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Sam is pretty damn serious about his job.
He’s committed to rooting out all these corrupt motherfuckers one by one and so it’s not his fault that the world’s most powerful bad guys banded together to form an army with the sole purpose of eliminating him. And by ‘eliminate’, he means attempted murder in the dumbest and most destructive ways possible.
“Not even Rogers in his most insufferable era ever managed this, Sam!” A rocket nearly singes off the entire left side of Natasha’s hair. Sam can hardly blame her for the note of irritation in her voice and the glare she shoots up at the sky.
The latest of these attempts was them somehow scaling up the side of the Avengers Tower to break into Sam’s apartment, hoping to smother him in his sleep, apparently. Jokes on them. Sam hasn’t slept a minute longer than four hours since he retired from the Air Force.
Matters escalated to a full-blown shit show on his balcony pretty quickly. Thank God for nanotech suits or they’d all be sitting ducks. Sam only has his sweats on and he knows Nat had just come in from a night out in her littlest black dress. Despite what the public thinks, the city’s heroes don’t live and breathe in their suits, in fact, the tech is embedded in his dog tags.
“Looks like someone brought a rocket launcher to a pillow fight!” Torres says over the comms.
“Kid, now’s not the time for jokes. Shooter at six. You go low, I’ll go high,” Rhodey says and swoops down from the rooftop.
Just then, Sam catches a movement behind him. He takes flight and throws the shield through his bedroom window at some idiot trying to sneak up on him. Takes him down, retrieves the shield, and then throws it to the street below where another guy is aiming at Nat. She salutes him and throws it back and he spins it out yet again to stop another genius from escaping a few meters to the right.
By the seventh throw and catch in a row, he feels his shoulder tighten. Then his bicep burns, which is pretty normal for this amount of exertion, but this is an intense burn, a deep aching fire that quickly spreads to his pectoral. Bad news.
“Looks like we got ‘em all, Cap,” Torres says over the comms. “Thermal found this one in your closet, though.” Sam sees the kid hovering just above his floor’s balcony. He’s covered in sweat and soot and dangling a dude in civvies in the air by his belt.
“Hey, Cap,” Closet Dude says with a sheepish smile on his face and a little wave.
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Great. Another Cap stan. We sure don't have enough of those around.”
Sam makes a face. “Jesus. Are you even with these guys, man?”
“Nah, just wanted to say hi,” he grins creepily at Sam. “Door was open.”
“Jesus,” Sam says again. “Alright let’s wrap this up.”
They let the clean-up crew do their thing and meet Natasha on the ground floor.
“Shawarmas?” Torres says, letting his suit dissolve back into his bracelet.
“Shawarmas.” They all mumble in agreement and do the same. Their suits retract and they’re in their civvies quicker than a heartbeat. Sam will probably never get used to the way something so tangible can vanish just like that and if he’s honest, he still prefers the old-school hardware. Something about wearing the heavy Kevlar and metal just felt right. But the nanotech is efficient, he can’t argue with that.
The owner has their order ready by the time they waddle tiredly into the diner—a tray of assorted shawarmas and drinks. They’ve done this dance a few times now. It’s become a little tradition. Sam digs in and ignores the stares from the other patrons. He knows they look ridiculous—Sam in his sweats and a vest, Nat in a minidress, Torres wearing his Thor t-shirt and boxers, and Rhodey in very sensible pinstripe pajamas. Sam never said nanotech doesn’t have its downsides.
At this point, he’s too hungry and tired and sore to care that the papz are probably outside taking photos of earth’s mightiest heroes in their undies with cheeks full of shawarma and thinking of another cute-sharp headline for People magazine to publish.
He picks up a second shawarma and digs in, but the motion causes an abrupt pull in his right biceps. He switches hands, hoping no one noticed the flinch—he’d hate to be laid up on sick leave right now—but nothing slips by Nat.
“I know a guy for that,” she says, crunching into her wrap, sauce dribbling down her chin.
Sam rubs along his upper arm and pushes into the ball of his shoulder. It’s knotted up good. “Girl, you know a guy for everything. What’s this one do?”
She winks at him, pours more chili sauce over her food, and takes another bite. “Excellent massage therapist. Actually, he just started at Stark Body down in the lobby.”
Rhodey groans. “God, couldn’t Tony think of a better name?”
“I mean it tracks,” Torres says and he ain’t wrong. Tony might be retired, but the man still finds ways of making his presence known. “Making sure we don’t forget who’s building we live in.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, you don’t see Steve opening any gyms called Virgin Active.”
Rhodey laughs so hard he chokes. Nat snorts, pats Rhodey on the back a few times, then gives Sam’s arm a light smack. “I’m serious. Go see him. Ask for James.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says and Nat nods, taking another bite while rubbing his sore shoulder. It’ll probably be all he thinks about; his muscles are throbbing.
He’s correct. His arm is too tight to move and he thinks his right tit has pulled into a permanent upward spasm.
It’s damn near intolerable, kept him up all night, so that morning instead of joining their training session, he heads downstairs to Stark Body.
The air is cool and clean when he enters the parlor. Smells like jasmine and sweet fruit. It looks like a little jungle. There are plants all over, tranquil music plays from somewhere between all the flowers, and a friendly young girl is sitting at the glass reception counter.
“Cap! Hey!” she says when she sees him. Her eyes sparkle. Sam won’t lie and say he doesn’t like the attention that comes with this mantle. “We’ve been wondering when we’d finally have the pleasure.”
Another girl comes walking out of the back room, stops and stares at him with wide eyes, then turns around and goes right back inside. “Holy Jesus, Captain America’s out there!” she says to someone else back there. “No shit?” that person says, peeks out, screeches, and ducks away again. “No shit! Hey, Bucky! Cap’s out front!”
The receptionist looks mortified. “My apologies. They’re just huge fans.”
Sam bites back a smile. “That’s alright.” See, this is cute. This is normal behavior. Breaking into his apartment and hiding in his closet is not. He makes a mental note to find out what the hell they did with Closet Dude.
“What can we do for you today?” She’s been looking him in the eye, but her gaze slips downward. “Your shoulder looks kind of tight.”
Sam rolls his shoulder backward and winces. “Yeah, got messed up in yesterday’s fight. My colleague Natasha referred me to, uh, James, I think? Is he available?”
There’s a sudden commotion in the back. “Oh, god. Oh, my god, Bucky. Shhh. Wait. Oh, my God, oh my God.” Then giggling and a crash ensues, after which it goes quiet.
