#big sub steve

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.

Too, Steve's messy blonde hair is visually fitting for how he feels inside his head—inside his body. He's lightheaded. He's spinning, head off his shoulders, disconnected, and yet so fucking in his body.

In.

Every heaving-yet-shallow expansion and contraction of his lungs only calls his fragile attention to the tight, peaked, sharp sensation of his nipples. Plus, every shift in his weight emphasizes how all his mass has dropped between his trim hips, making each unsteady, needy wobble turn into a sensual, almost feminine tease. Teasing himself. Swaying like a bitch in heat, trying to entice the block's biggest stud to mount her ass. Fuck. His cock is heavy and wet between his hips. Dripping. His hips keep moving. He can't help it. He isn't thinking. He can't. His head is light and spinning, and he isn't breathing, and with every shift, side to side, hip to hip, he becomes that much more restless.

Steve is ready to fucking vibrate out of his skin. So, so fed the fuck up that—

Abruptly, a denial-saturated, masochistically-miserable moan flows viscously from his lips. Steve hears that needy sound muffled through the tobacco cotton clouds heavy in the atmosphere, ringing back in his pulse-throbbing ears. And, oh, yeah—

There's that, too.

Beneath the awareness of his own sensuality—housed in the tightness of his chest and hips and cock and balls—there's his knees.

Fuck, his goddamn knees.

Steve has, miraculously, gotten used to how this bigger, healthier body can't hold onto bruises or aches and pains for very long. He doesn't expect to hurt anymore, not unless he actively chases it—and he does. Out of his mind as he is, though, he didn't realize that it hadn't been long enough from when he was on his knees earlier to now. So. There's still very much there. The aches. The pains. The bruises.

Now, there are still hot-spot bruises on his knees.

Bright and sharp and hurting.

Slllck. Pit-pat. Pit. Pit.

"Mmmngh."

His body moves on autopilot, painting—lewdly sliding paint thickly across and decisively tapping paint onto the surface before him—hips swaying, dick twitching with wet, thick lust. Restless and reckless, for as second-nature as painting usually is, swapping his hungry eyes between his subject, his palette, and his canvas, it feels fucking impossible to rip his eyes away from Bucky now.

This subject.

His subject.

God.

Steve doesn't need to paint him. His lover. He's a fucking masterpiece all on his own.

Sprawled languidly across a well-used, plush leather armchair, dominating the space with his silent command, Bucky may as well be a king. The light from the window off to his left transforms his pale gold skin into honey, caressing every curve and swell of flesh and metal and muscle, easing into cool blues in the valleys of his form. Lights and darks. He is solid and yet dissolving to space, too. Blended gorgeously into this scene. His domain. His control.

Steve desires nothing more than to touch him everywhere the light brushes over him. Though, he especially needs to delve between his thick, muscular thighs—fuck, those thighs. They're robust. Flesh, handsome hair, and—

Steve just about drops his fucking brush, clattering to the floor, leaving an impossible oil stain on their worn, historical wooden floorboards. A delayed, last minute fumble narrowly saves him. He would've painted himself too, all his trembling, exposed skin.

Shit.

His cock.

Bucky's.

Between those thighs.

It is—it's—fuck.

Alluring, his dick is flushed so red that it's almost purple. It's wet with pearls of pre-cum that slide down the smooth, exposed head, getting sidetracked by his lewd foreskin and, then, the ridges of engorged veins, heavy and thick around his shaft. Steve—

Steve wants that inside him.

He can already taste it.

Feel it.

He—

His mouth. His tongue. His hole.

He wants.

He wants Bucky's cock but, also, Christ, all of him.

He wants him to paint, to worship, to have, to devour.

All. of. him. from his widespread, vulgar thighs to his hard cock and heavy, hanging balls to his flushed, golden skin, sweat glistening in a breathtaking sheen over it, just under his dark, gorgeous body hair, to his draped, nonchalant hold on a lazily smoking cigarette, the clouds spiraling off the lit tip into the charged, polluted air between them. Their own atmosphere.

Their world.

After another unrushed drag, Bucky makes a display of dropping his head back, exhaling another cloud.

Steve makes a meal of him.

Fucking Christ.

