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Steve is consumed by heavy, inky darkness these days. It does not matter where he runs, where he roams, or even where he stumbles on his last legs, there is always darkness. He cannot find the end of the oppressive cloud cover where the sun filters back in, gracing the back of his neck with warmth and spreading through his hair to make it glow like a halo around his head. First—in this century, at least—the darkness came for him, clouding him and birthing a storm at his core, when he lost faith in the system he only ever fought to save so it might be improved and serve those who need it most. Then, when that system crumbled apart, nothing but corruption at its cold, dead core, the darkness spread through Steve even further because he realized he knew, without anything to hide behind anymore, the frustration of never having anything work out.
Never having his own needs met.
How can that be the only constant? Needing, yearning, wanting more. How can that be the only thing to survive all time, corruption, and war? Is that all there ever is? The burden of desire? Because he’s tried. He’s tried again and again, but ever since the serum had first burned hot and thick like venom through his veins, injected into his flesh, blood, and bone like the fangs of a hundred vicious snakes—needles through him, tearing him apart, repairing him, and transforming him—he hasn’t known stillness and satisfaction. It was a rare delicacy before, considering the circumstances of his life and, larger, the global stage at that time. Yet, any stillness and satisfaction that he might’ve had was obliterated by the serum, never to be known again. After the serum, his mind whirls at hyperspeeds that are good for battle but nothing else. He is made for battle, honed like a blade; he doesn’t long for battle, though. He would do anything to keep it at bay for the good of people, again and again, even if it is utterly and completely Sisyphean. It still happens. He is but a man. It always still happens.
The ball will roll down the hill. He will chase it. He will begin again.
And he’s so tired.
Steve doesn’t want to fight. If battle is, at least, the only time his mind does not churn faster than his body can keep up with then out of battle, separate from the limb-from-limb destruction of war, his mind wants and his body does, too, and he cannot keep up. It’s wanting of a million things, each fiber of his being restless and submerged in energy, urging him to move, move, move. It’s the sickening kind of being ill of ease that takes all shapes and forms, never limited to, but certainly including lust.
The lust inside him is a hurricane. He cannot relax. He’s tried to temper the fever of want with many partners over the years, stringing along before and after the ice. He’s been with many men, many women, and a handful of people along the path who didn’t consider themself either, as well. One at a time usually but, occasionally, multiple at once—men, women, whoever will have him. And it hasn’t done a damn thing. Nothing. Not anything. Partner after partner, trying all kinds of positions and toys and kinks, still hasn’t touched the deep, deep, dark hunger inside him. He needs more.
More because there is always restraint with those partners, even when he’s with more than one at once. Those partners, while good, were not enough for the greed that lives at the depths of Steve no one knows. And it wasn’t enough because they were all non-enhanced humans. Steve couldn’t bring himself to put this particular burden on his team in the new century—they all have enough burdens, every minute of every day, whatever push-pull had brought them to their enhancements, then the agony of using them, sharpened into a weapon they didn’t ask for, and continued haunting grief of being allowed to help but never able to save everyone. Sisyphian. The world rolls on, always finding worse, bloodier battles to soak from the surface into the dirt and deep to the core. Bathed in blood.
How could Steve ask more of any of them?
So, he buried his lust in regular people and held on just tight enough to himself while he did it not to harm those unenhanced lovers by accident—clutching at them just hard enough, fucking just hard enough, just deep enough, kissing them just hard enough, orgasming just enough, exhausting them entirely and unwinding himself just enough. Measured amounts of steam let off. No one could keep up with him truly; it’s not their fault, though, the playing field isn’t even.
And now—with Thaddeus Ross and the United Nations looming over him, he has completely abandoned his former title to the dust and picked up the rough-around-the-edges, accused title of vigilante— Steve can take it no longer. He has been pushed to the brink. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Steve is a dark, broken, desperate man full of deviance.
He has needs.
The sun is going down outside the long-abandoned safehouse he’s pushed his way inside. The cracking, forgotten structure is haunted by the people it’s held within its walls and the hushed conversations it's had to bear the burden of hearing. As a result of all the unrest carried within its bones, its windows are shattered, and the inky blue curtains once relegated to the inside of his house trail out of the window frames, wild, caught on remaining shards of glass or shredded and freed to soak in the cooling atmosphere outside, waving like flags of surrender. The air inside and outside of the safehouse is filled with the whispering of the untamed curtains fluttering and the shivering of autumn-crisp leaves, dead on their branches, just clinging to the last hours of life before plummeting to the ground.
The living room of the beaten-up safehouse hasn’t seen a soul in too long, sagging without life to give it an understanding of its name, but still, it’s large enough for Steve’s plans. It’s dim, too, because Steve hasn’t bothered to check the electricity, assuming that flicking the switches would do nothing. So, all he has to see, swamped on all sides by deep shadows, is his serum-brightened night vision and—once he strikes a match on the side of the box, hissing to life, catching fire—the six tall, more-thin-than-wide, deep merlot red candles he’s brought with him.
The flickering, living light thrown from the flames of the burning candles illuminates the floor but still allows for shadows to gather richly in the corners—they’re not that bright. With more visual, though, Steve begins to brush away the twigs, cones, and decaying leaves that’ve managed to come inside through the shattered windows with his heavy, chunky combat boots. It isn’t much scattered mess, but it’s enough that they would be in the way if he didn’t clear the area.
Then, with nothing else preventing him, it’s time to begin.
So, Steve curtseys down to kneel and the chill from the wooden floor soaks through his worn, torn uniform, finding its way into his bones. He blows out of huffed, impatient breath to brush away the strands of hair that fall across his face, coming untucked from behind his ears. On his knees, Steve then plucks a stick of chalk from one of the various pockets sewn into his uniform—the same pocket that houses the matches plus a few other odds and ends of things he made need for this—and draws a massive circle in chalk, swinging his arm out, scratching the white chalk into the scuffed, dull floor. Once he’s satisfied with the circle, he works on a five-point star within the circle. The edges of the star are sharp, nearly jagged because he is committed yet reckless with his movements, using his artist background from a lifetime ago and his current strength to push the chalk but not crumble it entirely. He is plowing forward. He won’t stop now.
This is the only option.
With the powerful symbol drawn, Steve casts aside the chalk to a dark corner of the room, rolling away, claps the powdery dust from his hands, and leans back on his knees, staring at his work and knowing… he’s really going to do this. He’s going through with it, solemn acceptance that this is the place his life has come to. He has arrived and there is one train coming to the station to take him elsewhere. The two options are to come aboard or not. Except, he’s already tried the whole not-getting-on-the-train and he knows where that leads. It’s the same. It’s all the same. So, he’s going to ride. Sighing to himself, Steve’s mouth twists into a wry smile, only him, only in his fucking life. What a trip.
The dark red candles are already warm and pooling with hot, liquid wax at their centers as he arranges them, one for each point of the star—air, fire, water, earth, and spirit—and the sixth at the center of the pentagram he’s drawn. Before he places the offering he brought with him at the center next to the sixth candle, Steve stands to his full height and carefully traces the perimeter of the summoning circle with salt. His offering can be set down right before the final step of evocation, a marking of how completely he’s committed to this, wanting to entice a spirit badly. But, prior to placing anything else so final down, he sets the boundary.
He gives a couple of feet between the pentagram's outer edge and the salt ring, enough room but not too much room at the same time; he wants a little space to work, he has needs and he doesn’t want to be contained to a tiny ass circle while he takes, but he’s also not inviting whoever answers his summoning to play in the mortal realm. He feels it out: enough, not too much.
Then, with the boundary set in a continuous, uninterrupted line of salt, Steve steps back inside, feeling what must be a placebo-esque rush of energy skittering through his flesh and blood, places the offering of chocolate (the richest, smoothest, most luxurious dark chocolate he could get his godforsaken paws on while keeping his head low, out in the middle of nowhere) next to the center candle, kneels in front of the pentagram, and begins to chant. It feels so natural, a string of steps that he performs in a single motion— swimming through it, except the water is thick and dark like molasses.