The receptionist makes an apologetic face at Sam and shakes her head. “Like I said, big fans. We do actually have James available right now. Shall I book him?”
“He as good as the Black Widow says he is?” Not that it matters, Sam would take a massage from the Hulk’s clumsy tree trunk fingers right now if it meant this stiffness would subside.
“Oh, he’s one of the best. Trained in Russia.”
“Oh, wow hey now,” Sam laughs. “That’s serious.”
She smiles. “You’re in excellent hands, Cap, I assure you. Take a seat. We’ll be with you shortly.” She disappears into the back and there is another brief commotion, but nothing Sam can make out this time.
He takes a seat next to a big leafy plant, rests his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes. For a few minutes, he just focuses on the tight pull throughout his right side, the dull throb of his muscles. The discomfort is enough to have him fantasizing about relief once he gets some treatment and he’s tired enough from listless sleep that he almost dozes off while he waits.
“Mr. Wilson?” A smooth, velvety voice says and Sam’s eyes shoot open.
For just a second he’s dazed and panicked. Maybe he dozed off a little more than he thought. But then he lays eyes on the man who spoke and he’s dazed and panicked for a whole other reason.
The man, presumably James, is handsome. He’s tall, he’s got long hair tied up in a short ponytail, blue eyes, a gorgeous goddamn mouth, and his black scrubs are about two sizes too small, muscles bulging out from all angles. It’s fantastic.
“Uh, hey, yeah. Just Sam is fine.” Sam says. Has to force himself not to stare.
James smirks at him, lazy and slow, then cocks his head sideways. “This way.”
“You’re James?” Sam says, following him down a crisp white hallway lined with pictures of pebbles and waterfalls and moss.
He turns slightly to look at Sam over his shoulder. “Bucky. James is so formal.”
“Bucky. Cool.” Sam feels hot.
Bucky steps into a room at the end of the hallway and lets Sam in. This room is darker and almost cozy compared to the sterile whiteness of the reception area. A few candles are burning on a shelf, he's got some oils lined up on a glass tray. A humidifier, a small radio playing quiet wooden wind chime sounds, and a partition with a robe on a hook beside it.
“You can change in there,” Bucky says, pointing to that area. “I need it all off except the underwear. Use the robe if you want to cover up a little before you lie down over here.” He motions to the massage table and smiles.
And Jesus. Listen. He’s hot. Natasha didn’t mention any of this. The ponytail, the arms—one of which seems like a state-of-the-art prosthesis—Sam's heard horror stories of guys getting boners during massages and he guesses now he’ll be part of that statistic too because he hasn’t had any action in a damn long time.
Sam gets behind the partition and starts stripping while Bucky explains the process. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bend his arm enough to get the damn robe on anyway, so he steps out in his boxers, which is new and stylish, thank God. Not that the hot massage therapist cares at all because they’re not about to fuck or anything, but still.
“Hop on,” Bucky says, patting the table, and Sam’s mind plummets into the gutter again. Because damn, imagine hopping on that. God, he has got to get his head straight or this’ll get real embarrassing real quick.
And after this, he needs to get laid.
He means to be polite, but his brain goes with thanks and his dick says great and what comes out is: “Uh, granks.” He shuts his eyes and gets on the damn table before something even worse comes out of his mouth.
If Bucky heard it, he’s graceful enough to act like he didn’t. Extremely professional, because if Torres or Nat or Rhodes said granks, Sam’d be on the floor. Instead, Bucky just slides a heated towel over Sam’s groin area and tucks it into his waistband, pretending that he didn’t just hear Captain America say granks.
“So Perry said it’s your right shoulder?” Bucky says.
Sam opens his eyes and sees Bucky oiling up his hands with liquid from one of the little bottles in the glass tray. The spicy scent immediately floods the room. “Yeah. Tight from the shoulder down. Biceps, pec, forearm.”
“That shield will do it. Probably weighs a ton.”
And like Sam means to answer intelligently, he really does, but Bucky lays his warm oily hands on Sam’s shoulder, pressing down, rubbing, kneading, and all coherent thoughts leave Sam’s brain. He could have said, “Nah, vibranium’s actually pretty light.” or even “Only if you don’t have the muscle to wield it.” Any of those would have been perfectly confident, even flirty, replies.
Instead, Sam says, “Hnng.” Because Bucky’s soft warm touch is therapeutic and this dude’s leaning over him, smelling like earthy cologne on clean skin and spicy massage oil.
Bucky lets out a low laugh. “Alright, Cap. Let’s get you fixed up. Seems like the deltoid. Happens sometimes with strenuous exercise. One wrong move and pop!” He opens his palm and rubs nice big circles around the ball of Sam’s shoulder. “Gonna warm it up and work these knots out. Might be a little uncomfortable. Stop me if it gets unbearable.”
“Got it,” Sam says, shifting the way Bucky’s prodding him, loosening his muscles so Bucky’s got full control of his arm.
And then Bucky goes to work. He rubs and pulls and kneads and does little poking maneuvers with his fingers that make Sam want to laugh, but he somehow doesn’t. Sam keeps his eyes shut. It’d be weird to stare up at Bucky while he works. Besides, he’s doing great in the no-boner department, and looking at Bucky, letting his mind wander, might jeopardize that. He is intent on walking out of here with his dignity intact.
But when Bucky finally hits Sam’s spasming pec, Sam lets out an ungodly moan.
“You good?” Bucky asks while Sam dies of embarrassment. Sam can hear the smile in his voice and he continues rubbing because clearly that wasn’t a goddamn moan of distress and they both know it.
“Yeah. Yeah, just really tight over there, you know. Feels nice.” God, did that sound sexual? Feels nice. Feels good? No, that’s worse. That’s getting railed talk.
“Good. Just relax for me.” Bucky digs his fingers in below Sam’s pec. He massages slow, careful circles around the muscle, inward toward Sam’s nipple and Sam thinks, dear Jesus don’t , because he for sure won’t survive a nipple brush.
But Bucky doesn’t come close. He’s obviously a pro. He simply massages around it, digs his fingers in, and does some twisty movements until Sam can actually feel the tension subside with what feels like a wave breaking inside him.
“Shit,” he laughs, a rush of goosebumps coming over him.
“You feel that?” Bucky says, rubbing softly around the underside of Sam’s pec now.
He finally opens his eyes and looks right into Bucky’s. God, they’re blue. “Hell yeah. Much better.”
Bucky smiles. “Good.”
He continues his work on Sam’s biceps, and the same sweet release follows. He then, as a goddam bonus or something, gives Sam’s entire torso the same treatment. And hey, Sam never knew his sides and hips held any tension, but apparently they do and it feels so good Sam forgets about everything else.
