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It starts with a compliment.
Bucky knows the way of things. Sam’s an extremely capable guy, one of the best do-it-all kind of men Bucky’s ever known, likely the best. When Sam puts his mind to do something, he does it with all he’s got, giving a hundred when most would give fifty. It’s got its downsides, if the slump of his shoulders at the end of the day when they’re slinking back to their apartment is any indication, but Bucky knows Sam would rather survive a hundred burnouts than be anything other than capable.
It’s as admirable as it is stupid, really. In some ways, Bucky’s blessed with that knowledge; he gets to be the guy that brews tea and settles down on the couch with Captain America so they could watch an episode of whichever TV show they’re on, to wind down from whatever they got done during the day. Nobody else helps Sam out of his suit when he’s too tired to fully shuck it off, or rubs his shoulders and talks him to sleep when the burden of the wing-pack weighs on him, or gets to melt into the couch like that Japanese egg dude Bucky keeps seeing online side-by-side with him. Nobody else gets to see Sam when he’s had enough of the day, when he’s ready to sink into some sheets and be dead to the world until the next alien invasion, and Bucky counts that as a blessing.
It’s a thankless job most of the time, what Sam does. Bucky would know, seeing as they work together now, being SamandBucky as much as they are BuckyandSam, so he sees the thanks Sam gets. Sure, there’s a press crowd of people that scream their gratitude, but it ain’t like they’ve got time to linger. Usually, the cleanup effort’s just as time-consuming as the actual saving part, sometimes a bit more, so they don’t get to stay long enough to hear a thank you here and there. Talking to the press is a whole other can of worms that is about as gratifying as stubbing your toe over and over again, so the thanks is about as minimal as a blizzard in the summer.
That’s not to say Sam’s so shallow as to need some thanks to do what’s right, because he isn’t, he doesn’t. Sam could get the whole world riding on his case and he’d still choose to do the right thing, angelic as he is. It’s just. He deserves a compliment every now and then, something appreciative, and Bucky’s got words, okay. He’s got words to say, knows how to use them, and a mouth that can speak. Sam deserves a compliment.
He starts easy. During a particularly difficult mission involving some AIM assholes trying to get their hands on some Thanos tech left behind and stored away after the Battle back in ‘23, Bucky sees Sam do this new, cool maneuver involving a swan dive into a cannonball straight into one of their juggernaut-type of grunts, shield and wings right on the torso, knocking the guy out as he unrolls just as quickly and swoops back up into the sky. It’s impressive enough that Bucky’s a little distracted for a moment, long enough for a bullet to graze his thigh, before he’s growling his irritation and getting right back to knocking the AIM agents on his floor out.
One mission success and a headcount of unconscious agents later, Bucky finally gets to talk to Sam, and instead of being a smart human being that talks business first, pleasure later, he says, “that move you did earlier, with the ball, that was pretty great.”
Sam looks at him like he’d grown a second head, which, wow, thanks buddy, but then he smiles, a little shy and bashful about it. “You think so?” he asks, “I’ve been working on that one for a while, during all the flight-training I do that you never wanna do with me.”
Bucky chuckles, in a pleasant enough mood that he doesn’t rise to the teasing bait, despite being covered in dirt and grime and a bit of blood. “The sky’s your thing, pal, and I’m happy to leave you to it,” he says, and smiles because he means it, “I can tell you worked on it for a while. It paid off, made you taking that big guy out look all awesome and patriotic.”
Interestingly, Sam doesn’t laugh or grin or even smile; just looks at Bucky with wide eyes and a quiet oh on his lips, throat working full-time on swallowing as he looks away and fidgets a little, fingers playing with the lining of his belt. “That’s, uh, great,” he says lamely, and Bucky’s own eyes widen a little in realisation, but before he can ask about it, Sam says, “I’m gonna go and, um, help a bit. Meet up with you again in thirty.” Before his wings shoot out and he kicks off into the sky again.
One year ago, Bucky might’ve teased him about it. One year ago, he would’ve talked about it with a foot in his mouth and would’ve gone and made Sam clam up. But they’re in the present now, and Bucky knows Sam about as much as he knows him, SamandBucky and BuckyandSam as they are, so he plays it carefully. He knows his way around small increments, knows how to work these small details into their shared lives so easily that Sam doesn’t even notice until way later on, like putting mustard in the fridge and soy sauce in the cupboards. He knows how to make sure Sam doesn’t figure him out before the going even gets.
