#shrinkyclinks

With two, thick fingers plunging in deep and curling erotically as they're pulled back to tug on his rim, Bucky finger-fucks Steve like he's trying to force him up and down the bed—sensually, pleasurably friction burned with his head knocking against the headboard when Bucky's fingers slllide deep inside only to be brought back down the mattress, through the mused, fucked-up sheets, by the filthy way he hooks his fingers inside and rubs at his spread-open, ruined hole from the inside.

Guh.

Plunging deep. Pulling out. In. Out. In out.

Guh.

Every pull back, Steve's body shudders uncontrollably. Really, he can't fucking move, though. He's barely ninety pounds with two hundred and sixty pounds flattening him, face down against a sweat-soaked, sex-smothered bed, he can't get anywhere. He can't get anything done. He can't think.

Straddling his obscenely wide spread thighs, pinning him by sitting on the backs of his poor knees, to say that Bucky is overpowering him would be an understatement. God. Steve wants it, though. Every lube-drenched, aching slide of his fingers takes Steve apart more.

More.

More.

That's why he's fucking here. Pinned like a butterfly to a corkboard.

Bucky.

Bucky's so much heavier. So much bigger. And there's no way to say it, other than to say it, his cock is no fucking exception. His fucking cock. Jesus Christ. It has to be more of a hindrance than anything. Steve has never felt the saying hung like a horse before the way he feels it now—

With the other man's huge, fat cock—too huge—lying so heavy and thick against the back of his thigh, slathered obscenely in lube (from an optimistic attempt to stick it in him earlier) and dripping pre-cum into the downy, soft blonde hairs at the back of Steve's pale, lithe thigh.

More than fingers, mass, and cock, Bucky has a goddamn mouth on him—

A mouth that is running.

“You're so fucked up, aren't you, doll?” Steve can hear the dangerous grin he's wearing. The only thing he's wearing right now.

Miraculously, more than hearing his cocky, mind-melting hot voice, Steve processes those words and. Fuck.

Steve doesn't want to know what sound rips out of his drooling, gaped lips. He knows it's pornographic and humiliating. That's enough.

Whatever it is, it apparently sounds close enough to agreement that Bucky keeps talking his talk, suave bastard, “mmm-hmm, darlin’. My lil’ freak. Think about it.” Steve can't. He can't think. Still, deep inside him, fingering him until he's so open, lax, and boneless he'll never move again, Bucky demands he does. He demands he choke on pleasure and opens wide for his double-the-size body (probably more and, oh god, doesn't that just make Steve clench tight, thinking that Bucky is literally more than twice his size). “Imagine if your friends could see you now, hmm? Should'a listened to them, Stevie baby.” He purrs. “They told you I was bad news. They knew this would happen.”

Steve is unfathomably red from his forehead plastered with his sweat-soaked hair to his curling toes. He loves it.

“They knew your dirty little secret, didn't they?”

There isn't a shot in hell that Steve can respond. It doesn't matter. He isn't a participant here. He's a toy. An object. A fleshlight. Meant to be stretched and filled.

“They knew you were greedy and you wouldn't be able to help yourself, honey. You're too greedy. You just can't help yourself, I know. I know.”

He's gurgling on his own spit, overflowing just from fingers. How and why did they even try cock before? This is sofuckinggood. He is liquified. Quivering as a puddle—an ocean soaking into the bed like it's nothing but a sponge.

Sweat.

Lube.

Drool.

Tears.

He can't help himself, Bucky's right.

“You wanted it so bad. And ‘m so sorry we couldn't make it fit in ya, honey. But…” he lowers himself down flatter, closer, cock absolutely plastered against Steve's body, crushing him, and whispers, soft lips and sharp stubble dragging sensually over Steve's burning ear, “I know you like it anyway. You're getting off on this.” It isn't a question.

He is.

He is.

It's so fucking boiling hot that when Bucky peels himself off of Steve, sitting back up, all Steve can do is writhe, desperate, totally blind and deaf to all that isn't in this room, on this bed, within reach of Bucky. Right here. Right now.

