Chapter 1: 1943
Summary:
Immediately post-serum, Steve is given his first medical examination to see how, exactly, the serum has affected his physical being.
≈11.0k words
Notes:
I've always wanted to tackle medical kink more seriously, but also, you can thank theelectricpeach on Tumblr for enabling me, lmao. The original post I'm talking about is here.
But also, there's this post and this post, too.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Air rasps in and out of Steve’s hanging-open mouth with every jagged inhale and exhale he manages to take. It’s both easier and harder than before he stepped foot in Stark’s machine; his lungs have reshaped themselves, taking a bigger hollow in his dizzyingly larger chest, so he’s getting more air than he ever could before, yet, at the same time, the fluidity of the atmosphere has suddenly grown sharp, as if it’s concealed razor blades inside it like whatever the fuck poison that fucking guy—whoever he was—cracked open and swallowed back until he couldn’t shakin’ and foamin’ at the mouth in Steve’s quivering, suddenly very large hands.
Despite his throat complaining and his up-scaled chest heaving frantically, Steve couldn’t be farther from exhausted. His bloomed, broadened lungs vibrate with energy. His heart pounds, but doesn’t hurt. Instead, it urges for more. He could run a thousand more miles. A million. Hell, he could set off for the front lines from here and make it by dusk if he wanted to. His brain spins fast in his skull, and his eyes take everything in faster, triggering surges of thoughts so clear they hurt.
He’s never taken in so much atmosphere.
He can taste the air.
He’s never felt his pulse so steady.
He can hear every push of blood through his veins, every punch of his heart against his lungs, every drag of fabric on fabric as he shifts, every blink, eyelashes hitting his cheeks—everything.
He’s never seen colors so bright.
He’s never—
It’s a maddening experience.
He should be exhausted, he just sprinted countless city blocks and went for a fucking swim while he was at it, too. Yet, he is as steady as Lady Liberty, standing so, so still, watching on, while the rest of the world moves and spins around her. She grows darker and darker with her patina, yet she never tires with her arm held high and her head never heavy.
Steve has no fucking clue what the Hell to do with all this punch. He’s had fire, he’s had passion, he’s felt the burn in his heart. Erskine just minutes ago reminded him of that, his finger tapping determinedly at his doubled-in-size sternum, he’s just—
His body has never physically had it. His soul has. But. This is different. And he doesn’t know what the shit to make of it. God, what the Hell is happening? What the fuck does he do?
“Uh, Mr. Rogers-?” a mellow voice cuts uncertainly through the whirlpool churning in his head in place of his brain, causing Steve to jolt where he takes up space on the bitingly cold, desperately smooth exam table they stuck him on when his feet found their way back to the exact location they brought him to to do… well, to do whatever it is they just did to him.
Rebirth.
Jesus.
Now that it’s done and over, of course, Steve is thinking: what the fuck did I just do?
“Sorry,” the voice—the voice of a woman—interrupts again, apologizing, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She stands there, leaning unsteadily into the room from behind the door leading into this little, cramped, private space. Around the door, head cocked in, her brown hair obscured by the familiar, white shape of a nurse's cap.
Inside, Steve has to fight tooth and nail in a single bright flash because he can’t help but see his Ma and her exhausted hands after a long shift, gently untangling the pins holding her golden hair back and uncrowning her head of a cap just like that. Often, she would place her cap aside, where she was liable to forget it in the morning, rushing out the door without it. Sometimes she would be so tired after work, especially as Steve grew up and she got older, that she would have Steve brush her hair for her, untangling it and soothing it down her back. On those late nights, she would take one of the two rickety wooden dining chairs they had and sit close while Steve hopped onto the counter with her sparse hairbrush, more than half the bristles missing, just enough left to get the job done.
Steve swallows harshly (when, by the way, did he stop panting? Is it that easy to catch his breath now in the same way it’s that fucking easy to all-out sprint now? What the Hell?), banishing the memory before opening his mouth, intending to start to speak but… he doesn’t know what to say.
“I knocked,” the nurse says gently as she steps into the room, bringing with her an invisible, billowing cloud of chilly air, “but you didn’t respond, so, I—” she looks at him, two footfalls into the room, before cutting herself off and pressing her lips stiffly together. Rather than talking for a long minute, her eyes drag up and down his body, cataloging each detail from his bare feet over his wet clothes to his wind-ruffled hair.
They stew in silence.
“Anyway,” she licks her lips promptly, her big brown eyes darting down to the floor and slightly off to the side as a hint of color rises on her cheeks, “we need to examine you now.” Her eyes don’t stay low for long. And her blush, it… it’s so bright. Bright pink. Also, her nurse's uniform. It’s not pure white like her cap—like Steve thought all nurses’ uniforms were—it’s an incredibly subtle, soft blue, or maybe it’s the walls in this dim room reflecting onto her clothes. Either way, Steve is a little bit mesmerized by it, cataloguing every detail with an eager artist’s eye. “After, uhh, all that,” her voice gets pitchy and she has to clear her throat before continuing, explaining, “we need to examine you just to make sure everything is in proper working o-order,” but she seems so… distracted.
She just keeps looking at him.
Her gaze is so probing and intense that Steve is compelled to stare down at himself, making sure, himself, he’s still in one piece. So-called working order. He is. He’s not bleeding or anything. It’s not even like his clothes are askew, his fly is done up, and his shirt tucked into his trousers. Geniunely, he has no idea what she’s staring at. Him, obviously. But… what? What about?
“Please put this on,” she takes a few rushing steps toward him, her heels clacking decisively across the tile floor, holding her arms out toward him with a neatly folded johnny in her hands.
Steve takes the loose-fitting gown from her, though she seems reluctant to let it go. She’s a nice gal, Steve has no reason to think otherwise; she's just a little strange. As he takes the gown from her, he can’t help but listen to the input from his hands as it travels to his brain—the cotton is freshly washed and so strikingly soft. Has he stopped to think about how anything really feels before? Was everything so, so… alive before?
Stroking his fingers back and forth, he holds it, waiting for the nurse to leave before reaching for his belt, except she doesn’t leave. “Is,” he pauses, blinking, feeling thoroughly examined already with how her eyes rest heavily on him, an intent behind them that he can’t recall seeing on any nurse or doctor before, and he’s seen plenty of them before, “is there anything else?” He finishes, crossing his ankles to keep from fidgeting.
“Oh, right!” Her teeth bite into the pillow of her bottom lip. She shakes her head, “no. No, there’s nothing else, I will just—” she twists jerkily, sort of forcing herself toward the door “—be on my way.”
Then, without bothering to explain her lingering presence, she’s gone. Turning on her heel and marching out of the room, leaving him alone.
Well, that was strange.
She couldn’t’ve noticed anything, could she? Something about the serum? Some kind of bad news that she’s decided to let the doctor(s) deal with? Or, is there something on his face? Steve doesn’t have a mirror; the best he can do is drag one of his hands over his face, feeling around for anything out of place. He doesn’t feel anything, except, y’know, the shifted scale of his whole fucking face and head because he’s way goddamn taller than he was just hours ago.
Shaking his head to shake it off, Steve slips off the exam table with his hands making their way to his belt, pulling the flexible yet sturdy fabric and metal from his waist, looping it over itself, and setting it aside. He pulls his shirt off next.
What should be a simple action that he’s done a thousand times—taking the bottom hem between his fingers and drawing his shirt up from his waist over his head, ruffling his hair and whipping the fabric away—of course, can’t be so simple. He’s only got the fabric up to just below his pecs, bunched and rolled up, when an electric shock zaps through his body.
“Haa-!” An exhaled, rough gasp cuts out of his chest. His chest—the epicenter of whatever-the-fuck that just was.
What?
What?
Steve stands statue still, waiting for the electricity to shock him again.
Nothing happens.
Did he pull a muscle when in pursuit? He dove out of the way of a moving vehicle, he crashed through windows, he sprinted through crowds, and more. It’s entirely possible. Right? It’s just his shoulder. Not. Steve swallows. Not his chest? It felt like it was, but—
Knowing he needs to change and be ready for the exam, he takes a fortifying breath and then gently starts to move again, shimmying his way out of the skin-tight shirt he was given.
There’s a second where nothing happens, but it doesn’t last.
As the fabric draaaaags across his skin, flowing like water over the mounds of his pecs, tangling around his newly broadened shoulders, caressing him, choking his thicker throat, and—
“Hhhnnh-!” Steve can’t help the airy noise.
There it is.
Electricity crackles through him again.
This time, a tiny bit more prepared, Steve can pinpoint what it is: it’s his skin. All of his skin feels every single woven fiber as it touches him. The sheer contact of it is overwhelming, falling against his raw nerves. But also, of his skin, of his body, specifically, it’s his nipples.