So, small compliments. When Sam cooks dinner, he hums in honest appreciation and says damn, this is really good, Sam, to which Sam laughs a little and says glad this is palatable to your old white man tastebuds, and Bucky grins and doesn’t even think whether to fire back, just enjoys the homemade jambalaya. When Rhodes comes over to catch up with Sam—which, man, it’s just Bucky’s life now that Colonel Rhodes, War Machine, just shows up at their place with a genuine smile, a box of cream puffs, and a friendly handshake to Bucky—he plays pretty nice, polite and calm and trying to come across as friendly, dropping a Sam’s real good with the shield here and a the wings are as close to perfect as you can get, but really, it’s this guy wearing them that make them look as smooth as they do there.
Both instances garner Bucky somewhat the same response as the first time, with wide eyes and parted lips and a general surprised energy about Sam, but he doesn’t try to escape or whatever. He just covers it up with a laugh or changes the subject, which Bucky doesn’t mind. He’s been alive for over a hundred years. He’s got patience for the long game.
It’s more of just that for a while. Sam gets a new personal best in his sprint timer, and Bucky cheers him on from the bench he’d been sitting on. Sam gets that complicated five-person shield ricochet combo down during a mission, and Bucky makes sure to talk him up about it. Sam comes back from his morning jog with two cups of coffee in hand and a bag of donuts, and Bucky waxes a little poetic about him for at least twenty minutes. Sam smiles a lot more because of everything, the kind of private ones even Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tease him about, and looks at him a little longer for it. Good, really, because Bucky likes it when Sam looks at him almost as much as he likes complimenting Sam. It works for everyone involved.
Small increments. Until one day, out of nowhere, Bucky whistles lowly and lets slip, “looking good, Wilson,” when he comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and a few droplets of water on his skin.
Sam stops in his tracks and really looks at him then, something flushed and bashful and appreciative and a couple hundred other things, but Bucky thinks nothing of it when Sam just says nothing and closes the door of his bedroom behind him. It’s fine, Bucky thinks, because he’s been working up to bigger, better compliments for months now, and at some point he’s gotta ease Sam into these kinds of affirmations, and it might as well be now. Bucky thinks nothing of it, not even when Sam spends much longer in his room than is necessary to put on a tight t-shirt and some sweatpants.
The next few weeks end up with somewhat similar results. Bucky tries not to overload him, tries to drop a few at what feels like the right times—when Sam comes out of the shower, or when he gets back from a run, or when he’s just looking good, he compliments him. He figures he could get a little more specific, talk a little more about Sam’s meaty thighs or the curve of his waist, but it feels too early, like Sam might pull away from it, so Bucky bides his time.
Not a week later, he doesn’t even get to contemplate his next steps, because the moment he steps out of his bedroom to get a glass of water, Sam strides up to him with purpose, presses both of his hands against the wall on either side of Bucky’s face, and says with the confidence of a god, “so, you’ve been putting moves on me.”
Of all the things Bucky expected from tonight, slinking out of his bedroom at ten in the evening only to get cornered by none other than Sam Wilson was not one of them. Still, it lends him a great view of Sam all up in his face, personal space be damned, too close for anything that ain’t hot or heavy.
“Not that I don’t appreciate seeing your fine arms from up close,” Bucky says, taking it as a small victory when Sam swallows thickly from his words, “but what the hell do you mean?”
Sam’s brows shoot up. “Flirting,” he says stiltedly, as if clarifying, “you’ve been flirting with me.”
“I’ve been flirting?” Bucky asks with a note of incredulity, because as good as this is, Sam pressing up on him and trapping him against a wall, he’s as lost as a lamb.
Sam’s face makes a complicated expression. “Weren’t you?” he asks, sounding a little uncertain now, which just won’t do, so Bucky scrambles to think fast.