He just lies there taking in the skilled movement of Bucky’s hands, feeling his body relax, smelling Bucky’s cologne whenever he leans over Sam’s face to drag those big, warm palms down Sam’s arms and then back up. Fingers tracing his neck, pressure around his pecs, hard and steady strokes down his sides.
“All done,” Bucky says softly, way too soon.
Sam’s eyes are slow to open, bleary. He’s floating somewhere in another candlelit realm that smells like vanilla and shea butter and figs.
“Already?” he says and slowly gets up and off the table and places the towel down. And yeah, the tension is gone, but he quickly realizes he’s tight somewhere else. “Fuck!” he grabs the towel again and drapes it over the massive boner he sprouted in his stupid euphoria. “I’m so sorry.”
Bucky shakes his head, gives Sam an airy wave. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. Relaxation promotes increased blood flow, sometimes that triggers a response in other organs.”
Sam thinks, man, this has nothing to do with blood flow and everything to do with me thinking about banging you into the drywall, but anyway.
“For real?” Sam says, for lack of anything else to say. He still clutches that towel tightly, though.
Bucky folds his arms and leans back against the counter. “Yeah, pal. Happens to most male clients. You know Thor?”
At that, Sam relaxes a little. He laughs. “Thor popped a boner on your table?”
“Nah, I’m just messing with you, but I bet you feel better.”
That’s got Sam cackling. He tosses the towel at Bucky, then steps behind the partition to get dressed.
“Alright you got me,” Sam says, pulling up his pants and tucking his deflating hard-on inside. “Hey thanks, man. This was—that really helped. Feels better already.”
“No problem, Cap. Hope I’ll see you again. Good idea in your line of work to keep those muscles well-oiled, you know.”
Sam’s neck and cheeks flush hot. He knows Bucky means nothing by it, but the thought of this dude maybe checking him out makes him a little stupid. He steps out from behind the partition, dressed. “You know what? I think I’ll take you up on that. Gone to bed with a stiff neck way too often.”
Bucky wiggles his fingers. “I’ll be waiting.”
Sam chuckles. No, okay, he giggles. He does. What about it?
“Cool. See you soon then, Bucky.”
Bucky salutes him. “See you, Cap.”
The next morning Sam brisk-walks down the Tower hallways. He hasn’t slept that well in a hell of a long time. His muscles are loose, his head’s clear, he’s got heaps of energy. It’s going to be a good day.
While heading down for breakfast, he looks up Stark Body’s number and calls. Winks at a cute guy passing him just because he can. Cute Guy, who is clearly straight, looks at Sam like maybe he’s on something.
“Stark Body, good morning,” says Perry, the receptionist girl from yesterday.
“Hey, it’s Sam, wanted to book another session with James. Maybe tomorrow at four?”
“Captain Wilson!” she says. “Of course. Let me schedule you right in. Any particular treatment?”
Sam enters the restaurant and sits down next to Nat at their usual table. She pours him orange juice and dishes him some fruit from the big bowl in the middle. Nat mouths, ‘who is it?’
“Uhm. Particular treatment?” He shows her the screen displaying Stark Body’s name, and she nods then mouths ‘upper body hot stone’
“We treated your shoulder yesterday, correct? Is that all sorted now?” Perry says. “Anything else hurting?”
“Oh. Yeah, no. Just maintenance. Let’s do upper body hot stones.” Sam looks at Nat questioningly. She makes a pleased face and a thumbs up.
“Hundred percent, Cap. See you tomorrow at four.”
“Thanks, Perry.”
“Ooh. Going back already,” Nat chimes with a playful lilt, nudging Sam with her shoulder.
“That was a damn good massage. I won’t lie. Got me hooked now.”
“Told you.”
“Told him what?” Torres joins them, pours himself some coffee, and butters a slice of toast. “Hey, Cap. Natty.”
“Hey, kid.” Sam takes a sip of juice.
“Sam went to Stark Body yesterday. Got that shoulder rubbed out.”
“Oh, sweet. Gotta book me some time.” It’s absolutely ridiculous that Sam feels a pang of jealousy in his gut at the thought of Bucky’s hands all over Torres. Actually, the more he thinks about it—Jesus, no! He’s got to get laid stat. His gutter mind is getting out of hand.
Just then an agent walks past their table—tall and handsome, looking real good in black tact gear—tips his cap at Sam and smiles. Which doesn’t make matters any easier. At least now he’s not thinking about Torres and Bucky anymore, but about a random dude dicking him down while bent over a breakfast table. Great. Christ.
“I gotta get laid,” he says out loud before he realizes, at the same time that Torres says, “Damn, we gotta get you some of that.”
They look at each other and laugh. “Alright, well, good to know we agree.”
“You could just add it to your massage next time, you know,” Natasha says, sprinkling cinnamon on her muffin like she didn’t just drop that bomb at the breakfast table.
“Um,” Torres says, intrigued, staring at Nat.
Sam blinks at her, has so many images and scenarios reeling through his brain right now. “Come again?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. A happy ending, a sensual massage, a good old rub ’n tug—”
“Alright! We get it, we get it.” Sam’s wheels are still spinning because surely this can’t be real. Surely there is no way Tony would—oh. Oh okay, yeah, it makes sense now. Tony absolutely would. “Explain, though.”
“Look, it’s not everyone who gets it. They simply deny it exists if the wrong person asks. You, my friend, are definitely not the wrong person.”
“So he just rocks up at reception and asks for it? Just like that?” Torres says.
“Don’t be silly. You ask the therapist to add a rose bath to the treatment.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me?” Sam says.
“No way,” Torres says. “A rose bath?”
“Yes way. They’re all on board with it too, so no one’s taken advantage of. They choose if and when they want to, and they get a fat cheque from Stark Enterprises in the mail every week. Win-win.”
“Jesus,” Sam says, stunned. He’s also low-key thinking of the possibility of having Bucky’s hands on him like that.
Turns out that’s all he thinks about for the rest of the day. About massages that end with a hand around his dick and handsome dudes with long hair and beefy arms. He’s useless at training, distracted at lunch, and hot and bothered by the time he’s finally home in his apartment.
He showers, jerks off, finds Bucky on Instagram, jerks off again, and finally passes out.
It’s all very elegant, really.
“What are we even calling these guys, Cap?” Torres says, busy wrestling a flamethrower from one of those anti-Cap idiots.