Oh.
A hot wash of embarrassment possesses Steve, washing down from his hairline to his toes in a riptide that he can’t possibly swim against. His nipples. Steve is suddenly much too hot for the closed-off, ill-ventilated room he’s been placed in. Because, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that electric, sensitive shock is painfully concentrated around the hard, tight points of his nipples.
Holding his arms against his body, mid-taking-his-shirt-off, Steve cranes his neck to look down and… oh, God. He can see them. Through his fucking shirt. His nipples are hard, obvious points that sing in response to each breath he takes and every move he makes. His ribs expand and contract, and it makes his nipples move against his shirt; he twitches to try and get out of the smooth cloth of his figure-hugging shirt like a prison, and his nipples feel it exquisitely.
To get it over with, Steve fucking rips his shirt off the rest of the way, trying his absolute hardest to not out let the little shriek that wants to spill from behind his teeth. Shirtless and thoroughly embarrassed—now is not the fucking time—Steve’s eyes are drawn back down to his chest, his mused blond hair now hanging over his forehead.
His chest is heaving.
Steve can’t stop himself from staring. He, yeah, he knows he’s bigger, taller, and stronger. Erskine hypothesized that it would occur with the serum. And now, he knows it did, too, living through the unnerving aftermath. His entire perspective shifted the instant he peeled his eyes open through the agonizing, white-hot burn assaulting all of his being, rearranging every single part of him. He saw it on their faces as well—Carter, Stark, and the rest of them, too. He didn’t see it, though.
Bigger.
Taller.
Stronger.
His pecs are huge. So much so, he’s caught between awe and hilarity—he almost looks fucking comical with them attached to his chest. Like. The shape of his pecs is rounded and heavy-looking. Although they remain as pale and freckled as ever. That’s familiar. Plus, he can’t immediately, unless he moves his body or head specifically, see his stomach the way he used to be able to. His chest was board-flat and his stomach concave. He remembers the contour of his ribs sticking out like islands from the surface of the ocean, but his chest has volume now. Huh. His stomach, too—his abs. He, he… he’s seen abs before, Bucky has them on account of the Depression and war rations not leaving them with much food and his work being mainly hard labor, plus there have been models at the few life-drawing classes he’s taken that have them, and anatomy books, of course, contain illustrations of them, but he didn’t realize how rounded six-pack abs are. The mass. Muscle mass. Steve has muscle mass.
Muscle mass that sits on his chest like breasts.
Mortification surges thickly through Steve, and it only gets worse, surging hotter and faster and all-consuming into him when, at the same moment that one of his hands shyly comes up to investigate—curling his fingers and palm into the shape of a cup to grope himself, hefting the weight of his new body—someone else’s hand bangs on the exam room door.
Knock! Knock!
“Wait!” Steve moans, his entire face burning. His voice is much too shrill and… has a horrifying amount of arousal bleeding into it.
Standing, uncovered, in the center of the little room, Steve’s eyes dart away from his own body and away from the door, too, leaving him floating in space, untethered and flinching with his entire body, scrunching up between the two extremes. He’s half expecting the door to fly open anyway, the doctor, nurse, or whoever is at the door finding him standing in the room, cupping his pecs like they’re breasts that he, just, has to touch. Compelled to do it. The first pair he’s seen not in some academic, artistic light.
If they did burst in, they’d find, no, catch him red-handed as he fondles himself.
Thank god, they listen to his shocked cry and don’t enter.
“I’m not ready!” Steve squeaks out, trying to explain himself shakily as he drops his curious fingers before they even have the chance to come close to the achy, hard points of his nipples. It’s gotta be cold in here, right? He’s not already worked up. No way.
No way, he repeats in his mind as he speeds to strip himself down the rest of the way, shivering out of his clothes. There is no time to revel in the wildly intense feeling of fabric dragging over his hyperaware skin, no matter how badly he feels the need to stop and take it in. Also, he kind of just wants to stop. He almost never wants to move again. How is he going to adjust to the roughness of everything? Ever? It doesn’t fucking feel like it possibly could even out! The uneven, jagged catch of cotton cloth across crackling nerves? The buzzing hum grating his ears from the fluorescent lights? The sharp, assault smell of sterile instruments punching its way into his nose and invading his mouth? What? How?
It’s too much to process, but with his muscles twitching under his too-tight skin as he soldiers on, he knows that he has to continue. So, off his clothes come. His belt and trousers left in a heap because—
No way, he tells himself again, gaping down at the bulge at the front of his underwear after pulling his belt from its loops and dropping his trousers to the floor.
A dry swallow rolls down his throat, echoed suddenly by the rippling shock wave that stuns his body from the neck down. He, is he—is he even hard right now? Or… is that just his dick genuinely now? Because. Because what?!
It’s fucking huge.
Like, laughably huge because… that’s just a big fucking dick. Like. It’s, it’s pretty hilarious and also kind of horrifying if he listens to the racing slam of his heart in his chest, asking if that’s what it looks like in his underwear, what will it look like when he’s naked? How big is it? How is he ever gonna stick that anywhere?
“Ahem,” the voice belonging to the same person that, presumably, the knocking hand does, clears itself through the door impatiently.
Not even daring to spare a millisecond to lay a finger between his legs for the sake of curiosity, Steve throws himself into the johnny the nurse gave him, rushing too much to even tie it in the back, and instead setting his mildly panicking (and almost naked) ass on the painfully cold exam table. Manners trickle into him, thankfully, without any conscious thought on his part, folding his hands in his lap and announcing, “I’m ready now.”
He doesn’t, really, actually, feel ready ‘cause his heart is still an engine in his chest, but he’s not going to make them wait for him any longer.
It’s abundantly clear, too, that they’re done with waiting because the second he starts to speak, the doctor breezes into the room. He brings with him a rushing stream of air so cold it raises the hairs on Steve’s arms, leaving him with goosebumps. Hardly, Steve keeps himself from shivering. At least the gaggle of nurses entering with the doctor is thoughtful enough to shut the exam room’s door behind them.
Suddenly, the room is crowded like a tin of sardines. The sheer number of bodies in the small room should give Steve reprieve from his chill, and it, sort of, does; he can feel the wash of body heat polluting the atmosphere, but he can also sense the cold, clinical outreach of these strangers. Eyes on his skin. Sharp, educated minds mulling over his case. Nimble hands ready to prod and poke in order to understand what, exactly, is going on with him.
The nurses who’ve spilled into the room behind the doctor are all dressed identically, but each carries her own separate clipboard and pen for taking notes. Steve swallows thickly. None of the nurses, save for the woman who saw him earlier, look at him directly, face-to-face but… still. He feels their eyes on him, tracing paths over his exposed skin, lingering in some places and slipping with ease past others.
A nervous sweat has broken out across Steve’s body. The prickling of his pores attacks him especially from behind with his exposed back. He doesn’t know where or who to look at, so he doesn’t settle in one place. Bouncing around, he finally notices the doctor. He’s a tall, broad man, relatively youthful in appearance, if the greys beginning to streak his hairline and slope of his belly are ignored. Years ago, he was probably impressively stocky. Maybe a baseball or football player? Now, though, his face isn’t particularly creased by time or stress, but something about him—maybe the air of authority all doctors exude in their clean, bright coats and polished leather shoes glimmering like their intimidating instruments—tells Steve he is older.
“Alright, Mr. Rogers,” the doctor speaks clearly, enunciating as he finishes laying out a variety of shiny metal and slick, black rubber instruments on the small side table just off to the side of the exam table that Steve’s tightly resting on. His entire body is a coiled spring, just waiting to explode into action. “I am a general practitioner,” he says in lieu of introducing himself with any particular name, keeping them as strangers, “and I will be beginning your exam with a few rudimentary questions and tests, but I assure you, I am not the only one interested in your…” his dark brown eyes flick up and down him, head to toe, “condition—”
Steve’s knees press themselves tighter together, his bodily sensations taking over to tell him not that he’s added a foot, at least, to his height, and instead as if he is still five feet four inches tall. Even less than that, he feels minuscule underneath the doctor’s gaze.
“—So,” the doctor continues, rubbing his hands together as if he just can’t wait to take a crack at him, “there will be a few more doctors coming in and out. We could be here a while.”
Something about the way he grins as he snaps sterile gloves onto his thick-fingered hands, Steve knows he doesn’t need to nod or shake his head to acknowledge that he understands. This is happening. They’re going to ask him questions, they’re going to test him, they’re going to examine him. It’s going to be thorough.
