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truedumpling · 7 months ago

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Pussy Steve in a leg spreader is all I can think abouttt... Unable to escape any of the touch and he's sooo sensitive guh

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

Ngl, since you sent this in in fucking August, oh god, this is all I've been able to think about.

I just... yeah. It's been on my mind. There's something about spreader bars that I fucking dying for and putting pussy Steve in one? Why didn't I think of that earlier!?

Since Bucky and Steve stumbled into the discovery of how fucking good messing around could feel when they were horny, clumsy teenagers all awkward and lanky limbs, Steve has sworn that the thing Bucky likes most is, just, punking Steve. Fucking with him.

It started legitimate, at least. His thing.

His kink, maybe.

Back then, when Steve was all too close to stumbling and falling through death's door from his precarious place curled up on its stoep like some abandoned orphan, it was for his own good. He didn't want to admit it, not even fucking close, and Bucky didn't demand that he did, but he kept it in mind regardless. He kept Steve still yet aroused, enough to keep him hard (or most of the way there) but not enough to send his heart into a frenzy of the wrong kind. That, usually, ment working him up nice and slow. But, somewhere along the way, between life and body altering transformations and devastating plunges into death and through it, the habit stuck. Maybe they just never had time to learn any other way, though.

Now, still, Bucky fucks with him by winding him up nice and slow. Consistent and sensual, as if waiting for his body to work itself up through its slow circulation and anemia and everything else going against him. He likes to watch the color wash into Steve's pale skin; he likes to feel how he burns hotter with rising arousal; he likes to hear the stuble pick-up of Steve's breath, getting more shallow and hitched; he likes to know that he's making Steve feel good, good enough to be a tugging, distracting current that's not breaking right now, not yet, but it will be, it will build and build and get to the point where, eventually, Steve just can't stand it and he'll shatter. But. By the time that he's breaking, he'll have been so fucking worked up that he doesn't see it coming. Sometimes, that means cumming without a sound, mouth hanging open, nothing but a silent exhale of agony, or, sometimes, that means cumming with a shocked, unrealized wailing-moan as he flails over the edge whether he wants to or not. He's been boiled alive, the water growing hotter so incrementally that he didn't even know.

It's that moment that Bucky chases: the break.

The moment of the break. But, still, getting Steve--a stubborn little spitfire--to break isn't half as fun without a crazy-long, agonizing wind-up. It adds to the break. The anticipation makes it better. Worse, to Steve.

Today, the slow, consistent, easy wind-up wasn't as, uh, private as usual, though. Steve wasn't laid out on the couch in their apartment, held in Bucky's lap, back-to-chest, with Bucky's fingers finding their way up his tight, tight shirt to trace over his skin, the valleys and hills of his muscle definition. Bucky just 'innocently' touching until he's not, circling and plucking and playing with his sensitive nipples until Steve's panting and has lost all sense of time. When did this even start? What time is it now? Will this ever end? Steve wasn't in their shower on a slow, lethargic evening--nothing done all day but lay around, alone together--Bucky sliding in behind him to wash his body and tease him until he's plenty fucking wet to let Bucky in by the time he reaches between his legs, sliding his thighs apart with relaxed, unhurried hands. Fingering him with no rush. Not even stretching him out on more than two fingers. The two of them enveloped in nothing but pouring sheets of water and hot steam. If the mirror could, it'd be blushing, watching Steve get pressed tight against the glass shower stall wall, his face and tits smushed, displayed, all pale pink and desperate. Steve wasn't in bed, either, under orders to not move an inch, or Bucky would stop. Still, still, still--not tense but torturously relaxed--as Bucky skirts the line between massaging him and tickling him, waiting for him to be 'ready...' Whatever that means. Steve's past ready. Hot and wet and puffy between his legs. One touch there, and he could come apart. If only Bucky would. But, no, none of that. Steve wasn't alone.

They weren't alone.

Well, at one point they were, now, when it really fucking starts, they aren't alone.

Winding-up, tighter and tighter and tighter, Steve is trying not to fucking lose his mind in the middle of a goddamn meeting. He's fucking surrounded. All sides. Right. Left. Behind him. Infront of him. Some people are in their supersuits and other agents in low-key, blacked-out S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms.

It's a storm of faceless, nameless shapes that are hardly even people to Steve right now. Whatever the hell this meeting is about (debrief? It's got to be a debrief, right? Bucky wouldn't endanger him or other innocent people by preventing him from taking in intell, right?), Steve isn't registering a lick of it. Instead, he's focused solely around the buzzing, aching, nearly-silent bullet vibrator in his boxer briefs. They're just fucking tight enough to keep it in place, nevermind how Bucky just so effortless slipped it into the pocket at the front of his drawers like it was meant to be there--as if there was no way in hell that Steve would go without it, of course, not.

