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This is terrible fucking news.
Growing up, Sam was taught that everyone had two genders, as is every child his age. The first one was your birth gender, either male or female. The second one was your presentation gender, which came later in your mid-teens, either an alpha, a beta, or an omega. Males usually presented as alphas or betas, while females usually presented as betas or omegas. Some presented as late-bloomers past their teens, while some didn’t present at all and remained null for the rest of their lives. That was how it always was, and that’s how it’ll always be. Simple enough.
Then Sam turned fourteen, and a few days after his birthday, the fever, the shakes, and his delirious state of mind were all signs that pointed to him being an omega. Two years later, weeks after his sixteenth birthday, Sam realises that he isn’t exactly male.
This gender shit’s confusing, he remembers his boyfriend at the time, a boy barely a year older than him named Murphy, telling him while they smoked pot in his bedroom. How so? Sam had asked him then, coughing around the hit and hoping he could air his clothes out before he went home. We’re supposed to just stick to these societal roles, right? Murphy said, I mean, what’s the point? I don’t feel like a dude, like, not really, not like my brother does. And my ma told me that I’m an alpha, which is cool, but being a male alpha just doesn’t sit right with me. I just wanna be... I dunno, myself, without the male part and the alpha part. Am I making sense, Sammy?
Not one fucking bit, Murph, Sam remembers saying, until later on, he’d realised Murphy’s point. Sam was comfortable with being masculine, which he’d only found out was a concept outside of manhood after Murphy told him, but he wasn’t comfortable with being a man. It was wrong, in the same way having to roll over and show his belly just to appease White folk was wrong, and in the way having to perform in society as the sweet househusband omega stereotype was wrong. Upon inspection, all of it was just wrong, so it wasn’t a surprise when things changed after that talk with Murphy.
First off, he’s never smoking pot again, because all he did was do some introspection and have a panic attack. Second, he was gonna look into all these genderfuck terms Murphy kept bringing up in their conversation, figure out what transsexual and genderqueer mean. Third, if queer and marginalised studies ended up not telling him enough about it, he’d do a deep dive for presentation studies on Black omegas.
Eventually, he gets himself figured out, the experiences of those before him helping him with the process. He learns that there are people who still identify with masculinity but outside of being men, like butch lesbians, nonbinary people, and gender nonconforming queer men who call themselves men but just aren’t. There are also people who don’t fit into the presentation binary, like betas in relationships with omegas, sex-repulsed alphas, and omegas becoming betas through gender reassignment surgery. He identifies with both of those concepts, genderqueer in every which way, and keeps it to himself because God forbid that a man like him ever wanted to be himself in White-puritan society.
(He finds out, a little later on, that Black omegas were medically classified as nonexistent and biologically impossible until the eighties, despite numerous studies—most forced onto them—showing that they did, along with numerous Black patients coming forth and telling doctors that they presented as omegas and want to be treated as such. It served as a reminder as to why his mom didn’t receive medical attention for any of her worse heats, having to deal with them on her own without help from doctors and nurses. It served as a reason why Sarah’s medical records had her identified as a beta despite her multiple requests to change it. It served as a warning not to trust doctors.)
Then he joins the Air Force, and it’s a goddamn fuck of a situation and a half since he’s not only Black but also an omega, so he’s introduced to the concept of taking heat suppressants and scent blockers for the first time. PJ training is gruelling, but dealing with heats and throwing off a sweet mango scent around alphas with White rage issues on top of that is a recipe for disastrous burnout, so he just pops a few pills, wipes a few gels, and hopes for the best.
That was about nearly two decades ago, over nineteen years ago for him and twenty-four for everyone else. Turns out, taking the same suppressants and blockers for over two decades isn’t very healthy, and coupled with the emotional stress and physical exhaustion of being Captain America, the social pressure of passing off as the country’s most beloved-unbeloved beta, and the dysphoria of everyone but his inner circle thinking he’s the poster-boy for male masculinity, it’s all a mess.
Looking back, he really should’ve noticed the signs. How his stamina’s been fluctuating from minimal to hyperactive depending on the hour, how he sweats bullets from doing the simplest of tasks, and how Bucky, the only alpha he sees regularly, has gotten all the more difficult to work with because of his suddenly overwhelming scent. Unsurprisingly, in the end, it isn’t him that realises what’s going on.
