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Everyone in Avengers Tower is convinced Sam and Steve are sleeping together. The place is big enough that they could each have their own quarters, but they're sharing one sprawling apartment. No matter how much they deny it, the jokes keep coming.
It doesn't bother Sam at all—there are worse things than having your new friends think you're tapping a legendary ass—but he knows it bothers Steve. He's pretty sure Steve isn't homophobic or anything. He embarrasses easy. They're just friends, and Sam is okay with that. They make a good team—they learned that when they went looking for Bucky.
When they found him, in the middle of Montana, he'd already managed to break most of his HYDRA conditioning. He knew who he was, where he was, but he also remembered a lot of what he'd done as the Winter Soldier. Guilt drove him to go on the run. He told Steve guys like him didn't deserve a home, or friends. It took them two weeks to convince Bucky to come back to New York.
Steve's still trying to convince him to come live at the Tower, but Bucky says he's happier in Brooklyn.
Sam's glad he's in Brooklyn too. Because if he's honest, there's another reason Sam doesn't mind if everyone thinks he's dating Steve. As long as they think that, they're not paying attention to Sam's comings and goings. And if Steve is too busy trying to convince everyone he's single, maybe he won't notice how many nights Sam stays out.
Because if Steve notices, Sam's pretty sure it might be the end of their friendship.
It started three weeks ago, not long after they got back to New York. Bucky came by the apartment, and he wasn't looking for Steve. Sam didn't stand a chance. Steve had told him stories about Bucky's way with the ladies back in the day, but didn't tell him (or maybe didn't know) Bucky was just as good with the fellas too.
Sam's still a little embarrassed at just how easy he was. Bucky didn't have to do much more than give him a wicked grin and bat his eyelashes before he had Sam on his figurative (and shortly thereafter literal) knees.
Now he spends a couple of nights a week out at Bucky's tiny fourth-floor walk-up doing anything but sleeping.
It's been a couple of days since the last time, and Sam debates calling him. They don't have a set schedule or anything. Bucky doesn't have a job, and he's quiet about what he does when he's not with Sam.
"Sir, you have a guest at the door."
"Thanks, JARVIS." Most apartments have doorbells. Doorbells are less unsettling.
It's odd JARVIS doesn't say who the guest is. Sam opens the door expecting to see Tony or maybe Clint.
Before he can register what's going on, he finds himself pressed against the back of the now-closed door by nearly two hundred pounds of super soldier and metal prosthetic.
Bucky pins his arms to the door over his head and kisses him fierce enough to drive the breath out of him.
"Um, hi," Sam says, when Bucky lets him.
"Please tell me you're home alone," Bucky says, leaning in to bite along Sam's jawline. He grinds and writhes against Sam until he can barely remember where he is, much less where his roommate is.
"Um," Sam says again. "Ye-Yeah. He's out."
"Good, because I need to fuck you. Right now."
His brain stutters and goes offline, letting his cock take over. "Here?"
"You have air-conditioning," Bucky says, flashing him a grin—that damned grin!—even as he starts pulling Sam toward his bedroom. "It's hotter than hell in my apartment."
"I don't know when Steve is coming back—"
"I don't care." Bucky stops him in the middle of the living room and pulls him in by the shirt for another long kiss, all sharp teeth and soft, wet lips and tongue, and by the time he's done, Sam doesn't care either.
In Sam's room, this time he backs Bucky up against the closed door. It's an illusion of power—they both know Bucky's stronger and faster not even counting the metal arm—but it's a thrill every time Bucky yields to it. He slides his fingers up into Bucky's hair, still too long, held back in a ponytail. He pulls out the elastic, wanting to feel the way the dark, soft strands spill over his hands. Bucky's eyes are half-closed from the pressure of Sam's fingers over his scalp, and his lips part when Sam tugs a handful of hair, tilting his head to the side.
He gasps when Sam licks up the long white line of his neck, whimpers when Sam nips at his earlobe. "I think it's about to get hotter than hell in here too," Sam murmurs into his ear.