Steve and Bucky's ears are the only ones that can pick up the subtle earthquake plundering Steve, crumbling his earth, inch by inch as that fucking tiny ass vibrator pulses, buzzes, and rumbles tightly against his swollen clit, soaking the dry-fit material of his boxers.

Oh, god.

All the fucking hours--it feels like hours--they've been sitting here Steve's had to keep himself from squirming or whining or doing anything that'd tip off anyone to the toy going at him. Whatever Bucky's doing to control it or whatever pre-set he's put it to, the pulsing vibrations are perfectly balanced to keep Steve balanced on the razor edge of agony. It's not enough to make him cum. It's too much to not be desperately arousing. And it's not consistent enough to be ignorable. He's still fucking sensitive to it, even after all the dragging, droning conversation.

Trying to keep himself together has resulted in the flush that he knows is painted across his cheeks, sitting high like a sunset just starting, not yet kissing the horizon line. But, more, the way he's sweating like a dog. He can feel the rivers of it pouring down his back, pooling underneath his arms, the dimples of his back, and down his asscrack to the insides of his thighs where he's urgently pressing them together. He isn't sure if he's making it better or worse for himself, pressing his legs together. On one hand, it makes him less fervently paranoid that someone else can hear his little vibrator where its rawing him, making him crazy, but on the other hand, clenched tight in his fist, it's making the vibrations spread through him so much easier. A rock thrown into a pond with the ripples emanating out, lapping at the shore. Steve's nerves are the taut surface of the water, every single vibration a pebble that builds into not little ripples but huge waves that lap and erode at his edges, making him think he's about to cum in his chair, hardly resisting from grinding into his seat, bucking his hips and letting his eyes roll back, his lip coming out from between his teeth to moan more like a roar, finally fucking released from his ongoing torture and devastated by how it eats at him. All that pleasure. Too much.

Right when Steve's about to fucking tap out, thunk his head on the table and shoot his hand down between his clenching thighs to ride his own hand to completion--shoving the vibrator tighter against his wet, wet, wet, and swollen, tortured, clit--as he moans. Fuck all the people in the room, they all have to sign so many NDAs to work for an agency like this, what's another one for, oh, yeah, that time that Captian America orgasmed out of nowhere in the middle of a meeting. Right then, Bucky's metal hand lands heavy on his upper arm, digging his fingers into his bicep through his suit and dragging him to his feet.

Steve feels like a mess.

Steve is a mess.

He can't believe no one else knows what's happening. He's hardly lucid enough to grunt out a 'yes' or bob his head or to anything to make it seem like he's on the same fucking planet as all the people around him. It's just enough, though. Just enough. Not, not enough--

If Steve was sure everyone knew what was happening when he was using all of his self-control to not hump the chair he was sitting in, then he absolutely fucking knows that everyone is immediately crystal clear about what's going on when Bucky hauls him out of that boardroom. Bucky is dragging him away, steadying him on his shaking feet, to fuck him into next Sunday. They know.

Bucky is dragging him off to fuck him.

Pre-emptive relief crashes over Steve like a wave at the realization and he pays fuck all attention to the sights and sounds around him. All he knows is that one minute they're in the meeting, it's dismissed, and the next minute, Bucky has cornered him in the elevator, and they're moving. They're alone. Steve doesn't just melt against the hot, solid line of Bucky's leather-clad body, he disintegrates.

His knees go weak, and his hands curl into clinging, pawing clumsy things that won't work. His face buries itself in his chest--between his pecs, if they were naked like they ought to be--and groans with all the breath in his chest, punched out.

Indulgently, Bucky holds him there like that for a moment, scruffing him around the back of his neck like he's a shaky, anxious kitten. Steve might as well be the way he mewls when Bucky brings up one of those fucking killer thighs to grind against his pussy.

Steve mewls.

The thick, solid muscle of Bucky's thigh forces him to confront, right fucking here in this work elevator, just how wet he is. He's wet. Soaked. Vibrating hard. He's been dripping the entire time they were in that stupid meeting, messing up his boxer briefs and probably even the inside of his suit--it's gonna be a bitch to clean. It's gonna smell like sex forever.

Steve isn't thinking about cleaning.

Steve is, oh, oh--

Bucky has him right fucking there, about to fucking cum, he's so close, he can feel the heated, tangled knot of pleasure pulling taut low in his belly, about to fucking fray apart. Pulled apart. It's in the back of his throat. He can feel it in his teeth, creeping into the muscle of his jaw, he's half-clenching his jaw and half letting it hang open. He doesn't know what his face is doing; it's probably fucked-out and dumb. But--

"Ah, ah, ah," Bucky tuts at him, pulling his thigh away and pulling him up by the nape of his neck.

Steve doesn't give a second thought about the pathetic, sharp whine he gives at having his orgasm disparagingly denied. Ruined? Whatever the fuck happened that's left his whole fucking body quivering and raw. He was so goddamn close!