Yes.

“You’re so fucked up, aren't you?” His fingers do something devastating inside. “You're so greedy for it, huh? It doesn't fit and you like it. You like that it hurt.”

Steve cries out, just at the reminder. It did hurt. It hurt so bad that tears just gushed out of him and his mouth started to water involuntarily like, impossibly, his gag reflex was triggered. So deep inside him. It hurt. But it was all he's ever wanted, the hot sting of pain and the excruciating fullness of being, just, stuffed full. To the teeth.

“You held out to the fucking last minute, didn't you, you stubborn son of a bitch. You moaned like a whore for it, trying to get me to shove it in more anyway. I bet if your tight little ass was a fucking tiny bit looser I could've fucked right from your ass into your throat, hmm?”

Steve thrashes.

“You wanna choke and cry on it, honey?”

He is losing his mind. He has lost his mind. Already. This can't be real. Holy shit.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you fucking do. Tsk, tsk,” he clicks his tongue, pawing at his ass, “just look at you—look at this hole. This fuckin’ hole wants more than it can take. I know. You're hungry. You're greedy. You're so fucked up, gagging for it even though you know it's not gonna fit. A little freak like you? What're you gonna do with all this cock anyway?”

“Hmm?” Bucky purrs, pleased to destroy him while remaining so composed that unless Steve couldn't feel his huge cock rutting against the back of his thigh, he wouldn't know this is turning him on at all. “What was that?”

It just fucking bursts out of Steve then, choked and through chest rattling sobs, blindly clawing at the tangled sheets around him, he blabbers, “a-AH-ANYTHING.” It's a dam breaking. Suddenly, there is a flood. “Any—anythng, mmnngh, pluh-please! Pluh-z, pl'z, put—”

“Puh-put! Put it in meee!” Tears rush down his sizzling hot cheeks.

And at the same time that Bucky rapidly, smoothly pulls out his two fingers to replace them with his thumb, shoving into his slick, sore, pried-open hole to abuse his prostate even more, he simply states, “no.”

And the denial, the meanness, the pleasure, the ache—

GUH.

Time is nothing, it means nothing. Temperature is heat, heat that does not flow easily along, forever, but heat it sticks, thick and viscous like honey—no, thicker than honey, hotter than lava, it's, ah, ah, ah—

It's more than that.

More than anything.

It's so much.

Too much.

Steve is burning, combusting, from the inside out, his lungs are struggling to draw any whisper of breath, and his whole chest—contoured, narrow ribs and hard nipples—is blushing. Christ, he's unbearably hot all the way to the tips of his ears. Hot and puffy and wet. That's all there is. Sensation ill-defined beyond its complete overwhelmment. Boiling heat. Blood-hot. Swollen, sensitive flesh. And wet. It's so wet.

Sopping.

So wet and deep and hot with Steve's unbreathing nose pressed greedily—desperately against Bucky's perineum. The pressure is making him groan so low in his chest that it rattles Steve's fucking bones. His whole body shakes like a struck bell. Jesus. He's vibrating. How could he not be, though? Just tasting him is orgasmic on it's own. Forget this kind of debauchery, eating him like this—

Bucky is so hot inside.

Bucky is so hot outside.

Steve is ablaze. Burning actively and smoldering at the same time because however long it's been… it's a lot. He's been here forever. He never wants to leave. Lapping and licking and nipping and pressing and nosing and using everything he has. Steve is starved. Steve's eating him like it's all he'll ever do.

Rimming him within an inch of his life—his life, Bucky or Steve's, Steve isn't sure himself. Either of them. Both.

He is going in.

Maybe it will be all he'll ever do.

He's going to die like this.

There is no way out. Tongue licking, lapping, flat and broad, poised and pointed, clumsy and dexterous, all erotic. Anyway you put it: erotic. Every second of it is sexual. There is nothing else. This is sex. Using just a hint of teeth to make Bucky shout and slam his fist against the wall. Sucking until he scrapes the paint off the walls, clawing at them, it feels like heaven if heaven could have such sinful, sensuous pleasure held within it. Fucking his sloppy, wet, open hole with his tongue and making him moan and moan and moan.

