Archive of Our Own

“Shh,” Bucky hushes him as if he doesn’t have more than enough fucking reason to be kicking up a fuss, making a noise, and twitching in place. “It can’t even be that bad, yet,” Bucky razzes him, his voice a delicious, dark timbre tainted by the predatory smile that’s just starting to take hold of his wicked mouth. His fuckin’ voice sounds as good as his hands feel, which doesn’t make any goddamn sense but it doesn’t matter ‘cause Bucky always drives him out of his mind and he has since the day they met, all those years and near-literal lifetimes ago. 

Here and now, his familiar lover’s got Steve caught between a rock and a hard place, slowly, agonizingly teasing a tight, silicone penis pump cushion down his cock, twisting it on like it’s a fucking rubber o-ring and he’s got a leak. Which. Flicking his eyes down, lower than his heaving chest, Steve decides isn’t that far off, somewhere between amused and too turned on to understand his own comparison. It doesn’t matter. It’s just—

Fuck. 

Steve bites his lip, the smooth, tight glide of the cushion moving down his shaft to rest around the base of his hard cock is good. A high sound comes tumbling out of him when Bucky’s fingers take ahold of the ring and twist it around his cock. “Uuunggh,” Steve makes an involuntary noise as the sensation tangles itself around his exposed nerves, it’s somewhere between the familiar feeling of having a hand around his cock, squeezing, and a completely foreign experience ‘cause the friction is the wrong way around. Twisting clockwise, not dragging up and down. His body doesn’t know what to do about it. He wants to thrust into it but his muscles won’t. It’s pulling. The friction is a little too dry but that just turns up the heat—friction heat and arousal and yeah. 

It doesn’t matter. The confusing, arousing sensation is gone faster than it arrived anyway, replaced by the much smoother, much more normal drag of Bucky’s flesh and blood hand—slick with thick, nostalgic petroleum jelly—over his hard dick. Wetting him up. Fucking his fist over his cock. Stripping it until he feels his heartbeat throbbing in his erection and he’s glossy with the lube everywhere. 

Oh.

“Christ, Buck,” Steve bites out, dragging his teeth over his fat bottom lip as he’s jerked faster. The wet sounds of his fist over his hard flesh is obscene. And as much as he’d never admit it out loud, just the smell of petroleum jelly winds him up. It’s all they used to be able to get their dirty paws on, back in the day. Modern lube is, naturally, better, wetter, and all, but that doesn’t mean that Steve doesn’t like a blast from the past. 

Yeahhh. 

Steve was already fuckin’ hard, just from being strung up and restrained like he is, he doesn’t need more help but, fuck, he can always want more. Why the hell not? He can be roughed up more, manhandled more, touched more, turned on a little more standing in their extra bedroom turned into a dungeon, the room soundproofed because Steve’s sensitive as hell, and he can’t help but scream often sometimes. His wrists are ensnared salaciously by padded, vibranium cuffs and tied together to be held high above his head. His trapped wrists are anchored to the ceiling with more vibranium, this time crafted into a heavy chain that pulls on the sturdiest part of the room—the underlying structure of their home crafted to protect two high-value super soldiers from intruders. Steve could, maybe, if he really, really tried to get away, rip the ceiling down, pulling the chain from its anchor point, but he won’t. He doesn’t want to get away. And that’s a hell of a lot of work when he could just be here, dangling, whimpering high in his throat, feeling all his smarts melt away in favor of molten desire.

The combined handcuffs and chain are short enough to stretch the toned, muscular length of Steve’s impressive body, leaving him scrambling on his toes. Stretched and displayed, Bucky is eyeing him, looking like he’s one absolutely tiny thread of self-control away from tearing into him like a starved lion spotting the weakest of the flock. Jesus. Steve squirms just a little, for the time being, he still is aware enough to know how close he is to dislodging his purchase on his toes. His abs are taut, flat, smooth, and pulled enough to tremble; his chest is heaving and his nipples are hard, obvious targets for Bucky’s cruel, perfect torment; his skin is flushed rosy, blushing with his entire body, he can’t help it, his body does as it does, burning with color yet healing and fading the marks from earlier already. Steve’s painted with them alongside his hungry fever—loving, bruising bites from Bucky’s mouth across his neck and decolletage, mauled by him. 

His hand goes faster, faster, tighter around his cock, dragging pleasure out of him by force. Adding more slick, smearing it lewdly across the head of his dick, then slicking it down to the base of his cock, pressing right up against the silicone cushion still wrapping enticingly around the base. 

Steve whimpers, foggily thinking about what Bucky said earlier as he stews in his simmering arousal. Weakening. Cooking. It is that bad so far. 

It’s so good and so dirty. 

Steve can’t do anything but squirm, but he can’t squirm too much, either. If he’s not on his toes, then he’s hanging from his arms and he’s really admitting defeat—confessing that he’s so desperate to give it all to Bucky that he’d hang himself for him, pulling his arms from the sockets, a perverse yet just as holey crusification. Done all for the religion of his lover. Steve’s not getting anywhere for his troubles, pinned in place, practically just shivering. He’s no threat like this. And that’s the point. 

Still, Bucky hums, “just take it, just take it,” the words are told to him low and hot, adjusting the silicone cushion one last time, pressing it down as far as it goes. 

Steve vibrates in place like a struck bell. 

He’s pressing it down. He’s twisting it again. He’s pulling it up and pressing it down. 

“Ah!” Steve gasps.  