They’ve gone and set fire to the shawarma place, hoping to lure Sam out. Which it did. But Sam’s not really sure what they thought would happen aside from them getting their asses whooped; that was Sam’s favorite goddamn diner. Probably banked on him breaking down and they’d swoop in during his weakest moment. He’s said it before these dudes are not smart.
“I’ve got a few colorful ideas,” Sam grunts. He slams a goon into the ground just as the fire department arrives. “Mostly ‘Dumb Motherfuckers’ come to mind.”
“We should ask Tony for some name ideas. He seems to have it down,” says Rhodey, flying overhead and swooping up an escapee.
“One day,” declares the last goon standing, “we shall—” Sam flings the shield at him before he finishes whatever nonsense he was about to spew. He goes down with a loud clunk.
At three-thirty, the fire’s put out—only half the diner took damage—SHIELD’s busy hauling these bozos off, and Sam has just enough time to scrub himself clean and get to his appointment at four.
He ignores the way Natasha smirks at him with that knowing arch of her eyebrow as he jogs off.
Up in his shower, he has a little freakout. Does he ask for the rose bath? Does he not ask for the rose bath? What if he asks and Bucky says no? Sam will never live down the mortification. What if he asks, and it’s the world’s worst hand job? What if Sam’s so nervous he doesn’t finish and Bucky’s gotta stop on account of wrist pain?
Jesus. This is a train wreck. Sam really wants his junk jerked by that hot guy, but this whole scenario is giving him heart palpitations. There’s no way he can bring himself to do this. Give me a rose bath, please? Ain’t no fucking way. Ain't no way.
His dick’s hard just thinking about it. Now, he’ll have to jerk off before he goes to see Bucky, which means he’s got exactly ten minutes to rub it out.
He wraps his hand around himself and starts tugging, quick and dirty, under the running water. He imagines Bucky taking those scrubs off and getting on top of him, oiling up his tits with those big, smooth hands, giving his nipples some attention this time. He imagines Bucky’s fingers wrapping around him and getting him off on the massage table, and that’s about enough to push him over the edge.
Sam comes with a knee-weakening shudder. It rushes through him like a ripple wave.
“Fuck me,” he whispers to himself. “Fuck. It couldn’t have been an ugly dude, huh?” He straightens himself out, slips on his nicest t-shirt, sweats, and sneakers, and dashes downstairs.
His body’s loose now. No need for a massage, but he’ll be damned if he passes up an opportunity to see Bucky again. At least his boner will stay at bay for a little while, long enough to enjoy the massage. Probably.
Perry smiles when he walks in, giving him her chirpy “Hi, Cap!” and off to the side, Bucky’s leaning up against the wall already waiting for Sam with that ridiculous curving grin.
His hair’s loose today, looks like it’s freshly shampooed too. Bouncy and shiny. Fuck sake.
“Hey, Sam,” he says, flipping his hair back like he’s in a Pantene advert. What the fuck. “This way.”
“Thanks.” At least it’s not granks this time. Perry’s got a weird look on her face though, as if she knows exactly what’s on his mind. Namely rose baths. Fuckin’ rose baths. Jesus. He can’t. He won’t do it.
“How’ve you been?” Bucky asks, laying towels out on the bed then lighting a candle. Sam heads behind the partition to get undressed. “Shoulder doing alright? Nat said there was another attack this morning.”
Natasha’s got a lot of things to say, doesn’t she? Christ, are they friends? What if she told him that Sam’s thinking about rose baths? He steps out from behind the partition in his boxers and shuts that thought down before he freaks out and runs off, never to be seen again.
“Shoulder’s good. Did alright with the shield too.” He smiles at Bucky because, well, the dude’s gorgeous. He can’t help himself. “There’s always some fight somewhere.”
Bucky pats the table. Sam gets on, face down. Bucky covers his ass with the towel and tucks it into his waistband with those long, strong fingers. Sam shivers. “Get hurt? Any areas you want to focus on today?”
“Nah, just something relaxing,” he says. Because he’s not getting hard today. He’s here to enjoy a massage and relax. That’s all. And be in Bucky’s company. But that ain’t nobody’s business but his own.
Bucky starts with his neck. Works the tips of his fingers into the delicate tendons, rubs it all the way out to his shoulders. Flattens his hand and circles Sam’s shoulder blades. Runs his fist down Sam’s left flank, then the other, works the knots out in his lower back, then drags his hands back up. He places four hot stones along Sam’s spine, then moves on to his left biceps. Kneading out the tension from his shoulder down to his wrist, slowly and attentively, places a smooth, warm pebble in his palm, then does the same routine with his other arm.
It feels so damn good, it’s so calming, that Sam doesn’t even think about his dick. He’s at half-chub, sure, but it stays that way. Blame it on increased blood flow and all that jazz.
And then Bucky tells him to turn around.
Which is still fine. It’s good. Until he works his way down from Sam’s clavicle to his pecs.
He opens his hands and massages slow, hard circles around each pec, squeezing a little around the underside before completing another circle, then another.
Sam’s mind’s in a daze. He wants to tell Bucky to stop before his dick gets fully hard but it’s too late, it’s too good, he’s too good. Sam’s stiff as a board in no time and he’s not sure the towel’s going to hide it. Still, he can’t move, doesn’t want to move. The deep, hard pressure has him transfixed, useless to do anything but gasp.
“Good?” Bucky asks then, voice low and rumbling, sounding almost as breathless as Sam feels, which has to be a figment of Sam’s imagination. He opens his eyes to be sure.
Bucky’s hovering over him, hands on him, that pretty mouth parted. And when Sam looks him in the eyes, they’re on fire, pupils swallowing up all the blue there.
Sam throbs.
He sucks in a quick breath, shuts his eyes again. “Good,” he says, exhales with a shudder. “So good, Buck.”
And he swears he hears a hoarse, whispered, “Fuck.” in response. But he couldn't trust himself to tell black from white right now.
Bucky’s hands are gone from his skin way too soon.
Sam’s body is heavy and hazy when he lifts himself off the table. His head’s rushing, his heart’s pounding, his dick is achingly hard.
Bucky’s standing there, wiping oil off his hands, watching Sam with an intensity that makes Sam think if he dropped this towel hiding his hard-on right now and launched himself at Bucky, they’d end up bare-backing on the floor.
And maybe Sam is feeling extra brave after that rub down, maybe he’s high on whatever just happened between them—because something goddamn happened—but he places the towel down, anyway.
And for just a split second, so swift it’s barely noticeable, Bucky swallows, and his eyes drop to Sam’s tented boxers before his professional demeanor takes over and he busies himself with the candles and oils on the shelf.