Pleasure.

Pure pleasure.

Yet, Steve is going to die of sexual frustration; he loves to eat him, but, god, his cock stiff and dripping, curved up against the low of his concave belly. Perhaps sooner, Steve is going to die because he can't fucking breathe. He's soaking, soaking wet across his lips and cheeks and chin, pleasuring Bucky like this, and he isn't stopping to breathe. He can't. Bucky's moaning and his huge, thick thighs are clamping around his head. Where would he get air?

All he has is spit and lube and cum and sweat and pre-cum and liquid desire itself. The cocktail is all-consuming. Heady and intoxicating beyond any alcohol, even for a lightweight like Steve. It doesn't take much. This is a feast.

This is an overdose.

This is death and this is how he wants to go.

Solid muscle squeezing his head so tight he's sure he's never making it out of this. Body heat burning through him like a forest fire. Bucky's hole twitching and clenching around his tongue while his heavy cock messily paints Steve's flushed forehead, tangled, gold hair, and the fucking headboard again and again. Orgasms outpouring. Gushing—as vulgar as that word feels.

It's so much.

He's so big and heavy on top of him, around him, everywhere. His hole. His thighs. His balls. His flesh. Him. Bucky.

Everything.

This is everything.

With all his sharp angles and prominent bones, Bucky can see it from a mile away—and he could, even without all his experience and enhancements—Steve is going in. He's swaying, no, lunging in for a fuckin’ fight. His sleeves swiftly, shortly shoved up, wrinkled, his bony hands already curled into angry, righteous fists, his blood hot, boiling, and his vision surely just about gone red.

All it takes, though, is one hand.

Just one of his own hands—bigger, much more calloused, and certainly older—and Bucky is catching him by the wrist. He doesn't even contemplate breaking a sweat. His well-used adrenaline doesn't spike, let alone murmur. Simply, effortlessly the older man shifts into holding back his younger boyfriend even though Steve's leaned his entire weight into his pre-fight stance.

“Don't, doll,” Bucky warns him, cutting him with a look.

“Don't ‘doll’ me, Buck,” Steve's upper lip curls, almost snarling at him, “there are—”

Bucky doesn't need to hear his reasoning, he trusts it; he just doesn't need to hear it. He's heard it before. He'll hear it again later, too. He's sure.

Still—

“I know,” Bucky's organic fingers tighten around Steve's wrist and, smoothly, he brings in his second hand for backup. His cool metal fingertips almost audibly sizzle when they come into contact with Steve's fired-up skin, thin and near-transparent as it may be. “I got what'cha need right here, sweetheart,” Bucky tells him, putting himself between Steve and the hell he's about to raise. It might be a good fight, but Steve doesn't have to fight every goddamn good fight he comes across, alright? Bucky's ‘bout had enough fighting in his time.

Yet, the (much, much) younger man jolts in his arms as if he didn't hear a damn word. Worse, as if he forgot he was being held back at all.

Christ.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Bucky tuts, knowing it's gonna rile him up even fucking more. The thing is—

Predictably, Steve shoves forward twice as hard, jolting like he's trying to give himself whiplash, and using his bird-boned wrists to his advantage, slipping out of Bucky's hold on one side. Freed ‘cause of the ‘thoughtless’ gap between his fingers and thumb. Promptly, Steve uses his free arm to smack Bucky's shoulder… as if that's going to do anything. Curling his lip even more, he sure fucking looks fiesty. His looks, more than his fighting, would get him out of Bucky's hold, if anything could.

But, again, the. thing. is—

—that that's by design. Bucky wants him riled.

Bucky wants him hot.

“Yeah,” Bucky smirks, catching his escaped hand like he's stealing candy from a baby, mercilessly clamping his fingers all the way around his wrist. He'll be bruised later, but he knows Steve won't mind—he likes the marks. It's easy to overlap his fingers and thumb securely this time, he's all bone. Bucky is just calculated experience. “You're all fired up, huh, tough guy?”

“Don't patronize me,” the smaller man spits.

