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“No, absolutely not.”
“Come on,” Bucky says, looking at him seriously, “why not? What’s stopping us? I could totally just—” he makes a crude gesture with his hand.
“It’s a fucking church, Barnes,” Sam hisses, levelling a glare at him that could intimidate anybody in the presence of the Lord if Bucky was a normal, God-fearing man like everybody else, “I’m not even gonna look at you right now. I won’t.”
“Baby,” Bucky whines in response, tapping Sam’s arm insistently to get him to look at him again. He’s like a fucking child, God, this is just Sam’s life now. He’s dating a man-child who happens to be an ex-assassin that can carry him with one hand and blows his back out on the reg. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You can totally just tell God that you’re sorry afterwards.”
“I’m not going to fuck you in the church parking lot, James Bucky Barnes. I have morals,” good fucking Lord, why did he have to be put on a recon mission with him. SHIELD doesn’t pay him enough to do shit like this. “I am not going to be feeding into your Catholic trauma.”
That doesn’t get a response, so he looks over at Bucky who has a sheepish smile on his face. “Seriously? You’ve got—” but the words are out, and he’s looking at Bucky now, whose tongue is flitting out from between sinful lips and dragging across his bottom lip, all whorish in the way he just knows Bucky’s doing for his benefit. “You are- you are really something else.”
“Oh yeah?” Bucky challenges, reaches over the console to put a hand on Sam’s thigh. He squeezes just enough to get Sam’s quads to tighten up. “You wanna show me just how much, sweetheart?” He continues, voice dropping low like the heat that punches through Sam’s belly. “It ain’t like this the type of church you care about anyways, yeah? Nah, I know you, Wilson,” his hand crawls inches higher, resting right against Sam’s hipbone, thumb dangerously close to where he’s picking up interest, “you grew up baptist, didn’t you?”
Fuck, Sam thinks as Bucky leans over, gets his wet lips on Sam’s throat, and he can’t help himself, just cranes his neck back so Bucky can lick and suck there like he means it. “Even if you did, I know it doesn’t matter to you,” Bucky hums around his pulse point, letting Sam feel the scrape of his teeth against it, “I know this is the only kinda prayer you think about, ain’t that right, baby?”
Sam groans, then Bucky’s fingers are slipping into his mouth, pads pressing on his tongue and collecting spit that dribbles right out of the side of his mouth, and Bucky doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to even notice, just keeps sucking and biting Sam’s throat. Fuck, Sam thinks again, because they’re still at the parking lot of a church older than both of them combined, and Sam only needs to shift his head a little to the side to get a glimpse of the saint carved into the walls, and oh fuck, he’s totally getting off on this.
Bucky, goddamn him, notices almost as soon as Sam thinks it, then he’s pushing Sam back in his seat and clambering over him to introduce a lap-full of super soldier to him, and he reaches down between the door and Sam’s seat with his right hand, pulls the lever enough that the seat is laid back almost all the way to the backseat. Then, because he’s a little shit in the body of a bigger shit, he grins and says, “now, when you’re lookin’ up here, sweetheart, I don’t want you to be praying to him,” and gestures back towards the crucifix at the top of the church.
“You are horrible,” Sam grumbles out, sounding warbled from the fingers in his mouth, but there’s no fight to it because then Bucky’s grinding down, rubbing his clothed bulge against Sam’s and leaning down to catch his moan, kissing him with his fingers still pushed inside. It’s sloppy, it’s dirty, it’s disgusting because he can feel his own spit on his chin and probably dripping down Bucky’s arm, but it’s so fucking good.
“You love it,” Bucky whispers against his mouth, presses his crotch even firmer against Sam’s, and yeah, he does. Then Bucky sits up, takes his fingers out of Sam’s mouth (kindly, he doesn’t comment on how Sam whimpers softly with the loss), and shoves Sam’s t-shirt up as far as it can go without taking it off and bends down in a way that looks uncomfortable just to suck Sam’s nipple into his mouth.
“Jesus- fuck,” Sam groans, throwing his head back into the headrest and whining when Bucky pinches his other nipple chidingly, “ow, what the fuck was that for?”
“Thought I said I don’t want you praying to him,” Bucky says, grinning as he kitten-licks the nipple his mouth had been around not five seconds ago, “ain’t wise to use his name in vain, and I know you know that, so you must be praying. Are you praying, Sam?”
Fucking, shit, he thinks, back arching when Bucky gets his teeth on Sam’s nipple and pulls slightly, the other nipple rolled between Bucky’s fingers. “Fuck- I, no, I’m fucking not, you asshole,” he moans, unbelievably hard in his jeans just from Bucky sitting on his lap and licking his nipples to next Thursday, “I’m not praying to anybody.”