Sam steps behind the partition to get dressed. He gives his dick a tight squeeze before he slips his sweats on. Hides the bulge with the hem of his t-shirt.
“Wow. That was—”
Bucky turns around when Sam comes out. Gives him a brilliant grin. “Good enough to earn me another visit?”
“Damn straight,” Sam says. Already fantasizing about the next time. “Think you got yourself a regular here.”
“Looking forward to it,” Bucky says, again with that lazy, sexy, smoldering air about him. He lets his gaze fall slowly down Sam's body then up again. Sam’s gotta get out of here.
His mission alert goes off just then, cutting through the tension with loud alarm-like pings. “Christ. They can’t get enough of me,” Sam jokes, silencing the alert. He’s about to leave anyway, but he gives Bucky an apologetic smile. Feels like he should stay.
Bucky shrugs. “I don’t blame them.”
Sam’s neck goes hot. He lets out a soft laugh and looks down. “Uh, see you soon, Bucky.”
“You bet, Cap.”
A few days later, at four in the goddamn morning, shit goes down again.
“Sam? Come in?” Nat sounds a little terrified. Pissed is probably more like it. It’s not even dawn, after all. “You got five seconds to answer me or I’m sending a jet out.”
Part of the Avenger’s initiatives this year had been cutting down on their carbon footprint, so when they received a tip-off about suspicious activity in Central Park, Sam strapped on the wings and flew over to check it out instead of firing up a jet for such a short trip. Besides, it was early. His team needed rest, and he was positive he could handle it without backup. And he’d been mostly right.
Was just a bunch of idiots looking for a fight. He was handling it, hardly even needing the shield. And then someone pulled out a taser. Now thank God the suit absorbs most forms of impact, but it still stung a little. More than that, it just pissed him off, and he’s not so nice when he’s pissed.
“I’m fine!” he says, takes a kick to the gut and someone gets hold of the shield and tosses it in the water. “Come on, man! Oof—”
“Sounds like you’re doing great. I’ll send Torres.” Sam can just imagine Nat lazing back in a rolling chair, eating chips for breakfast, whistling her I-told-you-so song. Because she did. She said, “I highly advise against going alone, Wilson. People are literally hunting you right now.”
“No! I got it!” He spreads his wings and shoots up then back down quickly, swooping two off their feet and dropping them in the water to hang out with his shield. Serves them right.
The two left standing, go for his wings. They hook some kind of electric rod wire into it and start pulling from opposite ends. He’s suspended in the air, feeling the electricity coursing through the metal, trying to shoot shock beams down at them. The wings give a garbled metallic groan and sparks fly, and an ungodly smell fills the air that can only be burning wires. Sam finally gets hold of the two rods and pulls as hard as he can, smacking the two goons into each other with a brutal crash.
The SHIELD vans arrive minutes later to collect the bad guys scattered all over the place, just as the sun rises in the distance.
Sam fishes his shield out of the muddy water, trudging up the riverbank in his sopping wet suit. The wings are down, definitely won’t make the trip home, and he’s not about to catch a lift with a bunch of assholes, so he starts walking.
He’s not too far from the station, thinks he’ll catch a train back to the Tower, and maybe when he gets home, he’ll call Stark Body and book an appointment. His body’s feeling a little stiff after all of that. Then again, at this point, he’ll find any old excuse to see that guy and he knows it.
The walk feels forever. Blocks and blocks and maybe he’s further from the station than he thought.
“Just say the word, Cap. I’ll be right there,” Torres says in Sam’s comms.
“I’m fine, relax. A little walking never killed anybody.” Sam grumbles, sounding a little too much like Steve for his liking, and hears the team laughing in the back.
“Alright well, we got eyes on you through street cams. We'll be there if anything goes south,” Nat says.
“While you enjoy your morning stroll, we got some info on the Central Park vigilantes,” Rhodey says as Sam finally enters the station. “It’s an amateur leg of the army that’s been targeting you. Seems like their MO was attempting to disable your tech. Probably gathering intel on it.”
“Well. They have some potent shit in their hands then because these puppies are disabled alright.” Sam slaps the limp-hanging wing near his shoulder. “Won’t even retract into the pack, it’s just dragging behind me. People are staring.”
He’s not kidding. “Oh damn, it’s Cap,” says a kid in a group walking past, then takes a photo of Sam on his phone. Great. Sam smiles politely. Just about everyone who walks by has something to say, and like, he gets it, he looks a mess—sopping wet and dirty from park water, bleeding a little from his nose and eyebrow. He just wants to get home and shower.
The train arrives after what feels like a century of stares and whispers. Sam shuffles his exhausted ass and droopy wings onto the cart and lucky him, it’s packed full of people on their way to work, because of course it is, and he has to stand.
He’s just thinking how this has got to be the worst possible day he’s had in a long goddamn time until he looks up right into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.
“Hey, Cap,” Bucky says, then bites his lip. Jesus. His hair is up today, got a little week-old stubble going on too, and he’s clutching a very large mocha-something in his hand.
Despite being ass-tired, Sam smiles. “What are the odds?” he says, heart beginning to stutter in its tracks.
Bucky laughs softly and ducks his head. “Of all the trains in all the world, huh?”
“Yeah, exactly,” Sam says, still smiling. He can’t stop. He just can’t.
Bucky licks his lips, takes a sip of his coffee, and peers down at Sam’s wrecked state. “Rough night?”
“Early morning,” Sam says, smelling the chocolaty cream on Bucky’s lips.
“Uh, Cap, who are you talking to?” Torres says in the comms just then. Sam forgot all about that. “And is that—no, it can’t be—is that flirting I hear?”
“Not now,” Sam says.
“What?” Bucky says.
“That was definitely flirting,” Natasha says. “Is that James ?!”
Sam closes his eyes. “Hold on,” he tells Bucky, turns around, and hisses into the comms, “Can y’all give me two seconds!?”
“Don’t you dare turn these comms o—”
Sam tugs out his earpiece, turns back to Bucky. “Sorry. The team’s, you know—” he motions around in the air and Bucky laughs. “Well. Natasha.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar. Hey, you want some? Looks like you could use it.” He holds his cup out to Sam. “Promise I ain’t sick or anything.”
Buddy, Sam thinks, if you know how many times we’ve swapped spit in my dreams… Yeah, that’s the least of Sam’s worries. “Fuck yeah,” he says and takes the cup. It’s delicious; Sam considers not giving it back, and he thinks, judging by the way Bucky’s looking at him, he won’t mind.