He never wants to look at this damn painting ever again. He doesn't want to see the muddy, thick mess of oils he's surely fucking making, not at all paying attention to it. Anything he has put, paint to canvas, was a damn muscle-memory miracle. He is so focused on Bucky.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

He already had his cock shoved—fucked—deep into his throat, but they both fucking know one is never enough. It's never enough.

Steve wants more.

Again.

He didn't want to swallow pump after pump of cum, moaning, letting Bucky stay hard and stiff in his loose, drool-dripping, sloppy mouth only to be shoved back, kneed in the shoulder, the little amount of air he got around thick cock knocked from his chest, and suddenly reminded how he said earlier he wanted to paint today. The words just as delectable coming from Bucky's pleasure-slack lips as his knee to Steve's body, hurting him just how he needs—

"C'mon darlin’, it's almost sunset, you're gonna wanna get goin’ on that paintin’, aren't you? Can't let me go wastin’ all your time, go on. Get. 'll even pose for you. Give you somethin’ to paint."

Steve shivers, trembles, shakes apart more just remembering the fucking smirk that split his handsome face, knowing exactly what he was doing. Spreading out. Lighting up. Taking his cock into one fist, jerking himself hard and slow (making it fucking last, the same way he does when he's pumping inside Steve, riding him into the mattress), as if he needed a boost to keep himself stiff and mouthwatering—he didn't. He was still plenty fucking hard. He's always liked to show off.

Christ.

How is Steve supposed to paint like this?

How is Steve supposed to not touch? Himself or Bucky or—

Anything.

“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.

After dark, night after night, Bucky lies in wait, much more occupied than he ever could have been, clinging to the high branches of a severe war-front, German pine picking off incoming opposing-side soldiers shot by shot. Gazing through the depths of shadows and silence at Steve, who is lit by only thin fingers of blue light, reaching out from beneath their heavy black-out curtains to touch the disheveled bed and caress Steve's sleeping body.

Bucky mirrors the moonlight, reaching out, touching without touching, whispering commands like sweet nothings into Steve's ear. Hardly audible. Yet, he knows, even through sleep, that Steve hears him. He knows because the thin, breathable sheet splayed over Steve's lower half twitches and bulges. His erection swelling.

Easy as anything.

Easy, as he always is.

Bucky lets his lover's body hold it as long as it can, here to command him hard again the moment his cock gives up the valiant fight. Bucky drifts in and out of a haze that isn't exactly sleep, but is peaceful and clear. Simple like sleep. Right now, he is Steve's shield, curled around him, watching over him.

Every twitch.

Every sleepy smile.

And… every quiet moan.

At least half of Bucky's motionless, sleepless rest—lying in wait—is spent musing on what Steve is dreaming of. His body is so aroused—hours of stiffness with thick, hot blood pooling in his big cock and heavy, hanging balls—it is only a matter of time before his mind follows. He has a one-track mind even without his body already being carved into that path. But there are many pit stops on the singular track, each of them their own themed, erotic fantasy.

What is it this time, Stevie? Bucky thinks, staring down at him, a wolfish smirk splitting his mouth.

It would be anything from literal whips and chains to those embarrassingly intimate desires he has that he's shyer about sharing than the heaviest, kinkiest wants—the scenes where it is just sex, not about kink, where Steve clings to him like a baby, skin on skin, face buried in his neck, gasping sweetly with every thrust, slow and intense, hard in a way that makes Steve turn pink. It makes him shy. Somehow it's harder for Steve to look at him after, when it's about worship, than it is for Steve to lock eyes with him when it's about raw, primal lust. Must be that catholic upbringing, god rest Sarah's soul.

And it is worshipful, seeing Steve like this. 'Cause even lit in such blue, hazy light from the moon, his submissive is white and peach and gold. Like an angel. White sheets, tangled around his pale, peach-patched, and freckled body. Golden hair.

God, Bucky can't forget his mouth, either.

His pink mouth.

Lips statically open in the softest pout—slumbering, dreaming, unaware of himself and so erotic, doing nothing.

Bucky supposes he's probably drooling and begging and moaning in his dreams.

It isn't long before he's doing the same when he's waking; though, not for the reasons he obviously wants to be—

Steve, literally, not even figuratively, less than 24 hours later, slides onto his knees and begs.

He needs it.

