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Everyone assumes it’s just a nasty habit Bucky picked up in the 30’s. They're not wrong, technically - everyone smoked back then, Bucky included. He couldn't not, not when Lucky Strikes got passed around the camp like candy, not when he'd spend hours in the sniper's nest with nothing else to do but keep watch and smoke to stay awake. Even Steve smoked every once in a while once the serum burned the sickness from his lungs, if only to show everyone he was one of them, mortal.
But, like everything else that made him human, Hydra scraped it out.
The Asset didn't smoke. The Asset was a piece of machinery, a weapon honed to a sharp point. It lived on unflavored slurries of protein and nutrients calibrated to keep it fueled and alert. The Asset didn't have vices, dependencies. It had targets. It had missions. It had Hydra.
So it’s not until after his deprogramming that Bucky picks it up again. Not until he's back in Brooklyn, wandering through the streets he grew up in and wishing they felt like home. It's not until Bucky steps into a bodega for a piece of stone fruit and the cashier asks if there's anything else he needs that Bucky's eyes catch on a familiar red-and-gold logo and he says yes.
SMOKING KILLS, the label says. Bucky smirks. We'll see about that.
It starts like that, as a challenge. Staring down something that kills and saying no, not me. The Asset hadn't said no to anything, but Bucky? Bucky can say no whenever the hell he wants.
He smokes the first cigarette in the pack as an act of rebellion. He smokes the second just to see if he can. He smokes the third because he's bored and he wants to. He smokes the fourth when he remembers how good it feels to want. He finishes the pack to prove to himself he's in control, that he can suck down a pack like he used to and never touch them again.
Three days later he's back at the bodega, restless and tight-chested, and this time he doesn't even bother with the stone fruit.
In a way, it's a homecoming. He remembers the taste, the heat in his lungs. He remembers what it's like to wander through Brooklyn with a cigarette cupped in his hand. He remembers how everything used to smell like this, sharp and soot-stained, and the smell of it sands down the edges of how alien the world feels most days.
He learns new things, too. He learns that he likes how it makes his lungs ache, how the head rush reminds him of hands around his throat. It probably won’t kill him, he’s a super soldier, and he likes that power. But it might, and he kind of likes that, too.
Hydra turned his body into a machine, honed it perfectly to kill. If Bucky wants to destroy the weapon they made, well, that’s his own fucking business.
***
Bucky smokes like a fucking chimney, and Sam hates it.
It's nasty, is what it is. It's gross and unhealthy and it makes everything in Bucky's wake reek of fire and death. It's expensive, too. Cigarettes aren't cheap, even in Louisiana, and Bucky goes through a pack and a half a day at least.
And it's annoying. It's like there's always a third in their relationship, competing with Sam for Bucky's attention. They'll be curled up on the couch, watching a movie that Bucky picked, and he'll have to pause halfway through for a quick smoke on the porch.
"Wouldn't be an issue if you let me smoke inside," Bucky will say, petulant.
"Would be even less of an issue if you didn't smoke at all."
It makes Sam feel helpless in that way he hates. Bucky's a grown adult, he can make his own choices, but fuck if watching him so hooked on something doesn't hurt sometimes. It's another of the many ways Bucky treats himself like shit, and it eats at Sam to watch.
Sam hears Sarah's voice in his head saying to the rescue every time he bites back the urge to say something about it. He sets boundaries - no buying cigarettes with their joint card, no smoking around the nephews - but that's all he can do. He knows that. Fuck, he knows that. It still hurts.
But the worst part of it? The worst part is that sometimes, when Sam's cleaning up their kitchen at the end of the day, he'll catch sight of Bucky on the porch, red cherry lighting up the lines carved into his face, hand shaking with how good it hits, and Sam's dick will go hard in his boxers and he'll have to furiously jerk himself off in the shower before Bucky gets back inside.
"You're gonna kill yourself with that shit, Buck," Sam says one evening on the porch when he's too run down to hold back.
"Super soldier. Can't get sick, means I can't get cancer, either. So." He takes a long drag, blows it out the corner of his mouth. Away from Sam, but there's a breeze and it blows back into Sam's face anyway.
"You don't know that."
Bucky shrugs. "Or maybe I don't care."
"Maybe I do, you ever think about that?"