Bucky laughs meanly, licks from his sternum to the swell of Sam’s right pec, kissing softly there then biting hard enough for Sam to see stars. “Oh, baby, you will be.” Then he’s reaching down, skilfully unbuttoning Sam’s jeans with one hand and hovering up above him enough so he can yank them down, then palming him through his cotton briefs.
“Shit,” Sam moans, a low sound coming from deep in his chest, where Bucky’s resting the hand he isn’t using. Bucky’s a fucking tease because he’s only stroking the flat of his palm against the thickening line of his cock, and Sam’s too pinned down by Bucky’s thighs to be able to grind up into the touch so he shuts his eyes, only for Bucky to pinch him, again, on the oversensitive nipple this time. “Fuck!”
“Nope, I want you to look, baby,” Bucky tells him, and rewards him with another stroke to his clothed cock (fuck, is he gonna keep going until Sam chafes?) when he opens his eyes, “good, very good, I want you to look at him when I get you off, think you could do that?”
At the concept of getting off, Sam’s already hooked, nodding vigorously as he glances outside at the crucifix, worn and faded but still cared for day by day, Bucky reaches down and frees him from his briefs, shoving the hem of them under his balls just enough to get his whole cock a little smushed up into Bucky’s grip. It’s- strange, definitely, not a very comfortable situation, but then Bucky’s pressing that stupidly calloused palm of his against Sam’s cockhead and all his thoughts mute down into keep your fucking eyes on that crucifix.
Bucky attends to him like how he always attends to him when there’s no hurry, just slow, languid strokes that are always on the knife’s edge of firm, making sure Sam’s orgasm creeps over rather than slams into him, never hot and fast if he could help it. The thing is, they’re still technically on a mission, and any moment now, Maria’s probably gonna radio in and ask Sam, any updates? and Sam’s gonna have to talk with Bucky’s hand on his cock if he doesn’t hurry up.
“Buck- Bucky- shit,” Sam gets out, tries to get to his point out that we need to hurry, what if we lose track of the mission, but then Bucky does that thing with his hand where he’ll stroke the entire underside of Sam’s cock, balls to shaft, then use his fingers to press from frenulum to hole, and over and over again until Sam’s a writhing, quivering mess, and it’s just- too much but not enough. “Fuck, Bucky, baby, you gotta- oh, shit, you gotta get me off, please, please,” he begs, only half embarrassed with how fucked out he sounds from a handjob, but what can he say? There’s just something hot in the moment about doing it like this, slow and dirty, in a church parking lot, fuck, they’re really just out here.
“Aw, is that so, Wilson?” Bucky hums, his tone taking on that assholish huff to it that sends sparks up Sam’s spine. “I gotta get you off? Why’s that? Why can’t I just keep you here, keep you on the edge for as long as I can?” Then, because he’s a prick, he slides his hand down and grips the base of Sam’s dick with a fist, just the right amount of tight to cut him off from tipping over. “How’s about that, huh, darling?”
“You are the worst,” Sam groans, feeling a little choked by the sudden understimulation, and Bucky seems to take a little pity, leans down to kiss him again, all tongue and teeth and heat, and Sam uses his newfound leverage to grind upwards, just enough that Bucky’s grip on his cock pushes his hand against his own neglected crotch.
“Oh,” Bucky murmurs, voice low, “oh,” he repeats, kissing down Sam’s jaw with the hint of a smirk on his lips. “You really think I’m that easy, Sam?” He asks, breath hot against Sam’s ear. “You think I’m as easy as you? That you can just get your hand on my dick and I’d let you blow your load?” He licks Sam’s earlobe, thankfully not the ear with the piece in it, before biting and tugging just enough to get Sam to moan and blink blearily at the crucifix. “You forget I’m well-trained, Wilson. I know control, when I feel like it.”
He starts his pace again, jerking Sam off a little faster now, rough in a way he doesn’t usually get with little sharp scratches of his blunt tips and deliberately harsh pinches, a roughness Sam’s very quickly becoming obsessed with, and it’s so good and filthy and the wet sounds coupled with his moans echoing in the car are blasphemous, and it’s all too much and he’s whimpering with how much he needs it, about to cry Bucky’s name and finally tip over the edge—
“God, fucking- fuck,” he half whines, half sobs as Bucky stops so abruptly Sam almost pinches a fucking nerve from how hard he throws his head back. “You—” he starts but he can’t finish his sentence, so he just writhes as Bucky smiles down at him with nothing short of a shit-eating smirk.
“See the picture now, baby?” He hums, looking appreciatively at the expanse of Sam’s abdomen, the muscled thickness of flexed abs and the wisps of a happy trail ending before it really began. Bucky tweaks his nipple again just for fun, and for a moment Sam thinks that if this was the Bucky that fucked him every day, he might lose his mind before the year’s out. “Now, be good for me so I can give you what you want, huh? Can you do that, sweetheart?”