And, well, yeah. Looking back on the last couple of months, his ‘compliments’ were less friendly affirmations and more flirty banter, except for the part where his flirty banter became actual flirting. He remembers a lot of moments just looking at Sam, feature by feature as much as Sam will let him look so he gathers more compliment fodder, until Bucky’s composed whole sonnets in his head about the muscles of Sam’s back and the firmness of his arms and the shape of that ass that just won’t quit.
“Oh,” he says after a short silence, face still inconceivably close to Sam’s, enough that he feels every breath Sam takes on his lips, “I’ve been flirting.”
“You get all caught up on that, then?” Sam asks with a smile, but he’s losing that easy confidence that got them into this situation in the first place, so Bucky does what he’s always been wanting to do since he first met him.
He reaches forward, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist, and squeezes those two perfectly round and full globes Sam calls his ass, smiling like the cat that caught the canary—falcon, whatever. “Sure did, sweetheart,” he says, watching the way Sam’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and his lips murmur a soft oh. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, you know,” he continues, squeezing the left one again as Sam folds a little more into him, forehead basically resting on his, “you wanna help me with that, doll?”
“Doll?” Sam asks, sounding like he tried for teasing but ended up with teasing’s needy, pliant cousin, “is that what I am to you, Buck?”
“If you want,” he says, tilting his head a little and mouthing along the line of Sam’s jaw. He nips the skin there, soft and only with a hint of teeth, but it’s enough to send a shiver so strong down Sam’s spine that Bucky feels it against him. “Whatever you wanna be, sweetheart, so long as you let me have you,” and it’s such a corny line straight out of a period romance, but Sam sighs very softly when he says it and grinds a little on his thigh, already a little weak for it, and god if Bucky ain’t so fucking blessed.
“Bucky,” Sam says, and Bucky hums, kissing down his neck now, saying nothing yet saying everything as his right hand rubs a handful of Sam’s ass through his shorts, and it’s infinitely better than any compliment he could ever pay Sam. “I—please,” he says, wrecked.
“Please what, doll?” Bucky asks, lips ghosting over the skin of Sam’s neck. He presses a kiss there so gently that it’s nothing more than a tease of contact. “I won’t do anything you don’t wanna.”
“I know,” Sam says warmly, and that gets to Bucky a little, a lot, how much Sam trusts him. How much Sam gives back in the way Bucky needs, too. “I know you’ll take care of me, but, right now, can you just kiss me, Buck?”
Sam asks so sweetly that Bucky considers holding off a little just to get him that sweet again, but he knows they’ve got time to explore that later—god, what a thought. Bucky takes one hand off of Sam’s ass and cups his jaw, angles them just right, and kisses him as much as he’s wanted to for what feels like forever. Sam sighs into the kiss, opening up beautifully and letting Bucky in, kissing like they’ve got nowhere to be and that time ain’t a reality to them.
Kissing Sam feels just right, like this is what he’s meant to be doing for the rest of his life, and god, what a way to live. He finally gets to put a name on whatever he’s been feeling in the last few weeks, months, years with Sam, that tight clamping feeling on his chest that steals his breath away and has him thinking only about Sam, Sam, Sam. He’s in love, Christ, and it’s a wonderful thing.
“I got a bed,” Bucky murmurs in between kisses, “got some real soft sheets too, like silk but it ain’t.”
“We have the same sheets, asshole,” Sam says, diving back in for another kiss like he can’t go without another one, and oh, the things it does to Bucky’s shrivelled up heart.
“I know, but mine’s got me in it,” Bucky says, grinning, “and soon, hopefully, it’s got you too. Wanna make it happen?”
Sam huffs a laugh, feigned indignance betrayed by the way he absolutely grinds on Bucky’s thigh, biting his lip a little as he smiles. “You think you’re so smooth, that I’m so easy that you could just pick me up with a corny ass line like that.”
“Nah, not with a line,” Bucky says, “just like this,” and he puts both of his hands under Sam’s thighs and hauls him up easily, chuckling when Sam yelps a sound that fits Bucky’s idea of someone not used to getting picked up being picked up, before taking him back to his room down the hall and not bothering to shut the door behind him, dropping Sam on his bed with him on top.
“Jesus, I forgot you could just do that,” Sam says breathlessly, arms still wrapped around his neck. He’s got that wild-eyed look on his face that makes Bucky think of Sam when he does a particularly risky dive, adrenaline rushing through his veins and blood pumping like a piston. Breathing hard for it, too.