"Seems like a you problem," he says around a mouthful of smoke.
"Jesus Christ, Buck. What, you just get to treat yourself like shit 'cause you want to, and if someone else makes the mistake of caring whether you live or die that's on them?"
"Pretty much," Bucky says. Voice level, but something dark underneath. "It's not like you don't do exactly the same thing."
He takes another drag, doesn't even try to blow away from Sam this time.
"The hell I do," Sam shoots back.
Bucky stubs out his cigarette on the porch railing and turns to face Sam head-on, arms crossed over his chest.
"When's the last time you slept more'n four hours at a time, huh? Sat down for a meal? Showed up to one of those therapy sessions you're so insistent we all need? But sure, Mr. Runs Half-Cocked Into A War Zone With No Backup, I'm the only one in this house with a death wish."
"That's not- I work hard because it's my goddamn job."
"Oh, and that's all, huh? You can fool the rest of the world into thinking it's heroism, you can maybe fool yourself, but I know self-destruction when I see it."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck yourself. Or fuck me, I don't care, Christ, just stop pretending you're so different from me."
"Oh, so that's what this is about, huh? You just-"
That's when Bucky locks their lips together, licking into Sam's mouth with a tongue that tastes like ash.
It's not hot, Sam reminds himself in the shower that night, his hand wrapped tight around his dick. It's not hot, the way Bucky's throat expands on the inhale, the sensual release of tension in his shoulders when he has his first smoke of the day. The way Bucky needs it, the power it has over him. The smell of it clinging to his stubble. Sam comes with a gasp, still reminding himself that Bucky smoking isn't sexy as hell, not at all.
Torres calls them that night, something about a gun smuggling ring in Munich that might have ties to a Hydra splinter group. Bucky doesn't go for field work much these days and turns him down. Sam thinks about begging out of this one, too, but it's Torres asking, so he suits up and rolls out early the next morning.
He's gone for the next six days. It's one of those missions that chews him up and spits him out the other side, all long nights and spinning wheels that go nowhere, and he comes back not sure if he left things better or worse for having been in the field. But he tried, he tells himself. He did as much as he could.
It's one of those days when he's not sure that's enough.
He has lots of time to think on the way back to Delacroix, though. His head's full of ideas that swirl half-formed and then coalesce all at once. What he comes up with is a terrible plan, he knows that, but once something gets lodged in his head he's never been able to back down.
***
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Samuel?"
It's the first time Bucky's seen Sam in almost a week. He came home from babysitting Cass and AJ expecting a tender kiss, a desperate fuck, or maybe just Sam passed out on the couch with his still-packed bag on the floor next to him. What he didn't expect was Sam to be leaning nonchalant against the kitchen counter, an unlit cigarette dangling from his teeth.
Sam just grins, eyes all challenge. He lights it, puffs, swallows a cough. Tries to look casual about it, but Bucky can see his eyes water.
"Just showing you what it's like to watch your boyfriend try to kill himself over something so fucking stupid."
Motherfucker. Bucky glares at Sam with all the fire he can muster. Something flares in his belly. It's anger, first, then panic and shame that twist like knives deep in his gut. Sam's a danger junkie, Bucky knows that. He's known for years how Sam likes to flirt with death. But this is- No. He's not doing this.
Bucky stalks forward and plucks the cigarette out of Sam's mouth. Keeps his eyes locked on Sam's as he pulls as much as he can in a single drag. Does it desperately, like he's trying to suck poison from a wound.
"If you're tryna kill yourself, sweetheart, you're gonna have to inhale," he says, smoke seeping out between his teeth. He blows a cloud straight into Sam's face, acrid and sharp. Then he drops the cigarette onto the kitchen floor and grinds it out under the heel of his boot.
Sam's chest heaves. Bucky watches his carefully-crafted facade crack, flicker, re-form into something like defiance.
Bucky stalks out of the room. On his way he reaches around Sam to grab the mostly-full pack off the counter because fuck it, he was running low anyway.
***
"Aren't you going to bed?" Sam asks later that night.
It's a fair question. Bucky's usually asleep by eleven, and he rarely drags his body out of bed before nine. Sam would've thought that after seventy years in and out of cryo he'd be done spending so much time unconscious, but no, the man can sleep.