As he recites, he allows his voice to drop to something eerily relaxed, monotone and calm, yet wanting. He can’t help how his desire bleeds through. He has to be shameless and clear in what he’s seeking, otherwise, he’ll easily have the wool pulled over his eyes. He has to bring what he wants.
He needs.
As he closes his eyes, Steve allows the desires he aches to fill to consume him—flooding into his conscious from his subconscious where he usually shoves it back—illustrating just how deeply he needs this to whoever, to whatever is listening.
Please, answer.
This is his last resort.
The ancient words he was given to go alongside the ritual of drawing, lighting, and offering slide easily up from his lungs to be curled around by his tongue, sliced by his teeth, and drip out of his lax lips into the crackling air of the dim, flickering room. The words feel like something he’s always known, like shedding the skin of the modern city and walking into the gaping mouth of the desolate woods, ready to be swallowed by nature and return to the primal roots of humanity. Returning home. Steve empties his mind, focusing on the present, and letting every memorized word flow through him. Nothing else.
Just. this.
As he chants hypnotically, Steve does not let the changing of the air around him mean anything, thickening with electricity that raises the hairs on the back of his arms and beginning to fill with a heavy scent that is familiar yet unrecognizable. He couldn’t describe what it’s like if he put his mind to it. And he doesn’t put his mind to it. He will not stop before the deal is complete. He cannot be appeased just yet. He knows there is more. He will plow through until there is nothing left and the deal has been sealed, not a single misstep to be had.
Suddenly, the light bleeding through the backs of Steve’s eyelids from the candles cuts off, blown out in an instant by an invisible rush of air from a looming, larger-than-life mouth of gnarled teeth and a crooked tongue. Steve will not let his body quiver with the chill that races up his spine like a single claw drawn up, leaving behind a distinct, raised line to let him know it was there. Obviously marked. Further than the leeching out of light, all the white noise drains from the room—from the world at large. The rustling, dead leaves stop, the wind calms, the faint crackle of tension within Steve—his own electrical inputs—even falls, and the rasp of his measured, intentional breaths silences.
In the snap of someone’s fingers, Steve understands he’s being watched. The knowledge is unpresent and then, immediately, there. He knows. He is being watched. He’s also out of words.
So, he opens his eyes, his mouth tripping to a stop, no more spiritually charged words flowing from him like a waterfall. Mouth drying because—
It worked.
The man, no, the creature in the shape of a man is tall and impossibly broad, towering over Steve improbably, granted the size of Steve to begin with. He is large and, also, totally naked. So. He’s, uh, large everywhere. Further, across his big, impressive body his skin is deeply tanned, nearly bronze, and he looks to be made of cast metal based on the perfect sculpture of his anatomy. His muscles are coiled and thick beneath his skin like snakes, pulling him forward with power and arrogance. He sways with a swagger and charm that is downright hypnotic. Steve studies him, appearing from nowhere, unable to tear his gaze away, watching heatedly with bated breath.
His face matches his body, perfect and sharp and enchanting.
Tempting.
The man is tempting with pale, blue eyes that promise things Steve knows he doesn’t mean—full of games and tricks—and lips that look soft to the touch. He is every fantasy that Steve has ever had melded into one solid object. Yet, he’s better than anything Steve could have synthesized himself. His long hair dusts his shoulders and its texture is wild, tumbling in shiny, thick waves that beg to be touched. His head is crowned with deep, dark horns that curl away from his face and up toward the sky, mockingly pointing towards God. Fittingly with his large, large body, he has massive wings, too. His wings are so darkly brown they could easily be mistaken for black, Steve is paying enough attention to know the difference, though, and they flutter, knowing they’re being watched, impolitely eager to show off.
Beneath his undivided, compelled attention, all of the creature preens.
His mouth ticks up at one corner into a cocksure smirk, “you rang, darlin’?” When he speaks the hint of a hiss colors his tone, sharp around the edges, and Steve’s heart races, seeing just a slight peak of a tongue that appears to be long and… maybe forked? Either way, forked or not, the flash he sees of the creature’s tongue leaves Steve knowing that it's wicked. Steve implicitly understands that that tongue knows how to be used to inflict pleasure like no other. Sinful pleasure and indulgence.
Steve's throat makes an embarrassing, audible gulping sound as he takes in the ungodly handsome creature before him. He nods, too, though, because ring he did. And, now, he will see what that means for them both, but he is hopeful against the odds.
The creature shaped into an impressive man’s body steps closer and closer and closer, prowling out of the center of the pentagram, the candle burning, forgotten, between his feet, and coming suffocatingly into Steve’s space. He steals all the air, snatching it from the atmosphere forming between them as well as from Steve’s lungs caged within his heaving ribs. Steve finds himself losing balance as the gap linking them disappears. He hadn’t stood, but regardless, he’s falling back on his knees—farther back onto his knees. Only barely catching himself with an arm braced behind him, his elbow locking, the joint clicking and grinding. Bone on bone. Steve does not cower, he is not afraid, he’s—
“Aw,” his thoughts are interrupted, “don’t get all shy on me now, sweet thing—” the creature’s tail appears behind him as he talks enticingly. It lashes amusedly. The shape of his tail is lithe like the single strike of a thick, ink-heavy pen stroked across a page “—you’re the one that called, after all.” Then, with a single, suave move, the man leans in and lifts Steve’s bearded chin with one thick finger. The nails at the end of his digits are not too long but they’re certainly more curled, thick, and claw-like than any fingernails Steve’s seen on a human, it makes him shiver, feeling like a mouse clutched in the talons of a bird of prey, about to be torn apart. “You’re the one who summoned a demon,” he mockingly emphasizes, “meticulously checking off all the steps on your little list to do it. You can’t pretend you didn’t want this.”
Ah, Steve thinks. So that’s what, who, this creature is exactly.
A demon.
Steve would be lying if he said the word didn’t strike some fear into him, blooming like the after-effect of the head of a matchstick to its box. Fiction crackling into heat. Cause and effect. Yet, amidst the knowledge of his own plan, clear inside his mind, the fear strikes him more like arousal than genuine worry. The sensations are similar anyway, fear and fetish—two sides of the same coin.
It can’t be that bad… can it?
“Haven’t you got anything to say to me?” The demon purrs, scritching his nails through his beard. His touch burns. It’s like being held, cradled deceptively sweetly, by fire itself; flames licking his skin, desiring nothing more than to watch him melt.
“I do,” Steve’s voice comes out surprisingly strong even to himself, but the sound is rough. His cock has been awake, thrumming, throughout the whole ritual, knowing what he was getting himself into, but now it twitches. Possessed.
“Oh, and?” The demon answers, raising his eyebrows, looking unimpressed. He doesn’t want to ask again.
Biting the bullet, Steve bluntly admits, “I called you because I need someone who can handle my sex drive. I’m enhanced,” he explains, “other people aren’t,” duh, that’s why it’s enhancement, “and I’m not satisfied with them.” He sees no reason to be reserved. The demon heard and saw what he wanted from him when he summoned him, peering into his head, and, clearly, this creature has no shame, prowling toward him and pursuing him without second thought, so Steve shouldn’t either. “I want to fuck you until I am satisfied.”
At his request, the demon barks out a laugh.
It’s not the reaction he was expecting, but Steve supposes he’s heard it all. Faintly, he wonders how old he is and if he always answers evocations of lust. Do demons have specialties? Is he, maybe, less general demon and more specific incubus?
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name before demanding to fuck me, mortal?” Steve shouldn’t like the way those words roll off his tongue as much as he does, they shouldn’t make him feel that much hotter with his dick more and more trapped within his uniform pants by the minute. Tighter. “I would’ve thought you had better manners,” he rolls his eyes and then pats Steve’s cheek condescendingly, “or have humans just lost their tact? I always found them a little…” he clicks his tongue, “entitled. You think everything is about you. How naive.” He scoffs.
Something about the way his hissing yet honey-soaked voice slides over the word “mortal” sends a shiver down Steve’s spine, maybe it’s just the reminder of their difference. Maybe he’s more perverse than he even realized.