Bucky worries the cushion, playing with it, working it and working it, getting bolder and more demanding with how he tortures Steve’s trapped cock until the silicone ring pulls on his scrotum, stretching that exact point of connection between the underside of his cock and his balls where it’s so tingling and painful for him to stress the skin. Steve can feel himself start to sweat, his body kicking into overdrive. AH! Bucky’s doing it just because he knows it’ll make Steve’s mouth fall open and his brows drawn together, and it does, it does. 

After a moment of poignant agony, Bucky slides it tightly back to where it’s supposed to be. Steve just takes it. It’s all he can do, sweating and making helpless little sounds in his big, broad chest. 

Bucky taunts him for a while longer after the ball-stretching is done, stroking his dick, getting him a little harder, a little harder, a little harder still, squeezing his shaft appreciatively as he feels his dick stiffen. “Eager are we?” He smirks, devilish. 

Steve grunts, trying his best not to show how close he is to his knees already. It’s Bucky’s fault he’s so fuckin’ hard. And they’ve just started. How is he this soaked in sweat already-? When Steve manages to pull his eyes down, he’s fucking glistening in the dim light. He’ll blame it on the demanding positioning, arms up, balanced on his toes, needing to be perfectly composed and making him sweat—it should be a cakewalk for a super soldier, but he won’t think about that now. 

Unsatisfied with his first reaction, Bucky growls, bating him into another by flicking his nipples with metal fingers and telling him, “shit, that’s a pretty picture, Rogers. That hot cock and these blushing fucking nips, anyone ever tell you this body was built for bad, bad things, baby?”  

The way that word—okay, all those words, but mostly that one word—falls outta his mouth, Brooklyn smooth and sexier than anything: Baby. Steve can’t fucking take it. Fuck his stupid, pretty mouth. Steeling himself against it, barely not letting out a loud and obvious moan, Steve tilts his hips precariously toward Bucky. The last of his grit forced out between his teeth, something akin to a laugh grating his throat as he claims, “yeah, you.” 

And for as right as Steve is, his challenge gets him nowhere. Bucky’s lips simply pull into an even broader Cheshire grin, “mmm-hmm,” he agrees, “I have, haven’t I?” The sorry bastard’s talking as he paws rudely at Steve’s thick obliques, tracing down his tapering body from his thicker lats to his lean, stretched abdominals and squeezing them. 

Just that greedy touch and Steve feels himself turn into nothing smarter, nothing sweeter than a ripe peach beneath his lover’s fingertips. He’s bruising. All tender flesh, dripping juice, waiting for teeth to sink in and take a bite. 

Fuck. 

“And you know me,” Bucky twists one of his perky nipples, “I’m always right.” 

Steve tries to snort—fat chance, he’s always right—but it comes out strangled and weirdly breathy against the sweet pain in his sensitive nipple. Yes, he wants to gasp, that feels so good, the sensation shooting from his chest straight to his fucking dick.  

“In another life, you’d be a pornstar, honey,” he says it like it’s not a terribly objectifying statement but instead is the sweetest, sweet-nothing, whispered in his ear and rubbed up against his cheek like expensive velvet. 

“I—” Steve tries to protest but the image of that first, propagandistic Captain America outfit comes to mind. Quickly, he’s swept up in imagining all the low-budget, weird government-issued porn that they could’ve made and distributed to boost morale if society were a little less polite and more gay. Ha. But, the amusing (and very embarrassing) thought is quickly overtaken and burned away by a shocking rush of pleasure when Bucky cups his hard, cold metal hand against his cock and balls, pushing them against the searing heat of his body to make him fucking taste the contrast. “AH!” He gasps, shrill. 

His head spins, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He just keeps pushing, having him spin faster and faster. “Shit, a cock like this?” Bucky licks his lips, fondling him, tracing infuriatingly gentle paths with his featherlight fingertips up and down his shaft, cupping his balls, sneaking back to press once against the plush flush of his perineum, and barely squeezing all of him in one hand, making Steve need to focus to even realize what’s being done to him. It’s maddening. “You don’t even need enhancement, could just be on screen exactly like this—” Bucky lets him go, his balls left to hang and his shaft twitching, dripping hungrily “—fuckin’ for hours without pause. You’d be the studio's fuckin’ stallion, honey.” 

“Buck,” Steve swallows the spit pooling in his mouth. He’s beyond desperate. He doesn’t have a word for how much he wants to be touched, like, really, really touched for real, not whatever this is. He could cry.  

“That’s right,” Bucky sneers, cocky as shit, “I don’t even think you need it. Hell,” he laughs, his face doing that thing that never fails to make Steve melt instantly, dark and charming and predatory all at once. He’s too fucking handsome. Equal parts gentleman courting him and ruthless hunter tracking him down come sun, rain, or show. “I know you don’t need it. You don’t need any help, Stevie, no pump, little blue little pills, fluffer, or anything. You’re a fucking bull anyhow.” 

His words are a knife to Steve’s throat, forcing his heart to speed double time and making his brain dump adrenaline into his system. He’s panting. Dizzy. Yet, he never wants it to end. 

He isn’t totally sure how he’s still holding himself up. How is he still on his toes? Is he? He can’t tell. He can’t think beyond the tangled, fraying knot of lust deep inside him. Somehow he’s both glowing with praise—Bucky says he’s a fucking bull, a bull, big and virile like some beast milked for his pricey semen, his genetic perfection used to breed heifers and build the next best generation—and molten with humiliation. He’s strung up, displayed, he’s… 

He needs. 

He’s so fucking needy he’s all but weeping. 

That need, that humiliating distress and display, hits Steve so fucking hard he sways in place, his strong quads trembling and pulling, trying but failing to keep him where he is. He’s unsteady in every sense of the word. 

