juicyfruit22 has moved to gothycnymph

“Mmmngh! Ngh! Mnnnnnahhh!” Glazed in massage oil and sweat while he leaks muffled groans, biting down savagely on his lower lip, Bucky looks (and feels) good enough to fucking eat.

Goddamn.

After hours of loosening—slowly working out the knots and tightness coiled all up in Bucky's back from his unevenly set shoulders, flesh and metal, to the extended divot of his spine trailing down to his slim, gorgeous hips and the dimples in the middle of them, begging to be thumbed and licked—Steve can hardly go hard enough on Bucky's back. Still, he's making Bucky make all these sounds that are equal exhaustion and pleasure. He always starts a little rough, sharp, with mostly painful sounds that come out of his mouth, ductile and strung out. Then, eventually, he gets to groaning, pained but enjoying it more than before. Until, finally, he's putty.

Months and months of practice, ramping up to get Bucky comfortable with touch and let him become accustomed to shaking out the pain of carrying around 80-odd pounds of metal in place of a balanced, organic limb. Now, here they are. Steve, nearly every day, puts his new skills to use. Today—as has been said—it's been hours.

Malleable and docile beneath Steve's trained, honed hands. The callouses on his fingers are eased with copious amounts of fragrant massage oil but his muscles can't so easily be worn away underneath lubrication—his muscle demands to be felt. Corded and choked with muscle, Steve lays into him, pulling such obscene noises from his prone body.

No one would suspect there's just a massage happening in here.

In reaction, yeah, Bucky is moaning. Groaning. Burying his happily flushed face deeper and deeper into his folded arms.

Laying flat, Steve straddles his limp, pressed together legs, sitting on his upper thighs, to go hard on his back. Not just with his skilled, strong palms and flexible digits, but also assisted by a massage ball. They began with softer, less threatening types like tennis balls, but they've gotten up to this: a rubbery, round, but covered-in-spikes ball. From his right side to his left, Steve presses his body weight into the ball cradled in both his palms. He's rolling the ball up and down Bucky's back, treating it like an ab wheel and he's determined to put even more definition into his 6-pack.

Woof.

Mmmmngh! Mmmngh!

He can't help it.

The noises keep slipping out. And little squirming thrusts and writhing wiggles keep coming out, too, because Steve is rolling his back, he's—he was—he's got the ball under one palm now, rolling it, prickling his back with exquisite pain, and using the other he's, his fingers are—

Oh.

Bucky's back arches, deep and wanting, pressing his dick against the firm, unforgiving mattress which, in turn, squeezes a whimper out of him.

Steve's fingers are inside him.

His legs are pinched and squeezed together by Steve's and he can't get so much wiggle room but he's trying. He's working on it. He's—

That massage oil—slick like water but undrying, reaching so deep inside him. The massage oil. Apparently to Steve, smelling good enough to eat. Bucky wants him to. He wants his tongue where his fingers are, plunging in deep, curling and spreading and thrusting and he's so distracted from Steve's fucking perfect fingers, finger-fucking him silly that he forgets about the delicious, intentional pain being rolled across his shoulders. He forgets everything about staying still and almost bucks Steve off of him.

Steve's tongue. He wanted Steve's tongue. That was it, wasn't it?

But, oh, ohhh, his lengthy, thick fingers are drawing back and Steve's gonna, his—his dick. He's gonna shove his big, big cock in him and it's so good. It's perfect. The tip of his fat cock kisses his slick, massaged open hole and Bucky's body yields like hot butter because that's Steve and that's what Bucky's body does for Steve: he gives way. He always does.

He slides iiiiin, in, and in.

Oh.

Fuck.

Bucky chokes, teeth to his own flesh; Steve's flesh inside him, choking him in his throat even though he's fucking his pried-open hole.

How—Jesus. Oh. That feels so good his whole body quivers. His lip falls from between his teeth and he moans loudly, rattling against his own overlapped forearms, metal and flesh and he bites. Steve feels so good. How does he forget—every time, even after a hundred fucking years—how big he is?

So big.

Steve's—

He's fucking spoiled, he's so used to getting everything he wants.

Steve fucks so fucking good.

Good, perfect, but he can't, he can't hold onto Bucky and drill him the way he wants to be drilled while also massaging him with that goddamn terrible ball that hurts at the same time that it feels so good. So, when Bucky starts making pleading sounds, sounds that Bucky didn't even hear coming out of his own mouth, much less comprehend their meaning, Steve knows what he's saying. Pleading. Needing.

And Steve is weak, weak enough to keep on spoiling him. Prying their bodies apart from the intimate, intense position they had, Bucky's muscled-yet-loosened, oiled-up back sticking slickly to Steve's heaving, blushing chest, fucking him with his lush mouth against his skin, kissing and biting and laving attention against the nape of his neck, Steve finds the discarded ball and finds a use for it that doesn't require his hands to be on it. He wants his hands to curl around Bucky's waist and bite into his flesh. He wants to hold him down to pound him, chest-to-back, oil and sweat soaking them. Blushing, feverish skin lost together. Bucky nothing more than a melted heap of pleasure, taking, taking, taking with every soft, gasping moan; Steve nothing more than a hard, galvanized erection driving home into him, giving, giving, giving with everything he has, grunting and growling in effort.

Rather than interrupting the way he pounds him to an orgasm that's both teased gently out over hours and viciously torn up from the deepest parts of him to roll a little fucking ball across his tenderized back some more, Steve shoves the helpful, agonizing little toy between Bucky's pretty thighs. It takes him half a stroke, pulling his red, hot cock out of his aching, slick hole, just enough room to use one strong hand to pull his legs apart, shove it between his upper thighs, just under his tightly hanging balls, threatening them dangerously, and slam back in, slamming Bucky's legs shut.

OH!

Bucky howls.

He doesn't have the agency over his body, nothing but melted, tenderized meat, to squeeze himself but Steve's doing the work. Like always. Steve's putting in the work, hammering in, legs squeezing and flexing and making Bucky feel it.

Feel it.

So tight between his legs, the pressure points—hundreds of them on that little fucking ball. There's no reprieve. He doesn't have the room blanketed beneath Steve or the strength after being molded like clay for hours to do anything. He can't do anything. He can't put up a fight. The only muscles that work anymore are the ones clenching and clenching, tight and tighter around Steve's cock.

His mouth won't close. He can't. He's gonna—

He. He!

Ohgod.

He's gonna fucking cum.

The tightness of Steve's legs squeezing his legs, squeezing the ball, the—

The, the pleasure of it all.

The pain.

Cumming hard, his cock trapped and friction-burned, too sensitive, between his body and the bed.

He's working so hard to shove his cock into his tight little hole. Working so hard to ease his pain. Working so hard to give him good pain. And Bucky's lying there. Taking it. He could weep. Lying there, making all these sweet, little airy sounds of pain; lying there, sweating; lying there cumming.