“My name’s Steve,” he offers, licking his lips but trying not to react when the demon’s clawed hand glides roughly from his cheek back to his beard to then collar his fingers around his throat. His hand is so large that as he paws the thin, delicate skin pounding with his pulse, his fingers almost meet around the back of his neck. They would if he squeezed. Oh. “What’s yours?” He rasps.
“You can call me Bucky, lustful mortal,” he replies.
Steve struggles to swallow the spit pooling in his mouth and nods. He can’t stop looking the demon up and down—craning his neck to look all the way up with their height difference—but, again, with the lack of shame Bucky possesses, he doesn’t feel bad about being so obvious. He’s too busy for feeling shitty, anyhow. His mind is rather occupied with hot, forbidden desire.
The silence is thick between them for a moment. Two. Three. Bucky must be weighing the options, deciding if he wants him or not, because he’s staring down at him intensely. Underneath the weight of his glare, Steve feels thoroughly examined. Looked through as if he’d become transparent and all his fantasies were playing like a movie in his mind’s eye shamelessly revealed by his skin turning to glass. Steve goes to open his mouth, strikingly desperate to convince this demon of how badly he needs an outlet, yet… he finds that can’t speak. Steve boils internally with a fever that would be deadly to anyone else, with no words present anywhere within his body and mind. Empty. Only wants.
Not until after Bucky speaks again, with his wings rustling as he comes to his decision, can Steve blow out his withheld breath, thank you on the tip of his tongue, words working again. “I will exhaust you of your desires—” but that relief only lasts an instant before Bucky continues to speak “—but not in the way you wish.”
Steve cocks his head to the side curiously even as Bucky squeezes his vulnerable throat tighter. A bolt of fear cuts through Steve. He is so vulnerable like this, it’s just hit him. On his knees, held by the neck, willingly offered up for slaughter like livestock too dumb to know better, enhanced but so powerless compared to a fucking demon who is so much fucking larger than him. Goosebumps rise over his entire body, coming to stand at attention as if before a commanding officer.
Oh, God.
“As I said,” Bucky goes on, displaying all his teeth as he smiles, “humans, they’re so selfish and entitled,” he chuckles, tail behind him acting the same way paper does when held to flame, darkened and curling, “you’re a perfect example, hmm? Thinking you can summon me to use as your little indestructible toy.” Bucky strokes a line down his throat from under his jaw to the notch between his collarbones. “You can’t,” he whispers. Then, louder, he offers, “let's make a deal. How about that?”
Steve’s eyes go a little wider. His heart beats heavily in his chest, hitting against his ribs; he knows the demon can feel it, seeing as how he scratches his claws against his collarbone, then allows his obscenely large hand to rest palm-down against his pec. “Depends on what it is,” he scrambles to answer.
Bucky’s lips curl into a sharper smirk, “oh, don’t worry so much, little one—” Steve’s cock hurts. He actually does not fucking understand why he’s reacting so intensely to everything the demon does and says, he must be bewitched. Why else would all of this, so frightening, make him so jaw-clenchingly aroused “—it’s not like that. I don’t want your soul.” Bucky laughs dryly at whatever expression has spread across Steve’s face. It probably is not dignified, whatever he looks like. “I just want to use you however I want.”
Oh?
“Then, if you’re not exhausted by the time I’m done with you, you can fuck me in whatever perverted way you wish. But, I won’t be your fleshlight until I’ve used you myself as exactly that, little mortal.”
Oh.
Steve—
Everything Steve thought about, planned, and fantasized over was about using and taking and having. It was selfish and entitled and exactly as naively human as Bucky accused him of being. It’s both insulting to be seen through so effectively and strangely comforting to be seen through. Perhaps he isn’t such a different beast from all other people; maybe his deep, dark desires aren’t insatiable; conceivably he can be satisfied, or, exhausted, as Bucky put it; possibly there is hope to his perversions. So, as violently thrown off as he is, unexpecting to have this turned around on him in this way—to be made into the object of desire himself—Steve can’t see a reason to decline.
His mind spins faster and faster, trying to see every angle, imagine every possible outcome, and anticipate the way that the chess pieces will fall. Yet. What is there to complain about? Really? What? Mouth is watering in want. Steve tells himself there must be a trick here, he’s dealing with not the devil but an adjacent demon, yet… he doesn’t care.
Fuck it.
His hunger has swollen so goddamn abruptly inside of him that all he can do is nod. If he doesn’t, the tide has become so towering and vast that it will swallow ships whole. He has to. He’ll capsize and drown if he doesn’t surrender to the demon’s deal.
He needs it.
“Good,” Bucky hisses to his nod. That’s the most fucking warning he gets that the deal is done and they’re beginning.
Suddenly, with the speed of a snake striking, all strength vacates Steve’s body; he is thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, splayed heavily against the worn wooden boards yet they don’t creak this time, as if he’s been stripped of all strength but also mass. He feels small and that feels so immeasurably, shockingly good. He can’t remember ever feeling so hotly engulfed when he actually was small, it was always red-hot anger that didn’t satisfy him. This is white-hot. It’s good. Thrown around and overwhelmed.
“I am going to ruin you, little mortal,” Bucky purrs above him. He sounds so divine and luscious despite his standing as a God-forsaken demon. It’s ungodly. How has this become a fucking religious experience for Steve? Backward and wrong yet exciting, tantalizing, like a cross hanging upside down.
The demon crawls all over Steve’s thrown, stripped body, pushing and pulling roughly to arrange him exactly as he wants. He wants to force his face and chest to the floor, spreading his legs but leaving him on his knees, and curling his arms around behind his back. Then, Steve’s hands need something to hold onto and the best he can do is to dig his blunt nails into his elbows, but it doesn’t matter after another second when some other language, something intrinsically ancient-sounding, curls sensually off Bucky’s tongue and brings the rope that Steve brought with him in case the chalk didn’t work for drawing a pentagram up off the floor. Alive, the coiled rope gleams with burnt-ochre-colored energy, whatever spell Bucky placed it under, holding it hostage and letting it wrap around Steve’s arms alluringly. The drag, the friction of the rope teasing against his goosebump-marked skin is…
Oh.
Despite the shuddering blast of arousal, out of principle, Steve struggles, squirms, and discovers that suddenly, in an upside-down miracle, he can’t break the bonds. It’s a normal rope, nothing special. He should be able to break through it like tearing paper. But he can’t. Whatever Bucky’s done to it to bring it to life and constrict him all on its own also keeps him in place as if the rope were pure, weaved vibranium.
The only thing that Steve can do is groan low in his chest. Every time he struggles, the ropes tighten themselves around his arms. He’s terrified of and too fucking turned on by the possibility of Bucky doing the same to his legs and completely immobilizing him, taking away his choice to let Bucky use him or not. He agreed to this. But. But if Bucky ties him down, there is nothing but taking it, no possibility other than surrender. Fighting becomes fruitless and all there will be will be pleasure. More pleasure. Having pleasure done to him, not an active participant but a toy.
Jesus.
Steve is pretty sure there isn’t enough rope for his legs, too, but if the demon can enchant normal rope to lock a supersoldier in place, what’s stopping him from just conjuring more rope out of thin air?
He could do anything to him.
Fuck.
He’s been thrown to the floor and bound and—
Steve groans with pure shock as Bucky’s hands claw through his beat-up, worn-through uniform, shredding it as if it’s nothing, rather than thick kevlar weaved with threaded armor and fire-retardant fabric that has survived explosions and bullets and knives and aliens and God knows what else. It feels like missing a step on the stairs and having the material world around him dissolve as he knows it. The weak, easy-for-him-to-break rope is indestructible and his uniform which is meant to survive anything thrown at it is torn, paper fed through a shredder, exposing him.
Bucky, just, divests him of his clothing. Sharp and quick. Gone.
He starts with his belt, getting his hands on it and pulling— tearing it away. Then he’s pawing at Steve’s pants, shoving them down but also ripping through seams, uncaring, just needing him bare. It’s too time-consuming to do anything about his heavy boots, so he doesn’t do shit. And he’s forcing his uniform top up to get at his back, slashing the seams across his shoulders and underarms. Steve is mostly fucking naked, just like that. No sweat off Bucky’s back. The worn, forearm-length arms of his suit and his fingerless gloves also stay—like his boots—clinging to him under the enchanted ropes.