He wants it. He doesn’t need the pump. He does need it, though, too. He wants it and he wants it so fucking bad that it’s near indistinguishable from a need. 

He needs.  

The fucking thing’s right there! 

When he manages to pull his eyes back from rolling and pries open his eyelids, he can see it. It’s sitting there, off to the side with the rest of the supplies for this scene. It’s begging to be used. This is its only purpose! Let it be used! It wants to be used! C’moooon!  

Steve’s cock is throbbing so much. He wants it. He wants to feel it so bad. 

Worse than just wanting the pump and being tortured without getting it, now, his cock is so tight and stiff and it just needs to be touched but Bucky isn’t doing it. He’s not even touching his nipples directly anymore! He may as well not be touching him at. all. 

Fuck.  

Instead of touching him how he wants, he’s uselessly circling his nipples, getting distracted by the cut of his serratus anterior as they blend into his external intercostal muscles, tracing the stairstep up to his armpits until he uncontrollably shies away. He’s ticklish. But Bucky doesn’t care. He’ll do whatever he wants to Steve, knowing Steve will take it. Gritting his teeth, that’s what Steve reminds himself of, take it. His fingers land on the sharp line of his collarbones, dragging across them to leave evidence behind—a pink line, digging into his flesh with his nails. 

Steve whines, “Buh- Buck,” and he licks his lips, his wet tongue hot against his raw, swollen lips, “please.” The last word tumbles out of his mouth without his sloshing mind catching up. It just comes out. He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t beg. 

Bucky latches onto it immediately, though. Of course. “What was that, baby?” 

The sound of his voice breaks the dam. Just like that. It doesn’t take anything else, he’s so fucking weak for this. “Please,” he gasps, feeling crazy, “please, please, please—”

“What’re you begging for?” Bucky grabs his jaw, fingertips viciously biting into the sharp cut of bone, “tell me,” he growls, “what do you want?” 

“Put it on mee,” he whines. Whenever he tries to talk, his voice gets higher, needier, and more pathetic. 

“What,” Bucky pushes literally and verbally, shoving their heaving, sweaty chests together, “what’m I putting on you?” 

“The-the pump,” he stutters, “want it. Please? I want it.”  

“Mmm, I don’t know…” Bucky says, aloof and considering still ‘cause he’s a son of a bitch. Oh, and he also shoves his thigh up against him, making him grind tightly against it.

Guh.

As Steve helplessly fights to rut and hump and feel the most pleasure he’s been allowed in what seems like decades, Bucky patiently tells him, “I don’t think you need any help down here, gorgeous.” 

A sharp, wordless cry leaves Steve, thrown out by the violent, shivering arch of his back. Bending the best he can, restless, as droplets of sweat roll down the indented line of his spine, “Buck!”

“Again,” Bucky softens, “just one more, Stevie, c’mon.”

“Please.” 

With his demands met, Bucky makes sure, excessively sure, the pump cushion is in the right spot (because he’s an asshole), twisting it around the base of Steve’s dick until he gasps, eyes watery, then—and only then—he wipes his glistening hands, flesh and metal, off on a nearby towel, and finally does it. He begins to sliiiiiide the clear tube of the pump down to encapsulate all of him. 

Pulse racing, Steve doesn’t know if he wants to watch the rest of it happen, he’s already cross-eyed from staring intensely as Bucky teases the body of the pump down so slowly. Does he want to know when the first spike of pleasure is coming or not? He can’t even begin to decide. 

So, he looks, he doesn’t, he looks, he doesn’t, he—

Abruptly, Bucky unmercifully squeezes the hand pump with his metal fingers and palm. The plates in his arm rev mechanically, making Steve’s dick twitch on its own, no assistance or touch needed. Immediately, he feels the crashing, sweet, dull ache of his thick, hot blood being pulled into his cock. 

Oh, god.

Steve’s brain swims—drowns—deeper in its pool of dopamine. He opens his mouth to moan when Bucky pumps again, squeezing like he’s using a grip strength trainer engineered for a normal man, not an enhanced one. Bucky is completely unbothered as he makes sure the seal is good and, uh, fuckin’ sealed? Whatever he’s doing, testing the pump. It doesn’t matter because rather than a moan, what comes out of Steve at the barest hint of pleasure is a mortifying, whimpering cry of his lover's name, broken in the middle and again at the end when his voice cracks.  

Holy fuck. 

The pump draws blood into his dick without the mental shift of his arousal deepening—it happens entirely without his body doing it so it makes it feel all the more rare and intense. What the fuck. The sensation is… fuck. It’s like lava is traveling through his body, being forcibly pulled into his sensitive cock. It’s good and shocking and—

“How’s that, Rogers? Does that make your big, handsome cock feel nice?” Bucky questions, knowing exactly how meanly his smooth, easy-talkin’ drawl full of butch compliments contrasts with Steve’s current weak, stripped-down state of being. No matter how big and muscular this body is post-serum, he’s vulnerable as hell right now, handcuffed and on his tiptoes, all but literally rolled over to expose his pale belly and throat. Bucky could do anything he wanted to Steve right now and Steve wouldn’t be able to stop him. Guh. The thought has his eyelids drooping heavily. Whatever he wants. 

“Nnngh,” Steve whines, giving his most coherent response to his probably rhetorical questions. 

Okay, now he’s definitely shifting gears with another pump, falling into the siren call of arousal clumsily—his engine clanking and stuttering as he pulls the shifter sloppily. He’s so fucking turned on it’s impossible. Desire is ripped from his body and arousal is triggered in his brain. It’s a flood. 