Bucky’s gaze borders on a stare, eyes flicking all over Sam’s face, dropping to his lips when he speaks, he even bites his bottom lip just a little and if Sam didn’t know any better, he’d think this guy was totally into him. Sam needs to stop smiling the way he is. He probably looks like a fool. Bucky’s no better, to be honest. He’s been smiling since Sam got on this train.
The train stops shortly after that and they get off, walking side by side to the Tower.
After a while, Bucky says, “So who was it this time?” He peers back at Sam’s wings, dragging miserably behind him. “Aliens, androids, or wizards?”
Sam looks at him, surprised. No one ever believes him when he tells them about The Big Three. “Nah, just idiots.” He hands Bucky's coffee back.
“Aliens, Androids, and Assholes,” he says and Sam laughs. He takes the cup from Sam and their fingers brush. “Come see me today, huh?”
Hnng, Sam thinks.
“Yeah, I think I will. Real sore from all that commotion earlier.”
“I bet you are, sweetheart.”
Hnnng…
“Wilson!” comes Nat’s voice from the Tower’s entrance. “Comms!”
“Oh, I’m in trouble,” Sam says, inching closer to Bucky as if he’ll do much to ward off a Russian spy. Bucky laughs and hooks his arm over Sam’s. Sam’s brain buffers.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” She says when they approach. Then she says something in speedy and angry Russian to Bucky and he replies with equally fast but velvety smooth Russian, then gives her a bag of Turkish delight from his coat pocket and a kiss on the cheek.
She rolls her eyes and kisses Sam’s cheek too, unhooking Bucky’s arm from Sam’s and slipping hers over instead, then heads inside.
“See you later, Buck,” Sam says over his shoulder with probably the most ridiculous grin on his face.
“Later, Cap!”
“Oh,” Nat says, lips curling into a smirk, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s Buck now?”
Sam doesn’t even call ahead.
Somehow he just knows Bucky’s going to be leaning up against a wall, with that sexy eye smolder he does when Sam gets there. So that evening just after six, he heads to the ground floor, freshly showered and shaved, smelling like a thousand bucks.
“Hey, Cap! James is closing up after your session tonight,” Perry says when Sam arrives. She’s wearing that same knowing, mischievous expression Nat’s been wearing recently. “Enjoy!” she chirps, then locks them in.
Bucky’s just coming out of the back room, busy fixing up his hair. “Miss me?” he says, grinning, cocking his head to the back.
Sam follows behind and heads straight for the partition when they enter the room. “You know I did.”
“Thought you’d come by earlier.”
“Long day. Meetings, briefings, had to get my wings fixed.” Sam comes out stripped down to his boxers and gets on the table.
Bucky drapes the towel over him, smiles. “Hm. Any pain from this morning’s fight? You looked pretty roughed up.”
And the answer is no, but for some goddamn reason, Sam says, “Quads and hamstrings are killing me.” Which is a fat fucking lie. His quads and hamstrings are fine as a fiddle. He has great legs, strong legs, comes from a family of heavy-legged men. But what he doesn’t have is Bucky’s hands on his thighs.
“Alright. We’ll start there,” Bucky says. Sam hears the slick sound of oily hands rubbing together and then Bucky starts applying long, even strokes of pressure from the back of Sam’s knees to the curve below his ass. Up and down, up and down, with increasing pressure.
And Sam realizes what a terrible goddamn plan this was when his ass bounces with the motion of Bucky’s strokes. Because he’s imagining something else instead, some other type of movement making his ass bounce, and his dick pipes up in interest. In fact, his dick’s screaming rose bath, rose bath, rose bath, like a treacherous traitor.
But there’s no way Sam’s got the balls to say it. He’d rather come untouched just from this before he asks for a goddamn rose bath. It’s fine though, he can handle this—Bucky’s strong fingers digging into his muscles and driving a long solid line up to his ass, then smoothing it out softly like he’s kissing away the hurt—it’s fine.
“Alright, turn over for me, sweetheart,” Bucky says, a rough rumble in the quiet room.
And of course. Of course. There are two goddamn sides to Sam’s thighs, back and front, quads and hams, just like he said. And he should have known this was coming. Maybe his subconscious knew and was trying to kill him.
Bucky holds the towel up for him and says nothing when Sam turns over with yet another fat boner on his table. He just covers the bulge with the towel and oils his hands again.
He gets straight to work. Starts just above Sam’s knees with small steady circles. As the muscles get bigger, so do the circles. Sam’s stomach plummets the higher up he gets. His hands are big, covering large amounts of skin at a time, gripping Sam’s thighs so nice and tight it makes Sam’s dick twitch in his boxers. All he can do is hope Bucky doesn’t see it.
Bucky’s hands slide up dangerously high, skimming the hem of his boxers. Kneading and releasing, spreading slick oil all over, kneading down hard again, then releasing and smoothing it over softly.
Sam is on fucking fire. Wants Bucky’s hands on him. Around him. Wants him to rip off this little towel and take him. Wants to feel pressure and friction and taste him. Wants to come all over Bucky’s fingers and lick it—
“Hold on, fuck, hold on!” he yelps, and Bucky steps back.
“What’s up?” Bucky says quietly.
Sam covers his eyes with one hand and clamps down on his dick through the towel with the other. Breathing hard. Erratically. Willing himself with every ounce of control inside him not to move his hand and fucking come. Because he is this close.
“I just. Sorry. This is so—I’m so sorry—”
“Did, uh, did Nat tell you about the rose bath option?”
Sam’s brain makes a sound like tires screeching to an abrupt halt. His heart is beating in his fucking throat.
“Yeah,” he pants.
“So all you gotta do is say the word, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
“Fuck.” He gives himself two seconds to back out. “Fuck it. Yeah, fucking rose bath. Come on.”
He yanks the towel off, reaching for Bucky, but Bucky’s already on him, kissing him, nipping at his lower lip. And Sam’s sure rose bath doesn’t entail delicious, dirty kissing, but then Bucky’s sliding his hand into Sam’s boxers and wrapping around his achingly hard dick and nothing else matters.
Sam slumps back with a rough moan. The release is instant, feels like it rolls off him by the pound. Finally, he closes his eyes and forgets all about this tension that had built up between them. No more worries about rose baths, just a deliciously tight hand around his cock, working toward the simple goal of getting him off.
Bucky steadies himself on the bed with one arm, leaning over Sam to kiss him again. His lips are so soft, but his stubble’s prickly. It drives Sam a little wild. Sam slips a hand under his scrubs, runs it up his ribs, feels Bucky shudder against his mouth.