Then, with all the room in the world to play, his canvas exposed, Bucky sets in to create his masterpiece—groping hungrily at his thighs, palming his ass to knead it unforgivingly, skirting teasingly around his heavy, swollen cock, flattening a hand over his clenching abs, and dragging up, up, up to cup two hands over his pecs, squeezing them as if he has tits, scratching unforgivingly at his hard, hard nipples, then, choking the base of his throat with just one hand.
Oh.
Steve burns. Molten. His touch is too hard to be considered a caress, but Steve reacts like it is; curling into the lover’s touch, sensitive as if it’s his first time and Bucky is the only one who’s dared to touch him like this with the lights off but candles flickering, lighting the white-sheet bed and rose petals strew about.
He’s being so mean but it feels nice.
It’s so good.
Steve’s groaning more now, guttural, but he’s hyperaware of how his sounds are so quickly draining into gasping breaths and high, needy moans. He can’t help it. Increasingly, he’s possessed by the feeling of being had.
Had by a demon.
What the fuck is life?
Bucky’s being so rough and Steve fucking likes it. He’s used to being rough with others—he always throws his partners around if they want it and has them and uses them and gives them pleasure by making them weightless and cock-drunk, allowing them to lose it while he remains composed. He gets off on the power of it, relishing in the strength and control he has that he didn’t get to have before the serum. He gets off on how wanted he is, too, another thing he didn’t have before the serum and couldn’t take for granted now if he tried. So, all is to say, he is so unused to being manhandled and restrained and roughed up like this. He doesn’t have this done to him, he does. It’s so different to be on this side of it. But, Jesus fucking Christ, he likes it.
Bucky isn’t waiting for Steve to sort through the self-shattering pleasure he’s just beginning to taste, though. His appetite just whetted. Instead, starting from choking his throat, he’s going, raking his nails back down his heaving tits and thick obliques and drawing hot, scratching circles around the base of his cock. Teasing him awfully. Not stroking, not touching, but scratching.
Marking him.
Steve lets out a gutted moan, his cock twitching with weight. He jerks in his bonds, wanting his cock to be touched so fucking badly that he could crawl out of his own skin. He needs it. He’s so hard and his balls feel— God, he grits his teeth harshly, feeling it in his jaw. His balls feel so heavy and swollen, drawn tight but still fucking hanging because they’re that full. He’s primed to cum. Already. He just wants Bucky to touch him, to strip him hard and fast, and get him off already.
He doesn’t, though.
Of course, Bucky ignores his wants boiling over into frustration and digs his fingertips into his upper thighs instead, ripping his legs apart. Wide. His hands are large enough that it feels like they span his muscular legs, encompassing them between his thumb and index finger. Steve quakes, he feels too much like a damsel in distress and he hasn’t decided if Bucky is the dragon holding him—the princess—hostage in the castle, or if Bucky’s the knight in shining armor coming to rescue him who will, inevitably, be his husband as a token of thanks from the King. A prized piece of property to be plundered and impregnated. Marked. Another overwhelmed, choked sound spills out of Steve’s trembling lips.
With his legs spread, Bucky really fucking digs his nails into the insides of his thighs, dragging the points of his claws up, coming in close to his hanging balls and clenching hole.
Steve howls.
All he can do is clench tighter, arousal so big and heavy inside him, knotted up so tight it will never come untangled. He squeezes his eyes shut, thumping his forehead down on the floor so hard it hurts his head, throbbing and sharp. He can feel the sweat dripping off of him—his own body burns like a furnace but the heat the demon towering over him gives off is twice that. Steve is melting, a popsicle on the sidewalk, liquified from the Brooklyn sun. He is liquid. He’s melted. He’s, he’s…
Wet.
“AH!” Steve cries out, his brain can’t spin fast enough to keep up. The earth is turning beneath him but his body is rooted into the ground, sinking into the dirt and rock and he’s going to be absorbed, pulled deep into the underground. Trapped forever where all is molten and inconceivable. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He can’t fucking figure out what. What is that? What is wet and hot and smooth and deep and—
Another moan careens out of his wide-open mouth, drool spilling out alongside the desperate, feminine sound, unable to be controlled or contained because, oh, oh, ohh, that’s Bucky’s tongue.
Bucky has his tongue inside him. And his tongue is sharp, wicked, and forcing itself so goddamn deep into him. Inside him. Licking so far into his body, opening him up, eating him out, and devouring him.
Nnngh.
Steve’s cock aches painfully. Hell, his nipples ache, sharpened into hard, tight points that throb through his entire chest. The scratches Bucky has left on his body pulse and ache, too. He is nothing but achy, throbby need—melted down to concentrated carnality. He wants it so fucking bad. He doesn’t even know what it is other than more. He needs more. Yet, he’s swamped with lust, rushing through his veins as his heart pounds faster and harder. He is both rooted to the ground, held in place with the security of stone, and, at the same time, he’s floating high above the surface of the earth, weightless without anything to grasp ahold of. His body is overwhelmed with pleasure and he’s split down the middle. Here and not.
Oh, shit.
Bucky rims him recklessly. If Steve weren’t so fucking turned on and filled with heat, he would be impressed by the sheer fucking conviction the demon has. He’s going for it. He licks and slurps and fucks him with his tongue, using his entire fucking mouth; his toe-curlingly long tongue and smooth lips and biting teeth and even his gravel-rough voice.
“Mmngh!” Steve is moaning so sharply, so deeply pulled up from his bones, that he’s surely going to lose his voice. He can’t stand the way the sheer pleasure of the filthy act is crawling inside him and knotting itself up, deep, deep in his belly. He jerks and thrashes in place but it does him no good. He can’t get the ropes around his arms to loosen even the slightest amount, all that happens is they grow tighter. Besides, Bucky’s too strong, he’s holding him down easily, chuckling into his ass, the vibrations skittering up his spine like the white-hot sparks and molten metal droplets of welding. Too fucking bright to look at directly, too hot to touch without thick gloves. Unbearable. It feels unbearable. There is no way out.
All Steve wants, all he fucking needs is to cum, but he fucking can’t. He can’t. He’s hyperventilating, alternating between pressing his face harder into the floor to try and get away from the overwhelming sensations and arching his throat to get more space to breathe, and by extension, more space to moan. Steve can’t fucking beg, not yet. They’ve barely done anything-! But he wants to. He wants to beg. It’s a compulsion. In his liquified brain, sloshing around in his skull, he’s already doing it anyway, begging wantonly— please, please, please, please pleaseplease. It feels so ungodly good. He’s not used to having to lay here and take whatever he’s given, aching for more, he’s used to moving and taking for himself with no hesitation about what he wants. It’s maddening to be on this side of the exchange. And Steve isn’t sure that he’s a strong enough man for it.
Still, Bucky pries him open farther, tonguing him viciously and spreading his hole wide, both thumbs at either side of his rim, pulling apart the curves of his cheeks to look at his meal before digging in. Steve clenches but it doesn’t matter because Bucky’s stronger than he is. He’s licking him like he wants to fucking kill him and he is. He’s succeeding. Steve’s dying. His tongue is so hot and thick and deep inside him, Steve feels more than sufficiently fucked. Just the tips of his thumbs are devastating. He’s stretched out, fucked open, and dripping lewdly with spit. Shiny and raw, too ready to be devoured.
Christ.
Steve makes a wordless, keening sound completely without meaning to, it’s just pulled out of him. Involuntary and guttural.
His not-so-little noise has the demon behind him laughing. “Mortals,” he rumbles to himself, demolishing Steve, “so sensitive,” as he muses to himself about Steve’s pleasured agony, his thumb traces the gaping whorl of his wet hole—admiring his handiwork, probably. What a fucking dick. He was so, so close to cumming and he didn’t even know it until he quit rimming him like that. Why’d he have to stop? Just a few more licks and he would’ve been splattering the floor with cum, no matter if he tried to hold back or not.
Steve whines.