“Thought so,” Bucky hums, satisfied, petting his hip with his organic hand, unhurried and unbothered whereas he’s reduced Steve from his most hardened, impenetrable, stubborn state to his most needy. His most messy and raw where he’s hanging his head, chin to chest, staring through glassy eyes that turn his vision so blurry it’s practically useless. He might as well not see. It’d make this all easier anyway, he thinks. But he can see, so he sees and he stares, his head empty, peering down at his cock through the clear walls of the pump like a feral animal enclosed. He was hard already, now, three—

OH!

—Four pumps in and he wants to touch his cock. 

He wants to touch his cock so fucking badly. He wants to touch it more than he even wanted to before and he really fucking wanted it then, so what does that say about now? It’s so hard not to crave touching himself when he can’t, regardless of the stimulation. There’s never a time he’s more desperate to jerk off than when his hands are taken away from him. So with his hands out of the question and his cock being pulled and ripped and forced into a harsher kind of hardness-? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he isn’t sure he can take it. 

“Mmmmnghh,” Steve gurgles through a stupid sound—the audible scramble of his melted brain exiting his lips. 

His body shakes. 

Staring down the evidence of his thoughtless, dire lust, Steve doesn’t know what’s worse, when Bucky cages him up, making it so he can’t get hard even if he wanted to, even if he tried to by thinking of the most perverse shit, or when Bucky pumps him like this, making him harder and harder and harder without his body having to work for it. Either way, it’s the same in that it’s a forced feeling without touch. Bewitching as having an electric, magical spell placed on him so it isn’t him but Bucky orcastrating his body. A cage, a pump, it’s, it’s… they’re, just, too much by virtue of not being enough at all. It’s maddening. It’s a true fucking mindfuck. Nothing is touching his cock but he can’t touch it. He’s so hard. No matter how much his right fist clenches in its bonds, desperate to drag hotly up and down his dick until he reaches the peak of pleasure and spills all over himself, he can’t reach down and caress his aching, throbbing cock. He can’t twist on the upstroke. He can’t roll his own balls in his hand. He can’t thumb his dripping slit. He can’t squeeze the base to stretch out the pleasure for just a little longer, panting and puppyish. He can only stare dumbly, drooling, at his imprisoned dick and yearn. 

“Fuuuuh,” Steve exhales, “fuck.” 

Bucky chuckles darkly at the predicament he’s folded Steve into, bending him in tangled knots and yet stretching him out thin, too.

Another ruthless pump and Steve throws his head back, whining. 

Pump.

Moaning.

Pump. 

Keening.

Pump. 

Wailing. 

Jesus Christ, it might as well sound like he’s being murdered with how his arousal is harshly cutting out of his throat, but he can’t help it. It’s lightning striking him down; it’s fire burning him to ash; it’s lava destroying him, lust and pleasure inhabiting his flesh and blood body unforgivingly. 

“Should keep you like this more often, pornstar, it’s a good look on you,” Bucky threatens, lips and teeth and tongue curling erotically over the words just for Steve’s ears. He’s fucking cheerful and sunny, an executioner with a smile. 

Steve whimpers, twisting in his bonds. He wants Bucky to kiss him, he wants Bucky to step on him, he wants Bucky to p—

Pump. 

Pump. 

“Ahhhh,” Steve gasps and strains, lifting higher on his toes, throwing his head back, really squirming like he wants to get away now. As if he could get away. He can’t. Still, Steve’s aching to crawl out of his skin, thrashing, writhing, he feels like he’s going to fucking explode. Somehow, he’s too big for his big, muscular body. Fighting for space. Short of breath against the onslaught of need inside him, fattening up his dick and taking over his muscles and bone and blood. 

Oh god. 

Pump. 

“Is that enough for you, baby?” Bucky rumbles, either responding to nothing or pretending how Steve incoherently squirms looks like a shake of his head. Who knows, it might even be an exact side-to-side shake. Steve can’t get himself together enough to know fuckin’ anything. Just Bucky. Just this. Just the pressure. “No?” Bucky strokes a hand through his hair, talking down to him, “you need more? Aw, well, okay, if you insist…” 

Pump. 

Pump. 

Pump. 

Each fucking jump in pressure, squeezing his cock tighter, forcing it harder despite anything his mind and body might have to say about it, leaves Steve unspeakably, unbelievably overwhelmed. He’d be hard enough to pound diamonds without the penis pump so with it, it’s fucking insane. There’s nothing to compare it to. It’s pressure beyond description. Intangible. He’s crying, he thinks—maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, it’s hard to tell what the hell is going on when he’s consumed by looking down between his legs, staring at it, watching the inferno blaze, burn, and crackle. Steve’s totally transfixed by it, he wants to curl up around his engorged cock, sobbing. He’s so big. He’s so swollen. So red, almost purple. It feels—it looks like he’s gotten the serum all over again. Rebirthed and transformed, this time in the name of his lover— all for him.  

Everything is for him.

Bucky. 

It’s a goddamn mindfuck! His body, ohh, his body. Fuck. Steve can’t take it. His brain dripping out of his ears with the same molten heat that he feels when Bucky fucks his ass loose and sloppy, cumming inside him, pulling out, and letting him drip, all messy and hot. But it’s his brain. Fuck. He can’t keep anything straight, not even his eyes that keep rolling up into the back of his head. 

“Now that you’re good and hard…” Bucky’s grin is smarmy. Yeah, hard, rock fucking hard. “We can really get to playing,” Bucky dares to say as if they weren’t already playing. Bastard. Just making him feel weaker and weaker, peeling back all his layers, his skin and muscle, to find bone. The same bones he had before all of this when they were just kids in Brooklyn.