One day, on the flight back to DC after a mission, Sam finally snaps. “Man, what kind of scent blockers are you using?” He asks Bucky sharply, pinching his nose-bridge from the headache rolling through him in waves.
Bucky looks at him weirdly, confused as he pulls on his hoodie. “Uh, military grade? Like you do? Why do you—” he pauses, looking at Sam with a sharp, calculating look in his eyes while subtly scenting the air. “Oh. You’re in pre-heat.”
“What? No,” Sam scoffs, rolling his eyes. His skin prickles from Bucky’s scrutiny, hot under the layers of t-shirt and jacket— Christ, the air conditioning on this plane is fucking abysmal. “I am not in pre-heat, Buck. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Hm, sure,” Bucky says, scenting the air. Sam glares at him before closing his eyes and trying to will his headache away, then very nearly collapses in on himself in his seat when Bucky, out of nowhere, starts smelling of something warm and inviting, like freshly brewed coffee on a crisp fall day. It takes everything in him to not pounce on Bucky when he approaches, wiping his scent gland clean of the gel blocker. Ah, Sam thinks, incensed, that explains it. “Yeah. Not in pre-heat, huh?”
“Shut up,” Sam grits out, clenching his fists tight on his lap when Bucky lightly presses his right hand to Sam’s forehead. They really need to have a conversation about boundaries, but maybe after Bucky helps cool him down.
“You’re burning up. Did you miss pill day?” Bucky asks, sounding concerned, pressing the palm of his cool hand to Sam’s cheek. It’s far too tender and affectionate of a gesture, but Sam can’t think past Bucky’s overwhelming scent, his proximity to Sam, and the relief that comes with cold metal against his hot cheek. “Sam?”
“What?” He asks blearily, eyes a little droopy from the soothing scent. It’s unprofessional, he knows that, and Bucky’s right about his current state, terrible fucking news, so he needs to go isolate somewhere until he can get home, but Bucky just smells so nice and warm, something homey and cozy, so he just leans against the weight on his cheek and—
“Yeah, you’re gone, aren’t you?” He hears Bucky murmur, and somehow he’s got his whole face just smushed up against Bucky’s chest, breathing in that sweet, soft scent, and oh, this is nice, this is real nice. “Okay, if that’s how it’s gonna be. Let’s go, Sam.”
“Huh?” What? “Where are we going?” Jesus, it’s hitting him hard.
“I’m taking you home, pal,” Bucky tells him, lifting him into his arms with terribly attractive ease, “where you’re gonna be there to ride out your heat while I make sure you don’t hurt yourself from the severity. It’s pretty intense if it’s got you like this even though you take suppressants regularly.”
Sam, thankfully, surfaces long enough to be able to ask, “wait, what about you?”
Bucky looks at him, and Sam can’t see his face from how much he’s pressed up against Bucky’s chest, but he knows he’s rolling his eyes from intuition alone. “I grew up with an omega mom, omega sisters, and an omega best friend, Sam,” Bucky says, shifting his arms in a way that allows Sam more access to his scent gland, “trust me, I’ll be alright. I’m more worried about you right now.”
I’d trust you with my life, Sam thinks, and before he can say anything as embarrassing as that, the beginnings of a wave hits him and he groans, the pain sharp in his belly. He faintly registers things happening around him and people talking, but the scent Bucky’s giving off is still soothing, still relaxed, so he decides that he’s fine, he’s okay, he’s safe because Bucky makes him feel safe. He scents Bucky again, noses at the gland that has him smelling aromatic dark roast, and settles in Bucky’s arms.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs in his ear, low and soft like warm cocoa. Sam doesn’t know what Bucky did to get them to Sam’s apartment so quickly and so covertly, but he thanks whoever’s looking out for him—Bucky, if he thinks about it—for it anyways. “Gonna need your key. Where do you keep it?”
“Right front pocket, in my jeans,” Sam mumbles, lets up from nosing Bucky’s neck enough so Bucky can dig through his pocket and retrieve his key. “You couldn’t have just broken in?” He asks, impatient as the heat settles over him like an itchy fleece.
“I didn’t think you’d appreciate the loud noise, or having to fix your door later on,” Bucky says, holding Sam to his chest as Sam wraps his arms around his neck, free hand reaching out to open the door, “and I didn’t wanna wake you up before you got to your nest.”