“Could do a lotta things,” Bucky tells him, kissing his throat again, his newest favourite spot. “Could fuck you nice and simple, just like this,” he says, punctuating it with pressing his clothed dick against Sam’s own, wrenching a soft moan from him, “or I could eat you out first, get you loose and ready for me,” this he punctuates with a lick to Sam’s collarbone, rewarded with another moan, “or you could ride me, set your own pace. Whatever you want, doll.”
“Warn a guy before you start talking like that, god, Bucky,” Sam says, winded as his hand finds its way into Bucky’s hair. It’s a good feeling that has him sighing, enjoying the feel of Sam’s nails scratching his scalp. “Can you—god, I don’t know, um—all? All of-of the above?”
God, Sam drives him crazy. Can he, like it’s some weariness on his soul to give Sam everything he wants. “Whatever you want,” he says again, before leaning back out to peel his shirt off. Sam matches him with shaky hands, shirt thrown aside as Bucky unbuttons his jeans and shoves them out of the way, cock hard enough in his briefs that he has to breathe deep and think about other things to stave off coming the moment he gets his dick in Sam.
Sam’s shorts go along with his underwear, cunt shiny and wet, the dark thatch of his curls only barely hiding his cock. Bucky wastes no goddamn time, settling onto his knees and arms and taking Sam’s thighs into hand to place them on his shoulders, lying on his belly so he’s on eye-level with Sam’s little cock. “Here’s how it’s gonna be,” he says, kissing the inside of Sam’s thigh just to hear his breath hitch, “I’m gonna eat you out, make you come just like that, then you’re gonna ride me. That sound good to you?”
He says it casually like he isn’t hard enough to beat nails, the head of his cock catching on the sheets a little when it twitches with interest. Sam moans, biting his lip hard and nodding like he can’t come up with words, looking at Bucky like he might die if he doesn’t get on with it, and it’s a good enough incentive to just go for it.
“Oh, fuck,” Sam groans, thighs immediately going tense in an effort to not crush Bucky’s head as he eats Sam out like his life depends on it. He pulls out all the stocks; lips sucking on Sam’s cock, tongue sliding from nub to hole to circling the folds then back again, cheeks hollowing when he sucks and left thumb holding some of the curls away. Bucky gives head like there’s nothing else in the world that could possibly matter more, his mouth and tongue and jaw working overtime on Sam’s dripping cunt.
It’s filthy, the sounds that are filling the room. Sam moaning and whining alongside the wet sounds of someone eating very fucking well, hands buried in Bucky’s hair and thighs shaking and shivering, back arching off of the bed as Bucky fucks him with his tongue. It’s over almost too soon, Sam close to incoherent as Bucky simply takes the load of wetness that soaks his face when Sam comes, lost in the taste and feeling and experience of it all. He moans when he tastes more of Sam’s come, sliding his lips off of Sam’s fattened cock to look up at him through hooded eyes.
Sam is wrecked, panting and flushed dark and sweaty all over, eyebrows scrunched up and lip bitten swollen. He’s so beautiful like this, high off of his orgasm and still wanting more, eyes rolling back into his skull as Bucky gives him little kitten licks that amount to nothing and everything as Sam rides that post-orgasmic wave.
Bucky’s quiet during sex, more quiet than most of his partners, you gotta be if you’re looking for something in the Army, but even just looking at Sam has him moaning softly. He’s so fucking lucky to have this, and the thought sends another wave of pleasure through him as Sam pulls him up, taking his face in his hands and kissing the taste of himself off of Bucky’s lips.
It’s a good reminder that he’s hard, has been for what feels like the last hour, and when Sam bites on his lip he groans with need, the soft fabric of his briefs and the warmth of Sam’s leg providing enough incentive to start humping it like a goddamn dog, desperate and drawn out. Sam moans, before he’s pulling away from Bucky and saying, “I thought you were gonna make me ride you?”
“Mm, I said that, didn’t I,” Bucky grits out, sighing at the feeling of Sam’s leg on his cock. He kisses the corner of Sam’s mouth, before pulling away just enough to take his briefs off. Sam watches him with open interest, the same way Bucky’s been looking at him this whole time, hand dipping a little to play with his puckered nub, all soft moans and deep need.