This time, when Steve shivers, it has nothing to do with being cold. Anticipation is heavy inside his chest.
“When you entered Project Rebirth, your chart was marked with multiple chronic conditions that should have given you a 4-F ranking,” he drones, “but Dr. Erskine overruled that, so I will begin with those conditions to make sure the serum has, indeed, improved your functioning.”
Steve gets the impression the doctor is speaking more to his troop of nurses than to him, and he’s proven correct when one of the women pipes up, offering the first, presumably, of his alphabetized ailments—
“Uh, anemia,” she offers, looking up from the thick stack of papers in her hands.
“Right,” he stiffly nods his head. Then, hands flitting to his jaw, the doctor commands, “open.”
Steve, with his heart pounding in his ears resulting from the smooth, smooth sensation of latex against his skin, underscored by the soft, almost nonexistent shhhhh sound from the contact, fingertips along his chin, does as he’s told, unclear what his mouth has to do with anemia. He’s, they usually—isn’t that a blood test? Wha-?
“Hmm,” unceremoniously, the doctor’s fingers invade his mouth, leaving Steve fighting not to choke. Saliva floods his mouth as, confidently, the doctor’s gloved fingers press down on Steve’s tongue. Then, unbothered by his sputtering, he pinches his tongue between his fingertips and thumb, moving his tongue this way and that.
A garbled sound spills out of Steve, uncontrolled and surprised by his forwardness. He’s, just, handling him, not telling him anything he’s doing or why. Just—doing it.
Warm and slick, he lets his tongue go. “Oh, come on now, it’s not that bad,” the doctor tells him, patronizing in tone but also in how he pats his cheek with his other gloved hand that’s not currently shoved deep in his mouth, probing every inch of it. Steve’s whole fucking face burns. He tries to swallow with his jaw jacked wide open. It takes him a minute, clumsy and drooly, but he does it. And he swallows again immediately, trying to both ignore his unstoppably watering mouth and push down the rising, flooding embarrassment as his fingers keep feeling around the inside of his mouth, his fingernails sharp and firm against his gums.
Finally, Steve’s clued in to what’s going on, through the sticky confusion and pounding of his heart, both rushing loudly through his head. The doctor reports his findings to his nurses, “we will need a blood test to confirm, of course, but the gums are healthy in color. Very pink,” Steve feels his face and neck turn pinker at the idea, something about it… it’s so intimate, it’s almost praise? It’s nothing of his doing, though! It’s just his body. It’s, but it’s. It’s so fucking intimate. So fast. It’s making Steve’s head swim. “Very pink,” the doctor repeats under his breath, and louder, “even when I press my fingers against them.”
Just as Steve feels the mortifying sensation of hot, wet saliva pooling up in his mouth so much it threatens to drip over his lips and drool down his chin, the doctor removes his hand from filling his mouth. Steve licks his lips to stop the bubbling-up groan from coming out of his throat. It resonates quietly in his chest, unheard beneath the doctor’s added note of, “write down that it feels as if the temperature of the body is elevated, too. There’s a lot of heat in that mouth. No signs of anemia, though.”
Oh, God.
That was just for anemia?
What else are they going to do to him?
Static rushes through Steve, head to toe, charged like electricity, and leaves him to literally jump when the doctor snatches his hand next. It’s all just happening. The shock isn’t helped either because the latex—skin-tight and thinly covering his warm hand—is wet from Steve’s mouth and Steve tries his fucking hardest not to squirm in sheer mortification as the doctor turns his hand this way and that. He’s moving him like he’s a doll. No warning, no niceties, no ‘please, may I have your hand. Ah, very good. Turn it like this for me? Mmm. I see. Okay, now like this. Thank you.’ No nothing. Just grabbing.
Taking.
Examining.
Steve’s a person, he knows he is! He knows damn well his value—and he has, despite everyone was calling him an invalid, cripple, and worse before he shot up taller in that machine, all those shots piercing his flesh—but right now he doesn’t feel it. Is he a person? Isn’t he just a thing?
Haven’t I always been a thing? His slurry, heavy head asks, spinning off his shoulders.
The doctor and nurses look at him like an object. They touch him like he’s an object. An experiment. A specimen. He’s a mystery to them. They will go on and on until they figure him out, no matter how uncomfortable (or pleasurable) it is for Steve.
“There are no signs of anemic discoloration in the fingernail beds either,” the doctor reports through Steve’s spitting, rapid thoughts.
“Perfect,” the same nurse as earlier pipes up, reading down her list to the next point of interest, “would you like to move on to the next, doctor?”
“Yes,” he confirms shortly.
The next!?
Steve’s head is still spinning and undoubtedly spinning faster now. He doesn’t have the luxury of planting his feet firmly on the ground and reasoning about what might come next or what he could possibly expect for that further nonsensical test. For all the coming tests. There’s no way in hell they’re going to be done with just two.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
He’s in for it.
And he can’t do anything but sit there, his whole body raised to attention, goosebumps covering his skin, hairs standing on end, nerves desperate to receive more signals despite how they’re sizzling in them already, bathed with sensation too hot to handle.
“Asthma.”
The doctor bobs his head tightly in acknowledgement, stepping easily to the side to wrangle his stethoscope by placing the ends in his ears and lunging into Steve’s personal space (is he a person right now? he still isn’t sure), smoothly ducking the head of the equipment below the top neckline of his loose, open-backed johnny. At first, though, for all the doctor’s bravado, he miscalculates and instead of applying the tool firmly to the center of his chest to listen to his breathing, he brushes up against Steve’s left tight, hard nipple with the unforgivingly cold metal.
“OH!” Steve moans. The noise is all air and unsuspecting desire, rushing out of his larger lungs. More room in there for louder moans, apparently.
Immediately after the sound exits him, Steve’s eyes snap shut to hide himself from the glares and scandalized expressions he knows have to be spread across the faces of every stranger in this tiny-ass room. There’s no way they didn’t hear that for exactly what it was. He wants to shout at his body. What the fuck! What?
What?
He knows his nipples were hard and aching before—he can even see exactly how they appeared before in his mind, when he was almost caught groping himself, and it’s worse now, magnified by the intense, no-nonsense, all-business examination of this harsh doctor, touching him and telling him he’s very pink. His nipples. Very pink. Very hard. Very obvious, standing out on his big, round pectorals more like breasts. Buh-but, but, Steve didn’t realize his nipples were still that fucking hard.
The only damn thought in his head is I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em, I wanna touch ‘em—
They’re so tight, so hard, and it’d feel so good. He involuntarily begins fantasizing about smooth fingertips, circling, pinching, thumbing, twisting, pulling at the pink, peppled points obvious on his pale chest until his back arches all on it’s own, pushing his pecs against those hands, wanting more, hands getting rough with him like Bucky does, torturing him until his head lulls back and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna die because it’s too much and he doesn’t even know if he can cum anymore. He’s gone beyond orgasm, too overstimulated to take it.
God.
Through his crisis, he manages to hear, “is your chest sore? Does this hurt?” The doctor demands, pressing not the instrument but his hand against his chest. Abruptly, firm fingertips are palpating the thick muscle packed onto his frame, pressing into him, gripping him, almost like squeezing a fruit, checking to know if it’s ripe or bruised and tender.
“No!” Steve squeaks, the edge of another mortifying, guttural sound curling around the edges of his tongue.
At least, fuck, the thin cotton gown and medical glove is between their bodies. Steve can’t imagine feeling someone, anyone, skin to skin right now. He already wants to scream! He might just rip his fucking hair out. It’d be too much. This is already too much! But, for the love of god, don’t stop. He’s burning up, but if they quit now, it’d be worse.
Steve grits his teeth, he needs this. He needs this exam. He needs to get to the front lines. He… he needs this. Someone just touch him. Please.
“Are you sure?” The doctor asks, sounding impatient, as if he can’t believe he has to inquire twice instead of getting straight to the bottom the first time he asked.
“Yes,” Steve pushes, his voice straining, almost pleading with his weak excuse, “yes, I’m sure. It, it, just surprised me. That’s all.”
The doctor’s dark, bushy eyebrow—only the right one—jumps up into an unimpressed arch. Plain as day, he doesn’t believe him. Mercifully, though, after a beat of pregnant silence, he lets it go. And dryly, he pushes the flat, cold head of the stethoscope against his sternum correctly this time, not apologizing but warning, “it’s going to be a little cold.”
It is cold. It’s bitingly cold. But Steve’s body heat warms it to burning fast. He’s boiling over with embarrassment, crackling like a fire and oozing like lava.
“Breath as deeply as possible,” the doctor barks, adding, “please,” as an afterthought when his forcefulness startles Steve, all his senses on razor’s edge.