Getting him out of his clothes is like disarming a bomb. Sam hasn't asked for details and Bucky hasn't given any, but going from clothed to naked is a touchy change for him. It took a couple of times before Sam worked it out. He runs his hands up under Bucky's t-shirt, lightly dragging his nails up his abs. "Couldn't even wait until night time, could you," he murmurs. The muscles under his fingers twitch.
"Could have." Bucky's voice is tense, although he's still rubbing his hips against Sam's. Now that his hands are free, he grabs Sam's ass and pulls him in tighter. "Knew you'd probably be alone now though."
Sam pushes up Bucky's shirt and keeps talking. Talking's the key, he's found. Keeping Bucky grounded in the here and now. "Just like the first time you got me alone," he says. "I see how you are. Taking advantage of my weakness." He swallows a pang of guilt. If anybody's taking advantage here, it's him.
Bucky raises his arms and lets Sam pull his shirt off, then reaches for Sam's shirt. That seems to be the other half of the equation—letting Bucky undress him too, at roughly the same pace. "Not my fault you're hot," Bucky says, leaning in to steal another kiss while his fingers work the buttons. Sam's always surprised that the metal fingers are flesh-warm instead of cold. By the time he pushes Sam's shirt off and lets it fall to the floor, some of the tension in his shoulders is gone.
Bucky isn't shy about touching Sam with both hands, but has made it clear he doesn't want Sam touching much of anything on his left side. Sam knows where the lines are, drawn as clearly in his mind as if they were inked on Bucky's skin. He slides his hands down Bucky's sides to his hips, then lets one hand cup the outline of his erect cock through his jeans, gratified at the sharp intake of breath he hears, and the way Bucky's hands tighten on his arms.
"Not sure you're going to make it to the bed," Sam teases, squeezing gently. "You're ready right now, aren't you?" He undoes the button, then eases down the zipper, watching Bucky's face. He doesn't reply, but drops his head back to the door with a thud, his eyes closed. He reaches inside Bucky's underwear and wraps his fingers around the hot, hard length of his cock, stroking it just long enough to make him whine and arch against Sam's hand.
Sam sinks to his knees and nuzzles against Bucky's thighs while untying his boots. Going on his knees in front of Bucky isn't an act of submission; it's an act of caring. That Bucky lets him take care of him means—a little too much to Sam, maybe.
He helps Bucky slip out of his boots and socks, then reaches up to pull down Bucky's jeans and underwear. Now he gives himself the luxury of paying attention to Bucky's cock again. He rubs his cheek against it, turns his head to mouth up the shaft while Bucky hangs on to his shoulders and whimpers. Before he can take it into his mouth, Bucky hauls him to his feet.
"I won't make it to the bed if you do that," Bucky says, and goes after Sam's pants. Now that he's naked, the wariness is gone, and he's able to be a little more playful.
Sam backs away with a grin, leaving Bucky with no choice but to come after him. Bucky winds up tackling him to the bed, knocking the wind out of him. "Now," says Bucky, kneeling between Sam's thighs, "about those pants." Sam wriggles and laughs, but ultimately Bucky pulls them off and tosses them aside, then tips forward to cover Sam's naked body with his.
They don't manage anything so organized as a kiss, their mouths colliding briefly before Bucky has him pinned to the bed and starts biting his neck. Sam can't help moaning. It's not pain. It's little lightning strikes along his nerve endings; it's feeling Bucky's soft, sweet mouth turn hard against his skin. Before long they're writhing together, finding the right rhythm that has their cocks brushing against each other, rubbing trapped between their bellies.
"Tell me what you need," Sam gasps.
"Let me fuck you." Bucky's words against his skin sound like a plea, like he thinks Sam might say anything other than 'oh god yes'.