Steve aches and throbs down to those fucking bones. 

Christ. 

He feels it entirely when Bucky reaches between his legs, gripping the tube of the pump, and makes motions over it like he’s jerking him off. He’s not. Steve feels the way the tube jostles just a little, teasing, keeping his cock hostage, pressing harder and then looser against his pelvis and the silicone cushion choking his engorged cock but never coming off. Touching but not. 

Aching, pulsing static crackles through Steve’s body and what’s left of his mind. He can’t pay attention to anything but the excruciating detail of what’s happening to his body, how he’s being played, and what’s not happening that he needs to happen more than anything. 

“How’s this feel, sweetheart?” Bucky’s teasing voice cuts through the chaos, a part of it and a shelter from all of it. Everything. “Is it good for you?” 

Scrambled, Steve whimpers and, hell, he sobs pathetically, too; suddenly, there’s nothing he can do to keep himself from thrashing his head from side to side, tears tracking down his face as his world spins off its axis. He just wants to get off! It’s so much. He’s so fucking hard. It hurts so good. He’s never been so hard and solid and, just, ohgod.  

There’s so much pressure. Gritting his teeth until his jaw aches from it, Steve growls savagely under the onslaught. Even his balls feel it, they’re not in the tube with his poor, abused shaft, but they feel like it, they could be just as well. They’re aching sympathetically, hanging low, heavy, all tender and swollen. If he could see his balls—if his engorged cock in its impromptu cage weren’t in the way—he wouldn’t be surprised to see them the same achy, throbbing color, and they’d be just as swollen too, almost like he’s taken a savage hit between his legs, bruised and fucked up. Shit. He’s fucked up enough himself to have that fantasy flicker dimly through his empty head—if Bucky kicked his balls right now, it might be enough to make him cum. He’d howl for fucking sure. Pain like a gunshot through him from the very core of his being. But, also, dammit, easily, he’d cum, too. He’s on edge enough for anything to set him off whether it’s good pleasure or bad pleasure. It doesn’t matter. 

He just wants to cum so bad. 

So. bad. 

Bucky might just rip his orgasm out of him whether he means to or not. If he keeps going, the pressure will pull and pull and pull until he has to cum. He won’t be able to keep it inside. 

Then, breathed against his ear teasingly—Bucky’s body pressed hot and tight against his side—he murmurs, low and dangerous, “aw, baby, look at you,” Steve can feel the fire of his eyes scorching over his flesh, devouring him wholly without having to put his mouth anywhere except the flushed shell of his ear, pressing words right into his stupid, empty head, “I can see you twitchin’ in there—” Bucky makes a hungry sound low in his throat, sinking his teeth into the lobe of his ear and then painting sloppy, sizzling kisses over his protruding mastoid bone and down the exposed stretch of his neck. Steve’s sensitive enough to quiver against it, his skin so thin and pale. Mercifully exposed to Bucky’s gleaming, white teeth. 

If Steve was twitching before, it’s nothing compared to what ripples through him with his lips and teeth and tongue on his skin, sucking marks like a necklace around the base of his straining, arching throat. Steve can hardly breathe, fighting to pant fast enough, oxygen barely making it to the back of his mouth before he heaves it back out. He drops his head all the way back, a marionette with his strings severed. Throat arched. 

“I Guess you really, really like this don’t you?” Bucky chuckles into a bite, sharp and cutting against his collarbone. It’s devastating, pulling his strings masterfully, making him move—making him moan. “Maybe we do this again but I get you wanna those fancy pumps that’s got a fake pussy inside it, too, hmm?”

Oh. 

Bucky asks nicely, “you wanna fuck a pussy for me, honey?” 

Steve’s vision whites out. 

“Yeah,” Bucky goads him, giving him enough space to make him vividly imagine it, making him whimper from just his words but pulling him back with them, too. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees with himself, “with a cock like this, you’ll fuck anything you can. You just wanna get inside any warm, wet hole. A pocket pussy. My ass. Your own ass if you could, I know you’d fuck yourself,” he smirks. The thought is wildly confusing and humiliatingly devastating: fucking himself. What? Bucky just goes on, though, easy, “anything. You just need to put this fucking cock somewhere— anywhere.” 

Even with the intoxicating cocktail of shame and pride in Bucky’s words doing its best to distract him, Steve is stuck on the idea of a penis pump and fleshlight combo, spinning out of control at the idea. Do those exist? 

Those have to fucking exist, right? 

Bucky wouldn’t tease him that much, would he? Those have to exist! Everything, every kind of sex toy possible exists in the future. They have to be a thing. Steve wants one so badly. He’s already lubed up, thick and glistening, with petroleum jelly, he could just— slide inside it. Designed to be velvet smooth and wet with lube ‘cause Bucky would prep it for him, finger it open like it’s his own fuckin’ hole but the entire time ‘cause it’s not his body, Bucky would stay put together and sane and Steve would fall right apart. Steve would be the only one so vulgar and debauched. Crumbling while Bucky does as he does now but on steroids, standing over him, chuckling to himself, watching deviously as he’s torn apart, forcing him to fuck some fake hole. 

Steve wants that so bad it’s fucking stupid. 

And Bucky knows it, too, harping on it with his filthy fucking mouth, “you think you could get it up for that, Stevie? Could you get enough blood flowing to fill out your goddamn horse cock, hung as you are, you motherfucker?” Bucky groans despite himself. 

They both know he can get hard enough. A stiff fuckin’ breeze will do him in ever since the serum spread like hot venom through his veins. But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t real, yet, it’s the realest thing ever. Steve feels the most alive like this—giving it all over to Bucky. No control. 