“Look at that,” Bucky says against the round, fat flesh of his ass, biting into the lushness of him. Eating him. Steve chokes at the feeling of his hard, sharp teeth. He shouldn’t like it so much. But he does. His eyes roll back into his head within his conscious input. “Sucking me right in, hmm?”
Pure, heated mortification drips through him, leaving Steve with no choice but to shove his face harder against the floor, trying to hide even as, exactly, his body clenches and squirms, fighting to have Bucky back inside him. More. His tongue, his fingers, his cock. Anything. He just needs it. Now that he’s had it, he can’t get enough. More. He knows it’s greedy and wanton but that’s why he’s here. That’s why he summoned a fucking demon because he has needs, more, always more, so how can he not be getting it? How can he be ashamed? Steve whimpers pathetically to himself and knows it’s to himself because, sure as shit, Bucky doesn’t give a fuck. He’s so much more interested in doing what he wants than he’s interested in sated Steve’s sex drive—that’s just a side effect.
Fuck.
Bucky doesn’t waste any more time, though, at least. Suddenly impatient himself for one reason or another, Steve would like to think it’s because of the taste of him lingering on his tongue, tattooed into his memory, making him crave more. Either way, he doesn’t open him more with his fingers—why bother when his tongue is like that? He’s already got him wet and his cock is wet too, from the lube Steve brought or magic or spit or what the fuck ever. It doesn’t goddamn matter. Steve could not give less of a shit than he already does. He needs that dick inside him. Now. He’s never been on this end of the deal, he’s never been fucked, but he doesn’t fucking care about semantics. The life-and-death desire that inhabits his weak, flesh-and-blood body is too strong, overpowering him’ he’d do fucking anything to have more pleasure cracking him wide open.
Anything.
He’s never been so desperate to have. He wants it. And he wants it inside him.
Steve saw, so he knows that Bucky is big, but knowing and feeling are two distinct sensations; so, when he lines his blunt, blood-hot cock up to his aching, painfully-empty hole, Steve shudders from head to toe, his mouth falling open with something dangerously close to a squeak. Embarrassment and pressure build between his hips, so much he can’t breathe. It’s an ache that spreads to his rim, too. It’s fucking huge, just the head of that cock against him, trying to get into him like a battering ram through a door with a rattling lock and loose hinges—Steve’s so stretched open and it’s still hard. It’s thick. It’s big. The demon’s cock is so wet and sticky as it kisses his open hole, and it’s so hot and thick as it starts to push into his body, getting bigger and bigger toward the base, burning with the stretch as he breeches him. He feels split open.
Steve is being stretched wide.
He’s being speared.
He’s being unraveled.
“Buh-Bucky!” he cries, tears not just gathering in his eyes anymore but running down his cheeks in hot streams. With his hole packed tight, stretched to hold so much, there’s no room for anything else in the melted shell of his body. It’s just fucking cock. The best he can do is sputter out sobs.
“That’s right,” Bucky purrs, totally unhurried and easy as he sllllowly sinks inside his tight, unclaimed body. He is claiming it. It’s his. “Say my name.”
“Bucky!” Steve obeys thoughtlessly, quivering weakly. It’s so large it hurts. It doesn’t hurt, well, it’s not that it hurts bad—it hurts so good— it’s just that with a dick like that inside him, there’s no room for anything else. He can’t get over it! There’s no room for anything else! How is he supposed even to let his lungs expand to breathe when it feels like he’s filling him up all the way to his throat? So big. His tears are pushed out of him because he’s fully filled and he’s overflowing because Bucky keeps going.
He’s not even all the way in yet.
Oh, God.
Steve doesn’t have the room to keep his tears from rushing down, wetting his face, nor does he have room for his moans. He can’t even keep a chestful of air inside. His lungs burn. He is a mess, spilling—pouring out over the floor, nothing but a lake of desire, the rocks at his edges eroded and smoothed by impatient, lapping waves.
Then—
Bucky’s hips meet his ass, stuffing him full and battering his prostate without even trying. He’s just so big that Steve's sensitive, swollen-feeling gland is being stimulated no matter what he does, no matter where or how he moves. It’s an IV drip, steady and thick, of pleasure.
He’s an ocean of desire, so much more vast, perilous, and drowning than a stupid little lake.
Overtop of him, his cock packed into him from the blunt tip to thick, eyes-rolling-back base, Bucky rumbles, “you take it so good,” there’s already a smirk audible in his voice before he finishes, it just grows as he does, “for a human.”
Steve can’t answer with words, he only shakes and burns hotter. If he had the use of his arms and they weren’t bound behind him, held tight, he would drag them down to palpate his stomach because he’s pretty certain that he could feel the bulge of Bucky’s cock from the outside if he did. He’s just so big; Steve’s just a man. He can’t get over it. He’s so big! It feels so fucking huge. He can’t take it. He can’t take it! How is he supposed to take it? Is this how getting fucked always is? Is this how it’s been for every person he’s ever fucked? ‘Cause, God, it’s maddening. Suddenly, he gets why they react the way they do. Viscerally, he understands. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He wants Bucky to be done with him already. He never wants to be pulled off his cock ever again.
He feels as thin and fragile as a condom rolled onto a cock that actually needs the next size up, physically needs it, not just for pride’s sake—when he cums, Steve’s afraid he won’t be able to stretch anymore and he might just fucking break. Well-worn. Used. Just a fucking little condom stretched unthinkably around a heavy, throbbing cock.
Then, “oh! ohh!” Steve moans breathily as the demon’s cock pulses hungrily inside him, stretching him so much—so new to him, it’s his first fucking time still—that he can feel every minute detail of it. The heat, the throbbing veins, the twitching of his cock as its own entity, the way their sweating bodies press together and slide nearly frictionlessly past each other. They’re melting. Steve’s already melted, getting impossibly more melted, but Bucky is much more resistant. Steve craves being wrecked so badly with his cock inside him, pulsing but not fucking; he knows Bucky could wreck him without even trying, so having him sit inside him like this, completely still, just petting his hips and dragging his nails over his Adonis belt to make him shiver that much harder, it’s… it’s unfair.
Steve mewls embarrassingly, aching for the show to start. He’s captivated by the previews but sick of the tease they bring. He wants more.
And Bucky’s clawed fingertips move away from his hips to drag sharp, red lines up his body. He lavishes attention to his clenching abs, caressing him meanly. Then, he paws at his pecs, grabbing them and twisting his nipples cruelly. The pleasure from his white-hot touch to his sensitive, hard nipples immediately sparks down Steve's spine, shocking like lightning. Crying out, Steve can’t help the way his cock jerks hard underneath him, fuck, it hurts, it’s so much, nor can he help the way his knees slide further apart. His body betrays him, hoarding every crumb of pleasure Bucky gives him and displaying it—twitching, shaking, sweating, and getting even fucking teeth-gritting harder.
Harder.
“Look at you,” the demon coos, torturing him, toying with his nipples and petting his overheated skin, “aww, are you trying to tempt me?” His voice dips further into something mean and mocking and hot as he puts more of his formidable weight on top of him, curling over him, their skin colliding and burning like Hell, “sweet little human,” he whispers in his ear, “you’ll have to do better than spreading your legs for me. You’ve never seen the things I have but know that I have seen much, much more devious things than you. I’ve seen things you couldn’t dream up in even your most twisted fantasies.”
Jesus. Christ.
Steve’s vision whites out from the heat of Bucky’s body, from the way his shifting weight forces his cock in deep, even though it doesn’t feel like Steve’s body has deeper, from the caress of his lips against the shell of his ear, from, f-from the darker desire further polluting Steve’s ocean of lust inside. Why does Steve want so badly to be the most obscene thing Bucky has ever seen? Why does he want to be the best that much that he feels it like a need? It’s so humiliating to be having the fucking time of his goddamn life, squirming on his cock when he’s not even fucking him yet, while his partner is… bored.
What the fuck?
Steve genuinely wants to pull his hair out. He wants to scream. He wants to orgasm, that’s what he really fucking wants—he needs to cum. ‘Cause this is just torture. Too much torture. He’s crying. He needs to cum, he needs Bucky to move so he can cum, he needs—
Please, please!! Lemme cum! Steve thinks frantically, brokenly, barely with enough wherewithal to have thoughts at all, begging and incoherent or otherwise. He’s so full inside that his head is empty. There is nothing else but getting fucked. That’s it.