Instead Bucky shrugs. He curls up on the couch next to Sam and plucks a folder off of the coffee table. He flips through it, eyes not leaving the papers in front of him as he says, casual:
"Just showing you what it's like to watch your boyfriend try to kill himself over something so fucking stupid."
"What're you-" Sam starts saying, but he swallows it. He wants to snap, to tell Bucky he can fuck himself. But he recognizes the edge in Bucky's voice that means that no rational thought in the world could get him to back down from whatever stupid decision he's committed himself to.
Besides, Sam's got a briefing tomorrow, and he'd like to avoid pulling his third all-nighter of the week if he can help it. Putting up a fight wouldn't be worth the time.
So he rolls his eyes and settles back into his spot on the couch. He and Bucky spend the next four hours passing files back and forth in silence. Bucky doesn't make a move towards bed until Sam does, even when it's clear he's half-asleep and not comprehending a word he's reading.
It's bull-headed and infuriating is what it is. But Sam would be lying if he said it wasn't nice to have the company.
What really gets Sam, though, is when five o'clock the next morning rolls around and Bucky gets up and goes on Sam's morning run like it's something he does. He doesn't say anything about it, just laces his shoes and follows Sam out the door. Bucky keeps pace as Sam runs a six mile loop through the trails behind their place, his super-soldier endurance fighting against a mind that thinks running's the stupidest shit in the world.
It pisses Sam off, watching Bucky eye him like he's making a point. Like the way Sam treats his body has anything in common with the way Bucky treats his. So when they get home and Bucky stops for a smoke before going inside, Sam joins him on the porch. He smokes like it's no big thing, staring Bucky down to make sure they both know exactly what they're doing.
***
The next time Sam gets called in for field work, Bucky comes along. Doesn't say a word about it. Sam doesn't either.
The field work goes fine, until it doesn't.
***
"What the fuck was that?" Sam yells the second they're home.
"What the fuck was what?" Bucky replies, coy, like he's proving a point, and it's all Sam can do not to throw him through a fucking wall.
"You just blew six months of recon diving headfirst into a situation I had completely under control."
"You had seven A.I.M. scientists with unknown alien weapons pointed at your fucking head, Samuel, I'm not sure I'd call that under control."
"I had a plan!"
"Like you had a plan when you jumped out of an airplane over middle-of-nowhere Germany? Or a real plan?"
"Like a- fuck off. I was stalling, asshole. There were agents pulling files on the lower level - which you would've known, by the way, if you'd paid attention to the briefing - but no, you had to go all avenging angel and blow the whole thing to shit the second it got a little risky."
"A little risky? A little- Jesus fucking Christ, do you hear yourself?"
"Gun to the head is an occupational hazard. You do remember we're superheroes, right? Or did that also get scrambled out of your Swiss cheese brain? Hey, where the fuck do you think you're going, Buchanan?"
"I need a smoke," Bucky says before slamming the front door behind him.
Sam gives himself a minute. Counts to ten, breathes in slow and out slower, lets his heart rate drop. Then he follows Bucky outside.
Bucky's already halfway through his cigarette when Sam joins him on the porch. Sam crosses his arms and leans against the railing, tension radiating off his shoulders.
"Look," Bucky says, shoulders tense. "I blew the mission, I know that. But I don't regret it. I can't regret keeping you safe."
"Keeping me-" Sam stops, takes a breath. The air is thick and smells like cigarettes. Smells like Bucky. "Bucky, this is my job, and I'm damn good at it. I can't have you in the field if seeing me in danger is gonna set you off like that."
Bucky bites off an angry laugh. He grinds out his cigarette on the porch railing and turns to meet Sam's gaze. "You think seeing you in danger sets me off? How the fuck do you think I feel every time you're shipped out?"
"I-"
"I know, I know, you can take care of yourself. Save it. But you're- you're not invincible, sweetheart. You're not a super soldier, you can't just jump out of a plane without a parachute and expect your body to catch you. You can't. Yeah, I freaked a little seeing you in danger, sure. But that's nothing like how terrified I am every goddamn time you're out of my sight."
"Bucky." Sam steps forward, crowding into Bucky's space. They're not done with this conversation, not by a long shot. But right now clearly isn't the time.