He’s gorgeous just laid out like this for Bucky, and it hits him that this is another one of those things that nobody else but Bucky gets to see. Something deeply possessive in him hums in contentment at that.
Bucky tosses the offending fabric aside and practically rips his nightstand drawer open, plucking out one of the few rubbers just lying about in there. He sees Sam’s eyes widen when he catches sight of Bucky’s vibrator, hot pink and hardly even tucked away from sight, and Bucky just knows Sam’ll have questions later on. For now, though, he rips open the packet and slides the condom on, considering the little bottle of lube to make the slide a little easier on Sam until he tugs Bucky back, impatient as ever.
“It’ll be fine,” Sam assures him, as Bucky lets himself be manhandled until Sam’s hovering above him. He’s not gonna complain, not when he knows Sam would take it so well for him, so he lays back and holds his dick still as Sam braces himself on his thighs, lining himself up.
Bucky watches, entranced, as his cockhead breaches Sam, cunt swallowing him up inch by dragging inch, and it takes every fucking bone in his body not to come on the spot. Sam makes a noise that’s halfway to a whine as he sits himself down on Bucky, pelvis to pelvis as Sam’s warm taint sits snug on his balls. It’s euphoric, the feeling of Sam around his cock, clenching and unclenching as he gets used to the feeling of Bucky making a home in him, but it’s even better when Sam actually starts riding him.
He starts slow, and Bucky can do nothing but hold on for the ride and watch his dick appear and disappear into Sam’s hungry cunt. Sam punctuates every movement with a moan, hands clutching Bucky’s sides and nails digging crescents into his skin, an intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain. He builds a pace, rhythmic and purposeful as he uses Bucky’s dick to fuck himself, loud with every gut-punched sound that escapes him. It gives Bucky an idea.
“Christ, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough with the effort it takes to not come immediately, “god, look at you, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
Sam honest to god whimpers, biting his lip almost violently as his pace stutters a little and speeds up ever-so-slightly. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn sight, so fucking good for me, letting me do this,” Bucky continues, one tight string of tension as he meets Sam thrust for thrust, lifting his hips in time for Sam to come down on him. The combined efforts have them both moaning. “You drive me fucking crazy, doll, got me shaking like nobody’s ever made me before,” and Sam shivers at that like it gets to him, “yeah, I’m yours, baby, only yours, god, you’re so good to me—”
“Bucky, Bucky, Buck—” Sam sobs, and Bucky holds his thighs up enough that he could start fucking into Sam, who moans and whines so prettily about it that his orgasm starts to creep up on him. It’s only a few thrusts more before Sam is crying out and coming on Bucky’s cock, dripping wet as Bucky drives home, coming so hard he sees stars behind his eyes.
“Oh, god, fuck,” Sam pants, twitching so hard it almost jolts Bucky right out of his cunt, but he slides out carefully enough, Sam slumping into his chest. He’s breathing so heavily it’s like he’d just come back from one of his sprints, and Christ, Bucky’s never gonna be able to think of anything else when he sees Sam like that again no matter the context, drenched in sweat and out of breath.
“Got that right,” Bucky says, trying to catch his own breath as he cradles the back of Sam’s neck, warm and damp with sweat. Sam kisses and licks his collarbone, slow and languid like he’s been waiting on this one. “You alright, sweetheart?”
“Mmh,” Sam hums, basically dead weight on Bucky’s chest. “I think you broke me. I’m gonna need crutches. Jesus Christ.”
“Now you know how I’ve been feeling the last few months,” Bucky tells him, hands petting the swell of Sam’s ass, “you know how hard it is to go on with my day while you’re walking around lookin’ so goddamn pretty? Shit, Sam.”
Sam flushes, something physical as he shivers a little. “Oh my god, shut up. Please.”
Bucky laughs, before gently tugging him up by the back of his neck. Sam looks at him with a raised brow for a moment before he’s leaning in, meeting Bucky halfway as they kiss slowly, savouring every moment.
“For the record,” Sam says after a while, his lips tickling Bucky’s with every whispered word, “I think you’re real pretty too, baby.”
Aw, Jesus, Bucky thinks, and he grins.