Still, Bucky pulls and plucks at his nipples, worrying them into sharp, swollen points that are the beginning and end of Steve’s world. Every savage touch to his chest leaves him clenching tighter, tighter, tighter around the cock inside him. He can’t get any tighter. He’s a rubberband, he can’t be pulled more. He’s going to snap!
Steve feels fucking crazy because of it. Snapping and, oh yeah, because Bucky isn’t fucking him! He’s sitting inside him, using him like just a fucking thing— just a hole that’s wet and warm and good for keeping his cock. He’s toying with him. Torturing him.
The tears overflowing Steve’s eyes and rushing down his cheeks with every flutter of his eyelashes take on a new meaning. He’s mewling Bucky’s name, crumbling beneath the demon as he stands big and tall as a stone statue and laughs.
Life-ruining shudders wrack Steve’s body. He, at once, feels the hardest he’s ever been in his life and completely, totally limp. He has no rigidity. He can’t do shit. He just… lays there, caged in beneath the demon’s big, hulking body, speared on his cock while the demon has his way with him. Groping his tits as shamelessly and greedily as he pleases, torturing his nipples awfully, scratching his skin, whispering words that Steve can’t hear let alone process, biting and licking his neck and shoulder to carve marks into his body, and letting his cock stay warm inside him.
It’s too much.
Steve cums.
It’s an accident on his part. He doesn’t mean to cum. He just can’t help it! He certainly wouldn’t fucking do it on purpose. That’s humiliating, orgasming so prematurely. Because if begging is off the table this early into this encounter—this possession, so is cumming when they haven’t done anything at all yet. Bucky has pried him open and shoved his way inside, inhabiting his body, yes, yes, but he hasn’t fucked him yet. And still, Steve can’t resist the urge. His body is screaming. He chokes on a sob. He doesn’t know what’s only another endless surge of torture versus what’s a biting orgasmic peak. The waves are all so high and harsh that each feels like its own tsunami, devastating him with crashing waves that erode his landscape, dragging everything, kicking and screaming, back into the sea to drown.
He’s drowning.
He’s so overwhelmed and strung out that sounds don’t come out of his mouth anymore. He’s silently shaking, falling to pieces, and splattering with heavy, wet, body-jerking pulses all over the fucking floor while Bucky does nothing. He’s not fucking him. He’s just pressing him bodily into the floor and letting him unravel on his cock. Effortless and pathetic.
On top of him, crushing him, Bucky’s next exhale is a snort of amusement. He lifts his thick, muscle-bound body off of Steve’s at his own pace, unhurried and unimpressed, using the space he creates between them to trace a line down Steve’s sweat-slick back, following the length of his trembling spine with his index finger, “mortals,” he sighs, “so simple and easy. You never require much effort, do you?”
Steve still has no voice. He can’t. Is he still cumming? Emptying buckets onto the floor. He doesn’t know. Is he cumming? He’s just as tight as when he was, clamped like a vice around that fucking blood-hot cock, but how could he not be? He’s so thick. There’s no fucking way he could be loose on the goddamn monster inside him, regardless of if it’s his first time bottoming or not. He’s going to struggle, tooth and nail, until this is over. So big and heavy and full.
Steve whimpers all high and thin, or, it feels like he does. The air cuts against his throat, but nothing comes out. He’s muted.
“Are you ready to begin then? All situated, hmm?” Bucky drones on, again, sounding bored, like if Steve managed to turn over his shoulder, he’d see him examining his nail beds.
And that pulls a sound from Steve, not a word, but a noise of pure, animal desperation and shame. Yes. He’s fucking ready. Overready. But, how haven’t they begun yet? What did Steve get himself into? Why did he do this? Why didn’t he do this sooner? As humiliating as this is, he hasn’t been reckless and untethered like this… ever.
Ever?
Bucky rumbles deep in his chest in approval, the vibrations melting into Steve and weakening him. If that’s even possible. He doesn’t have another damn instant to consider anything at all, though.
Another thin, high sound comes out of him—actually making noise this time—before Bucky finally, finally groans with pleasure and begins to move. Steve doesn’t know what he was waiting for other than just to break Steve. He’s succeeded in that, at least. Steve feels more than broken; he’s shattered, making all these sharp, high sounds he didn’t realize he was capable of as Bucky starts to grind into him, pulling back ever so faintly and rocking in just as deep as he was before. Plunging so fucking deep that Steve is choking on it. He can practically taste his dick in his mouth with every deep, rocking push of his cock into his guts, spearing him on it.
Steve struggles to take it as he’s speared, whimpering and stuttering. He’s not sure he can take it, but it doesn’t matter because Bucky is getting bolder and bolder, grinding in harder, pulling back farther, and working himself up to a gutting pace that leaves Steve out of his mind.
It feels so so sososooo good.
Bucky is taking him apart.
And all Steve can do is lay there and let himself be used. He’s trying to bite his lip to keep himself moderately quiet and not all-out moaning with every perfect thrust Bucky lays into him, but he can’t even do that. Every time he fucks into him, Steve cries out, “ah! AH! AHH!” Again, again, and again.
He’s being fucking ruined. His face is shoved against the floor with every deep, gutting thrust. His beard scratches the wooden floorboards and tangles itself just enough to make his whole jaw tingle. His skin is sweaty and red-hot and he imagines that he’s blushing so badly his face must be swollen. His hair hangs in his eyes, sticking to his skin in soaked tendrils. Too fucking sweaty and leaking so badly, drooling from his mouth and weeping from the tip of his throbbing cock. And somehow worse than the look he’s sure is painted across his face—cross-eyed, mouth open, blushing—is his body. He’s twisted up, folded into an itty-bitty, cute, little pretzel. He’s getting fucked good. Face down, ass up, back arched, arms bound, legs wide.
Open.
Fucked.
Steve physically can’t keep all his embarrassing sounds inside him, moaning and moaning and moaning. It’s a damn assault—an onslaught of sensation that Steve isn’t sure he can survive. He’s gonna fucking die. Especially with how Bucky fucks him for… a long time. Steve can’t track how long it is but feels like decades of fire and lava as he’s going and going and going. Thrusting into him. Filling him up. Wearing him out. It feels like forever. It’s all he wants and yet it’s godforsaken, too. It’s unbearable. Steve’s body fucked and so is his mind. Nothing makes sense. He can’t comprehend anything. He can’t fathom how much pleasure is rushing into him, how deep the thrusts are, how much the slap of the demon’s hips against his ass stings, how sweaty he is, how embarrassing it is to be fucking totally scrambled and destroyed while not being able to tell if his partner is enjoying this or not. If he is getting the same world axis tilting pleasure that Steve is, he doesn’t seem to be getting any closer or chasing his high, he’s somehow untouched. He’s just fucking Steve like a machine. Steve could fucking weep, it’s so much.
Please.
That’s the only thought, no, the only ill-defined concept, not even a true thought, left in his head: please. He has no idea what he’s begging for or if the concept in his head is spilling out into words. It’s all too much.
He can’t.
“Unh, ungh, uh-!” Steve gasps desperately with every vicious thrust inside him. He’s dying. Please. He doesn’t know what he wants. More? Less? He wants to cum, he knows that, but does he want Bucky to cum more? Does he want it to stop after he cums? Does he want to be fucked so hard the demon’s spend leaks out of him around his still-hard cock? What does he need? He doesn’t fucking know. He’s too fractured.
“Is this enough for your apparently superhuman libido, mortal?” Bucky asks, his breath labored, hot and heavy, across his shoulders and neck as he plunges into him and pulls out of him, enough to make a grown man cry—enough to make anyone cry. Steve is crying so hard he’s shuddering bodily with his sobs. Head to toe. He feels like he’s collapsing. No, he feels like he already has. He feels like the collapsed slabs of rubble that used to be his body are being ground up into tiny bits of dust.
Steve can’t answer his prodding question, all he can do is moan raggedly, his mouth hanging open, drooling thickly onto the floor. His brains are past fucked out. He’s gone.