"Sam, I'm-"
"Bucky," Sam says again, firm. Eyes him the way he knows will halt the spiral, like Bucky's a puppy that just peed on their carpet. "If you're gonna go all overprotective alpha dog on me, just do it. Claim me. Bite me, fuck me, make me smell like you, whatever. Do what you have to to prove to yourself that I'm home."
"I... Christ, Sam, if you're gonna talk to me like that I need another smoke first."
Sam shrugs, not stepping away. "Go ahead, then."
"I thought you hated it."
"I do. Now do it."
Bucky hesitates, eyes wide, but doesn't say another word. Just does what he's told. He averts his gaze as he lights another cigarette, takes a couple quick puffs to steady himself. Then he looks back at Sam.
"Good. Now mark your territory."
Bucky cups Sam's jaw with a tentative hand. He's gentle at first, thumb ghosting across Sam's lower lip, but Sam's eyes say do it and that seems to spur Bucky on. Bucky presses his thumb into the corner of Sam's mouth and Sam lets his jaw go slack.
Eyes still locked on Sam's, Bucky takes a long drag. He rests his hand on Sam's other cheek, so lightly that Sam can barely feel the filter brush against his stubble. He pulls Sam in, head tilting, eyes fluttered half-shut, and exhales into Sam's waiting mouth.
It's softer than when Sam's smoked before. Less acrid, like Bucky's lungs have smoothed the edges of it, taken the sharp burn and mellowed it in preparation for him. It tastes... good, fuck, Sam doesn't want it to taste good but it does, warm and sensual and like Bucky. So he breathes it in, filling up on it, holding it in as long as he can before letting it go with a moan.
"Good boy. Now do it again."
"Sam."
"Again."
So Bucky does. He takes another long pull, holds it in, smoke swirling in his chest, before brushing their lips together and breathing into Sam's mouth. Sam takes it, breathes deep, feels the softness settle warm in his ribcage, then lets it out with a sigh.
They smoke the rest of the cigarette like that. Sam's hot gaze takes Bucky over the same way the nicotine does, taking his free will and replacing it with irresistible want. They pass smoke back and forth lung-to-lung like it's something beautiful. Like it's something that could kill them, but it might also be the one thing keeping them alive.
***
The next morning, Bucky follows Sam to the makeshift training course they built on the back of their lot. It's been a while since they trained together, but if Sam's going to keep acting like a dumbass and forcing Bucky to follow him out into the field, he might as well get some practice.
Besides, this is one place where he feels confident he can call Sam's bluff.
They spar in silence for a while. It's nice, the physical exertion warming them up against the cool pre-dawn air, the way they fall back into their regular rhythm like they never left it. Like Bucky never swore off the whole Avenging thing and left Sam out to dry.
Then the sun rises and the humid air around them starts to cook. The heat gets to both of them, but to Sam especially, and he starts looking worn-out fast. Bucky keeps pushing.
"Come on," he says. Sam's hands are resting on his knees, but Bucky's still in a fighting stance.
Sam's skin shines with sweat and his breathing is labored. He waves a hand in a way that says Nah, man, I'm done.
"No. You want to match me, match me. Come on."
"Buck-"
Bucky cuts him off with a jab to the chest. It's not hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but it's enough to hurt. Sam glares.
"You want to show your boyfriend what it's like to watch you kill yourself? Come on, then, do it."
Sam lunges in, but it's halfhearted and Bucky blocks him easy.
"Captain America, letting himself get played by a chain-smoking geriatric. Pathetic."
Sam goes in for real this time. Throws a punch, gets blocked, and follows up with a kick to the side. Sam might be exhausted but his instincts turn back on fast. He's fueled by anger or adrenaline, Bucky's not sure which, but it doesn't matter. Bucky just needs him to fight.
Bucky just needs him to keep going until he passes out. Keep going until he sees how fucking stupid it is to try and match how Bucky uses his body. Keep going until he gets that they're different, man and super soldier, that Sam's body will always give out before Bucky's does. Until he understands that the only thing Bucky has on Sam is his body, the weapon it was turned into, this thing he can't destroy no matter how hard he tries. That Sam may always be smarter, faster, kinder, better than Bucky is, but at least Bucky can always give him this.