“Please, Buck! Pleeease! You have no idea what it's like!” He whines like he's dying.

“What's it like, then?” Bucky challenges him, stepping close, towering over him, and holding his chin in his metal hand. He squeezes his square jaw meanly until Steve's plush lips push into a tempting pout.

“It makes my head hurt. It's so weird,” he whimpers, confessing with his lips trembling. His eyes are glassy and red, emphasizing the blue of them that much more. He's such a doll. “My body hurts. It's… it's buzzing. Crackling. Like I've been hooked up to a live wire. I can feel everything. It wasn't even this bad after the serum! God, just my clothes are driving me crazy. Every time my shirt brushes my nipples, I almost fall over, Buck!” He pleads. “I swear I convulsed in the shower this morning, havin’ the water roll down my skin. I kept thinking about your tongue,” he cries, big, fat tears beading in his eyes, “I'm going crazy. I can't get hard, but it doesn't matter. The rest of me is. That doesn't make sense.” He shakes his head hard, as if trying to dislodge the nonsensical thought. “But you know what I mean! Everything is so intense. It hurts. I can't go half a second without thinking about sex. It's so much worse than normal.”

Which is saying something, Bucky thinks, cocky. His Steve is a whore.

“I need to cum. You have to let me cum.”

Bucky leans in closer, pretending to soften, before telling him… “no.” Definitive.

Steve—

Steve is a whiner—when he's not busy being a commanding, steadfast leader, neatly folded away beneath the weight of his title as Captain America, Steve Rogers whines like a little bitch. He's a punk. A little shit.

Bucky knows this.

So, naturally, he's expecting Steve to whine and pout.

He underestimated him, though.

‘Cause Steve goes on blubbering and complaining and whining, and it gets to the point where Bucky blinks, looks down, and realizes Steve is clinging to his legs, hugging them, and actually crying.

Sobbing real tears.

Bucky's cock jerks maliciously in his sweats.

Christ.

Lowering a hand to cup the dizzingly swelling bulge in his pants, Bucky grinds firmly against the heel of his hand. Hissing out, between his teeth, “no.”

He has plans.

He just has to wait for Steve to fall asleep again, head to the pillow. Which takes no time at all; his little, desperate hissy fit takes it out of him, for all his posturing and ‘I can do this all day’-isms… he can't. He tires himself out, sobbing at Bucky's feet, soaking the pant leg of sweats with tears, uselessly humping his commanded-soft cock against Bucky's shin. So, within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, his sub is falling over the waterfall's edge into the wettest of dreams.

Rather than waterfall mist, though, the wetness comes much more satisfyingly from tears.

Tears and more tears.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what did Bucky do to deserve this? There is no way he deserves this gold.

Fuck.

There is nowhere else for all that pressure, frustration, and need to go, though; nowhere other than out from beneath Steve's shut eyelids, seeping out from underneath his long, pretty eyelashes, bleeding across their many- times defiled mattress, making a mess without the need for any sweat, lube, or cum.

Only tears.

It takes all of Bucky's self-restraint not to become a serpent, slithering down onto his belly, crawling closer to Steve to lick the tears off his gorgeous face. He aches to taste the salt and sheer need in his tongue.

Instead, he just keeps going.

Pushing.

Keeping him hard, hard, hard through his sleep. So hard he's crying uncontrollably—involuntarily. Weeping. Possessed with such need his tears meld into garbled choking and sleep-tremors.

The mattress shakes with his cacophony of demanded pleasure-denial.

And, as a result, the sensation inside of Bucky becomes monstrous. It is tangled and sharp and teethed. It wants. It enjoys. It revels in the filthy knowledge of bringing his submissive to this place. There are no inhibitions here. There can't be. There is only Bucky and his submissive's surrendered body. Bucky and Steve's nuclear-powered libido bottled. And any moment, any second, that is going to blow. It will be an entire meltdown. There will be devastation and aftermath, and Bucky can barely wait to see it. Twisted and writhing inside, he lies still and waits. Just waits. Any moment, Steve will wake. Any second, he will cry out, wailing, into consciousness with tears hot on his cheeks, with his body stuffed to the teeth with desire, with his cock harder than steel, and he will have the orgasm of a lifetime.

He is on the precipice.

And Bucky is, too.