He lets out a soft gasp, still jerking Sam slow and steady. “Come on, honey,” he says, inches away from Sam’s lips. His eyes are blown wide, hungry. “Come for me.”
And that does it. Sam twitches and comes, digging his nails into Bucky’s ribs as it rips through him.
Sweet. Fucking. Release.
“Oh, shit,” Sam breathes, eyes falling shut, brain floating off to that realm that smells like shea butter and vanilla. “Fuck. Shit.”
Bucky rubs him out until he’s sensitive, then cleans up, wipes his skin down with a warm, wet towel. Helps him up and then pulls him close and kisses him again. Open-mouthed and downright filthy. Sam just melts into it. Doesn’t want to leave. He’d sleep on this massage table if he could.
“I’ll walk you out,” Bucky says, smiling down at Sam, basically holding him up because his knees have given in. “Take the robe to stay warm. Get some rest.”
Sam slips the robe on and shuffles out with Bucky. At the door Bucky kisses him one last time, so soft, so sweet, and then squeezes his ass to counter that sweetness.
“Customer service at its finest,” Sam jokes and kisses him back. “I’ll see you in the morning. Coffee’s on me.” Because he guesses this is way past massage therapist/client relations; that went out the window the moment he had Bucky’s tongue in his mouth.
“I’ll hold you to it, Cap,” Bucky says and winks, leaning against the door frame the way he does, watching Sam go like he’s the only man for miles.
Sam is on cloud nine.
Alright. Sam had some thoughts once that post-orgasm haze cleared up and one of those thoughts is that he left that poor man high and dry last night and he’s got some making-up to do.
He gets dressed, grabs a granola bar from a cart passing by in the hallway, and stops by the Tower cafe on the ground floor for the coffee he promised Bucky.
He won’t tell anyone, especially Nat, but he’s actually a little excited. His stomach feels fluttery, his step is extra springy this morning, and his body hasn’t felt this damn good in ages.
While waiting in line for their coffees, Sam notices a commotion outside. He leans back to peek out the door and sees Perry crying in front of the salon.
He heads over immediately to where Perry and the other girls are talking to a guy in a suit who Sam thinks is the building manager. He slides up to Perry. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Cap!” she sniffs, her nose red and eyes watery. “We think someone’s taken Bucky.”
Sam’s focus narrows to the tar beneath his feet. His thoughts rush through his brain like cars on a freeway. He saw Bucky last night. They eye-fucked each other until Sam entered the revolving doors, but Sam never saw him lock up or go inside. The salon’s door is wide open, bent off its hinges. Shit’s all over the floor inside, and the night guards are splayed out on the tiles. Tony’s going to need some new security around here, man.
“You call his phone?” Sam asks at which he realizes he never took Bucky’s number.
Perry lets out a sob. “It’s off. It’s never off. He loves his Insta.” She sobs again and blows her nose. “You are his most searched person on there!”
Now is not the time, but Sam’s heart skips several beats. “Alright, it’s okay.” Sam hugs her to his chest, pats her sweet little head. “We’re gonna find him. I promise.” He taps his comms. “Nat, we got a situation on Ground,” he says. “Gather the team in five. Usual spot.”
“Oh my god,” Perry cries, “that is so cool.”
“Alright listen. Find out as much as you can. You got my number. Send me the security footage from last night and the guard’s statements when they wake up.” He knows Nat already has all this info on hand, but Perry could use the distraction.
She gives a few quick nods, wiping her tear-stained cheeks. “You got it, Cap! Be careful!” she shouts as he rushes back upstairs.
“You know this is your besties’ doing, don’t you?” Natasha says when Sam skids into the boardroom where the team is huddled around a map of Manhattan, circles drawn around all the major exits. On one side of the room they’ve got security footage up on various holograms, on the other side there are IDs of suspects lined up.
“I had my suspicions.” Sam watches last night’s tape play on the screen closest to him. Just before eight, shortly after Sam leaves, a black van rushes up to the door. Four guys in black jump out and storm into the salon. The next screen shows an angled view of the salon door. He can’t see much until the door flies open and three people topple out, grappling.
He wants to puke; there’s no mistake that one of them is Bucky.
The four guys in black haul him off to the van, kicking and thrashing, and shove him inside before speeding off.
“So y’all are dating, huh?” says Rhodey.
Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Torres says. “Seems like the perfect strategy. Kidnapping Captain America’s boyfriend is a sure way to lure him out.”
Natasha nods. “No way Cap’s going to leave his guy—”
“Okay,” Sam says, hands up, rolling his eyes. “Everyone, chill. He’s not my guy . We just… uh, well. I mean—”
Natasha gasps in absolute fake shock, clutching her chest. “Cap!”
“Oh, my god, okay.” He taps his dog tags and activates his suit. Torres follows. “What’s the plan here?”
Nat shows him a red pulsing circle on the map. “We got a ping from the Catskills a few minutes ago. Encrypted message says to come alone.”
“They always think that’ll work, huh?” Sam says.
“Well, we know they’re after you.” Rhodey has suited up too. He pats Sam’s shoulder. “So the plan is to give them what they want.”
Sam pulls a face. “Yeah, I don’t like that.”
“We called in some backup,” Nat says, checking her tablet. “Spider kid, the green lawyer lady, dude with magic rings, girl from Jersey whose hands go big, and Clint's friend with the bow and arrow. Carol’s busy though.”
“Great.” They head to the boardroom balcony. Nat tucks up close to Sam, and he takes flight with her in his arms, Torres joining up behind them and Rhodey falling into formation too.
About twenty minutes away from the marked location, Sam lands and hands Nat over to Torres. He goes solo the rest of the way, dissolves the suit so he’s in civvies, and removes his earpiece to give the illusion that he came alone and unarmed. Yeah, this plan banks mostly on how dumb these guys are. He arrives at a clearing where the rocks look just a little too sculpted to be natural. In fact, there’s a pretty obvious door shape in the mountainside.
“Alright, motherfuckers, let’s tango,” he says, and as if on cue a bunch of guys with rifles jump out from the surrounding greenery. Sam puts his hands up. One goon pulls them forward and secures his wrists with zip ties. He reports excitedly in German that they ‘have the captain’ . Sam wants to laugh.
They guide Sam inside the rock door and down a musty, badly lit hallway. The place smells like hot earth and metal, fully rigged out and set up with all kinds of tech and weapons and food. These idiots have led the Avengers straight to their base.