When they both collapse, Sam looks like he's halfway to heat exhaustion, and Bucky's not sure he understands much of anything. He's not sure either of them do.
***
NEW CAPTAIN AMERICA BLOWS IT AGAIN, the headline reads. Underneath: The Avengers failed to capture members of the anarchist weapons group A.I.M. in what an anonymous source says should've been a "simple intelligence operation..."
Sam's sprawled out on their bed, laptop in front of him. He skims the rest of the article. It's the same as usual, sensationalized headlines covering up half-assed research; not meant to be read so much as shared, to generate clicks and righteous indignation.
He gets to the bottom to find that the comments are disabled. Goes back to the search results and looks for another.
The next one has nothing to do with him, it seems, but he clicks through anyway. Rolls his eyes when he reads the first line: "Sam Wilson, take note! This is how you run a successful search and rescue!"
Nothing else about him, though, so he moves on. Pages through search results until he gets to an article titled WOKE FAIL: AVENGERS HIT NEW LOW AFTER JOHN WALKER CANCELLED BY THE RADICAL LEFT. And it's from Breitbart. Perfect.
He scrolls through the comments, letting the hatred wash over him. Every dirty, nasty thing that these anonymous strangers can think to say about him. That he's a fraud that can't hack it, that he never should've taken the Shield, all not my Captain America and this is what happens when the woke mafia shoves affirmative action down our throats.
It hurts, of course. But it also makes him angry in a way that jolts him out of his despondency. And it feels a little bit good, too, to see the alt-right cesspit throw their worst at him and know it's not half as cruel as the shit he says to himself.
"Healthy coping skills my ass."
Sam startles at the voice behind him. He moves to close out of the window but it's too late; Bucky's already in the bedroom, glaring at the screen.
"Part of the job," Sam says, defiant. "Have to keep up with public opinion."
"Like hell you do. That's what your publicist's for. Give it here."
Bucky grabs the laptop off the bed before Sam has the chance to resist. He stands beside him, holding it in one hand, and reads.
"'Walker was a hero for REAL America. If Sham Wilson loves this country he'll give the shield to someone who earned it.' Fuck, honey, what are you reading this shit for?"
Sam doesn't answer. He just stares at Bucky like it's obvious, and hopes that that covers up the fact that he has no idea how to put whatever this is into words.
"Okay, whatever. See for myself, huh?" Bucky types into the laptop with one hand, clicks around for a moment.
"Perfect. "FINALLY, PROOF THAT JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES IS A HOMOSEXUAL WAR CRIMINAL.' This should be good."
Sam moves to grab the computer back, but Bucky yanks it away.
"Nope, not a chance, Wilson. You do this, I do, too.
"Let's see... traitor, faggot, c'mon, that's not even creative, Jesus. Oh, this one's fun: apparently I'm a dirty anarcho-commie fascist who's balls deep in Vladimir Putin's ass. Anarchist and fascist, huh? Someone should really tell, uh, MAGA_STORMBREAKER_XIV that's not how that works. Yeah, this is great, I totally get why you do it." Bucky looks pointedly at Sam over the computer.
"Fuck off."
Bucky snorts. He closes the laptop and sets it on the nightstand. Looks down at Sam, head quirked.
"You want me to start reading hate mail over my morning coffee? 'Cause I will, if that's what we're doing here."
"It's not, just... fuck. Just leave it, okay?" Getting called out like this, not having the words to explain himself, it's humiliating. And, like clockwork, that humiliation is going straight to his dick.
"Sweetheart," Bucky says, something in his voice making it clear he's noticed the growing bulge in Sam's pants, "if you wanted someone to be cruel to you, all you had to do was ask."
Sam fixes him with his brattiest stare. It's fucked up, he shouldn't be getting off on this, shouldn't be reading this shit in the first place, and yet- and yet.
And yet Bucky's gazing down at him with eyes that say Come on, let me make you forget all that shit. Just say the word, Sam, and I'll drive every twisted thought out of your pretty head.
Sam tilts his chin up in defiance.
"You know I don't have to ask for what I want. I demand, you do as you're told. That's how this works."
"Demand, then," Bucky says. He cups Sam's jaw in one hand and gazes at him with a dark adoration that borders on sinful. It's a look that melts Sam's confusion away, leaving only white-hot need.