Sam’s face heats up at that for a completely new reason, blushy and secretly, terribly excited at the prospect of inviting the alpha to his nest before he remembers that Bucky isn’t his bonded alpha, just his good friend and co-worker giving him a hand and taking care of him during his surprise heat. It’s enough of a disappointment that when Bucky seats him on the counter, which should be absurd because he’s a five-ten, two hundred pound person, he frowns.
“Your scent soured a little,” Bucky notes unhappily, moving his hand to place the scent gland on his wrist on Sam’s neck gland to coax him back into a good mood, the concern on his face plausible and sincere enough to make Sam sick with it, “are you feeling okay? Do you wanna go to your nest?”
The prospect of going to his nest, unmade and unorganised as it is, is something he knows he wants until he realises that Bucky probably won’t join him there, so he doesn’t reply, lets Bucky choose for him as he presses his nose back into his neck gland. Sam sighs in relief, relaxes even more when Bucky adjusts the state of his clothing to allow more space for Sam to scent him, and— listen. Sam’s always been a little gone on Bucky, longer than they’ve really known each other, and Bucky’s one of the best smelling alphas he’s ever met, and he’s having to deal with both of those facts while he’s going into heat, so he thinks he deserves some slack for being so clingy.
“Okay, come on, sweetheart,” Bucky says, good to him even though Sam’s uncharacteristically and probably worryingly silent, “you should go to your nest. I need to go pick up some things for you so you don’t gotta worry about keeping hydrated, alright?”
His scent sours even more at the mention of go, something closer to bland and bitter fruit than mango, so Bucky amends with, “hey, no, c’mon. I’ll only be gone for a bit, then I’ll just hang around here, check in on you between waves. Here, let me—” Bucky pulls back a little, shucks off his hoodie, and gives it to Sam. “Put this in your nest so you don’t feel like I even left. Alright?”
Sam, taking it in his hands, bites back the yes, Alpha that almost spills out because he’s not that far gone, but the instinct has him reeling long enough that he’s momentarily distracted while Bucky, phone and wallet in hand, heads for the door. “Wait, Bucky,” he calls out, anxious all of the sudden as he watches Bucky go, and when he turns around to look at Sam, he must see something on his face that has him wilting and going back to Sam, getting right into his space, and craning his neck enough for Sam to scent him.
Sam does so, breathes in deep and relieved, and thinks, fuck. Maybe being so repressed and heat-starved all these years wasn’t so good after all.
“Okay, I get it, I won’t go just yet,” Bucky says, bringing his hand to rest on the back of Sam’s neck like a comforting weight. “To your nest, then. Do you want help building it?”
“No,” Sam says, even though he’s sure Bucky knows the answer, but he appreciates the question anyways. “Can you just... stay close? Please?”
Bucky pulls away a little, taking the hoodie back to hold onto, and helps Sam down from the counter, all gentlemanly and polite about it like being around an omega in heat is bringing back memories of a different Bucky. “Of course, princess,” he says softly, and Sam fights back the desperate need to kiss him right then and there, “gonna let me see your nest, then?”
Sam nods, swallows a little nervously as he starts sweating even more, so he leads the way to his bedroom and opens the door, immediately frowning at how bare his nest is. The pillows and sheets are made up from when he got out of bed yesterday, and his hamper is empty of any used clothes from laundry day, so he heads over to his cupboards and pulls them open, picking out blankets and sheets and throws, choosing shades of blue and grey and white.
Turning to his bed, he arranges them as he wants; he spreads a heat sheet underneath the sheets for easier cleaning before moving onto the sheets, darker blues draped against the edge of the bed with lighter blues building the surrounding area, white throws spilling off of the sides of the bed, and grey blankets tucked along the pillows. Sam turns to Bucky, who’s watching him with great interest, and reaches out his hand, beckoning. Bucky gets the point and hands him the jacket, dark grey and drenched in Bucky’s comforting scent, and when Sam takes it from him, he allows himself a deep breath that he knows Bucky’s watching with rapt attention, before tucking it in between the pillows.
Sam inspects his nest, evidently built from instinct rather than expertise. He’d never really been one for nest building before, the military beating that desire out of him with suppressants and harsh training, but right now, he feels completely at peace in a way he hasn’t been familiar with since his late teens.
“Well,” Bucky says a little hoarsely, clapping his hands together, “I’ll be outside,” and before Sam can say anything, he’s out the door.