“I thought so,” the demon says smugly. Then, he shifts them both, easily taking Steve’s formidable weight and pulling him closer. It doesn’t feel like closer could exist but—
Oh.
He takes him by the hips and aligns their bodies, changing angles just slightly with all the strength in the world. It’s the tiniest change, but it’s enough to leave Bucky’s balls hanging heavy and hot and big right up against Steve’s. They couldn’t get closer. Bucky is on top of him. Inside him. Possessing him. Ravishing him. And nothing has ever made Steve feel smaller. Steve is not small. Not anymore. He is six foot two and over two hundred pounds. He is not fucking small. But, Jesus fucking Christ, with Bucky in his ass and pressed flush to him, he feels tiny and kept.
He’s a kitten and Bucky is a mountain lion poised to tear into him.
Steve mewls, weakly, oh-so weakly clawing at his own arms, forgetting that he’s still bound and trapped. He’s so close he can taste it with his tongue lolling out of his mouth stupidly. He is fucking gone.
“Hold on, little one,” Bucky purrs, “‘cause it’s gonna get better, or, maybe, worse,” he chuckles to himself, low in his chest. Steve can feel it. Ngh. “It depends on how much you can really take, I guess. We’ll just see if you’re a dirty liar or not,” Bucky bites the shell of his ear, flicking his tongue over it. Steve could cum just from that. Or, from anything! Everything feels like it will tip him over the edge—too much, too good—he is balanced so fucking precariously on the razor’s edge. “You might have to beg me to stop. But. Only if you can make the words. It kinda seems like you’re having trouble with that, isn’t that right?”
The threat stirs something deep, deep inside of Steve, almost as deep as he fucks him. It’s his competitiveness. He can fucking take it. He will. He’ll take it better than anyone’s ever taken it. He’s going to be the dirtiest, most fucking obscene thing Bucky, a goddamn demon, has ever had the sinful pleasure of fucking.
Yet Bucky hardens under the same terribly hot spirit, diving in like he wasn’t putting his back into it before and clamping his hands around his hips and fucking him within an inch of his life.
Good God.
“Unh-uh,” Steve weakly fights back, shoving his hips the tiniest bit back. It’s so fucking hard to move with a huge, muscular demon on his back even with the serum running through his veins, but he has to show that he’s not fucking struggling. He can speak. He can take it. He can beg, but it sure as Hell won’t be for Bucky to stop, he wants him to get mean on him. C’mon, c’mon, fuckin’—
His greedy little interjection just makes the demon laugh as he pumps in and out of him faster, harder, more-er, “sure, human, keep telling yourself that. Keep thinking that you’re in control if you want. It doesn’t make it true, though,” he bites back.
—yeahhh. That’s it. That’s what he wanted.
Steve moans, trembling all the way down to his toes. He’s not in control. He isn’t. He couldn’t be. He’s so fucking sweaty that he’s not solid anymore at all. He is nothing. He’s gone. Out of his body, out of his mind, and out of time as he trips and falls over the edge again, whether he wants to or not, there’s nothing he can do about it. His orgasm just takes over. And the cum is literally being fucking fucked out of him. He can’t stop it. There’s nothing he can do to hold himself back. He can’t dam the ocean.
The ocean is wild and untamed and feeding a fucking hurricane, growing bigger and faster. Spinning out of control. It is a reckoning waiting to happen. A storm that is twisted and wicked and hotter than Hell itself, raining down on him. Wet. Hot. Wet. Hot.WetHotW—
And in the torrential downpour, Steve doesn’t fucking understand the rainstorm centered over him, as well as inside him, his own orgasm, until he does.
Oh.
Steve howls—that much more arousal overflowing from inside him, ripped out with his orgasm stretching hotter. Farther. More.
It’s wax.
Liquid wax, molten but so thick. Dripped and draped over his burning, sensitive skin; poured from where it’s gathered in an alluring, shiny pool around the base of the flaming wick at the center of the candles Steve brought to mark the pentagram with.
Bucky is coating him in wax.
Bucky is fucking fucking him and pouring what feels like pure lava onto his skin.
Shit.
Steve sizzles, cooking from the inside and outside at the same time. Bucky was right. He has no fucking chance. He can’t. He just orgasmed. Is he doing it again right this goddamn second? Cumming again, just realizing what Bucky is doing to him? Fucking him? Painting him? Using him for whatever he pleases? Doing everything to him? Murdering him?
The sensations flooding him make him whimper so harshly it hurts his throat. It makes him jerk and thrash against the enchanted ropes around his arms and against Bucky’s hold on him and against the overwhelming eroticism itself. It’s bright, flashing heat. His eyes roll back so hard, so far that it hurts. Muscles or tendons, whateverthefuck, in his face he didn’t think to pay attention to before suddenly aching with strain. Shit. It’s pure fucking pleasure. It’s so good to the point that there is no hint of any part of Steve craving, needing more. It is complete satisfaction, something Steve hasn’t felt in the proverbial bedroom since before the serum.
It is pain; it is relief; it is perfect.
Bucky burns him to the ground like a hay barn catching fire in the middle of the suffocating heat of summer, leaving nothing but a pile of ash, and he does it all by covering his back with molten wax as he enjoys and wrecks his insides, too, fucking him. But, then, the hedonistic demon, of course, greedily decides that isn’t enough and pulls out of Steve—much to his mortifying wail of complaint—only to flip him over and plunge back inside. Bucky reaches for a different candle, seeking it out just for more than enough wax melted and collected to begin the torture all over again.
Fire isn’t enough to describe the heat Steve feels. He’s an inferno himself. Not a campfire contained to its pit but a damn whole forest smoking, crackling, and burning.
This is destruction.
This is over-satiation.
Bucky re-spears him on his cock and keeps him there—pulling him down onto his cock as he pushes forward, forcing his way in deep, then pulling him off as he pulls back, leaving him awfully empty for just an instant, using him like a fleshlight—and paints him into a pornographic masterpiece. The wax on Steve’s back has solidified enough to crack and shift, peeling itself off in perfect juxtaposition with the wax dripping onto his chest and stomach.
Steve is coming apart.
However, Bucky doesn’t fucking care. He carries on, drawing wax shapes on his front. Circling his nipples, then drawing Xs over them; following the lines of his defined abs, letting wax pool in his naval just to make him feel that much deeper and hotter inside and outside him; tracing the sharp definition of his v-line and collarbones; even allowing some of the wax to drip hotly onto his twitching, tensed biceps, down his arms before they curl back behind his back where they’re so effectively trapped.
“AHH!” Steve can’t stop screaming.
When Bucky holds the candle back farther than he has before, Steve mewls, thinking he’s done and wanting it to not be. He isn’t. He shouldn’t worry his pretty little head about a goddamn thing because Bucky is just giving himself extra room to work, dripping a thin yet soul-ripping-out line of wax right up his cock, stopping directly underneath the sensitive head.
At that, Steve whites out and shrieks through his gritted teeth. He didn’t think it could be worse.
It gets worse.
He burns brighter, hotter, more.
It’s worse because Bucky dares to peel some of the mostly dried wax from his skin. The solidified yet still body-hot wax catches his chest hair and the fur of his treasure trail and Bucky doesn’t seem to care that it hurts Steve, revealing that fresh, terribly sensitive layer of reddened skin beneath the wax. If anything, Bucky revels in it. It isn’t sorry at all. He has no mercy. He drags his clawed fingernails over his renewed skin and listens to Steve’s agonized whining, desperate choking sounds while laughing. Steve didn’t know he could feel so much. Good. Bad. Everything. It’s so much. He uses his nails over his tits, it’s not hard enough to draw blood, but just enough to make Steve fight for breath even more, squirming and keening. His eyes squeeze shut tight.
Steve doesn’t know how much he loves it—how much he hates it. He just knows he’s dying.
He’s being murdered.
Bucky scratches a pentagram into his chest, the raw, red skin—revealed, renewed, rebirthed, and reclaimed—and Steve feels the surge of dark, tempting magic behind the symbol. It crackles through him. It spills over from his already overfull feelings of desire like a portal ripped open to add to the energy already inside him.