“Just think about it, Stevie,” Bucky goes on, “think about fucking it while I pump you until you’re so hard you don’t know what to do with yourself. Harder and harder and harder with every pump, too sensitive to do anything but grit your teeth and cry while you ride it, thrusting in and out, the pressure never stopping, only the wet slide of its tight walls around you, you’re getting so hard and swollen that you don’t know how you fit inside it, stretching it out, it’s so tight and wet in there, it feels too good…” 

Fucking Christ, Bucky, Steve wants to bite. He is twisted. Filthy and perverse. But, he can’t. Bucky just says all that as if Steve isn’t already there. He’s already so hard he’s out of his mind. Already, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. How could he do anything, anyway, even if he knew what to do? He’s tied up! 

He’s helpless. 

He can’t touch himself. Bucky can’t touch him until he takes the pump off. And, oh Jesus Christ, Steve doesn’t remember anything else. He doesn’t remember what it was like to be in anything but throbbing agony, all of his attention held between his legs. Especially when, abruptly, Bucky gives him one more pump, asking, “say it, baby, say it.” 

Steve doesn’t know if he’s supposed to stumble through saying he’ll stick his cock wherever Bucky tells him to, ride whatever he can to take away the pulsing ache before it eradicates him entirely, just Bucky’s puppet and sweet submissive, a slave to the pleasure he gives him, or if he’s supposed to say he needs it, he needs the pump ‘cause he’s too big and he can’t handle himself, both something of a bull and runt in one hypersensitive body. But either way, whatever he’s supposed to say, it’s embarrassing and hot as fuck. He’s all Bucky’s. All his to play with and torture and love and—Steve just doesn’t fucking know. 

Nothing.  

He knows nothing. But he can’t say nothing. And of everything he might want to say, the only thing that he can say—falling out of his red lips in a fractured cry—is, “please.”  

That one word turns to an incoherent caterwaul over that last jump in pressure. 

Pump. 

Bucky grips the hand pump and squeezes with the same conviction as he would pull a gun’s trigger. 

Dead. 

Steve’s fucking dead. 

God, it feels sofuckinggood. 

Steve can’t see the pressure gauge because it’s attached to the handle Bucky has possession of, but he knows it’s a fucking lot and he knows it because the pressure just might be the thing that finally kills him. He swears it. He’s dying. His head drops back just a little bit more, even more limp and boneless yet with muscles and tendons in his neck shriek at the greater stretch. If he could see the reading on how tight the vacuum is—the fucking pressure —he knows it’d be off the charts, breaking that tiny, stupid little gauge.

Fuck.

Fuck, it feels so good. 

It feels so bad. 

Steve can’t actually decide. It just feels. It doesn’t matter good or bad. It’s both. It’s everything. There’s too much sensation, competing, no, warring inside him. How is he supposed to distinguish up from down, left from right, good from bad when everything feels everywhere all at once? His nerves light up with the same overload as power returning to the New York grid after a summer night blackout—it’s a large enough surge to bring the system crashing back down. It’s a tsunami of electricity that triggers a loud-as-fuck scream from Steve’s lungs when Bucky does release the pressure and hastily pulls the pump’s tube away from his engorged, purple-red cock, veins obvious and throbbing around his shaft, foreskin pulled back and feeling too tight around his fat, leaking head. He has no warning to prepare himself. It’s a complete shock. 

All shock. 

After all that fucking sucking—all that pressure and pumping and pressure and pumping —Steve’s cock is too heavy to curve up and slap against the taut, smooth muscle of his low abdomen in its painful freedom from the pump.

Too hard. 

He’s harder, heavier, achier than he’s ever been in his entire fucking life, including when he first got the serum and was actually warring with his suddenly spiked libido, trying to find any number of orgasms that could cool his hot, thick blood and let his cock rest for more than an hour; the only thing keeping him from chafing being his enhanced healing factor. It’s worse than that fresh, hot blood. He’s so sure that he’s about to fucking bust that it’s unfathomable when Bucky starts jerking him off, sans pump entrapping him. 

Wha—AH!

Waaait. 

What!? 

What!? 

Mewling like a cat in heat, thrashing pathetically weakly in his bonds, Steve can’t fucking fathom it. He can’t put two and two together. All his body knows is lust and denial. There is no relief. What is this? Pleasure without teeth? 

Oh. 

Oh. 

There’s teeth. 

It huuurts. 

Steve’s hungry, dark eyes roll so much fucking farther back into his head even though that can’t realistically be possible. He’s rolling. He’s contorting and twisting perversely. Everything and anything is possible. Bucky just has to demand it. Steve’s body knows who commands it and like this? Right now? It isn’t him. Every fiber of his being is pulled taut, ready to snap like a rubberband stretched past its limit given the sweet, demanding order from Bucky’s mouth. 

“You wanna cum, Stevie?” Bucky viciously taunts him, cutting through the electric static frying him, “you finally worked up enough to get it, hmm?”

Steve frantically nods, looking stupid, he’s sure, startling but quickly correcting and moaning wordlessly, loudly, when Bucky’s lips caress the side of his neck, standing so close they’re melding them together. Bucky is unafraid of using his teeth and sharp tongue on his twin-flame lover—cutting him down to bite-size pieces so he can be swallowed. 

Jesus. 

With the color of a dangerous chuckle tinting his words, Bucky purrs at him, grinning into his neck as he orders, “then beg for it.” It hits Steve, making him fucking dumb, so Bucky has to repeat himself, all steel, “c’mon, honey, say it again.”  