So, so fucking close that that's the only thing he can hold onto. And even that, as Bucky pulls him out of the elevator--out out the building through a dizzying revolving door, pushes him onto the back of his motorcycle, heaves his arms around him, and drives them home--slips through his fingers like sand. Steve isn't holding onto anything. His arms are physically around Bucky's stocky waist as they ride, holding on, but he's not emotionally holding on to fucking anything. His brain is dripping out of his ears. Hours of vibration, his thighs clenched together, trying to keep it together. Now, his thighs are split wide around the heaving, breathing, rumbling body of Bucky's bike. It's a fucking animal.

Bucky drives like an animal. Feral and reckless as New York blurs messily past them. And Steve just nuzzles in tight, moaning recklessly and unashamedly into Bucky's ear from over his shoulder.

He's beyond desperate.

The blurred, smeared paint effect of the world around him gets worse when they're off the bike. Closer to home, Steve feels more of that pre-emptive relief surge through him more. He can't put himself back together, first shaken apart in that meeting and then blended up by the motorcycle ride. Too much. Not enough. Steve needs more.

Steve knew he was wet, but he didn't realize just how wet he fucking got until Bucky grabs him and twists him around, hauling him over his shoulder, smacking his ass and keeping a heavy, possessive hand there while he walks Steve's quivering body deeper into their home just to pin him down against their mattress all handsy and strong. Steve can't fucking fight. He just lays there, teeth chattering. He's vibrating so much himself he doesn't know if the bullet vibe is still on or not. He doesn't need it. He just. More. He needs more.

Steve needs more, thrown in through their slammed-open front door and stumbling in, unsteady and breakable as a fawn. Fuck it. He's not breakable, he's already broken. Broken open and spilling molten hot--pouring out his lust.

He's so fucking on edge anything could set him off. Anything will set him off. Just. Please.

Steve can hardly fucking hear Bucky over the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding like mad. But he's saying something, asking something with that damn gorgeous Chesire cat grin, all predatory and sharp, "you gonna show me how fucking wet I make you, baby?"

"Wrong answer, honey," his salacious grin widens dangerously the higher he gets off teasing him.

Steve can't think.

He can't hear.

He can't move.

Yet, he must shake his head, trying to clear his mind, figure out what the fuck is happening, what to do, because Bucky responds to him like he's answered. Like he can do anything. As if Bucky hasn't turned him into a useless pile of wet, desperate need.

And while Steve can't move, so overwhelmed with his lust, Bucky has no such issues. He's crawling off the bed where he has Steve fucked up and pinned to grab, grab--

There's no time to really process what the fuck that is, what it's doing to him, and how it feels on him when suddenly, like a switch flipped, Steve's cunt is hot and wet and kept clenched between his tensed thighs then Steve's cunt is cold and drenched and exposed to open air.

Steve's vision is so hazy and blurred he doesn't even know what it is and he doesn't think it matters anyway because Bucky isn't using it, rather he's running his hands fervently all over Steve's quivering body to strip him of his uniform. The distraction doesn't last long, though, as ruined and desperate as Steve is, Bucky is the same. Their desire intrinsically intertwined. Twinned and deepened. Made that much more perilous together. Once he's stripped to nothing but his sweat and blush, Bucky uses that thing he grabbed.

It's a spreader bar. The thing. It's a long bar, reinforced, and forcing Steve's legs wide, wide apart.

Bucky peels Steve's legs apart with a grunt and obscene show of strength, his flesh arm fucking flexing and his metal arm revving--recalibrating in a way that Steve could drool over all fucking day--and makes Steve too fucking aware of how stupidly turned on he is. He's wet. He's swollen. He's raw. He's quivering in phantom vibrations. He's so fucking aware of how exposed he is.

Exposed.

He can't keep his legs together. Bucky is just--

Bucky has him.

Bucky is pawing at his wet pussy like the big bad man he is. Fucking him up like he's the wolf and Steve is innocently lost in the wood. Steve should be afraid of his claws, but he isn't. He really isn't. He wants claws. He wants teeth. He wants.

His pussy is so hot and slick compared to the rest of the air in their bedroom. It's mortifying. Could he be wetter? No. He couldn't get any fucking more turned on without just dying. He might die here. Steve wails and jerks but doesn't get anywhere. He can't. He's spread.

Oh.

Oh, god.

Unceremoniously then, exposed and spread, Bucky shoves his face up there, licking his wet slit hotly, and Steve squeals.

What is he going to do to him? Steve could sob. Steve is sobbing. What isn't he going to do to him? He just wants to cum! Bucky doesn't have to kill him. He can just let him cum! He doesn't have to murder him!! Just let him cum!

Pleeease.

#nsfw stucky

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