Sam groans the moment the door shuts, irritated with Bucky’s insistence on Sam having his space. “You know, you don’t have to be out there,” he says, “you could just stay in here.” His discomfort is steadily rising with the muggy heat radiating from his body, so as he talks, he strips off his clothes.
“It’ll be for the best if I keep my distance, Sam,” Bucky says, muffled and distant like he’s trying to stay away from the door itself. “I’m gonna go to the store and pick up some supplies, leave you to it. Your first wave’s gotta be coming soon, if it isn’t starting already, so just try to get comfortable and don’t leave the nest.”
Sam scoffs, ignoring his panic at Bucky leaving in favour of picking at his mother-henning. He covers up his nerves with his remaining senses, glaring at the door like he can open it with his mind and drag the alpha in. “Or what, you’ll use your scary alpha voice on me? Come on, man. Just come here.”
“Y’know that’s a myth, right?” Bucky asks, before opening the door slightly and poking his head inside to look at Sam. “Alphas don’t have an alpha voice. That’s just, like, a really overdone porn trope.”
“Since when are you a porn connoisseur?” Sam asks, raising a brow at him and trying to ignore the itching heat at the base of his skull when he looks at Bucky.
He shrugs, blasé like Sam can’t see the flush coming up Bucky’s neck and the exact moment when he realises that Sam’s naked, eyes immediately averting to the ceiling. “Since I figured out how to work a phone and incognito mode. The internet’s a great place, Sam.”
I beg to differ, Sam thinks. There’s a sharp jolt in his belly, his sweating kicking off again, and suddenly, the scent of coffee is so much more delectable than it already was. “Fuck, I- it’s starting.”
The door shuts almost immediately, and when Sam catches a glimpse of it, he sees something darken the underside of the doorway. Bucky’s stuffing something there, he realises. “If you need anything, uh, just call,” Bucky assures him, sounding rough, “I’m here for you, Sam.”
Sam writhes in the bed, swallows dryly as he rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face into Bucky’s jacket. “Anything, huh? That’s- oh, God. That’s a lot of power, Buck.” He grinds his dick and his hole against the sheets, spreading slick on them in search of satisfaction, and pulls at the pillows hard enough that he thinks he might tear them. “Shit. You wanna know what I need, Bucky?”
“Sam,” Bucky warns, but Sam doesn’t listen to it. Not when he smells the sharpness of that coffee scent, mixed in with something crisp and cool, and definitely not when he smells Bucky’s own arousal, evident even from behind a door and so far from him. Sam knows that, because of Bucky’s scent sticking to everything around him and how long it’s been since he’s had a full heat, his body’s going into overdrive. What he doesn’t know is why Bucky won’t just come in and take what Sam’s offering, because judging from the smell, he knows it’s not because Bucky doesn’t want it.
“What I need is for you to stuff me like a thanksgiving turkey, Buck,” he spits out, needy for it, grinding against his pillow a little harder, cock and opening catching on the soft material, “need you to wreck me like I know you wanna—fuck—so badly.”
“I’m not gonna knot you just ‘cause you’re in heat, Sam,” Bucky huffs from behind the door, sounding rough and mournful, “I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that. You’re just saying this now, but later—”
“For fucks sake, I’m in heat, not stupid,” Sam hisses back as another wave rolls through him, sending him shivering and leaking. “Goddamn you, Barnes, I can smell you from here, I know what I want, and I know that you want it too, so just- fucking, get in here.”
“Tough fuckin’ crowd,” Bucky says as he opens the door, and Sam perks up immediately and only barely moves aside enough so Bucky can clamber onto the bed, graceless and clumsy like he’s shaking with it, and it hits Sam then how controlled Bucky’s been this whole time. His pants are off when he gets there and he’s in the middle of stripping himself of his shirt when Sam rolls on top of him, sitting himself right on Bucky’s crotch.
“Hi,” Sam says, blinking big and bright like the cat that got the canary as Bucky shucks his shirt off and looks at him, flushed red and amused.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says right back, grinning, and he’s so annoyingly attractive about it that Sam just rolls his eyes and leans down, grinds his dick against Bucky’s cock through his briefs, and kisses him exactly how he’s been wanting to for—God—however long now. He kisses the moan right out of Bucky’s mouth, taking as much as Bucky wants to give, moaning back when Bucky’s hands run down the swell of Sam’s ass and his fingers dip into his wet slit, testing the waters.