Man, if glares could kill, Bucky would be a dead man. But, they can't, and so…

“How can I not, sweetheart?” Bucky lifts just one corner of his mouth, letting the Brooklyn come out while he's at it. “You're so young. You're practically just a baby. ‘Course imma patronize you.”

And Steve—

Steve fucking twists and jerks and fights his hold. When he can get no leeway, he headbutts him in the chest with everything he's got.

“Oof.”

The air rushes out of Bucky's robust chest.

Little fuckin’ bastard.

His little move shocks Bucky enough that Steve manages to wrangle out of his hold and take a good two, maybe three lucky steps forward but—Bucky's faster. Steve wants to act like a kid and get chased down like a little kid? Alright. Bucky can throw down, who gives a shit if his back hurts these days. He'll fucking go.

“Not so fast, champ,” Bucky gloats, taking one lunging step forward to catch his stupid boyfriend by the waist, curling his arm around him, crushing him between his bulging bicep and corded forearm to throw him over his shoulder.

His metal shoulder.

Bucky likes the sound Steve makes when his thin chest hits against it. Solid. Rushing out. Wheezing. Caught, safe and sound.

“Buck!” His legs kick out, making enough of a fuss that the fight he was planning on running head first into breaks up to stare at them. There, see? One problem solved. Now—

Time to deal with the other one. But not here.

“C'mon, kid,” Bucky stalks back the way they came, moving into the long, deep shadows of the alley between the shamefully gentrified Brooklyn buildings; the only kind of Brooklyn Steve's ever known. Little punk. And, speaking of the bastard—

Once they're enough paces away, Bucky presses his boyfriend against the brick wall, making sure his feet are well off the ground as he talks to him, eye to eye, a few scant inches between their bodies with his mismatched hands under his armpits, “you wanna fuckin’ fight, huh?”

Steve just about growls at him.

“Huh?” He barks, not pleased to repeat himself while simultaneously drawing the fire out of him purposefully. For fun and pleasure and function.

“Fuck you,” Steve snarls, showing him his mouthful of teeth.

“C'mon then, kid,” he doesn't back down, he wouldn't dream of it, “gimme what you got.”

Despite his feet being nowhere near the ground, he's got the balls to spit, “pfft, as if you could take it, old man.”

“Oh ho ho,” he feels his lips pull into a sharp grin, nose to nose with the little squirt as he dares, “try me.”

Steve crushes the space between their mouths, kissing him viciously. Locking lips. Sucking lewdly on Bucky's bottom lip. Nipping at the corner of his mouth. Scraping his teeth over the stubble ever-present around his mouth. Biting his jaw. Licking into his mouth.

By the time they part, coming away with a thick string of saliva connecting their swollen lips, panting, there is no oxygen left in Bucky's lungs; he can't imagine how Steve's holding out other than his sheer fucking stubbornness. He's made of more sheer stubbornness than bones, Bucky swears it sometimes.

“Aw, honey,” Bucky presses their bodies together harder, chest to chest, freeing up one of his hands to not hold up Steve but to thumb his lush little mouth, red and wet as he chuckles, “you're gonna have to try harder than that. This old man has been around the block more than a few times. A kiss ain't gonna have me cummin’ in my pants like one of your little app hookups.”

“Ain't gonna cum in your pants ‘cause you can't get it up, old man,” he fires back.

“Careful, kiddo.” Arousal is coiling tight inside Bucky. As much shit as he gives Steve for this, he loves the fight, too. The venom. The bite. “Only one of us has ground to stand on right now.”

“And? What're you gonna do about it? Gonna teach me a lesson, old timer?”

Bucky licks his lips, slow and teasing, like he's thinking about it. He already knows what he's gonna do. “G'nna treat you just the way your old man should.”

Steve's voice is already breathier despite him trying to act all tough still, “which is?”

“‘M gonna take you home and bend you over my knee an’ spank you ‘til you scream. I'm gonna beat your sorry hide red, sweetheart.”

Steve, finally, cracks. He moans. Eyes gon’ all huge and dark.