FandomFluffAndFuck

“Shh.” Next to him, sitting on an appropriate, rolling stool, Bucky smirks in the midst of donning his smoothest, calmest, most doctor-like voice. It'd be a better impression if he wasn't smirking. “Nice deep breath for me.” Steve does, even though he knows Bucky is taking the piss. “Good, good boy.” Bucky taps very high on his inner thigh with glove-covered hands, unprofessional and teasing, making it all the more exciting.

Steve can't think about it.

He can't imagine how unprofessional and indecent this is—if Bucky really was a doctor—or he'll combust. Pure flames. Even just the mental image of Bucky's hands, handsome and so sure, dressed in white latex. It'd be too hot for his fragile state. Though, by not thinking about it, he is thinking about it and—

Fuck.

Harshly breathing out through his nose, reminding himself that he can't get that turned on, not yet, Steve focuses instead on hearing the smirk in Bucky's voice. Breaking character.

Rolling his eyes at the charming line even as it works on him, Steve stares at the ceiling, trying his best not to succumb to his goosebumps and shiver. Not to shut his legs either; his bare, pale flesh against dark, black upholstered leather that contrasts just as much with his skin as it does the vintage, pale, mint green paint of the rest of the medical examination table he's sprawled across. Feet wide apart in gleaming metal stirrups. He'll be glad the room is cold once they get going and he really starts to sweat.

He—

Even trying not to look, not to get more worked up than he is, he can see it out of the corner of his eye.

The IV pole.

The bag of saline.

The start of the line that—

“Quick pinch,” Bucky's smirking definitely, anticipating—

“Ohh,” the helpless, breathy little sound that comes from Steve, stuck with a needle down there.

—anticipating Steve's little reaction.

“There it is. Beautiful, honey. Took that needle to the nuts like it was nothin’,” he jokes. He's such a jerk. He always has been.

It might be a little reaction on the outside, but, ohh, inside it's big. In… inside. Inside he wants to jolt and moan his lungs out and arch his spine until the joints pop. He wants to, he is, reveling in the sensation. Sudden and cold, the saline flowing down the line of medical tubing, rushing into his fucking balls.

Perverse.

Exposed.

His shaved bare—legs open to show them—testicles.

Having them out now is all the more embarrassing because Steve knows how big they can get. Without any saline, nothing, they feel small and unimportant, wrinkled and sensitive. He knows how huge they can get. Too, he's so aware of how dulled to sensation they get when they're really full—he knows the damage they can take then.

He wants it.

All of it.

Lightheaded, head spinning, lying flat, Steve's panting.

He's sweating.

He's cold, there's cold fluid dripping into his fucking body, and he wants to shiver so badly, but he has to resist. He can't move. He doesn't even want to pant too hard, don't twitch, don't let Bucky stop. Bucky will stop everything if he thrashes like he normally does, losing control during their scenes, because he doesn't want Steve to hurt himself. This is a good hurt, not a bad hurt.

It's a hurt that aches and spreads—polluting the rest of his body, filling his scrotum literally, then sensually, sensationally spreading to fill the rest of his body.

Outward.

More.

Hot.

It isn't hot saline but it's beginning to feel so hot. His skin stretching, burning, swelling.

Ohhh.

“Starting to feel it?” Bucky asks, tapping his swelling nuts, making it slosh around in there.

Hnngh.

“Uh-huh,” Steve nods, hair flopping over his forehead. It sticks. He really is sweating.

Fuck.

“Yeah,” he grins sharply, “I can see it.”

“Bucky,” Steve whimpers, scandalized, knees twitching closer before jerking them back apart, remembering himself. He has to stay still. He gets to be still and humiliated and changed shape. This is the serum, all over again, shot up and molded anew, but he's in control. Bucky is in control, making him into the man he desires. The knowledge weighs heavily between Steve's legs. It is erotic as Hell.

Someday, he's gonna make Bucky film this. He wants to see himself. Laid back, debaunched, flushed from the face down, trembling almost imperceptibly with his legs spread whorishly, wide enough for anyone to see. And, fuck, what they would see—

His balls.