“Fuck, God, Bucky,” Sam whines, almost knocking into Bucky’s jaw when he shifts to scent at Bucky’s neck gland, “please, please, I need it, I need it bad.”
“I know, princess, I know, come on,” Bucky coos, lifting his hips enough that he can shimmy out of his underwear. When he discards them to the side of the bed, Sam can see the wet patch from where he’d spread slick on it, but before he can succumb to the need to take it and add it to his nest, Bucky’s cock juts against his thigh like a question. “Come on, pretty lady, let me take care of you,” he says, the endearment making Sam a little dizzy with arousal, then, in a deeper voice Sam’s never heard from him before, “on your back.”
No alpha voice, my ass, Sam thinks hazily, scenting Bucky a little harder before he’s rolling off of him onto his back. He lays there on the bed with his legs spread apart, his own cock hard enough to beat nails and his opening leaking like a faucet. Part of him is glad that he’s only on the first day so the waves are less severe, but if Bucky doesn’t get around to actually sticking a knot into him, he might just end up killing him.
“Jesus, alright, just let me—” Bucky presses the head of his cock against Sam’s leaking hole, biting his lip at the feeling. “Relax, Sam, you’re so tense.”
“I’m tense because I’ve been waiting for you to fucking rail me through the floor since I met you, you jerk,” Sam groans, and okay, maybe he should’ve put a little more time and effort into putting together his nest because then he’d be less irate about everything, but Bucky is just right there, cockhead dipping into him, and he’s not actually fucking Sam yet.
“I oughta put a gag on you,” Bucky grunts, then, for fucking finally, he’s actually sinking into Sam, long and thick and hard, and it’s good enough that when Bucky slides into him to the hilt, he can forget for a sweet moment that he’s about to be fucked and knotted stupid by someone that came from an era that said why I oughta frequently.
Sam clutches the sheets hard with a drawn-out moan, especially when Bucky leans low and mouths at his scent gland, and Sam’s just a ball of sensitivity that the moment he feels the scrape of teeth, along with the feeling of being filled so thoroughly, he just loses control and comes immediately in a high, stuttering whine. Bucky murmurs something sweet, stroking him through it until Sam groans at the sensitivity, then he’s pulling out.
“No, no, wait,” Sam says, panting and shaking from it, “more, please, keep going- knot me, Buck,” and grinds back against Bucky’s cock, biting his lip in an attempt to stop the embarrassing noises he’s been making, but Bucky just continues kissing along his neck, avoiding the spot where the bond mark goes, and it’s a fruitless effort to stop his moans.
“If you’re sure, Sam,” Bucky says, kissing his bobbing Adam’s apple. He slides out just enough that he could pop out without any issue, then slams back in with enough force to rattle the bedframe, and it’s so much with Sam so sensitive and raw but it’s also so good and so relieving to just be filled, at the mercy of an alpha that knows and cares about what he needs. Sam knows, from Bucky’s sharp breaths to the rhythmic pistoning of his hips to the way he’s licking and sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck gland, that this is just as much for him as it is for Bucky.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky whispers against his skin, as Sam feels the hot tingling of his skin start up again, “I’m close, baby, real fuckin’ close.”
“Do it, in me, c’mon,” Sam coaxes, burying his hand in Bucky’s hair and pulling, his other hand coming around to clutch at Bucky’s side, the intoxicating aroma of coffee and mango mixing in the air. Sam knows he’s babbling with every thrust of Bucky’s hips into him, but at his current state, he just can’t bring himself to care. “Come on, Bucky- fuck, Alpha- give it to me, I need it, need you —”
With one last thrust, Bucky buries himself in Sam as far as he can go and growls from deep within his chest, pressing his face into the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam whimpers at the feeling of being filled even more, gasps when he feels Bucky’s knot swell just past the folds of his hole, and it’s almost enough to send him careening over the edge but just not —
Bucky immediately reaches down, grasps Sam’s cock, and jerks him off fast and firm, strokes him with his calloused, slick-wet palm until Sam is gasping and moaning and sobbing. He comes again, adding to the existing mess on his belly until Bucky’s hand stills, still holding onto his cock like he could fit it all in his one hand. Sam’s not small, closer to a beta’s average than other omegas, but compared to the inflated quality of Bucky’s cock in him and his big hands, he feels so contentedly small.