He doesn’t fucking stop touching him as he speaks—jerking him off with a vengeance—because that’d be too easy. Instead, he’s just letting Steve know with words and touch that if he wants his orgasm to last and not be ruined… well, then, he better fucking get it together and run that mouth before he tips over the edge. 

Out of the gate, Steve stumbles. His tongue is useless and tangled, clumsy as a foal not yet trained in the elegance of a grown racehorse, “pl-pluh-pleease,” he whimpers. 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky spurs him on, jerking just a tiny bit faster. Except. Maybe not even faster, perhaps he just clenches his hand tighter around his cock? Steve can’t tell. The only thing he knows is that it feels too good, he’s getting off on this too hard for something he doesn’t have permission to orgasm from yet. Scrambled. 

“Ple- ease,” Steve’s voice breaks as he tries to recover, struggling to get his feet back underneath him even though he has no idea where he’s running to, he’s just barreling forward. He can’t think of anything to do but say please. It’s the only word he remembers. “Pleeeease,” with increasing levels of teary-eyed desperation and “Buck, Buck- yyy, Bucky, please, lemme,” he’s ranting, raving, and more urgent than he can recall being, brainless as he is. Steve’s been reduced to a bumbling and hardly coherent puddle of lust, “l-lemme cum, Buck, please, please, I wanna—I wanna cum so bad. Please! Please! I’ll—” he can’t finish, he’s too busy twisting his hips, fighting it. Talking about it isn’t helping his needs! He’s gonna fucking cum!

“You’ll?” Bucky hums, entirely unbothered. Prompting him as if they’ve been talking about the weather and he’s trailed off, distracted by the way the wind rushes through the trees. 

“‘Ll do anythin’! Jus’lemme—lemme cum. Need it! Wanna, wanna cum so fuckin’ bad!” Steve rushes to string words together, uncaring if they make sense or not. Words. He needs words to convince Bucky to let him orgasm good. 

He wants to be good. 

“Anything?” 

If Steve could be anything but turned on, he’d be shocked that Bucky doesn’t whip out his phone to record him for blackmail purposes later, but he can’t be. He’s just too fucking aroused. 

“I’ll have to keep that in mind, won’t I, Stevie? You’re distracting me right now. I don’t know if I could really, actually come up with what I want most out of everything, so… we’ll have to stick a pin in that, won’t we? I’ll think about it more. Anything. Anything. You drive a hard bargain, baby.” 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Gritting his teeth until he hears his own jaw creak from the strain, Steve throws his head down against his chest. He’s in the fucking throes of it, his chin digging into the rise and fall of his heaving chest, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, and, just, trying to convince himself that Bucky’s fist is closing tighter and tighter around his cock, fisting him harder, to keep himself from cumming. He sobs, choking on something that is supposed to be another wailing cry of please but doesn’t really sound like anything at all, just meaningless, salacious misery in audible form. 

God. 

He’d fucking kill for a guarantee that if he came right now, it’d be good. He doesn’t want a ruined orgasm after so, so much build-up!

And, of course, exactly then, Bucky takes his hand off his cock. 

Steve shouts. 

But Bucky isn’t gone for long. Suddenly, his hand is back and wetter, slicker, and, just, so soaked with lube. The fresh handful of slick is agonizingly cold but it’s so quickly heated to boiling by his aching, throbbing flesh that it doesn’t matter. It’s insane. Steve feels in-fucking-sane. And he cries out with his entire chest—sobbing and trembling as more lube is slathered messily onto his already glazed cock, dripping down his balls, and smeared between his thighs as Bucky jerks him off viciously.  

His teeth dig into his jaw, Steve can feel the bastard smirking, enjoying this torture, and telling him, as if it’s easy, “do it, then. You said you wanted to cum. So cum.”  

Silently moaning with his jaw falling to the fucking floor making his teeth clatter and sending rapture rippling through him, Steve tries. He tries harder than anything to let the siren call of orgasm sweep him up and pull him deep into the ocean. He wants to drown. He wants to feel his chest fill with water, rushing in through his nose, burning, taking all his air, weakening him, and leaving him drenched. But. It just won’t happen. 

The waves rage but Steve is an immovable object, unwilling to be eroded.  

Steve’s so fucking hard. He’s solid. He’s stiff . His dick is literally rock-hard. Jesus fucking Christ. But he can’t.

Steve blubbers through his tears and shakes—twisting, writhing, and thrashing. He’s working so goddamn hard to get there. He just wants to cum! But he caaaan’t!

Gritting his teeth, whining from high in his throat, wordless and pitchy, Steve struggles harder. Frustrated and dire. He can taste it. His orgasm is right on the tip of his tongue, whetting his appetite, but, fuck, it feels like he’s blocked or backed up. Maybe? It, just, fuck… it just feels like he can’t. 

He can’t!  

He’s gonna die. 

There’s so much inside him. He can feel it in his balls. Deep inside him. He’s about to bust like a hose kinked off for too long. He wants to cum so bad. But. JesusfuckingChrist. He can’t! It’s stuck somewhere between his throbbing balls and the tortured, pulsing head of his cock. 

Another animal sound is ripped out of his throat—his pending orgasm is wild, trapped, thrashing, and only trying to get free from its too-small cage. 

Guh. 

Bucky says something, Steve’s brain is too far gone to process words and understand them, but Steve’s body understands action—it has to understand because Bucky fucking slaps his cock, smacking it hard up against his heaving, trembling abs rather than throbbing straight out in front of him, too heavy and hard to hold itself up, twitching, dripping, and begging for release, living and dying in purgatory.

Smack!