"Cock in my throat, now," Sam says, and that's all it takes. They've done this enough that Bucky already knows exactly what he's asking for. Bucky shoves Sam off the bed and onto his knees, pulls down his pants like he's been waiting for this.
Sam feels hands on the back of his head, holding him steady as Bucky presses his cock into Sam's open mouth. There's no foreplay, no fanfare, just a sudden hot fullness that wasn't there before. He can taste precum on the back of his tongue as Bucky fucks him rhythmically. It's not fast, just steady, a meditative in-and-out so reliable that Sam feels himself start to drift. Lets his jaw go slack, vaguely aware of the spit frothing at the corners of his mouth. Switches his brain off. Lets everything else fall away until it's just Bucky's cock pressing so deep down his throat he can barely breathe.
There it is, that suffocation he'd never admit that he needs. Bucky squeezing everything out of him until there's nothing left.
Sam's so deep in it he barely notices when Bucky comes. Hot bursts fill his mouth, foaming up at the corners, dribbling down his chin. His mouth's too full to swallow so he just lets it happen. Lets Bucky's rhythm slow until he's pulled out entirely and there's a sticky mess of spit and cum dripping down his chest.
Then Bucky's on his knees in front of him, and the hands on Sam's face turn tender. Bucky's kissing him gently, licking the mess off of his jaw, whispering something Sam can't quite hear.
"Huh?"
"I asked what I can do for you, sweetheart," Bucky murmurs. He kisses Sam's heavy eyelids one after the other.
"Already did what I told you," Sam says.
"I know, baby boy. But I want to make you feel good. Please. Will you let me do that?"
Sam nods, punch-drunk. But floaty as he is, he can still see the half-distracted way that Bucky's gnawing at his lower lip.
"What's wrong?" Sam asks.
"Just need a smoke, that's all. It can wait. This first."
"Wanna do both?"
"What d'you..." Bucky says, then trails off, head quirked to the side.
"C'mon, do both. I want that pretty mouth of yours on me while you smoke. Want you staring down my cock and a cig, not sure which one to suck on next 'cause you need them both so fucking bad."
"Jesus, Sam..."
"Shut up and do it."
Bucky's still looking at him like he's not sure what language Sam's speaking, but he complies. He always complies. He fishes a pack and a lighter out of the pockets of his crumpled jeans. Takes a cigarette between his teeth and gestures with his head for Sam to sit back on the bed.
Sam pulls off his pants and sits on the edge, legs dangling off the side, stroking himself idly while Bucky lights up. He watches Bucky's shoulders drop and his eyes glaze over as pulls in a deep inhale and lets it sit in his lungs.
"Good, huh," Sam says.
Bucky answers with a moan, blowing smoke up and away from Sam's face.
"Now imagine how good my cock's gonna taste with all that smoke in your mouth."
Bucky doesn't say a word, but Sam can see from the way his cock's getting hard again that this is doing something for him, too.
Bucky comes to kneel between Sam's legs. He rests his hands gently on Sam's thighs, cupping the right to guard Sam from the lit end, as always. Sam locks their gaze together, jaw set firm, and watches with satisfaction as Bucky's pupils eat at the blue-gray of his irises.
Bucky's gaze flickers down to where Sam's cock is hard and straining up towards him. He licks his lips, ducks his head, and runs his tongue up the shaft from root to tip.
Sam lets out an involuntary moan as Bucky works his mouth all over him, licking and sucking and scraping his teeth against tender skin just the way Sam likes. Bucky sucks the head into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue, doing things that white out the edges of Sam's vision.
He's about to take it all the way down when Sam fists his hand in Bucky's hair and pulls him back.
Bucky looks up, red-lipped and panting. It just takes a flick of Sam's gaze to communicate exactly what he's asking for.
Bucky brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag. He opens his mouth just enough for Sam to see smoke swirl on his tongue, a hint of it drifting out between his teeth, then breathes in sharp, sucking it down. Sam's breath hitches in his chest. Bucky dips down and takes the head of Sam's cock into his mouth, lips brushing against tender skin, and exhales around it.
A cloud of smoke wraps around him, soft and tender, warm from the fire in Bucky's lungs. It leaves him feeling buzzed and punch-drunk and absolutely filthy, and he wonders if he could come from just this, from the whisper of smoke on skin.