Steve tries his best, calming his body as much as he possibly can. He isn’t sure he succeeds with the galloping of his heart wild in his chest. It’s beating so hard he can feel it all the way to his fingers and toes, nevermind how his heart bucks and shivers against his lungs, making it difficult to intake even breaths.
Despite it all, “no wheezing, no whistling,” the doctor reports to the sound of the nurses scribbling on their sheets. Steve may as well be living on a different planet, the way he’s experiencing this moment compared to what the doctor claims. He feels crazy.
Practiced and easy, the doctor tangles his stethoscope around his throat like a snake; it hisses at Steve like the serpent from the Bible, slick-tongued and too persuasive, promising Steve all the sinful pleasures and knowledge in the world if he just takes a bite and asks. Please. He aches to ask. Please, touch me. More than a snake’s bite, venom pumped hot into his veins, he wants hands—his own or someone else’s, it wouldn’t really matter. He just. Please, let me have this. I just need a minute. Stay to watch or go if you can’t watch, just let me—I need—
Equally warned, which is to say entirely unwarned, the doctor steps back into his space but, actually, he comes even closer this time. Steve feels the humid, harsh wash of his cigarette-stained breath cloud his face. And he does lay his hands on him, listening to Steve’s perverse, racing thoughts. This time, he touches his face.
Inhaling sharply, Steve manages to hold his surprise mostly inside.
The slick latex of the doctor’s gloves creeps over his nose, thumbs sweeping the sides while the other points of his fingers cradle his jaw and neck. Steve tries not to tremble. He knows he fails to control his wildfire blush as it, too, sweeps his face and neck. He feels his blush raging. It’s, just, the doctor’s index fingers are shockingly close to the protruding part of his skull, that bone just behind his ear—that exact sweet spot Bucky is oh-so fond of kissing and nibbling when they’re mouth-to-mouth, getting lost in each other, swallowing each other’s breath, usually by that time too hot to not be grinding against each other, their cocks desperately hard and underwear beginning to get sticky and wet.
Involuntarily, Steve’s mind’s eye is polluted with the long-gone image of that time, as horny fuckin’ teenagers, Bucky got too carried away and marked him up with his teeth, leaving purple-red lovebites aaaaaall down his neck, from his collarbone to that sensitive, errogenous zone behind his ear and Steve had to pretend to have a fever for a full three days, playing hooky, not going anywhere, not daring to lower his ratty, thread-bare bedcovers from just below his chin for fear of anyone seeing Bucky’s hormone-hot desire painted across his thin, fragile skin. It threatened to give him a heart attack with his bump ticker, half anxiety, half lust. All he craved was Bucky crawling back into bed with him, crushing him beneath his weight and teasing his chin to tip fully back, stretching out his tender throat to be marked again.
Again.
Anxious arousal rushes through Steve’s veins all the same, the sound of his inhale twisting from a gasp to a strangled groan when the doctor drags his hands from his face to his throat, pushing the heel of his hand to Steve’s chin to force him to stare up at the ceiling, blinking and unseeing. He is lost in a haze of desire. His gloved hands squeeze his throat, running down his neck, and feeling for… something? Anything? Steve doesn’t have a fucking clue. Hands, hands, hands, hands, hands on his skin. Christ. He—
What?
What is even happening?
What is this?
This doctor is choking him, making him groan, laying his hands on him, and fucking scandalizing all these poor nurses because he can’t control himself. Steve doesn’t know how to control this body. It pulses with desire. Everything. His newly thickened, flushed blood rushes south, tripping off every muscle on the way, coiling them tight and further exciting his standing-on-end nerves. If he’s not already half-hard (or worse), soon he will be. How long could it take to get hard with such a big cock? How big is his tent gonna be? How obvious? It’ll be obvious, but… just how obvious? What happens when everyone sees?
Fuck.
Will they test him there, too?
Steve shivers in response to his lustful curiosity so hard that he shakes the doctor’s grip off of him. He should apologize, but he can’t speak; his mouth is flooded with saliva, and his tongue is too thick to move.
Undeterred, the doctor clamors to grab him again like an equestrian gathering their horse’s reins, pulling at their bucking head, and trying to calm the animal. Shit. Steve involuntarily groans, suddenly filled with the phantom sensation of being buckled in—just like the machine, tied down in leather and metal, immobilized, but just like being enwrapped in a bridle, too, including his mouth shoved full of a metallic-tasting bit. Ngh. Steve has no time to wonder what the hell is wrong with him and his overactive imagination, this is a totally mostly professional medical exam and he can’t stop moaning and twitching and aching, because too fast, the doctor steers his head by the chin, jerking him around until Steve’s world has no right, left, up, or down.
He peers up his nose, stares down his throat, and squeezes his neck one last time for…? Certainty? Posterity? It’s so entirely unclear to Steve. Yet, then again, Steve’s a little too busy trying fruitlessly to will his boiling blood away from his crotch. His bad circulation, clearly, is no longer a fucking problem either. His veins are wide open, flush with blood surging just beneath the surface of his skin. Sooner he might explode than go soft.
And either the most oblivious man on God’s green Earth or the best faker created, the doctor drones on, “no signs of inflammation in the sinuses or throat.” That is meant for the nurses. For Steve, he commands, “take a deep breath. Inhale for as long as you can, then exhale for as long as you can.”
On his first attempt, all the saliva flooding Steve’s mouth leaves him choking (plus leaving him redder in the face than even before, but that’s a different problem), but he’s given impatient grace and told to try again. So he does, blowing his hot air saturated in his dirty appetite all over the doctor’s bland face.
There’s something about it… something intimate. Steve knows he can’t, but he’s almost convinced the doctor can smell his arousal and filthy perversions on his breath like he’d smell booze.
Nodding, the doctor confirms to the nurses, “no signs of asthma,” and he doesn’t wait to ask, he demands, “next.”
“Let's see, um, bone and joint deformities?”
The nurse who spoke and the doctor go back and forth for a minute, perhaps narrowing down which bones and joints, but it all goes over Steve’s head. He does not have the goddamn awareness to comprehend any more examining. It rolls through his body like a thunderstorm, dark clouds prowling the landscape that is his body of mountainous hills and valleys, rounded muscles and tight muscle definition. The air is electric. Lightning strikes Steve again and again, a rarity so impossible that Steve can’t justify it. There’s no way.
How is every part of his body so sensitive?
Relentlessly, the doctor articulates his body, pushing and pulling, using Steve as a marionette, not relying on a single fiber of his newfound muscle. He is not interested in strength. He is ensuring his joints roll smoothly. Steve is nothing but a doll. Bent and folded and touched and struck again, again, and again by pleasure. Lightning. He is lit up, flashing brightly—moaning, going limp, seeing the face of god in the electric clouds. It’s so intense that even his eyelids drooping, lowering in a haze, doesn’t save him from the flashing lights.
Eventually, the doctor has to shove Steve against the cold, harsh wall behind him to get him to sit up, his neck has gone so boneless. Time and space smeared together, Steve isn’t sure if the doctor taps, pats, or slaps his face to make his eyes blink sluggishly open again. Maybe he taps his face until his eyelids rise and then smacks him to get them to focus, lifting plate after plate into his field of blurry vision to test his color vision.
Truly, truly relentless, the list goes on, and at that, goes back to his chest. His heart. Steve used to have a heart murmur and get heart palpitations (among other complaints of the heart, strangled in his weak chest). But an extended, focused session with the stethoscope to his chest proves it’s been resolved. Still. The stethoscope. It’s still cold. It’s still too close to his nipples for his comfort. It’s still, still way too intimate.
The attention.
Steve can’t take it. And if he were in any even close-to right state of mind, he would be questioning this doctor’s credibility, how can he listen to his pounding heart, skipping beat after beat, struck with lightning to leave him stuttering and raw, burned around the sizzling edges, and not hear at least a murmur if not full palpitations? What?
What?
Words get whispered in his ear, right and then left, the doctor demanding he repeat after him, and fingers are snapped next to each, too, his eyes closed and his shaking hands meant to indicate which wide he hears the noise on, if any. Both are just to be sure that his partial deafness is gone. Although, a side effect of the easy, rudimentary tests is putting feverish chills down his spine. Steve can do nothing but shiver in place.
Another thorough sweep of his body confirms he’s lost all signs of his stint with scarlet and then rheumatic fever. Fingers trailing down his spine—nails digging into his hot, slick skin even through latex—also confirm his scoliosis has been burned away, lit up by the hot injected serum and molten vita-rays and dissolved from his body, dripping away like sweat rolls down his back, collecting at the small of his back and the two dimples there before some of it travels down the valley between his asscheeks, collecting in his most intimate parts. The whole back of his johnny is open. Steve knows they’re looking.
