FandomFluffAndFuck

Wet.

Messy.

Wet.

It isn't thoughts coming to Steve, it's sensations vibrating through him. He is a harp string, just barely not tight enough to snap—just enough to sing. To tremble. To feel.

Those fucking sensations create a molten, jagged blade of desire that carves through Steve, pulling a gutted moan from deep inside his chest up and out of his used throat.

That moan tastes like cum.

The last dregs of the blonde's melted mind cling to the sides of his skull like bubble gum stuck between fingertips, so stringy and sticky, pulled apart in vain. The residue won't leave. As mindless and logicless as he's ever fucking been—oh, god—the only explanation that appears in Steve's muddled, empty head is cum.

What dismal brain-power is left is playing tricks on him, urging him that the wetness dripping from his spider-gagged, pried-open mouth is cum, not saliva. It's cum. It has to be cum. Steve's fucking obsessed. He's consumed by the thought—no, it's not even a thought, it's an impulse.

An animalistic demand: cum.

Time has lost all fucking meaning; it isn't hours, minutes, seconds—it's load after load after load.

And after load after load after load, Steve's eyes have naturally rolled back into his skull. Gone. He can't possibly undo what's been done. Even if he could reset his eyes, through the pleasure, he wouldn't be able to focus his vision enough to stare thoughtlessly and confirm one way or another. Is it a pool of spit collecting beneath his gaped lips or, even filthier, is it Bucky's cum, puddling over the expensive, gorgeously lacquered wood table he's been displayed on. Bound and shown off as if he's just another exorbitantly expensive feast charged to a tab that Tony will never see. A luau pig on a spit, hot from the flames. It doesn't matter. It's just money.

Steve's—

Steve's just a toy.

A dripping, moaning toy that can't convince itself, suspended in this timeless, raw moment that it isn't leaking cum.

Bucky's cum.

Cum that came cause, fuuuuck, Bucky has been pumping buckets of cum into him. Plugging him between countless, mindless, hungry rounds to keep him full. ‘Cause countless orgasms ago—load after load after load ago—Bucky tied him up and redefined him as a cum dump. A slutty, empty toy made to be filled. Immobilizing him. Objectifying him. He's just a thing when he can't move. He can't think when he's made a pretty statue.

Steve transformed into a sculpture to be devoured with greedy eyes when Bucky decided to keep his thighs smeared so wide apart. They're shaking, trembling, but held in place by an unsurrendering metal bar just above his knees. He can't fucking shut his legs. Not even close. And between his wide-spread legs, his cock and balls hang. Heavy and low, tortured by a cockring, strangling his sensitive, hot-blooded body for the past week. He hasn't been allowed release in a week. Tears overflow his rolled-back eyes, remembering and experiencing the ache all over again. It's a drawn-out agony, concluding in the desperately hot, swollen sensation radiating from his cock and balls right fucking now. Forget blue balls—he's fucking purple. Dark and bruised. Relishing the erotic pain. Engorged with lust. Swollen. He'd do anything to cum.

He would.

He is doing anything.

Bound and kept.

Earning it.

Made to experience—through his lover, not himself, never himself—high after high, just to know so intimately what he cannot have.

A high, thin whimper slips from his struggling throat, giving voice to all his bodily desperation.

With both arms behind his body, bound together by thick, biting rope, tight enough to force his spine into a dramatic arch, his tits push forward obscenely. Fuck. At some point, the wood beneath him was cold, keeping his nipples hard—now his nipples are just hard. They're so hard. The wooden dining table in this private off-shoot room, one of the gazillion in Stark's maze-like mega-tower, is just as boiling as his skin. Hot enough to sizzle, slick with his drool and sweat and tears. The muscles of his pecs are prrrressed tight against the solid fucking table he's been served up on. He isn't bound on his hands and knees. It's worse—he's collapsed onto his knees and shoulders, the side of his face flattened on wood.

He has no choice but to drool.

The liquid in his mouth can't stay in his mouth. At least, though, it has the luxury of seeping out, going the path of least resistance; meanwhile, the cum in his ass doesn't have that. It can't. It's kept. His gaping ass plugged. Kept full.

Full everywhere.

So full of urgent lust and desire, so goddamn backed up with his denied orgasms, could-be loads sitting heavy in his balls, so fucking stuffed with cum, so, so full that it's no fucking wonder that his scrambled, fucked-up brain is convinced there's cum dripping out of his open mouth, fucked into him through his ass, invading his guts, and rising up his throat until it's heavy on his tongue, spilling onto the table.

He's leaking cum.

He can't stop. He's plugged up, but, guh, isn't he just sloshing with it as he tries to squirm? Aborted little wriggles of his hips, syrupy, weighted twitches of his cock, desperate contractions of his throat as he tries to swallow with an open mouth. Isn't he drooling cum? Isn't he gurgling on it? Isn't he crying it? Isn't it so deep inside his serum-honed body that it's coming out of his pores? Isn't his hole stretched enough with every satisfying, valiant thrust Bucky gives, round after round, that he's dripping around the fat plug trying to stop him up? Isn't, isn't—

Isn't he just fat and bred with cum?

Isn't this his existence? Cumdump? Did he ever do anything but this? Did he ever want to be anything but full? (That, he knows the answer to: no.)

Full.