He knows his cock and balls are above average size, logically, he knows. But Steve's aroused, melted imagination pictures his balls as tiny. Wrinkled and insignificant until, milliliter by milliliter, they swell. Puffier. Heavier. Riper. Until it looks like he could fill someone else up, like he could pump them full, a bull in his prime, ready to, to—

“Fuuuuck!” He groans, guttural, as Bucky lets the clamp on the line out more, increasing the flow into his body.

“There you go, Stevie. How's that feel?” Rolling his balls in his hands. “Is that the little pinch you wanted?” The sadistic fuck teases.

All he can do is exhale noisily, agreeing. Oh, yes. That's the zinging, singing pinch he wanted. Really, more than a pinch, it's a burn. Whetting the appetite of his craving.

It's an arousing, excruciating burn. Fire through his veins, collecting heavily in his testicles.

Pooling, dripping, lapping.

Saline.

Inside him.

“Huh-how much more?”

“Plenty, darlin’,” Bucky hums. “Don't worry. You still got time. You're gonna get so big.”

Vision swimming, Steve nods. Saline—liquid… yeah. He really feels like he's underwater. Submerged in molten, liquified glass, but glass is pleasure. That doesn't make sense. It doesn't have to. Flat on his back, staring through double vision at the ceiling, he floats. He swims.

He drowns, sputtering, coughing, whining, and laughing. He doesn't even know why. The endorphins and adrenaline from the pain and pleasure, synapses fucking fired, probably but. God. He's just lying here, and he's been spoon-fed a drip of pleasure and pain for nothing.

For free.

It's so good.

Shaking in his stirrups.

Breathing so hard between cut-up moans and whimpers that his chest and abs are heaving. His body ripples. He is liquid.

Saline.

“Lookin' priiiity big there, tiger.”

Steve moans, seeing sparks of white behind his clenched eyelids. Sweat rolls down his neck, pooling in his collarbones.

“The more we do this, the more you'll get next time.” Steve's already thinking about next time. Bucky knows this. He's in his brain, fucking his head, too. “How big do you wanna get, darlin’? You wanna get so full they don't go back down for days? Even with your turbo metabolism,” Bucky laughs, humorously smacking his flank, like he's a pony. Like he's livestock.

Steve whines.

Next time, he's going to beg Bucky to film it, and he's gonna beg for a new piece of dungeon furniture. He needs to be filled in a squeeze chute for livestock. Metal, held in place, cold and harsh, all sides, squeezed, and—

“Just wait until you get so huge you gotta waddle around our apartment for days, these fucking melons hanging between your legs, moaning every time you twitch a muscle.”

Steve is drooling. The sensation flooding him is almost indescribable. It… it's especially difficult to wrap his head around when his head is spinning at a million miles an hour. It's really warm. It's hot. The saline isn't hot in the bag, but it truly becomes boiling as it travels down the line and penetrates Steve's body. Stretching his testicles, filling his balls. Bigger and bigger. It's stupid, even as fucked-out as he is, he knows it's dumb, but it feels full.

Full of lust.

Full of saline.

Full of Bucky's lecherous words—

“You wanna feel ‘em swing between your fucking legs, pulling on that cock that you don't even care about, don't cha?” Bucky smacks his swelling balls. “Jus’ these.” He squeezes them. “You're a fucking size queen but in the wrong way. You're fucked up, honey.” He chuckles. The rhythm shakes Steve's entire foundation, crumbling him. Bucky knows it. “Where did all those thoughts go? Tsk, oh, baby, did they all get stuck in your fucking massive balls and didn't go to your head? Can you not think anymore? Oh no. Whatever are you gonna do when you can't think for yourself? When you're just lying here… spread open… offering yourself up to the next man who walks in, gloves on his hands, stethoscope around his neck, seemingly knowing what he's talking about. You're gonna get taken advantage of, sweetheart.”

Steve moans so loud it hurts, grating out of his throat.

“Poor thing,” Bucky talks at him, rattling off sin-saturated words while he rolls his swollen balls in his hands.

Blushing, burning, Steve doesn't even notice Bucky putting pressure on his balls, holding him so tight, tighter, slipping the needle out, and applying the liquid bandage.

When Bucky lets go, Steve finally fucking notices, drowning, “‘m done?” He barely manages.

“You're done for now.” Bucky threatens, mouth full of shark teeth.