They open a large steel door, and Sam allows the German dude to shove him inside. And bingo, Bucky’s slumped in the corner on the opposite end of the room, wrists zip-tied too. Sam’s heart flutters. Bucky tiredly lifts his head and, when he sees Sam, an instant smile spreads across his face. Sam winks at him, grinning.
“Sit down with your little boyfriend!” the German guy shouts. “And get comfortable. We will be here for a while.”
Sam glares at the guy and thinks Pal, I’m exactly where I want to be, chill. He walks over, calm and collected, and slides down the wall to join Bucky on the floor.
“Hey, baby,” he says, smiling, quickly scanning Bucky for injuries. He’s got a bruised eye, his lip’s a little swollen too, has a trickle of blood coming from a cut in his hairline. “You good?”
“Real good now, sweetheart.”
“Alright, let’s see.” Sam gives the room a quick once-over. It’s pretty large, with only one extremely tiny window facing west, so they’ll have to leave through the front door. “Easy out,” he says.
“A warm-up for you, huh?” Bucky says, that swollen lip curling upward.
Sam laughs, then gets up. He lifts his hands high—because these bozos made escaping real easy for him—and slams them down over his knee with as much force as can. Snaps the zip tie off his wrists. Then he taps his chest where the suit’s embedded in his dog tags, and it wraps around him until he’s standing there in the stars and stripes.
“Jesus,” says Bucky, watching. “Do that for me one more time, honey.”
“Tell you what,” he says, “Let me save your ass and I’ll show how I take it off.” He holds his hand out and helps Bucky up, then cuts through his zip tie with a laser from his gauntlet.
Bucky rubs his wrists, then windmills his left arm, a quick 360, and flexes his fingers. The arm’s gears give a loud whir as the metal plates ripple from his wrist up to his shoulder, then settle.
“Damn,” Sam says. “Do that for me one more time.”
Bucky laughs and then yanks Sam closer and kisses him. Sam supposes they’ve got time for a little tongue action, so he slips his arms around Bucky’s waist and presses their bodies together. He’s careful not to go too hard on account of Bucky’s busted lip but he really just wants to ravish him right here.
“Alright,” Sam says, still inches away from Bucky’s lips. “I’m gonna blow this door down, then fly you outta here. Ready?”
“That's so hot,” Bucky says, reaching down to squeeze Sam’s ass.
Sam lets the wings unfurl from the pack. “Get close,” he says, then fires his gauntlet at the door. The wings fold around himself and Bucky, pressing them chest to chest, and a few seconds later the door blows. Sam puts his earpiece back and taps it. “Hostage secured. Heading out now.”
Nat comes onto the comms. “Torres has you covered, Cap. Should be a clear bee-line to the exit.”
“Damn, I wanted to get a few hits in. Y’all good?”
“We’re good. The Jersey kid’s a total badass!” she says. “Get your boy out of here.”
“He’s not my—” As they’re jogging to the exit, Sam looks over at Bucky, who grins at him like a goddamn sunrise. “Yeah, okay, maybe he’s my boy a little.”
Bucky laughs and air pumps—which is corny, who does that—but it’s not like Sam isn’t smiling so very hard.
When they reach the rock door they entered through, Torres is waiting and Parker’s busy webbing German Guy to a tree. Sam high-fives Torres and starts sprinting hand in hand with Bucky to the edge of the rocky platform. “Hang on!” Sam says, then spreads his wings, scoops Bucky up in his arms, and launches off the side.
Bucky tucks his face into the curve of Sam’s neck, which feels pretty damn nice. “Thanks, Cap,” he says with that low, velvety voice of his.
“All in a day’s work, baby,” Sam says and feels Bucky’s chest rumble with laughter.
The doctors keep Bucky overnight for observation. No major injuries, a mild concussion, a few stitches, a couple of bruises, maybe some trauma, but otherwise, he’s all good.
He's booked off work for a while, but Sam finally got his number and asked for his address thinking he’ll visit with some flowers later that afternoon. Didn’t want to make a nuisance of himself and all.
A little after midday there’s a knock on his apartment door.
“Captain Wilson,” JARVIS says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I showed a visitor up to your apartment.”
“Hey, as long as it’s not Closet Dude.”
“I believe this one is very much not in the closet, sir.”
“Ha! You got jokes. Thanks, J.”
Sam opens his door and finds Bucky standing there in jeans and a t-shirt that is way too tight around his arms, his hair in a bun, and a huge, massive bouquet of roses.
“Shit, shouldn’t I be the one bringing you flowers?” Sam says, then smells them. “How you feeling?”
“Just a token of appreciation.” Bucky moves the flowers out of the way and slips his hand into Sam’s neck. He gives him a tender kiss, lips lingering, breath brushing Sam’s skin. “I’m doing just great, sweetheart.”
“You wanna come in?” Sam asks very politely for someone with a semi who is already thinking of the best way to get this guy into his bed.
“Hm,” Bucky says, with that terrible, smoldering look in his eyes, his wall-leaning look, that look that has Sam acting a fool. And the moment Sam shuts the door, the flowers go somewhere, and Bucky’s hands are on him, riding up under his shirt to squeeze his tits. And hallelujah, this time there’s nipple action that has Sam moaning straight into Bucky’s mouth.
Sam loops his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, kisses back with the little shred of brain activity he’s got left, and then feels himself hauled off the floor. He wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist before his back meets the wall with a thud.
Bucky’s lips are on his neck in an instant, his fingers digging into Sam’s ass. And fuck, Sam is hard. He’s so hard he needs someone to touch his dick right the hell now.
“God, you’re pretty,” Bucky says breathlessly when he pulls off Sam’s neck. At the same time, his hand finds its way from Sam’s ass to his dick and finally gives him what he wants. Palms him nice and hard through his pants, which are, for some unthinkable, reason still on him.
“Fuck,” Sam sighs, drops his head back. Bucky takes that as an invitation to suck on his neck again and, like, Sam can come like this. Just from the dull friction through his sweats and Bucky’s tongue on his skin, but he remembers this game’s already one-zero, and he’s got some payback to deliver.
“Hey,” Sam says and wiggles out of Bucky’s hold. Gets on his knees when his feet hit the floor. “You first.”
Bucky frowns and says, “Wha—” but Sam tugs down his waistband and swallows Bucky into his mouth and the rest of that sentence never sees the light of day.
What Sam finds out, though, is that Bucky is fucking endowed, and Sam has to open wide to get all of him inside. He also learns that Bucky is already gorgeous, but Bucky having an orgasm in Sam’s mouth is off the goddamn charts and now that Sam has seen it, he probably won’t have another boner-free day in his life.
But he’s pretty okay with that.