Cum.

So full of cum.

Stretched out, boneless except for the fact that he is all bones—only bones. His bones are barely disguised beneath his practically translucent, pale, freckled skin. Either way, regardless of his protruding bones, Steve has stretched his lithe, angular body across their thin, creaky mattress. An almost hollowed-out angel, so close to floating flying away, he's sprawled languidly among their threadbare, scratchy sheets and their barely cobbled-together scraps of fabric that approach the idea of a quilt.

Nested there, Steve has one hand on himself. One of his sharp wrists is cocked at a limp angle so that one of his bony artist's hands can curl itself tightly around his stiff, red cock. And slowly, so slowly it must hurt, he's dragging his fist up and down the vaguely curved length of his dick. Really, he's barely moving his hand.

Lying there, breathing, panting, eyes rolling back, then snapping forward again, trying to hold eye contact, but... eventually, always rolling back all over again like he just can't stop himself from being drawn into the pleasures of the flesh he's indulging in. Blue eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. Crooked spine arching. Golden hair in utter, attractive disarray. Jaw dropping. Dick twitching.

It's hypnotic.

He's so pale everywhere except between his legs. Bucky has always been able to see the gorgeous, vulnerable hue of his veins beneath his paper-pale complexion and always knows the moment after he's gotten into a fight through the unfolding pedals of bruises scribbled across his skin. Those shifting, watercolor-tint colors are suddenly incomparable to the flushed, eager pink-red of his dick, though.

Fuck.

Depending on the day, and how his ticker is doing in his chest, it can take a lot to get him hard. It took him a lot today, no doubt. Hours. It's probably why he's nearly frozen in place, moving so slowly. He's been working himself up for hours. Melting ice into water, stroke by stroke. Breath by breath.

“Hhaaahhh-!” His chapped, bitten-pink lips part, gasping out one of his lewd, trying-to-be-as-quiet-as-possible-but-Christ-that-feels-good noises.

Each sharp, uneven heave of his troubled lungs breathes clouds of fog into the air hanging heavy and cold above his head as if he's taking a puff from one of his prescribed asthma cigarettes. Their apartment's paper-thin, dollhouse walls let every degree of Brooklyn winter chill in. So, it's no shock when that chill finally catches him, crawling inside his slim, sharp body, fueled by sheer determination.

And—watching him shudder, goosebumps breaking out across his bare skin—before he can wonder if he should break such a salacious spell of silence and seductive, almost motionless sprawl, Bucky is moving. He's stripping his shirt off, barely pausing to undo enough buttons to pull it over his head, let alone recalling to push off the straps of his suspenders in time.

After a tangled moment, Bucky lunges forward from his stillness at the end of their bed into Steve's monopolizing of the space to delicately sit him up and swamp Steve with his clothes. He dresses him as if he's a life-size China doll—undoubtedly the only reason he gets away with it, though, is because Steve's that submerged in his own world of pleasure.

Pleased enough to have him more covered, less cold, Bucky connects their lips for an unspeakably intense, gutting kiss before wordlessly shoving him back down, palm to his shoulder—hitting. And too readily, eagerly, taking in through heavily-lidded eyes, just how his body hits and bounces against their creaky, springy mattress before collapsing against it completely. Flat. Bucky crawls back down the bed, peeled down to his undershirt, and sits back where he was. Cross-legged, cock throbbing in his trousers like a cracked tooth still sitting in a jaw, Bucky allows the show to begin all over again.

Panting into the charged silence, it takes a stunned, stupified moment for Steve to move. But, oh, when he does…

Of course, his angular hand is pulled gravitationally back to his dick.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The fabric of Bucky's shirt is loose around Steve's slender throat, displaying his decolletage mouthwateringly. It's enough to make up for hiding his hard, pale pink nipples and the carved, attractive, delicate shapes of his ribs. Enrobed in Bucky's shirt, Steve's collarbones are as shapely—as sharp as the dead-of-winter icicles hanging from their rust-encrusted fire escape outside, just through their paper walls. It's Bucky's turn to shiver, then, biting his lip, devouring his after-work treat. How lucky he is to come home to this; to shake off all the snow and frost and exhaustion of the day's back-breaking labor to find his lover disheveled in their bed, trying to keep himself warm, keeping himself waiting for Bucky, eyes glazed, mouth agape, cock achingly engorged. A palette of winter desire, virtuoso in the strokes of thick paint—snow-white skin, sunrise-pink blush, and frozen-river blue eyes. Now, his companion, in his clothes, too. The texture, the color, the allure of a shared shirt.

He knows the exact sensation of that shirt.

It was just on his body.

It's still hot with his body heat.

And now it's seeping into Steve's cooler, more streamlined body. Bucky knows intimately that the fabric of his shirt, on Steve, is scratchy after being sun-dried for years and salt-saturated after just as many years working on the docks, next to the untamed ocean. It's rough, old, and it falls all the way to his upper thighs, pushed up only enough so he can access his teased, denied cock. The fabric is bunched around his hips, and the flushed, swollen head of his dick leaks heavy, aching pearls of desire directly onto it. It's a perfectly good shirt, and Bucky shouldn't let it be stained. It's not like they have the money to replace it. But… God, help him, he does not give a shit.

Let him ruin the fuckin' shirt.