"Lie down," Sam says, nuzzling through Bucky's hair to kiss his cheek. They roll over, and when Bucky's settled on his back, Sam hands him the lube bottle and condom. Bucky grabs the back of Sam's neck with his right hand, and pulls him in to kiss him, sliding his tongue over Sam's like hot silk. It isn't until Sam hears the quiet click of the lube bottle that he realizes what's happened. Bucky's right hand is curled at the base of his skull. Which means his left hand is…
He's shocked at the force of the shudder that runs up his spine, and feels Bucky's mouth curling into a grin against his. "Gonna tell me to stop?" Bucky challenges. His eyes glint wickedly as he cups Sam's ass with his metal hand, letting Sam feel the slick glide against his skin.
"Have I ever?" Sam says, his heart racing. He knows Bucky has fine motor control, but he's also seen what that hand is capable of. The adrenaline spike is gonna kill him long before Bucky can, at this rate. He leans to the side, hooking his leg over Bucky's hip, closing his eyes as Bucky's fingers slide between his cheeks.
Warm and hard and slick, Bucky's first finger teases over his hole, making his nerve endings sing. Sam doesn't know if he's ever been this sensitive, this on fire. When the metal tip breaches him, Sam's eyes fly open in shocked pleasure. Bucky goes slow, easing it into him. It's thicker than the fingers on his other hand, and Sam would swear he can feel each little ridge brushing against his hypersensitive skin.
"Shit," he breathes, arching his hips to get more.
"Yeah?"
"Fuck yeah." Sam kisses him hard, rocking his hips a little faster. "More."
When Bucky adds a second finger, it's too much at first, and Sam has to stop moving. Bucky kisses him hot and slow, then watches Sam with heavy lidded eyes. "You feel so good," he murmurs. "God, I want you, Sam."
Sam shivers and bears down a little, gasping when Bucky's fingers barely brush against a sweet spot. "You can feel me?"
"Everything," Bucky breathes against his jaw, then bites it. "How tight you are, how hot, how wet. It's almost as good as having my dick inside you."
And that's all Sam can take. "Now. Oh god please now." His cock is leaking against his belly, and he can feel that Bucky's the same.
Bucky lies back and lets Sam roll the condom onto him and straddle him. They're both beyond ready when Sam slides down onto his cock, the two of them groaning in harmony. Bucky's so damned beautiful like this, blue eyes wide and dark, hair spilling on the pillow, lips parted, red and swollen from kisses. There's something soft and vulnerable about him that makes Sam's chest clench.
Sam rolls his hips until he's good and seated, feeling the stretch and sweet friction when he moves. Bucky reaches for him, running his hands up Sam's thighs and flank, tweaking his nipples with his thumbs just to make him jump. Then he settles for holding Sam's waist, keeping him upright. Sam rests his hands on Bucky's belly and just rides him, slow and easy. He wants this to last, to maybe torment them both a little.
Bucky's neighbors in Brooklyn have already complained a few times, but the soundproofing here in the Tower is excellent. Sam doesn't hold back from moaning, maybe partly to give Bucky a good show, but also just because he can, and it feels so good to let the sound bubble out of him with each thrust of Bucky's hips.
"Jesus," Bucky gasps, and takes a firmer grasp on Sam's waist, thrusting a little harder. Sam gives him the reins and lets him set the pace. His body is singing, sparking with pleasure so strong he can barely see straight.
Suddenly, Bucky freezes and presses a finger to Sam's lips. "Shh!"
"What?" Sam keeps his voice down.
"Steve's coming down the hall," Bucky hisses. "Outside the apartment."
Sam doesn't question it. Bucky and Steve both have enhanced hearing. Oh shit, if Bucky can hear him… "Do you think he heard?"
"I can't tell."
They hover, Bucky hearing whatever he hears, and Sam straining to hear anything at all. But then, Bucky starts fucking him again, slow, powerful thrusts that make him feel like the top of his head is going to come off if he doesn't groan. Bucky sees it, because he gives Sam a crooked grin and says. "Shhhh."
