bucky gasps, Sam’s hand still on his jaw. Bucky’s own hands are fisted in the blankets beside his head. Bucky is just about writhing under him like a worm on a hook, trying to fuck himself back onto Sam’s dick.
Sam holds him tighter by the jaw and complains, “Quit that, you’re rushing us.”
Bucky groans in aggravation, squeezing Sam’s sides tight with his pillowy thighs. He looks at Sam with pleading blue eyes, and he sounds so sincere when he says, “This is making me crazy. Please just fuck me.”
Sam wants to say no just for the sake of it and make Bucky hold completely still, but he can feel Bucky trembling all over, so he figures he should be at least a little more generous. He rolls his hips, bracing himself on Bucky’s hip to tug him closer and grind into him.
Bucky moans in pure relief, eyelids flapping.
“Bitchy as hell,” Sam remarks, smiling fondly as he watches Bucky shudder.
“Uh-huh, whatever. Who cares.” Bucky’s words are swallowed in the back of his throat, and his eyes are rolling again as he arches up. “Right there, yeah. There is good.”
Sam keeps grinning to himself as he keeps at it, right where Bucky wants him, and takes his hand from Bucky’s face, dragging it down his stomach to graze the backs of his knuckles along the rigid length of Bucky’s erection.
Bucky throws his head back, gasping out a sharp, “Fuck me.”
“I’m trying,” Sam replies.
This is nice. It’s really nice. Sam wants to get used to this. His heart is thrumming, and his stomach is tight with a pleasurable heat. He hums appreciatively, watching Bucky squirm and fuck himself back against Sam’s body, clearly unsure if he should press down against Sam’s dick or arch up into Sam’s hand. It’s beautiful. His stomach is shiny with sweat, and his chest is pink. Sam wants to treasure this.
Momentarily, he gets nauseous at the thought that there have ever been people who had Bucky like this and didn’t treasure it.
He leans down to hide his expression in Bucky’s throat and kiss bruises against his collarbones.
Bucky keens and his hand jerks up from the bedspread to grab the back of Sam’s neck, holding onto him while Sam sucks kisses onto his skin.
The metal is cold on Sam’s throat, and it makes his hips work faster, running his thumb around Bucky’s wet tip. Precum is gathered at his slit and Sam smooths it along his dick. God, he wants to taste it off his finger.
Bucky’s body keeps moving between fucking himself down and driving himself up, chasing stimulation from both sides. Sam lets him. He’s barely moving at this point, letting Bucky grind against him however he wants.
Bucky whispers, “I need to.”
“Okay,” Sam replies, kissing up his throat, squeezing his dick. He gets his lips back to Bucky’s, touching his nose to Bucky’s cheek. He says gently, “You can.”
It’s all Bucky needs to lose it apparently because, a second later, his head is falling back and he’s squeezing Sam’s neck at the same time he’s squeezing the sheets and squeezing Sam’s dick. It’s gorgeous all the way around, and Sam laughs happily as he feels Bucky’s release spill out into his hand, making his skin warm.
Bucky is panting hard as Sam reaches up the messy hand to taste some off his fingers. Salty. A little bitter. Toasty.
“Shit, okay,” Bucky breathes, watching him with glazed eyes. “That is hot.”
Sam smiles, offering his hand to Bucky, who eagerly licks Sam’s palm to taste himself. That’s what does it. Bucky’s lack of hesitation to suck his own cum off Sam’s fingers, mouth red and raw.
Sam comes, groaning and hiding his face in Bucky’s neck as he rides out the shocks of it, and Bucky whines against Sam’s hand.
Carefully, Sam draws himself out, breathing deep as he looks over Bucky. He prompts, patting Bucky’s hip, “All good?”
“Mmm,” Bucky hums, lashes fluttering. He’s looking at Sam. The blue is almost gone now, eclipsed by his pupils.
Sam says pointedly, “Don’t run away.”
Bucky snorts but Sam doesn’t miss the blush that rises to his cheeks and how he glances away. “Too tired to run.”
“Okay, good. Nice.” Sam settles down, resting his head on Bucky’s stomach, draping himself over Bucky’s sweat and sex-sticky shape. He’s soft. And slippery. It’s very stern when he says, “No more running away. It’s rude. And so is rushing me. No more rushing.” He pauses for a second before he adds on, pressing his cheek to Bucky’s belly button, “Okay, well, maybe some rushing. A little bit. If we don’t have time or something. I’d allow that. But an equal amount of rushing to patience, I think.”
“Alright. I get it.” Bucky laughs through his nose, absently stroking his metal knuckles down the arch of Sam’s back. The coolness makes him shiver in a good way. “I got it. No more rushing.”