Too much pleasure. Too much pain. Too much!
Bucky mocks him, his wicked, twisted lips a cruel, fire-hot brand against the side of Steve’s limp neck as he asks, “aw, does that hurt?” At this point, Steve can’t dream of saying anything back. He can hardly breathe, let alone conjure words. Bucky clicks his tongue in response to his being so completely conquered, “well, I thought this was what you wanted,” he emphasizes, peeling the wax from over his nipples, tugging and hot, so hot, as his dick just keeps digging into him, pounding his swollen prostate without sympathy.
Steve aches to crawl out of his own skin, to detach his sparking nerves, to grind his bones into dust—anything to get away from the overflowing pleasure.
“Can’t you take it, mortal?” Steve can feel Bucky’s words across his skin, his lips plush and wet on his neck, barely containing his tongue and teeth, too close to biting down and devouring him. So dangerously close to swallowing him whole. “Isn’t this everything you wanted, you filthy little thing?”
Steve cries harder, his breathing completely arrested. He wants to growl and shove and bite back and show off that he can take it, he’s strong, he can do this all day, but the thing is— he doesn’t know if he can. He doesn’t know if he can take another fucking second of it! It feels so good. It feels too good. It’s sinful and hellish and perfect. This is what he wanted, it is, he just never dared to think he’d get it. And he especially never dared to believe he’d get it like this—being fucked, torn apart, and used.
Taken.
Fucked.
His eyes water more at the pure fucking pleasure, no hint of needing more—it’s simply complete satisfaction. Oversaturation even. Has he ever felt this before? He doesn’t think he has, and he doesn’t think he could feel like this when his brain hasn’t been broken, melted, and dripped out of his ears nevermind while in the thick of it. How is he supposed to process so much good?
Christ.
“Ah, ah, AH!” He can’t stop moaning. The only thing he knows is, with every thrust and scratch and unkind, incredible pleasure Bucky shows him, feels good feels good feels good feels good feels good. He can’t. It isn’t words anymore, there is no meaning to ‘feels good’ because everything feels so good that nothing does and Steve is in this blinding, white-hot void of excruciating perfection.
Steve cums again and again like that, his eyes rolling so far back in his head that he’s not sure he will ever be able to undo it. He feels possessed. Maybe he is. But he likes it. He loves it, howling and screaming himself raw. He’s, God, fuck, he, he has never fucking felt like this. It’s so satisfying that it’s utterly overwhelming. He’s overwhelmed. Oversatiated. Overstimulated. There isn’t a word for how fucking over he is. Over everything, floating and out of his body and unattached because he’s been fucking burned at the stake and murdered, yet, still not done. He isn’t over it. He’s… he doesn’t know what he is. He can’t fucking fathom it. He can’t think.
And sure as shit, he doesn’t need anymore, but he gets more—Steve ends up scream-sobbing as the demon has his way with him. Whatever he wants. And he shouldn’t be encouraging it, gasping, “yes, yes, oh yes-!, please, yes,” like his life depends on it, he should be begging for him to stop, to have mercy on him because while he might be enhanced he is just a human and he can break (isn’t he already broken?) but he isn’t doing that. He likes it. He isn’t and he won’t beg for him to stop. He loves this.
Yes.
More.
Anything, please, anything you want. Take me. Use me.
Time has no fucking meaning anymore. Steve can’t track it, it’s too hazy and too far out of his reach. His mind is consumed with magic and pleasure and pain. He isn’t sure if he cums more or not, it doesn’t matter, nothing does, because the assault doesn’t stop. He’s wrecked, used up, gaped, and ruined.
He is corrupted.
Without any fucking fight possibly left inside him, Bucky relishes in his weak, nearly uninhabited body. He’s, just, perfectly limp and easy. And, soon, Bucky finishes himself off. Riding him to completion because he wants to and he can—he’s in more control of Steve’s body than Steve is right now.
Steve’s so gone that barely feels him twitch and pulse and spill waves and waves of filthy, hot, thick cum inside him. The pressure mounts and builds and Steve feels like he could split at the seams with it. It’s so fucking much that Steve, through the haze and devastation, hears himself go silent, totally enraptured by the perverse awe of having someone cum inside him. Claiming him where he’s never been fucking touched before. Deep within him. Jesus. Steve cries silently, too overwhelmed, as the heady bulge of the demon’s cock inside him is smoothed out into a distended roundness of his belly by the bloat of his seed, emptied into him as if he’s busted a fucking pipe.
Steve feels it.
Holy fuck.
He whimpers pathetically, panting around the new heavy fullness. He thought he himself spilled a fuck ton when he orgasmed but his seemingly buckets of overflow don’t hold a candle to this, this… unholiness inside him. It’s so much, filling him to the fucking brim like a condom that could burst under the pressure, desperate to keep it together. And, of course, the second Bucky dares to pull out of his used, fucked-out body—
It all rushes out of him. Total fucking obscenity.
Then, Steve is dripping with his own cum and soaked with the demon’s cum, too. He could and he will drown. Steve’s chest heaves weakly, his lungs rasping as he pants for air, his face smushed against the floor, strands of his own sweat-damp hair prickling into his wide-open mouth, body splayed out completely in the middle of the summoning circle that’s been smudged terribly beneath him from their wild, unrestrained fucking. Every muscle in Steve’s body shakes—muscles he didn’t even know he had are quivering. He can’t move. He could sleep for years, he’s so fucking exhausted.
“M-mortal—”
Steve doesn’t think he’s imagining the slight out-of-breath wheeze in the demon’s hissing yet still so disarmingly charming voice. It’s there. He did that to the demon. He made Bucky sound like that. Fuck yes. He must not have been as not-devious and not-tempting as Bucky told him he would be to a demon like him who’s seen incredible sin and depravity. Something about satisfying him, too—such a great, filthy creature brought to his knees by the likes of Steve—adds to his high, and with the muscles in his face twitching along with every other muscle fiber in his big, devastated body Steve grins, finding himself just that much more satiated.
“—Do you still wish to fuck me?” Bucky’s breathing still hasn’t stabilized, even if he’s regained his footing enough to play cocky once more. “Or have you had enough? Is your… enhanced sex drive satisfied?”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Bucky blindsides him, asking him that. It’s humiliating. It’s good. It’s what he needs. And, yet, the best Steve can do to answer is whine hoarsely, his torn-up throat twinging—he’s nearly fucking mute after so much moaning. Who knows how long the serum will take to repair what Bucky’s done to his throat? And he didn’t even fuck his throat! What the fuck? How did he do this to him? How did he strip him down to this?
His incoherent, non-answer is enough, though. So, satisfied that he’s done what he was called to do, Bucky, just like that, in the same way that he appeared from nothing, disappears into nothing at all. Vanishing into the charged, sex-perfumed air as if he’s collapsed through the floor. Gone. And Steve comprehends by some unknown sixth sense that he’s gone—maybe the sensation of being watched, that feeling of the hairs on the back of his neck raising now absent—even though his eyes aren’t open. He’s too weak. Too gone himself, just, gone differently. But he knows, with something about the air changing (and it isn’t the stench of it changing, it remains sweaty and musky), the ropes falling away from his arms as if he snapped them himself with his super strength, and the humid wash of Bucky’s breath going away (which, wait, he breaths? isn’t he dead? Huh? how’s that work?), that he dematerializes.
Steve groans so softly that it might just be an exhale. His ears are ringing like in the aftermath of an explosion, though, so it’s hard to tell.
Yet as he wallows in the wreckage Bucky has made of him, tearing him down, leaving him all alone in the center of his fucked-up summoning circle in this run-down safehouse, now well into the night, the sun has set and the moon has risen, all Steve can think about is why the hell he didn’t do that sooner. What reason could he have possibly had? He can’t think of one. He’s never been so still, so fulfilled, so ruined. In another year, when his needs finally build back up to unbreakable and insatiable again, he’s gonna fuckin’ do that again. But he can’t fathom it right now. He doesn’t have enough stamina to speak. He can’t move. He’s fucked. out. H e has never felt better.