Steve sees heaven with a yowling, animal sound careening off his gaped-open lips. It’s more than a scream. It’s primal. Animal. He couldn’t get close to making the same sound on command if he tried ‘cause it’s purely from finding heaven in the agonizing pain of too much pleasure. Overwhelming. It’s a pure, blinding, white-hot void that brings him to his knees, metaphorically, of course, he’s still chained to the fucking ceiling, stuck on his tiptoes, pinned like a butterfly between a sheet of glass and a corkboard at Bucky’s mercy. Ripe for the taking. Vulnerable in every sense of the word. Any part of his body Bucky wants to view and play with, he can. Still, he’s crumbling apart where he stands. It does not matter what his physical body is doing or what it is not doing, it does not matter where his physical body is; he is forced into cumming so hard his bones shatter and the sound that's come out of him grates the inside of his lungs, the ridges of his ribs, and his throat like sandpaper, torn from his tortured, obliterated body.

Let go.  

He cums in devasting, body-shaking pumps as waves crash over his body, crushing him—he is even less resistant to the whims of water than rock over centuries of wear. He is molded. He is formed. The pleasure takes over. 

Shit.

-

The last crackles of pleasure in the form of campfire sparks are popping and sizzling through Steve’s spent muscles when the heated symphony is dimly joined by the jangling and clinking of metal on metal. And Steve’s so out of his goddamn head that he doesn’t register what it is at first. It isn’t until his sweat-soaked, trembling back with all his overworked muscles kisses the cold hardwood floor, pulling a weary, overworked hiss from his mouth that he understands: Bucky is untying him, spreading him out, and kneeling between his obscenely, widely sprawled thighs. 

Steve doesn’t have the energy to do… anything to change the situation. The best he can do is lie there and look pretty but not even really look pretty ‘cause he’s melting into a puddle with his mouth gaped in a silent imitation of a moan, hell, maybe it’s a silent wail. There’s too much input for him to know. Maybe if he had more energy, he’d be screaming. He can’t tell. Surely, he’s drooling a mess across his chin, dripping down onto his neck. Exhaustion swamps him, he’s too fucking tired to peel his eyes open all the way, so all he’s got is watching Bucky through his forest of eyelashes. He’s nothing but a blur, glimpsed through the dark trees and whispering foliage. Nature rolls over Steve, calming him. 

Mostly sightless, it’s still obvious what Bucky’s doing with the noisy groans sliding out between his clenched teeth, the obscene slick wetness of flesh on flesh, and the vague movement. His hand is on his cock. He’s jerking off furiously, frantically, working himself for thirty seconds, maybe a minute at the most, before cumming wet and hot all over Steve’s still-swollen, tender cock. Of course, when he paints him in hot cum, it’s not actually heated enough to sizzle, but it feels like it is. Steve feels branded like a prized piece of cattle, his body owned. 

Christ. 

Immediately, Steve is undone more than he already was, finished by Bucky’s orgasm with any last dregs of tension and coherence within him disappearing. He’s boneless, losing definition of where his body ends and the floor he’s melting into begins. It simply doesn’t matter. He is nowhere; he is everywhere; he exists.  

-

Eventually, Steve is… mutedly… aware of being lifted—a hotter flesh-and-blood arm sliding under his knees and a cooler metal arm cradling around his back—and moved but he doesn’t register where, what, or why. It doesn’t matter. He’s still submerged, everything slow, quiet, and watery like he’s swimming in a heated pool. He is-? 

He is. 

Steve’s so dizzily watered down and delirious from such a fucking good orgasm that he doesn’t register being placed into a bath of steaming hot water until it’s already cooling down. He is swimming. His head is above water, pillowed back on Bucky’s chest, but the rest of him is below. Swimming.  

The slick yet squeaky-clean sensation of soap clings to his entire body, tip to tail, even where his back is pressed up against Bucky’s robust chest and their thick thighs touch. His hair is wet, too, swept back from his forehead to keep shampoo from irritating his eyes. Everywhere has been washed and cleaned but his tender cock and balls and, oh. 

Quietly, Steve gasps. 

That’s what pulled him from his stupor. 

Bucky’s murmuring softly, lips plush pillows against the shell of his ear, warning him about the sting but promising to be gentle, hushing him—his little gasps and whimpers—as he uses the softest, most luxurious washcloth to clean him between his legs. Steve feels… 

It’s…

It’s hard to describe, taxing his exhausted mind. 

Bucky’s washing him—bathing him tenderly, of course, he feels vulnerable and raw all over, but especially between his legs after such a loving onslaught of pain and pleasure. It’s almost as if he’s been split open there. Bucky hasn’t fingered him open (not this time) but it’s a very similar sensation, loosened to expose his softest parts, stretched and used—his velvet, smooth, delicate internal walls. He feels it from his twitchy hole to his perineum behind his balls to his balls themselves to his dick, all the way to the very, veeery tip. 

Bucky’s touch is light, careful, and affectionate, humming when Steve whispers, “Buck.” He knows. He always knows. He practically lives inside Steve’s head, he can hear everything he’s thinking easily. Already. 

“Shh, babydoll, we’ll get you good and fixed up, I’ll finish washing, you need some lotion, and then you can go back to sleep but in bed this time,” he chuckles, making his whole chest vibrate, all but purring like a cat, “more comfortable than the floor and tub, yeah?” 

Steve shakes his head, “nothin’ more comf’table than y’chest,” he mumbles. 

That makes Bucky laugh, too. Gentle. “Whatever you say,” he concedes, smacking a kiss to his temple. 

“Love you,” Steve replies, ready to go back to sleep here and now, no matter what Bucky says about it not being comfortable. Bullshit. 

“Love you, too, sweetheart.”