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There are, frankly, a lot of things to like about the future. Cellphones are pretty close to the top of Bucky’s list, if he’s being honest. The internet at your fingertips. Texting. Ordering a pizza with nothing but three taps of your finger. And that’s before you even get into the dating apps.

Oh, it’s not- fuck, he’s not, like, ready to date, or anything, at least not with civilians. Bucky’s not even really sure what he wants, actually. He’s probably still too fucked up to try anything in person. But he’s got a lot of time on his hands, nowadays, and a cellphone, and a whole lot of curiosity about everything two thousand-sixteen has to offer when it comes to people looking to talk dirty and send him pictures of their abs.

He gets a lot of pictures of abs, and a whole lot of pictures of dicks. Even accounting for variation and the number of assholes that seem to populate Grindr, it’s a good time. Sure helps with figuring out some things, anyway. God bless the twenty-first century.

“Everyone’s always on their phones, these days,” Steve complains one evening, “nobody talks to each other anymore, have you noticed that? The kids are all playing Pokemon, or whatever,” and Bucky looks up from his screen, makes silent eye contact with Sam. Rolls his eyes, minutely, and sees Sam’s expression shift from impassive to silent amusement.

“Yeah, okay, pops,” Sam tells Steve, “you wanna try a bit harder to act your age? I don’t think you’ve mentioned your dicky hip yet today. Need me to fetch your walking frame?” That gets Bucky laughing out loud, unexpected, and when Sam glances back at him, his eyes are bright with the shared joke.

“Is that what you’re doing, glued to your phone all damn day?” Sam asks him a couple minutes later. “Pokemon?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Looks at the text he’s just received. yeah, baby, show me that thick dick, I can’t wait to see it. “Sure. Pokemon.”

“Right,” Sam says, obviously disbelieving. “What team are you on?”

“Valor,” Bucky tells him, because it’s real fuckin’ easy and kind of fun too to call Sam Wilson’s bluff. “Why, you wanna defend a gym with me, or something?”

“Nah, I’m cool,” Sam shrugs, “if we both start Steve’s gonna expire from outrage,” and ain’t that the truth, so Bucky lets Sam take point on distracting Steve while he slopes off to his bedroom and tries to figure out how to take a good photo of his dick without including the whole metal arm situation in the frame.

About a minute after sending the text (you like what you see, sweetheart?) his phone vibrates. Bucky yawns, idly palms his dick and reaches for his phone. Types in his passcode, settles in for a good old-fashioned night of twenty-first century sexting while giving away no identifiable information about himself.

why the fuck did you text me a picture of your dick, Barnes

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh fucking Christ, no.

holy shit i am so sorry, he sends hurriedly, wrong number i swear to god, and waits for the fall. Thirty seconds later his phone buzzes again. Sam, again.

seriously dude how on earth do you send a dick pic to a wrong number

Whatever. Bucky’s just gonna have to admit to it.

been talking to this guy whose name is Will. i thought my phone populated contacts by alphabetical order. turns out it’s most commonly texted. He thinks about it. Sends another text. we don’t have to talk about it or mention it ever again. for the love of god please don’t tell Steve.

no, man, we’re cool, Sam replies, and Bucky feels himself breathe, relax back a little against his pillows.

thanks, he types in. Thinks about what else to add, and while he’s hesitating, another text comes through from Sam.

you know, not that I’m criticizing or anything, but you can do better than that pic, Barnes.

Bucky deletes what he’s typed. what do you mean, he asks instead, equal parts ticked off and curious.

it’s not just about the dick, right, it’s about the lighting and angles. your fucking pose. don’t just yank your sweats down and snap a photo. you gotta make them want it.

uh huh, Bucky says, not sure this isn’t some kind of elaborate joke.

no, I’m serious. look, try it again.

Bucky stares at his phone, and blinks, and stares some more, as if maybe Sam’s most recent text will have transformed into something more reasonable in the interim. It hasn’t. Try it again, Sam’s telling him, and traitorous, Bucky feels his dick begin to get hard again at the idea of it.

really? he asks.

yeah. fuck it, try this. lift up your t-shirt, push down your sweats so they're out of frame, arch your hips a bit. i bet you've got ridiculous abs, right, you supersoldiers are so fucking jacked.