Sam groans, and Bucky does it again. He takes Sam deeper this time, almost all the way down, and the smoke is even hotter pouring up from Bucky's throat. Bucky coughs, just a little, and something about that goes straight to Sam's cock - something about the proof that this is maybe going to kill Bucky someday and he still can't stop.
It goes on like that. Bucky covers Sam's cock with spit and pulls off just long enough to take a short drag and puff and then dive back in. The bedroom fills up with the heady smell of sex and sweat and smoke. It's quiet but for the way Bucky gasps and chokes, underlayed by the steady rhythm of Sam murmuring that's it, honey, suck it down, you need it so bad, huh, just take it, fuck, right there, such a slut for this, you're filthy, so fucking hooked, that dirty little ashtray mouth of yours, fuck, that's it, don't stop, don't ever stop.
Sam comes with a shout, sharp and sudden. Hot bursts fill Bucky's mouth and Bucky breathes it all in, swallows, works him through the aftershocks with his tongue. When Sam finally settles Bucky licks him clean, blows a thin whisper of smoke onto Sam's cock like a parting kiss. Then he sits back on his heels and looks up at Sam with adoring, heavy-lidded eyes.
"Give it," Sam says, reaching out with one hand. Bucky passes him the nearly-smoked cigarette. Sam sucks the last of it down, pulls Bucky in with his free hand, and shotguns into Bucky's yielding mouth. Bucky takes it, but before he exhales he pulls Sam in close, kissing him fiercely. Smoke seeps out the cracks between their lips and it makes Sam pull him even closer, like he's trying to seal it all in.
"Fuck, Sam, that was... fuck," Bucky says, breaking apart and panting for breath. He takes the smoldering remains of the cigarette from Sam and grinds it out on the flesh of his thigh. Sam thinks about calling him on it, but decides against it. Figures they're a little past that point now.
Bucky drops the butt in the wastebasket under their nightstand and collapses into bed. He curls up in the crook of Sam's left arm, nuzzling into his chest. Sam rests a hand on Bucky's shoulder and thumbs it gently. Tries to focus on the warm bursts of Bucky's breath on his bare chest.
Sam usually drops quickly into blissed-out sleep after they fuck, but there's an itch under his sternum and he can't get comfortable.
"You okay, love?" Bucky asks.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam replies.
Bucky lifts his head and looks Sam over. His eyes flick down to Sam's hand, the way he's absentmindedly running his thumb between his index and middle finger.
"You need a cigarette, huh."
Sam groans and covers his face in his hands.
"Jesus fucking Christ, yes."
Bucky gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment.
"C'mon, then," he says finally. He rolls out of bed, pulls his pants on, and holds his hand out to Sam. Sam takes it, drags his body to standing, pulls his own pants up and follows Bucky to the porch.
They smoke in silence together for a while. For the first time Sam gets why Bucky does it. After a soft moment all the knots that are usually tied so tight in his chest start to loosen, one by one. There's a bit of a headrush, almost like when he's flying and gets a bit too close to the stars. And it's warm, sweet and sharp and bitter in his lungs. Each time he and Bucky exhale together, it's like they're building a castle around them out of clouds.
Bucky finishes first. He grinds the butt out on the porch railing, adding yet another scorch mark to the constellation of burns in the wood. He gazes out into the calm Louisiana evening. It's quiet but for the hum of cicadas and the occasional chirp of a cricket frog.
"Don't get sick from this, okay," he says after a while.
Sam quirks a smile. "Or what, sweet thing?"
"Or," Bucky pauses. Looks into the distance, shrugs. "Don't know. I'd kill myself, probably."
Sam leans in, knocking their shoulders together affectionately.
"You haven't managed that yet," he says. Bucky cracks a smile.
"Not for lack of effort, though, huh."
"Takes one to know one," Sam replies. He stubs out his cigarette out and loops his fingers through one of Bucky's belt loops, pulling him closer.
"Just... stay here with me," Bucky says, so quiet Sam can barely hear it.
Sam wraps his arm around Bucky's waist, brushes his lips against his temple, and says: "I'll stay if you do."
"Okay. I'll try."
"Me too."