“Please,” Sam says desperately, and yeah, looking back and forth between Bucky’s devilish grin and the iron crucifix has definitely knocked something loose, “anything you want.”
(If Sam still had all of his brain he might’ve thought about how far they’ve come, with Bucky reclaiming autonomy over his own body and being comfortable giving the orders, and with Sam finally having some of the burden taken off and being able to just relinquish control and submit, but he’s currently splitting his brain between being good for Bucky and wanting to come, so it barely registers.)
Bucky’s eyes flash hotly, the only tell that he’s affected by this. “Hands behind your head,” he says, and Sam follows, “keep your eyes open, only on me,” he continues, stroking his free hand up and down Sam’s side, “move up a little on your seat, don’t worry about falling off, I’ve got you,” and he wasn’t worrying about it, but Bucky’s words assure him nonetheless, make him feel a little warm inside, “yeah, yeah, that’s it, good,” Bucky hums, that warmth spreading further, then he seats himself on Sam’s lap again. It dawns on Sam, then, that he’d basically been holding himself up for the last ten minutes. Fucking super soldiers.
The thought flies out of his brain the next moment, because then Bucky’s starting up his pace again, strokes long and slow on Sam’s cock, makes his palm catch on his cockhead and makes sure his thumb presses right on the tip, and Sam whines an embarrassingly cock-drunk sound, unthinkably close to the edge already, but give him a break.
“Bucky,” Sam whispers, the whiny quality of his own voice foreign to his ears, and whimpers when Bucky strokes his palm over the cockhead, “Buck, please, baby, let me come, let me come, I- I’ve been good, let me—” he sucks in a sharp breath, bites his lip at the force of his impending orgasm.
“Mm, you have, haven’t you?” Bucky hums, leaning down to kiss Sam’s chest. “You’ve been real good to me, in every single way,” he says, “you’re always so good for me, sweetheart, you know that? Always know exactly how I want you to be,” then, he kisses and laves his tongue over the nipple he’d paid less attention to earlier, “come on then, baby, come for me, let go and give it to me.”
Sam’s vision very nearly whites out from the force of his orgasm, coming in thick white stripes over his stomach and chest, narrowly missing Bucky’s chin as he spills over, moans lost in his throat and whines tapering off into harsh breaths. It’s fucking amazing, like he’s been on the edge for hours rather than twenty minutes, high on the bliss of a masterclass handjob.
He’s still heaving and panting when Bucky reaches behind him into the glove compartment and takes out two tissues, putting them on Sam’s stomach and wiping him down as gently as he can, pressing a soft kiss to his abused pec like he’s saying goodbye, see you later as he pulls Sam’s shirt back down, then tucks him back into his briefs and jeans. Sam’s happy to just let him do this, fucked out of his mind even without Bucky touching his hole, and he secretly enjoys the attention and care very much, which Bucky obviously knows about.
Then Bucky’s getting off of him, sliding back into the driver’s seat and opening the window enough to throw the crumpled tissues out, closing it and setting back up in his seat, looking intently at the church like nothing happened.
“Uh,” Sam says a little stupidly, throat dry, “you don’t want—?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Bucky replies easily, smiling at Sam and looking mostly unaffected, “it wasn’t really for me, y’know. And,” he winks, “we’ve still got a mission. You forget that part, bird-brain?”
“Oh my God,” Sam groans, laughing quietly to himself as he pulls his chair back up and hides his dumb smile. “You are the weirdest fucking guy I’ve ever loved.”
“Watch your language, sweetheart,” Bucky chides smoothly, resting his hands on the steering wheel, “we’re still on the Lord’s holy ground.”
Sam rolls his eyes, wondering what weird forces decided to pair them together. We did, his mind supplies, we paired with each other. Ain’t that the fucking truth.
“Hey, so, how’d you know I grew up baptist?”
“I didn’t. I guessed. You had that kind of vibe going on for you.”
“Vibe? You’re on the internet too much, old man. You need restrictions.”
“Hey. This old man just gave you the best handjob of your life. Cut me some slack, I’m reconnecting with the world and shit.”
“Uh-huh. Alright, sure, gramps.”
“Besides, looking up what ‘vibe’ meant also introduced me to a whole new thing. The future’s a goddamn blessing, Sam. Where’s my phone?”
“What are you- oh. Oh, okay.”
“I’ve got my own op coming up soon, though. You mind holding onto the tracking code? There’s a link to the product if you wanna check it out.”
“Do I wanna check out what’s probably gonna be going up my- oh, Jesus, Buck. That is- that’s gotta be, like, at least twice your size.”
“And it’s a vibe. The future is a wonderful place, sweetheart.”
“Damn. Got that right.”