It seems like a simple enough instruction to follow. Bucky strokes his dick, wiggles his pants down around his thighs, pulls up his shirt. Snaps a shot. Yeah, okay, it is better than the last attempt.

this meet your high expectations? he asks.

not bad. try taking one with your hand in it. turn off your overhead light, you'll get nicer shadows with just your bedside lamp. That makes sense, Bucky thinks. Diffused light and all. He gets up, kicks his pants right off, flicks off the ceiling light. Yanks off his t-shirt too, because if he’s gonna do this he might as well do it, and gets back into bed, pulls the covers up over his legs. Thinks about what Sam's told him to do. He’s really hard now, his dick a little wet at the tip, and he drags his thumb through it, sighs under his breath. Holds his phone up with his left hand, thinking about angles, the shadows and lines of his body, and strokes his thumb again down the underside of his dick. Snaps a picture, and oh, oh, it’s good, it’s so good. He flushes hot all over with the idea that Sam’s gonna see it, all his desire laid open to see.

yeah that’s, uh. good job. that hip v, jesus christ.

you like it? Bucky asks, takes another shot, his fingers resting in the indent of muscle, and maybe it’s taking advantage of Sam’s teaching moment now but goddamn is it doing good things for him.

yeah i do. goddamn. take a wider shot, would you? Bucky does as he’s told, lifts his phone out higher so it’s capturing his shoulders, his hair wavy against his jaw, his mouth. Takes one picture, and then moves his hand from his dick to his chest, pinches a nipple, takes another picture just because. His lower lip’s caught between his teeth, head tilted back until he’s all sharp jawline and the long line of his bared throat, and Bucky has to take a minute just to look because he doesn’t really remember ever feeling like he could look this way, this laid bare and vulnerable and soft-wanting-hot.

fuck, you’re pretty. your mouth, god, Sam replies, and suddenly this isn’t just about teaching Bucky to do it right, this is- this is something, Bucky thinks, and knowing it makes his dick jerk in his hand like he’s about to fucking come. He takes the opportunity to switch hands, since it’s not like he’s gotta hide the metal arm situation from Sam or nothing, and there’s something about the juxtaposition of the matte black metal against his hard dick, the way he lifts his hips up into it.

metal fingers, huh. isn't that uncomfortable?

the old ones were. the plates were pinchy. new one's smooth-surfaced. good when I finger myself. He doesn’t even know why he volunteers that information; he’s never told anyone that, and apart from whatever this aberration is, it’s not like he and Sam are exactly close enough for him to be sharing how he likes it. Except-

fuck, that’s hot. i bet you look so good when you’re doing it.

He probably does. He’s never thought about it before, and all of a sudden he’s thinking about doing it in front of Sam, stretched out on display with his fingers working slickly into himself, and he has to stifle a moan, grip the base of his dick hard to stop himself coming right there.

so what’s the accepted rule on pictures while you’re coming, he asks, because fuck it, fuck it, he wants to know. Is it okay for me to show you exactly how good this is for me, is what he means, because, seriously, it is so good for him. He hasn’t been so turned on in literally seventy goddamn years.

it’s called a cumshot. you think you can make it pretty and artistic, go right ahead.

Artistic, Bucky thinks. Pretty. Switches hands again, spits into his palm, touches his dick slow and desperate. Thinks about Sam in his room, maybe hard, maybe touching his own dick. How he maybe likes Bucky’s mouth, his muscles, how he’s thinking about Bucky touching himself and looking good, and that’s it, Bucky’s shooting hot all over his chest, pulses of it spilling out and running down over his fingers, and he’s taking one picture, two, three, eyes closed and mouth open, gasping with how goddamn hot it feels.

He picks the best one, and it’s easy. His mouth, Christ, he practically wants to fuck it himself. Open and wet, lips bitten red and swollen, god, it’s wrong how much he likes it. His back is arched and his stomach is covered in come, hipbone sharp in the shadow of the soft light, and Bucky sends it to Sam, can't help smiling about it. Lifts his fingers dripping up to his mouth and licks them clean, takes a selfie all heavy-lidded gaze and come on his mouth, absolutely and deliberately as provocative as he can make it. Sends it before he can overthink it, reaches for his t-shirt to wipe himself off.

oh yeah that’s pretty as fuck. holy shit. you’re a quick learner.

got a good teacher, Bucky says, and hesitates, starts typing, pauses. Gives in, and finishes the message. so i showed you mine, you gonna show me what you got?

oh, you want that, huh.

He does. He does want that. He wants it so goddamn much.

yeah, he says, you’re goddamn right i do, and thirty seconds later, there’s a picture in his phone. Jesus. Oh Jesus, Sam is beautiful. He’s in a white A-frame singlet, pushing the hem up, one leg propped up and bent at the knee, and his dick, holy fuck, his dick. Bucky’s mouth is watering just looking at it.

jesus christ, i wanna get my mouth on that, he says, sleepy and over-honest from coming so hard, still lust-dazed, and there’s a pause, long enough he suddenly worries he’s fucked it up entirely. sorry, man,  i overstepped the li- he’s typing, when Sam texts him again.

get your ass in here and we can make that happen.

Yeah. Fuck yeah. Cellphones: definitely the top of Bucky’s Great Future Things list, for goddamn certain.