Then, perversely, he keeps talking, just at the edge of Sam's hearing. "You haven't told him about us yet, have you? He knows what I'm like. He knows what I like. You don't want pure-hearted little Stevie to know you're just as dirty as me." Sam doesn't know what's making him crazier: the rhythm of Bucky's cock pistoning in and out of him, the hot whispering sound of his voice, or the worry that Captain America might bust in at any moment to find him riding his best friend like a pony.
It's torture, that's what it is. He doesn't think he's ever needed so much to cry out, then Bucky starts stroking his cock with his left hand—again with that gleaming left hand. He can feel his knees weaken.
"I bet you've thought about letting him do this." Bucky taunts. If Bucky's voice wasn't a little ragged, Sam might hate him.
"No," Sam gasps, trying to be quiet.
"Liar." He can see Bucky starting to sweat, gratified to see him bite his lip. "Saw the way you looked at his ass." He traps Sam between his hand and his hips and Sam can barely breathe with the pleasure of it. "Bet he'd do it." Bucky manages a short grin before closing his eyes. "Saw him looking at your ass too." He licks his lips and adds the coup de grace. "I'd share."
He knows Bucky's yanking his chain, just trying to get him to make a sound loud enough for Steve to hear. But still, the thought—it's enough to send a spike of want through him, and he ends up biting his own lip to keep the sound in. The pressure is building inside of him, an orgasm that feels like it's going to split him in two and how the hell is he going to stay quiet? "Where is he?" he gasps.
"He's close," Bucky says. "So am I." He licks his lips again, his eyes on Sam's. "I know you are. Can you come before he opens the door? Come on, Sam. Let him hear you. Maybe it'll get him hot."
It's too much for Sam to handle. His hands fly up to cover his mouth as he starts thrashing wildly. Only Bucky's hand on his hip keeps him in place. He bites his fingers to try and keep some of the sound in as he comes and comes, spurting all over Bucky's hand, Bucky's chest, his own belly. He's shaking and knows he's making way too much noise, expecting any minute to hear Steve's voice, or worse, for Steve to come busting into the room.
When Bucky comes, it's silent and hard, his body quivering beneath Sam's, back arched and mouth open in a voiceless cry. Sam collapses against him, trying to catch his breath. Bucky isn't much of a cuddler, and nudges Sam off after a minute or two. He rolls out of bed and heads towards Sam's bathroom. Over his shoulder he says, "I think I heard your phone buzz a minute ago."
The last thing Sam feels like is reaching for his phone, but there've been too many emergencies lately.
There's a text from Steve, from just a few minutes ago. At Junior's getting lunch. You want a corned beef? Junior's is in Brooklyn—at least the one Steve always goes to. Steve is in Brooklyn.
Bucky, you bastard. Sam starts to laugh. He forces himself to get out of bed and head to the bathroom, where Bucky's washing his hands. "Hey man," he says, waggling his phone. "You wanna stay for lunch? Steve's at Junior's, asking for orders." He manages to say it with a straight face.
Bucky pauses, drying his hands, then gives Sam a big shit-eating grin. "Oops?"
"You asshole," Sam laughs.
"Oh come on, that was the hottest sex you've ever had in your life," Bucky says, grabbing Sam's hands and crowding him back toward the bed. Sam lets himself be pushed. They wind up lying side by side, not cuddling, but just holding hands.
"You weren't serious about that, were you?" Sam asks. "What you said about Steve?"
"What if I was?" Bucky turns on his side to look at him. His eyes have that earnest look that is somehow more terrifying to Sam than any steel-eyed killer expression.
"I mean, you guys never—you didn't—"
"You should ask him sometime," Bucky says, with an expression too innocent to be remotely believable.
"Maybe I will," Sam says. "So you staying for lunch or what?" It's time to get things out in the open, one way or another.
"If Steve's buying? Hell yes."
Sam leans over and kisses him, then grabs his phone. Two corned beef. We've got company. And we need to have a talk.