“‘Kay,” Steve sniffles.

“Next time more, though.”

And that makes him moan impulsively. He can't help it—he can't hide it.

After a moment of detour, letting the liquid bandage do its work, drying in the humid air between their thrumming bodies, Bucky's hands travel from stroking up and down his thighs, petting him like he's an animal that needs calming, to his ankles. Steve's throat constricts thickly, swallowing a wad of spit—he knows what's coming next.

“Hh-AAAAHH!” A high, wordless whimper spools out of Steve's glistening lips as his thighs are snapped shut and his hips are hauled over. Bucky forces his trembling, filled body to flip over, using his strength to undo Steve. He's on all fours now. It's a vulgar, vulnerable position. There is something so primal about it—even while in the same context as a medical exam table—having his spine arched, his legs tight together, and his heavy, swinging balls hanging out.

Bucky swats his ass, making him arch harder. Prettier.

“Oh!”

It, oh, it has edge. It has teeth. It feels—

It feels.

Feelssomuch.

It's almost like he's going to pop. His swollen balls clenched between his thighs. It's frightening and scary, and his heart is beating so fast it feels dangerous, but, Jesus Christ, it's fucking thrilling. It's so good. It's a kind of adrenaline he can't reach when he's inches from aliens who slobber at the thought of literally tearing him in half; it's—it's such good pain and fear and release.

It is surrender.

This is relief in every sense of the word. He doesn't have to cum to feel it. It is. Every moment. It is.

It adds ends to his nerves; it encapsulates his telomeres; it adds sensation and breathes life into him.

Truly nothing else feels like this, with the muscle and fat of his thighs squashed together with all the strength he has—trembling from effort, causing himself such sweet pain—his nuts heavy and swollen and squished between them. All the saline sloshing inside them, making them so big, means he's a little less sensitive than normal. What a hardship for Bucky, having to go harder at him because of it, tugging on his balls, pulling them back until he whines, twisting them so tears burn in his eyes, and pinching and smacking them until those tears are flowing down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw to splash against the leather upholstery underneath his wobbling arms. His body is going to give out. He, he—

“G'n'a! Guh! AH! G’nna pop!” Steve wails.

His huge are balls rolled and pulled back and mashed and in Bucky's metal hand. The sensation of hard metal clothed in latex is so erotic that he can't stand it.

He can taste it, eyes crossing.

The salt of his tears in his mouth and the mouth-watering taste of pain—of hurt. It hurts so fucking bad.

“‘M'sss'full,” he whimpers, his lips trembling. Pure white heat explodes behind his crushed shut eyelids, a shout ripping from his lungs, as Bucky smacks his nuts again. Steve sloshes. “F-full. G’nna,” he inhales so hard he has to choke, coughing, spluttering, “g'nna—”

“Yes, Stevie?” Bucky punctuates his casual tone with a particularly vicious pull.

It's like a red-hot fireplace poker straight to the guts. Steve sobs. It's incredible.

“Are you close? You're gonna, what-?”

Frantically, Steve nods. He's close. He's anything. Banging his head around while his elbows slip out of their lock for just a second before he snaps them straight again, he is fighting tooth and nail not to collapse.

“Gonna cum?” Bucky teases, digging the five points of his fingertips into his heavy, saturated scrotum. “Or are you gonna pop?”

Steve wails.

“Do you even know? Do you know what's gonna happen? Do you care? Or do you just want more?”

It's visceral, erotic terror. He's going to pop. Ohmygod. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad! He's so full. And, uncontrollably, it's happening.

It has to. Whatever it is. It's large, terrifying, and inevitable.

He's cumming like a car crash. It's glass and metal and rubber crunching, crushing, at high speed. It's devastating. It's just from Bucky tugging his balls back between his legs, forcing his pussy out, rolling and handling and squishing his big, swollen, embarrassing-yet-so-virile testicles until—

Orgasming that hard—crying, no, sobbing through it—he chokes on his drool and nearly dies, world violently shifting, sending him collapsing face first onto the leather, upholstered medical table beneath him.

The impact feels, through the violent, erotic clashing sensations, like he might've just broken his nose (again) but—toes curling until they cramp, voice wearing out with his moan—it's more than worth it.

It is earth-shattering pleasure.