The urge to crawl away and hide possesses him, wanting to be small and curled tightly, yet at the same time… he clenches around nothing, craving for anything but. Nothing is terrible. He wants more. He’s had enough. It’s too much already.
A ringing has started in his ears.
He is more humiliated than he’s ever been in his life at the same damn time that he’s wound so fucking tight with arousal that he could shatter at any moment. He is barely held together, tension mounting, ready to explode. Thoughts invade the sensations crowding him until he’s hoping to high heaven through the heady clouds stuffing his brainless skull like wads of cotton that they can’t tell from looking that he’s, he’s, he’s—that Bucky used to—
His squeezed shut eyelids light up like a film screen, replaying Bucky on top of him, heavy and solid, dripping sweat, moaning into his raw, kiss-swollen mouth, thrusting inside him, thick and heavy, balls tight to his skin, so deep inside him, stuffing him full enough to choke before pulling almost all the way out, Steve’s boney heels digging into the low of his back as the last defense, devistated to be left so empty even knowing that he’s about to fuck back into him, pleading with Bucky to go harder until he’s in a fit, getting no breath, Bucky’s palm hot on his thin chest, trying to calm him, even still, his desire demanding Bucky keep going. Who needs air? Not him. Harder. Please, Buck. Fuck me. Harder. Harder! Bite me! Fuck me! Slap me around, I want it. Wan’ it! Need it, Buck! Need you to—
Oh, god.
He can’t even think about Bucky right now, or he will explode.
Not thinking about Bucky and instead existing within the moment to calm himself down before he paints the inside of his johnny over literally fucking nothing isn’t the answer to Steve’s dire situation, though. Far from it, when the doctor really fucking studies his ass under the guise of examing for scolosis only to turn him around—spinning him like he’s a helpless doll to articulate—and stares him right in his stupid, unfocused eyes. His covered fingertips are still slick with Steve’s own sweat. Steve can smell himself on the other man. He tries (and fails) to react to the sight of slick fingertips—there’s usually only one context in which he sees those. God. His weighty cock twitches violently. Even so, they march down the list unapologetically. Scoliosis comes before sinusitis.
This seems terribly inefficient.
Can’t they go from head to toe!? Bouncing back and forth like this is making Steve so unbelievably dizzy.
And he actually has to fucking give his heavy, uncentered head away to the doctor, letting him hold his jaw as he sweeps his fingers from his still-crooked nose to the high points of his cheekbones. He'll melt into the floor if he doesn’t let him steady him. He will never get up. All the blood in his body is pooled in his lap, filling his cock and balls—tight, hard, throbbing.
His sinusitis is gone, too.
How come Steve still can’t breathe then? Huh? What about that?
He’s going to explode.
He could scream. Ironically, though, it’s impossible to make a sound. The nurses, as the doctor organizes his tools and snaps off his latex gloves, take chaotic turns quizzing him about his family history: angina, high blood pressure, only child, his mother died of tuberculosis, and his father died by mustard gas in the last war. Is that correct? Steve struggles to comprehend any of those words. He’s too thrown off to recall that nodding is up and down versus shaking his head is side to side, no matter what either of those motions means. So, instead, Steve just weakly pants through what’s meant to be the approximation of yeses. Whatever actually comes out of his mouth is a mystery to him, though. And whatever he says, it may or may not trigger the bustling movement of his captive audience crammed into the little room; they shuffle about, knotting together and pushing out the door to leave him alone.
Huh?
Steve’s mouth drops open, staring foolishly with heavy eyelids at the back of the plain door. Is—is he supposed to get dressed now? Are they done? What? Where did everyone go? Will they come back? Is anyone going to tell him what’s going on? Did they drug him? Why does his body feel like this? Is it always going to be like this from now on?
Steve’s so thoughtless, nothing left but the syrup-thick heat inside his veins, that he doesn’t even register if he’s relieved they’re gone, so he might be able to take care of himself without dying from embarrassment, or if he wants them back to do more to him and drive him that much closer to an involuntary, guttural edge. He hurts, whining pathetically into the radio silence filling the otherwise deserted room. It’s just him. Yet, the surface of his skin has been so thoroughly touched—pounded for reflexes, palpated for muscle tone, scratched and stretched for bones and joints, rubbed for testing sensation, just, totally scrutinized—that it feels thin and raw. Below his skin isn’t any better, though, his nerves sparking and smoking. He is a sponge, having absorbed every sensation; inside, he’s still quivering and thrumming with vibrations that will crumble him to the ground, the resonance assaulting him. Internally, his body whispers and hisses, seducing his hand into his lap without any say from his logical brain. The flick of a forked tongue, purring until he listens to the deviant serpent.
“Ohh,” the sheer intensity of his own dirty, relieved moan catches him off guard so badly he jolts where he’s sagging back into the wall. He hasn’t even done anything (not consciously, at least)! His hand is just lying against the fat bulge of his erection. He can’t—he, he doesn’t have the strength to curl his fingers and palm himself.
He’s so weak.
His head lolls to one side, then the other, his eyelids so heavy they’re practically shut. There’s no point in his neck folding, leaving his chin to his chest; he can’t see more than an inch in front of his face no matter how dully, stupidly curious he is to see how big his cock is when it’s teased and engorged. He’s stuck like a bee drowning in honey, reactions delayed entirely. And there’s no mistaking what he’s doing, panting, no, hyperventilating, weakly squirming, ready to burst from his skin, so hot and tight, so— fuck. He’s fucking dead. It feels, feels—
Before Steve can comprehend how good it feels to finally have real touch, abruptly, a gust of harsh, cold air rushes into the room, bringing a new doctor with it. He’s never seen him before, what a fucking introduction.
Shit.
Steve should grit his teeth and tear his mostly limp, static-heavy arm away from his lap, but that doesn’t happen. Not even close. Instead, “more-?” Trips and falls out of Steve’s mouth meant to be a complaint but really just a dripping, glazed moan.
There is no mistaking what his hand has been doing, especially not when he sounds like that. He’s been literally caught bright red fucking handed.
Oh, god.
The flames already inhabiting his new, shiny body truly take over, destroying him. If it’s possible, he’s blushing all the way to his toes. His very bones are flushed with a red tint. There is no reprieve from pure, unadulterated mortification. How can there be when this new doctor begins to examine him as if the other hadn’t at all, undressing him with his eyes first, peering head to toe, then toe to head, but going farther, too—
He requires Steve to strip.
Thin cotton falls away from Steve’s tangled body, aching as it draaaaags over his skin, taking its descent to the floor with the grace of a well-practiced floozy. Without his medical gown, every quivering muscle along with his cock is unveiled. Steve is more fucking erect than he’s ever been in his whole fucking life, big and hard up against the taut, flat muscle of his lower belly while his balls draw up tight, so worked up they feel embarrassingly swollen. Every lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub of his heart echoes through Steve’s entire body, his blood is so thick with lust, his veins engorged. Shit, there was probably no way he could get hard like this previously, right? His poor circulation would’ve cut him off. Now, it hits him full force. He’s swollen. Aching. A balloon with too many exhaled, humid, thick breaths; one more and he’ll burst, no matter how badly he doesn’t want to.
He can’t help it.
Blinking sluggishly, Steve does not remember standing—did the doctor pull him to his feet? Or did he obey like a loyal dog, despite how fucking hard it is to scramble control over any part of himself? Too, the memory of his medical gown fluttering to the floor escapes him instantly after it happens. Grains of sand through spread fingers, Steve loses any comprehension.
The sound of notes scratched across a loose page do something rough and harsh to his throbbing body, entering him through his ears but dripping down, scrawling lust across his skin, drawing lower and lower to the very tip of his cock that leaks as visibly as a pencil scratching letters on his medical chart—anyone could read it. Anyone could read him. He’s so fucking horny. He’s gonna start screaming or crying or cumming. He doesn’t know what. He tries to be good! Just fucking stand here and still and let the doctor do what he needs. Don’t think about what you need. Just—
“There are no stretch marks visible on the patient’s body despite a remarkable, rapid increase in height and muscle mass.”
“Freckles and moles are still present on the patient’s skin. They appear to be in the same number and configuration as they were before.”
How does-? How does he know that? Shouldn’t he ask Steve? Did he ask?
“Interesting, one visible scar is still present on the antebrachium of the patient’s left side; it appears quarter-sized and paler in color than the rest of the skin.”
