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When Sam wanders into the sparse, open space that serves as their common living area, Bucky is already lounging back on one of the couches, shaking a chunk of some dried plant out of a jar into his prosthetic palm. It’s shrivelled and green, shaped like a large teardrop and shot through with purple fibres.
“What,” Sam says. His voice echoes in the large room.
Bucky looks up, although Sam is sure he heard him enter long before he spoke. He’s got the coffee table pulled close, and it’s littered with various tools—grinder, rolling papers, filters, lighter, a brochure for some local college. One of these things is not like the others, Sam’s brain supplies unhelpfully as he takes in the scene in front of him.
“It’s our day off,” Bucky says simply, shrugging.
It is. Their first quiet day in what seems like forever. They’ve been busy ever since the Blip. Steve is no longer in action, Tony and Natasha are gone, and Clint made it clear that he needed to retire for real this time, now that he finally has a family to retire to again. There are still some others, sure, but it’s been mostly been up to Sam and Bucky to go back to New York and pick up the pieces of their city, especially now that Sam’s wearing the shield. They didn’t know each other well before, and they still don’t know each other well now, but there is a sort of trust they’ve built up inadvertently. Something about being thrown together into absolute chaos must do that to people.
If someone had told Sam back in 2016 that he and Bucky would one day be partners, and maybe even kind-of friends, Sam would probably have laughed in their face. But here they are.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” Sam says, wandering over to where Bucky is sitting. Bucky shifts like he’s making space for Sam, even though the whole couch is big enough for several superhero-sized humans, courtesy of their ongoing professional relationship with Pepper. Sam settles down next to Bucky.
Bucky hums, not confirming Sam’s question, but not denying it either. Sam gives him a moment to elaborate, but Bucky doesn’t add anything else. Which is pretty typical. Bucky has a flair for the dramatic, and he likes to imagine that he’s enigmatic. Sam usually doesn’t indulge him.
“You want some?” Bucky holds up the flower, pausing from the work he’s doing tearing it into smaller chunks. Sam hasn’t gotten high in ages, and the few experiences he has had with weed left him sweating and looking over his shoulder, shaking with paranoia.
“I don’t know man, I haven’t done that shit since college,” Sam replies. To be fair, that was a long time ago. And from what he’s heard, weed has changed a lot since then. Now that he’s close enough, Sam can smell the scent rolling off the bud. Something strong and heady. It smells less skunky than he remembers, more like warm, damp earth.
Bucky shrugs.
“Up to you,” he says, easy as anything. He’s finished ripping up the bud now, and he reaches across Sam, briefly pressing his side into Sam’s chest as he grabs the grinder. Sam keeps watching, doesn’t even try to move away, too fascinated by this private ritual he’s been granted a window into.
“It’s legal now, you know,” Bucky says.
“In New York?” Sam genuinely has no idea. He’s been a little busy.
“In lots of places,” Bucky answers, distracted as he presses chunks of weed into the teeth of the grinder. He probably doesn’t know either.
Sam is quiet for a moment. Bucky snaps the top of the grinder in place with a satisfyingly heavy click and starts to twist.
He’s embarrassed by his lack of experience. As a general rule, Sam makes it a point to never let Bucky have the upper hand. It’s throwing him off. “Last time, I got super paranoid. Like I thought someone was after me. Couldn’t seem to get enough air.” He shrugs, “Never really felt like trying it again after that.” It’s stupid, trying to justify himself to Bucky like he’s teenager again. Bucky doesn’t seem to care.
“Yeah, sounds like a lotta people get that,” he says, drawling in that old fashioned accent of his. For a brief, aching moment, Sam is reminded so viscerally of Steve. But the illusion dies quickly: Bucky is too rough and brash, where Steve was always the gentleman, even when he was being difficult.
Bucky pulls the brochure towards himself and opens the grinder, tipping the ground flower out onto the stiff cardstock. He uses the crease to gather it all together into a neat little pile. His hands still for a second and he glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye.
“If it makes any difference,” Bucky says, “this stuff doesn’t have a lot of THC. Mostly it’s just calming. Makes everything feel real good.” A slight pink blush peeks out above his beard. “At least, that’s what it does for me.” He shrugs again, as if it all makes no difference to him, but Sam can see the question in Bucky’s posture, in the way he’s performing this small, personal routine for him.
“Huh,” Sam says, considering, and leans back to watch Bucky.
It’s satisfying, the way Bucky’s hands work, metal and flesh moving together with ease. They don’t pause as Bucky spreads the flower out along a thin strip of paper, pinching it in half and rolling it slowly, methodically, until it’s all pressed tight and neat. He doesn’t acknowledge Sam again until he’s almost done, tucking one side of the paper against the filter and licking the glue. He meets Sam’s eyes as he runs his tongue delicately along the paper’s edge, and then he’s smoothing it into place and twisting the empty space at the tip.
Sam always had a thing for people who are good at what they do. The smartest girl in his dorm writing code. Riley dipping and soaring, hooting in the air next to him. Steve calling out “on your left!” as he laps him around the Washington Mall. Now, alarmingly, that same principle of attraction has apparently extended to Bucky fucking Barnes rolling a joint.