“Got what you wanted, princess?” Bucky hums, kissing all along the skin of Sam’s neck. Sam laughs, dazed and foggy as he strokes Bucky’s hair.
“Mm, yeah, I did,” he murmurs, trying not to squirm when Bucky’s knot twitches in him. He mutters a sorry to which Sam says, “don’t apologise. I’m glad that it was you.”
“So, you mean it?” Bucky asks, lifting his head slightly to look Sam in the eye. He’s a sight with his impossibly dilated eyes, rosy red cheeks, and kiss-swollen lips, a sight Sam’s happy to commit to memory forever.
“Mean what?” He asks, smiling at Bucky. He’s on a different plane of reality, contentedly out of it and full of happy, temporarily satisfied hormones, even though he knows they’re more subdued because of their unbonded status. He’s not all that bothered about it, knows that he wants to be able to talk to Bucky about what they’re doing in a more clear-headed setting.
“That you’ve been wanting me to rail you through the floor since we met,” Bucky says amusedly, grinning impishly but with an undertone of sincerity that matches the soft, delicious scent that now permeates the whole room.
Sam laughs, hiding his face in Bucky’s neck, scenting him all while he chuckles. “Oh my God, that’s just— you are horrible.”
“No, c’mon, I’m not kidding,” Bucky tells him, but he’s laughing too, something Sam can feel more than hear because of his knot still locked in Sam. “Did you mean it? Honestly.”
“Yes, you goof, I did mean it,” Sam concedes, kissing Bucky’s neck, “trust me, it was very confusing and irritating how much I wanted to fuck Steve’s annoying ex-murderbot best friend.”
“Aw, geez, don’t talk about him here, I can’t handle that right now,” Bucky laughs, to which Sam pinches his muscled side slightly.
“Oh, sorry, am I harassing your delicate sensibilities?” Sam teases, and that’s apparently all he needed to do for Bucky to lean forward and kiss him softly, sweet and savouring it like he’s trying to make up for wasted time, and all Sam wants to do is fall into it, so he does.
When they part, Bucky sighs against his lips, content and happy with it, judging from the look on his face and his scent. “God, I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”
“You’ve been holding out on me, Buck?” Sam asks, smiling as he kisses the tip of Bucky’s nose. “Shocking. You’ve never done that before.”
“Shut up, you’re not funny,” Bucky says back, grinning so hard that it reminds Sam of how he smiles when he visits Delacroix. He kisses Sam’s jaw, all gentle and tender about it. “Hey, was what I was calling you okay? I know we didn’t really discuss it.”
“Mhm, it was okay,” Sam murmurs, Bucky’s ministrations to his jaw reminding him that he’s still holding onto his cock. “Really okay, actually. How’d you know I liked to be called those things?”
“I guessed. I can’t say I get all of it, but I get enough to know you like being called a pretty lady sometimes,” Bucky says, and that presses a button Sam hasn’t had anyone press in a long while, something Bucky picks up on almost immediately. “Oh, you like it, huh, sweetheart? Like me calling you my pretty lady?” He licks close to Sam’s scent gland, wrenching a moan from him. “How about babygirl? Honey? Sweet-cheeks?”
Sam laughs suddenly, even as his cock pulses in Bucky’s grip. “Oh my God, maybe not sweet-cheeks, but,” he bites his lip, grinning, “the others are fine. More than fine.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna hear your own name for a while then, babygirl,” Bucky says lowly in his ear, and really, Sam can’t think of a better outcome to his terrible fucking news.
“Damn. I kind of underestimated how long a knot lasts.”
“You’ve never been knotted before?”
“Nope, never had it inside. It’s okay, you can soak it up.”
“I’m not. I’m just honoured and happy you chose me.”
“Oh, please. Since I met you, it was always gonna be you, one way or another.”
“That’s... well.”
“Oh my God, please don’t cry while your dick is in me. I think that’s gonna fuck with my hormones.”
“I’m not! I thought the same, and I’m, well, I’m not crying, just tearing up. And tearing up your—”
“You’re banned from the internet. Forever.”
“Mhm, okay, sure, pretty girl. Now shush, rest up. I’ll be here while you do.”
Sam sighs, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “Thank you.”