The doctor speaks out loud before he writes his notes, but despite it being just the two of them, he isn’t talking to Steve. He’s gathering his thoughts before putting pencil to paper, trying, almost, to minimize his evident shock as he calculates all sorts of things. He knows Steve isn’t home—he knows Steve is just an object right now, something to be inspected and, Christ, touched.
Manipulated.
The doctor pulls him this way and that, toward the scale, back away to a tape measure against the door, then, in a circle, to the exam table.
“Now 6’2”, the patient’s height has increased by 10 inches total.”
“Now 240lbs, the patient’s weight has increased by 150lbs. The definition of the patient’s muscle is remarkable, and body fat must not have increased, considering the emaciated frame the patient had before Project Rebirth.”
“Ha-!” Steve’s entire body jerks.
The doctor’s cold, non-gloved hands palpate and count the drumming beats of his heart multiple times. First, at his wrist, then against his neck, and even pressing a freezing stethoscope to his chest. He can’t seem to get a steady reading-? That, or he’s just intent on torturing Steve, prolonging his state of mind-breaking arousal and mortification.
“Heart rate is notably even and steady as well as exceedingly low at 42 beats per minute. Could be considered an issue if not for obvious signs of otherwise complete health.”
Steve would never have guessed in a million years that his heart rate is so low; in his chest, his heart seems to gallop faster and faster, pushing harder and harder, thumping against his ribs and urging blood around his body. He might explode. And if he were able to think, Steve would be curious of if his heart beats this slow when he’s harder than steel, how absolutely glacial does his pulse become at rest?
Wasting no time, the doctor slides a sphygmomanometer around his arm and, unsurprisingly, pays no attention to the behind-his-teeth shriek Steve tries and fails to swallow back when he begins to pump and tighten the cuff. The squeezing pressure—even just around an innocuous place like his lower bicep—is maddening.
Pump. Pump. Pump.
Steve shoves back another sound, feeling the blood flow getting cut off from his hand by the inflating, tightening cuff around his arm. He successfully doesn’t moan this time, but a single, sizzling-hot tear does get squeezed out of him, rolling down his feverish cheek in a flood.
The cuff is nowhere near his cock but…
Oh, fuck.
It feels like it is.
Pump.
Pump.
Pump.
He’s twitching, leaking, crying.
“Blood pressure is, well, great… not that that is revolutionary at this point.”
Is it?
Is it great?
Steve might stroke out. Jesus Christ. He’s so hard. How does he keep feeling harder? It’s, no—he, it’s. Ugh. It’s not like he has more blood! He can’t get more erect. His dick can’t get bigger.
Guh.
It’s too much.
Once his blood pressure has been taken, Steve should see the cold metal coming again—it’s pretty predictable—but he doesn’t. The stethoscope blindsides him, as does the following examination of his head and neck, probing, pressing fingers in his crashing into his mouth and sweeping hotly across his face and down his neck, digging into his thyroid. He’s asked to open wide, to bite down, to swallow, to repeat after the doctor, and more. More. Every order rolls down Steve’s back with beads of sweat drowning him, humid and thick as a tropical monsoon. His body invaded and stuffed. The doctor. So close. All his instruments. Cold and unforgiving.
Steve’s chest stutters and struggles. The contrast of freezing fucking harsh-as-shit metal and hot, disciplined fingers is unbearable.
Fuck me.
Steve hangs on with paper-white knuckles and gritted teeth through an eyesight test, barely seeing through blurred, tear-smeared vision. The doctor reports better than 20/20 vision with exceptional color differentiation abilities, and Steve cannot comprehend how. This body drags him through the procedures as if it’s easy—it’s anything but easy for Steve.
More tests come and go, melting into one another, palpating and groping from his mounded pectoral muscles aaaaaaaall the way down to his thicker calves, articulating his joints some more, checking his bones, estimating his bones density and strength, until, suddenly, sharply, the doctor is pressing him against the exam table, shoving him down to sit, getting to his knees and—
Steve knows how this goes. But— here?
Now?
This, no, it couldn’t be! He wouldn’t—
Steve’s neglected, purple-red cock smacks against his belly, flinging wet tears of pre-cum against his own skin; he makes a whorish sound, his mouth hanging open, eyes stinging with big, fat tears, and his face blushing so hard it must be swollen. The doctor is on his knees to— no.
No.
Steve shakes off all his instincts of what it means to him when another man drops to his knees in front of him as the doctor innocently checks him for flat feet, tracing the arches of his feet with his thumbs and narrowly dodging a foot straight to the face ‘cause static cuts through Steve’s skin. Beyond ticklish, instead, the sensation goes straight to the deepest parts of his soul.
This is torture.
And it gets worse.
Through his devastating, debilitating arousal, Steve sort of, almost, catches something coming from this strange doctor’s mouth about checking for venereal diseases, but he can’t be sure. There’s no time to make sense of it, not until there’s a hand unexpectedly groping around his testicles and he’s moaning so loud it’s almost a shout, and even then, it doesn’t make sense. Wh-what? Huh? Excuse me? He’s spluttering, not making any coherent sounds, just spewing his surprise.
And, Jesus, his squirming, his crying, his panting—it all grows exponentially worse. More. Louder. Faster. He’s clawing at the metal exam table, denting it, and throwing his head back, his skull crashing into the wall, likely doing more damage to the wall than to himself. He feels indestructible yet being crushed in the palm of this man’s hands.
Oh.
He can’t stop saying it, really, he’s all but shouting it, “oh, oh, OH!”
He’s frantically trying to get away from it, trying to get more of it, trying to do anything except for immediately cum everywhere.
The doctor stops cupping, rolling, teasing his drawn-tight balls with the same unbothered rapidity that he started doing it. Next, handles his rock-hard cock. Just like that. Examining his shaft. Attempting to look at it from all angles but giving up with a displeased grunt when he finds Steve too hard to manipulate easily. He inspects the underside of it regardless, his breath fanning over Steve’s sensitive skin and throbbing veins. Steve might squeal through his teeth. He tries to fix the embarrassing sound spewing out of his mouth by biting savagely down on his fist but it doesn’t work. Not for a second. Then, done with his dangerously hard dick as he speeds along, the doctor neatly gathers his feet beneath him, stands, and grabs Steve’s hips to bodily flip him over.
Too fast.
Too much.
Steve, not comprehending what’s happening, scrambles to get his hands and elbows underneath him. Although before he’s halfway through the clumsy movement, the doctor’s large, powerful hand lands between his shoulders and shoves him back down.
“OHH!” He sobs, the wind knocked from his lungs. The hit rattles through him, vibrating, as if he’s nothing more than a struck bell.
Next, cold, slick lube is smeared viscously between his cheeks, and completely unceremoniously, a large finger is thrusted up into his hole, narrowing down instantly on his prostate.
And there is no other way to say it than to say it—
Steve explodes.
White-hot and gutting.
Gushing.
Somewhere over his blushing, red shoulder, the doctor makes a curious sound, his blank words echoing through Steve’s teeth-chattering, shaking body. Steve is unable to hear most of it, but he catches something about his gland being enlarged and swollen and the doctor just keeps fucking pressure right on it, inspecting it closer than Steve can bare. Steve feels himself being emptied, his cock pumping and pumping and pumpingand pumping and pumpingand pumpingandpumping and pumpingandpumpingandpumpingandpumpingandpumpingandpumping—
Every pulse, every throb, every rush blends and surges together in a monstrous tide that wrecks Steve.
This huge fucking mess of semen, unending, empties from his enlarged testicles that are drawn up so tight it hurts. It hurts. Steve is crying. Sobbing. He’s so hard and he’s cumming and his cock isn’t getting softer. It feels so good, he doesn’t even know what it is. He’s too close to it. He’s so zoomed in on the pleasure that it’s lost all definition. What is pleasure? Does this feel good? Is he thinking? What’s thought? Pleasure? More pleasure? Why! What? Why is this doctor trying to kill him? Why won’t he stop? Ohhh, god, please, please, please, don’t stop! Don’t! Guh. Nngh. Help. Ohfuckme. The doctor is, just, pressing unforgivingly down on his prostate, and he’s sliding in another finger, and he’s rubbing the pads of both of his fingers against it, massaging it almost, as if he thinks he can get the apparent swelling down on his own. Maybe he can. If Steve cums enough, milked like a bull, there won’t be anything left of him, anyway, will there?
Steve feels so wet, unloading all over the table and his own clenching abs. His chest heaves hugely, hitting his hard nipples against the chilled metal and adding to the cacophony of pleasure. He’s dying. He’s being drained. He’s not coming back from this.
His brain malfunctions.
Mmmmngh.