Well fuck, Sam thinks.
Bucky pulls Sam away from this new and upsetting personal insight by wiggling the finished joint in his face, so close Sam almost goes cross-eyed trying to focus on it.
At least he’s still annoying as shit.
“What?” Sam huffs.
“You’re still here,” Bucky points out, unphased. He says it with that swagger he gets when he’s sure he already knows the answer to his question. “So,” he cocks his head to the side, “you want some or not?”
Sam sighs.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, and reaches for the joint. Bucky smiles, wolfish and sharp, and then he pops the joint into his mouth, tip first, wetting it all the way down to the filter with spit.
“Aw, hell no,” Sam complains. “C’mon man, that’s fuckin’ nasty.”
Bucky cackles.
“It makes it burn slower,” he defends, as if grossing Sam out wasn’t the best part of his day.
“We are grown-ass adults and it is not the Depression anymore, grandpa. I think we can afford to smoke some weed without you slobbering all over it.”
Bucky’s still got that shit-eating grin, but he concedes the point, holding the joint out to Sam along with the lighter. He leans back, head pillowed in his hands, and waits for Sam to light up.
Bucky laughs even harder when Sam’s first hit leave him doubled over and hacking. He tries to take the joint back, but Sam waves him off. He waits until the fit passes, and then he takes another drag, trying to hold his lungs still as he breathes in. It works only through sheer force of will, and Sam exhales a smooth stream of smoke as he passes the joint back to Bucky. Bucky takes it with an amused look, and then he’s leaning back and taking a pull, eyes dropping closed.
They trade off like that for a few minutes, Bucky sucking down big, seasoned hits, and Sam sipping on larger and larger drags until he’s sure he can handle it. It doesn’t take long for the weed to hit. He can almost pinpoint the exact second when his head starts to buzz and time turns to syrup.
This is different than the other shit Sam has tried. He hates to admit it, but Bucky was right—he feels good. He lets his limbs drape loose and heavy over the couch, doesn’t even try to fight the smile he can feel stretching across his face. It’s just good, is all.
And then things go sideways.
Sam will be damned if he lets Bucky top, but he’s naked and spread out on his back in his own damn bed, and Bucky is running his palms up and under Sam’s thighs, right near the junction where they join the rest of his body. Slowly, sweetly, Bucky coaxes Sam’s legs apart. Oh hell no, Sam thinks, even as his body responds easily to Bucky. His hips feel open and loose under Bucky’s hands, and his dick gives an interested kick, completely unbidden. His mind and his body seem to be on two completely different pages here.
Bucky settles over Sam, pressing his legs further apart, and Sam goes lax. He sinks down into the mattress, held there by Bucky’s weight and the warm, heavy contentment flowing through in his limbs. He lets his head fall back against the pillows and looks up at Bucky, waiting for him to make a move.
“Fuck, Sam,” Bucky breathes, panting a little, and then he braces himself on his prosthetic, runs his right hand down Sam’s body. He doesn’t stop when he reaches Sam’s dick, just skirts around it until his fingers brush against Sam’s hole. Sam makes a surprised noise, needier than he meant to, and angles his hips up, inviting.
Bucky pulls his hand back and leans away, and Sam makes another sound, even more desperate. Bucky chuckles.
“Just grabbing some slick, sweetheart” he whispers, reassuring. Fucking sweetheart? Since when is that a thing they do? Sam forces himself take a breath, to get back some goddamned control over this situation.
He doesn’t even know how they got here, with Bucky between his legs and Sam’s chest heaving. The last half hour is a blur. Bucky watching him from the other side of the couch, his eyes heavy-lidded, working his lip between his teeth. Bucky leaning in, gripping Sam’s jaw solid and steady in his left hand, beard prickling against Sam’s mouth as he slides his tongue inside. Sam climbing onto Bucky’s lap, knees spread out wide over his thick thighs. The room hazy as smoke swirls around them.
It’s bad. Sam knows it. They’re partners, and he’s being too eager, too unreserved. Natasha would disapprove. But he doesn’t know how to stop it, he’s not even sure if he wants to. He just feels so good, so warm and loose in his skin. Every touch of Bucky’s is like a revelation, like he’s only just realizing for the first time in years how good he can feel in his own body.
Bucky’s fingers are back before Sam can miss them. He circles the little furl of muscle lightly, just enough to make Sam whine, and then he presses his thumb right against the centre of Sam’s hole, rubbing back and forth smoothly until the tip pops inside. Sam’s unused to the feeling after so long without it. He lets out an embarrassingly loud sound, body clenching around Bucky. Bucky laughs, his breath blowing strands of hair away from his face.
“That good?” he asks, cocky, bending down to kiss the jut of Sam’s hip. He slides his entire thumb into Sam’s body until it’s completely seated, his palm pressed snug along Sam’s ass.
It is good. It all is, but Sam’s only willing to stroke Bucky’s ego so much. “It’d be a lot better if you actually did something,” he complains, knocking his knee against Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky huffs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but he sits up a little, pulling his thumb out and replacing it with his index finger. He moves faster now, no longer tentative. When he adds a second finger, Sam feels so full with it that it pushes a moan out of him, and Bucky groans, watching him. He’s hanging over Sam, his hair dragging against Sam’s chest, weight supported by the arm planted next to Sam’s waist.
When Bucky drops down and gets his mouth around the head of Sam’s cock, Sam can’t help the strangled sound that rips out of him. The wet heat and gentle suction are just so perfect. His mouth is open and shaped in a desperate oh before he even realizes he’s doing it. He’s got a hand gripped tight in Bucky’s hair, and he keeps pushing himself back into Bucky’s fingers, chasing them.
He can’t take it when Bucky abruptly pulls his fingers away, slides his mouth off Sam’s dick with an obscene, wet noise.
“Nuh uh,” Sam shakes his head, sitting up with a start, “come on, man.”
“Shh,” Bucky soothes, laughing gently again. He presses Sam back into the mattress, starts to lower his weight down on top of him again. “Just getting settled,” he murmurs against Sam’s ear. Sam shivers when his beard rasps against the sensitive skin there.
Bucky’s not wearing a condom. They should really stop before they keep going without one. But Sam is almost out of his mind with want, and he hasn’t slept with anybody in years. It’s not like he was seeing people before. Between years spent in hiding and another five frozen in a different dimension, he didn’t exactly find the time to date. He’s pretty sure it’s been just as long for Bucky too, maybe longer.
So when Bucky presses the tip of his cock to Sam’s hole and gives him a questioning look, scanning Sam’s face, Sam nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, and spreads his legs, “hell yeah.”
Bucky flashes that bright, sharp smile at him, dangerous and pleased, and warmth trickles down Sam’s spine to his dick. Bucky starts to push inside, and Sam feels himself being stretched, the burn of it easing into something else, into a full kind of pleasure that lights him up from the inside. It’s almost scary, how much Sam feels.
At least it’s affecting Bucky just as bad. His brow crumples when he slides into Sam, eyes squeezing shut. He pulls his body back and presses in again, so smooth and powerful that Sam can’t help whining, and apparently that does it for Bucky. He starts to thrust in earnest, little huh huh huh’s escaping with each thrust, and all the while he’s got Sam’s cheek cradled in his burning palm.
It’s too much, getting fucked and being touched like that at the same time. Like Sam is the best goddamn thing Bucky’s ever felt. He doesn’t know if he can take it.
So Sam flips them, and then he’s on top, straddling Bucky’s dick. Bucky makes a face, startled and indignant at once. And yeah, it’s cute, alright? It makes Sam so fond, so warm with affection that he lets himself lean down and press a quick kiss to Bucky’s lips. He touches his thumb to the apple of Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky’s smile is blinding. And Bucky’s moving his hips underneath him, a rolling, insistent force that gets Sam rocking in time with him.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” Bucky mumbles, and that endearment sparks a wave of pleasure that pools low in Sam’s belly. He fucks even harder against Bucky, dropping all his weight into it, shoving him up the covers. Bucky just holds Sam by the hips through it all, letting Sam take what he wants and watching him with a stunned expression.
There’s a bright energy burning Sam up from his skin right down to his core, driving him up and down over Bucky’s cock, again and again. This isn’t going to last long, he knows it.
When he comes, he shouts. He honest-to-god shouts. Come splatters up Bucky’s body, all the way to his chest, and Bucky squeezes him, metal fingers digging into Sam’s hip.
“Fuck,” Bucky whimpers, and then he’s thrusting up hard, once, twice, body curling in with the force of it.
When it’s over, they both collapse on their backs, side by side. Sam is panting, heaving in loud, gusting breaths, but when he looks over at Bucky his chest is moving even and measured, like he’s meditating. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, and he’s smiling to himself. Bucky’s arm inches towards Sam. He runs his thumb over Sam’s knuckles, interlaces their fingers.
It’s terrifying.
Sam frees his hand, elbowing Bucky in the ribs. “Yo, go grab us a towel or something.”
Bucky turns his head towards Sam and lets it drop. Bastard is still wrapped up in whatever blissed-out place his orgasm sent him to. “Mmm?” he mumbles, all dopey.
“A towel,” Sam repeats. “Man, if I’m gonna have your come dripping out of my ass in a minute here, least you can do is grab something to clean it up with.”
Bucky lifts his head up off the bed, looks down at their bodies and sees the mess smeared there. “Sure thing, darlin,’” he rasps, voice destroyed by sex and smoke, and Sam wishes it didn’t make something squeeze tight in his chest, but it does.
He lets his eyes linger on Bucky’s ass when he wanders out of the room. Bucky’s hair is a mess, a total rat’s nest, and if anyone saw him they’d know he just got laid, that someone made him feel good.
Sam’s going tender and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He wants to go back to how they were, instead of whatever this is where he feels all off-balance.
“Hey Barnes!” he yells, trying to imitate the way he usually grumbles at Bucky. “Grab the rest of the weed while you’re at it.”
“Who crawled up your ass, Wilson?” Bucky calls back from the other room, but he sounds like normal, and Sam is pretty sure they’re okay.