Steve—
Steve doesn’t know when it stops. He can’t process it, openly sobbing. He just knows that suddenly his whole body is rolling, rippling, and coming to attention at the touch of cold air, swept in by the presence of a new person entering the exam room. And, oh, the doctor’s hand isn’t inside his ass anymore. He’s still face down, though, and there’s still humiliating buckets of cum spilled across the table beneath him. It can’t have been that long. It feels like it’s been an eternity. Steve’s empty. He has nothing left despite what his stubborn cock swimming in a pool of its own release seems to think, still fucking hard.
How!?
The nurse and her patient even voice informs the doctor hovering off to the side of Steve that she has brought Steve a change of clean, dry clothes for after his exam. After that, she hovers in the doorway for a moment prior to setting down the pile of cloth at the foot of the exam table. It’s strange, liminal, and awkward. Steve’s too exhausted. But the doctor doesn’t try to apologize on behalf of Steve for the indecency she has to face. Steve. Steve’s hands are clutching weakly at the edge of the table, his face is screwed up in agonizing pleasure, his teeth are sunk deep in his fat bottom lip, he’s breathing like he’s run a hundred miles, and his pale ass hangs off the edge of the table with his hole open, wet, and twitching, still hungry for more. Steve could and would take the whole doctor’s gloved fist if he offered it— what.
What!?
There is no time to consider his own appetite and what it says about him, like this, in this body, when the doctor dismisses the nurse with a wave of his hand and takes more interest in Steve. Uh-oh, Steve swallows thickly, equally praying it’s over and that it never ends. He doesn’t know what he wants.
Arousingly and horrifyingly, Steve rolls over at the urging of the doctor. Hands on his burnt-out skin. How can he still feel anything? He’s felt too much!
His ass slides wetly through the mess of his own making—lube and cum and both overwhelmed and unmet desire soaking into his pores—but can’t find it in his own strength to squirm. He lets it happen, docile as a pet dog. He lets the doctor take his arm, tugging on it as if it’s nothing more than a leash, and take his blood. The needle feels like nothing and everything. The thick, visceral pull of his blood being suctioned out of him fills Steve’s hyper-aware form. It’s unbearable. His nerves scream at him to squirm and moan and maybe even cum again, just from that, but the rest of his physical form is just too fucking tired. He can’t.
He can’t.
He can’t think and can’t care when, again, a sweeping gust of cold air dances tantalizingly over his sweat-slick skin, bringing in another gaggle of nurses to murmur about how remarkable Steve is, exchanging words with the doctor, their fingers frantically taking notes. Bared to their eyes, they reduce Steve from man to numbers and letters. Their lips and teeth and tongues talk about him as if he were a grade of livestock; shocking, from an undeniable 4-F to the best 1-A they’ve ever laid eyes—or hands—on. They haven’t even given him a psychological exam, but they’re already raring to experiment and discover if they can pry more of the precious serum from Steve’s veins now that Erskine and the rest of the samples have been destroyed. It sounds like they want to fucking breed him. Oh, god. Steve’s eyes roll underneath his shut eyelids, a weak convulsion shivering through his overstimulated body.
Notes:
I'm currently in university and working, so, heads up, the writing is gonna be a little slow here. I promise I am working on updates, though! Plus, as we get closer to summer, I'm hoping to update this work faster and faster (although I did just agree to work over the summer, too 😅)—I just couldn't resist releasing this first chapter after I had it written, haha.
Also, I read that (horrifyingly, when considered in real life and not for smutty, fictional stories), in some cases, they used to ask soldiers questions about their sexuality after stripping them naked to see how they react. I almost wrote that for Steve here, but then... Steve just took over while I was writing, and he ended up staying in the physical exam way longer and getting way, way more exhausted than my original plan, lmao.
Chapter 2: 2011
Summary:
Immediately post-being-found-in-the-Arctic-and-thawing, Steve is given his first medical exam of the new era.
≈7.4k words
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Violent, whip-crack, sizzling heat with terribly, perfectly matching, blinding, glacial cold ravages Steve in an instant. Heat and cold cut into him, filleting him wide open—twin blades pushed beneath his skin to separate his muscle, one slicing while the other tears.
The sensations suddenly inside him are so cacophanous they become New York City construction hammering mercilessly through his fragile ears. Crackling welders, pounding jackhammers, terrifyingly large cranes looming overhead like praying mantises in reverse, placing the heads of their mates back on rather than prying them off, constructing buildings and creaking under the weight of their loads, steel colliding harshly, grinding, bone on bone. It’s the frantic sounds of skyscrapers being erected, all but literally scraping . Fingernails to a chalkboard as lightning rods are to the edge of the atmosphere, scoring it with jagged lines. It’s the rushing sounds of the war effort, a country so desperate to win, it will crush its own citizens beneath the weight of the labor they must perform, their bones too brittle from strict rations.
The sounds, no, sensations, sounds, sensations. Sensations. Right? Or is it really sound? What… what is even happening? What is this? What does he feel except for everything?
Aware of everything all at once, all of a sudden, no warning is as sublime as the haunting, changing skyline and warped factories. All of it is made that much louder by the previous deafening silence of the depression. The grating cacophony makes his bones chatter. Vibrating, vibrating, vibrating. Inside him. His skin is going to tear. Steve feels his muscles attempt to tense, but they can’t. They’re inflexible and paralyzed beneath the sheer overwhelming sensations encasing his thin, hurting skin. His bones reverberate. He’s going to chip and break like non-reinforced concrete beneath the reckoning of a sledgehammer. No. A wrecking ball.
Somehow, though, through it all, assaulting him, there is only sensation. Steve does not have the capacity to be fearful. He—
Hands.
Abruptly, nothing else makes sense but hands. Instinctively, Steve understands the sensation of them. Human. Beyond being human, it’s animal, he recognizes his own kind within the sliver of a second it’s been, shattering under the weight of consciousness. Hands. They’re all over him. Blisteringly hot fingers and palms and their weight across his body. Fingers scramble over his body, muffled but not dulled but the heavy, thick armor against him. His Kevlar? Right. Yes. It must be. The fingers struggle to pry something off of him, more than the Kevlar. Something else. Cold. Harsh. Sharp. Then, suddenly, a rushing sound like an industrial fan in a factory kicks on, and the white noise drowns everything else out.
It all goes black.
Layer by layer, light filters through the back of Steve’s eyelids, brighter and brighter. It’s an awakening, like page after page of tracing paper being pulled away to reveal the original image. Yet, Steve doesn’t recall when or how he first woke. Was it with a jolt, starting jaggedly into consciousness? Was it easy, layer after layer? Did he just imagine that? He doesn’t—
He doesn’t remember fucking anything.
He’s just blinking. The backs of his eyelids and even his actual eyeballs are cold. He’s sweating but he’s so fucking cold. The kind of cold that hurts like hell, frost crawling inside his veins and freezing his pipes until his nerves turn brittle and crack, leaking signals of pain like burst pipes leak water. He’s so aware, with every drag of his eyelashes through the air around him, fanning his face, that he’s chilled to the bone. Also, he knows, suddenly, just like being unconscious one moment then awake the next, no transition between the two, that he’s on his back and he’s lying on a bed. For a second, he’s sure, down to his frozen bones, that he’s still somewhere overseas. He’s got to be close to the front. Maybe London? Or, no, his mind reels, the city was devastated by the raids, they would’ve still have intact facilities like this— like this.
Wait.
Inhaling then exhaling unevenly—the oxygen all sharp around the edges, cutting his esophagus, both temperatures inside and outside his body sharp as a knife—Steve feels the flood of stimuli crowding the room pour into him viscerally. The omneity. Fluorescent lights bleeding into his eyes. Grating beeping and loud ticking and harsh chattering penetrate his ears and chip into his brain with the crudity of an icepick. Goosebumps raising across his body, pulling his hair to stand in a rigid salute, poised to feel everything. The small earthquakes of his own body, his muscles tense against his skin, plate on plate. The cold bite of the room. The heat of his own body, or, no, not his own body—the heat of hands.
Hands.
More hands than he can count. Some languid and unrushed, smoothing across his body; others frantic, skittering across his body
Everyone’s hands.
There are so very many hands on him, and they are all blistering hot compared to how cold the room is. His body is leeching all the heat from the hands. Steve isn’t hot inside. Is he? He can’t tell. It’s even a struggle to comprehend that he’s no longer sleeping. He’s awake, isn’t he? If anything, he feels half-alseep, jostled too early from his restless night, now dragging himself through the first hour of waking, trying to unstiffen and stretch and become a functioning person again. He’s always had trouble getting to sleep with a body constantly in pain and, so, fittingly, he’s always been a slow riser, too. A body in pain doesn’t want to wake up and move after hours of stillness. Is he awake? Is this a dream—a nightmare? Is he cold? Or… he must be running a fever, just not in a way he’s ever experienced before. Dry mouth, body aches, shivers, the whole lot.
Does he have a fever?
He’s so cold. Shivering and shuddering and swaying into the hands, Steve can’t control his body. The ends of his body have yet to wake, as if his blood is ice and hasn’t thawed down to the tips of his fingers and toes, only thick molten liquid at his core; his circulation cut off. Wait. He has the serum! He’s not in chronic pain. He has perfect circulation. The doctors told him so—Steve shudders involuntarily, harder—he knows so. He felt it before. Why can’t he feel it now? All he feels is, is—
Hands.
There are hands every-fucking-ware. Hands dragging, skittering, touching, tapping, and holding. Hands burning hot as they touch him, branding him like he’s cattle to claim.
Rather than being overstimulated and writhing until every point of contact and every deafening sound falls away, the demanding desire to be touched boils over abruptly inside Steve; so much so that if he were in working order, not somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, pinned helplessly, hazy and clouded, he’s afraid he would scream it. Touch me. Please, please touch me. An impending, twinned sense of doom shoves at the urgency, though, shouldering its way to the front of his conscious-non-consciousness, demanding to be heard. If the hands go away, you’re gonna die, it whispers, hissing like a snake. Tempting and dangerous. The urgency is kinder (and whinier), touch me, touch me, touch me. They war inside him, fighting fruitlessly. They both want the same. Steve wants the same.
He wants to be kept warm.
He needs to be kept warm.
Holy fuck, he has to be touched. He really feels like he’s gonna die if the hands go away. He’s tethered to reality and the cacophony of the world by these hands tugging at him.
All over him.
Everywhere.
Hands.
Steve blinks.
Desire and demand pull his surroundings into focus with the wince-inducing snap of a winter-brittle tree branch—the room is an assault of light. Cold, harsh light cascading from the ceiling, brighter than anything he’s ever seen before aside from the actual fucking sun looming in the sky, beating down across his bright blond hair. The only possible shade he finds is in the watery, blurry silhouettes of figures—people, numerous people—all standing around him like mourners at the edge of a freshly dug grave, peering down the walls of dirt, six feet into the earth, searing their eyes with the sight of the coffin, just one last time. Steve’s next breath comes out as a sputter, as if he’s choking on the first thrown handful of dirt.
The hands touching him react to his change in breathing, skittering like a flock of startled song birds away from a clattering sound—a suspected predator. They return quickly to peck at him, though, too curious to hold back, before Steve’s dulled mind and body can begin to panic in isolation.
Touching him.
Hands trace down the sharp bones of the front of his shins; hands press their thumbs into the arches of his feet, his bare toes curling until his soles cramp with no command to do so from his thawing brain; hands grip the thick muscles of his thighs, finding the lines of his tendons, lapping from his thighs down to his knees and then up to his hips; hands find the anchor points of his pelvis, pressing into the bone as if checking it’s still there; hands palpate his abdomen, pressing down and in and searching for something, anything; hands, fingers really, count his ribs and smooth over his pectoral muscles, making them twitch, one then the other, his nipples harden into sharp points; hands thumb his collarbones, sweeping out to his shoulders and running down his arms; hands hold his hands, curling and flexing his fingers for him; hands check all these… stamps? Circular stamps, sticky and smooth, that’ve been placed across the vast landscape of his body. Some of them are on his exposed skin and some dip just below the medical gown he finds—realizes—is draped lifelessly over him.
The johnny he’s been dressed in is thin. Much thinner and smoother than cotton. Steve can’t put his finger on it. Literally or figuratively. He discovers with the most effort he can muster at the moment that can’t move. The dress on his body is, is, well, it’s made of… something. Obviously. It has to be made of something. But he has no idea what it’s made of. His brain stalls on it. Stuck. It’s so light, it barely feels like anything across his skin. Smooth and sleek. He can hardly feel the fibers in it. It’s so smooth. Slick. Steve’s whole body prickles with sweat, now that he’s paying attention to it— god, there’s something intoxicating about how impossibly smooth it is against his skin. It doesn’t rub against his hypersensitive skin, it glides. Is he sweating that much or is the fabric that slick and could that be what feels wet?
But the stamps.
As he blinks uselessly, trying so hard to focus, trying to pay attention to and process what he’s seeing, squinting through the blinding lights (are his eyes open? they have to be, right?), he sees that the round stamps are connected to wires that connect to machines.
Huh?
His entire brain goes blank, back to front, like a city ravaged by the incoming wave of a blackout. He’s never seen anything like anything in this room. There is no association to make. Just… sleek, white machines.
And, oh, the machines are what beep and chirp and hum, somehow emitting even more sound than cicadas flooding Brooklyn in the summer every odd couple of years when the brood makes itself known.
Okay?
Fighting tooth and nail, Steve aims for anything but panicking. He has no idea wha—
Finally, just then, one of the owners of the hands crawling sensuously over his body notices him, not just his body. The man who’s keyed into his waking shifts focus, removing his hands from his prickling body and, instead, staring right into his face. He says something with his thin, pale lips. The room is cold. Is he as burningly cold (but also strangely hot) as Steve is? Whatever he’s saying, asking, or ordering, Steve can’t hear him. It feels like he’s underwater—it sounds like he’s underwater.
The man’s hands bear down on Steve’s shoulders, suddenly jolting Steve into understanding that his body was trying to get his hands underneath him, wanting to sit up. Did Steve tell his body to do that? But. He can’t move? Huh? Whatever the hell was happening, Steve lets his own weight pull him back into the hard bed with a heavy thunk. Hands wash over him like a wave sweeping across the sand, burying it once again. He has no idea where he is or what’s happening or… an overwhelming sensation rises like a tide inside him, all the hair on his body standing on end… when.
Nothing is recognizable.
Where is he?
When is he?
Why is he here?
What, he thinks with an inappropriate shudder, are they going to do to me?
Even as the water drains from his ears and he hears the man speaking to him, repeating, “Captain Am—Rogers, ah, uh, Captain Rogers, can—if, if you can hear me, you should… just, um, if you can hear me know that it’s okay, you’re okay, um, it’s, we, uh, we’re taking good care of you. Captain Rogers.” He sounds different. His accent. Steve’s never heard it before. Where is he?
Quickly, he’s distracted, though. All of his attention is pulled a million different directions by all the fucking stimuli. The man talking to him. The army of people touching him. The barrage of sensations lighting up his body. The surroundings of this room.
Warring, this man and the rest of everything, or, no, it’s a million wars happening at once. Cacophanous and outrageous. This man versus the room, everything in the room versus the army of people touching him, this hand versus that hand, this machine versus that one, the—
“Captain Rogers, can you hear me?” His voice finds a gap in the bombing and screaming and crying, cutting through the noise.
“Hh—” Steve finds it impossibly difficult to speak, “yuh,” opening his jaw has the hinges creaking, he feels it in his teeth. And he’s unable to finish the affirmative confirmation anyway, swallowing with a grated wince, the scraping ache traveling from his jaw and teeth to his throat. Besides, instantly, before he can clear his throat and try again, another one of the doctors (nurses? he’s in a room full of men, though, just men) or whoever these people are, rushes forward to touch his neck. The man grabs his chin and pushes his head back.
Steve lets out a startled gasp, his hair ruffled, sliding against the flat pillow beneath his head, cradling his neck. The tendons in his body stretch and pull, the gentlest, warmest kind of pain sliding slowly through him, sticky like syrup.
The man’s hand goes down the outside of his throat, paying no mind to how he reacts; the touch so light it almost tickles, or it almost does until he ups the pressure. Pressing down on his throat. The pads of blazingly hot fingers, the soft scrape of short fingernails, and the delicate yet increasing pressure of it all. His thyroid glands are inspected, down his throat, and all the way down to the notch between his collarbones.
“Try again?” This man, not the first to talk to him but the one with his hand on his throat, collaring his neck, instructs him. There is no room for argument, just the same way there was no way to resist against the jerk of his head, manhandled and tossed around.
Oh.
“Yuh- yes?” He’s rusty and effortfully swallowing back the whine that builds hotly in his chest, threatening to come up his throat and slip into the atmosphere of the room with a humid cloud of breath. There is something to this. He knows there is. Instinctively, deep down, below the thawing of his higher functioning. This. Touched. Poked. Prodded. Told exactly what to do. Expected to yield and let them have their way with him.
“Better.”
He’s rewarded for his effort, body shimmering with a shiver that wants to move him but can’t quite manage it.
“Captain Rogers, you took a, uh… fall,” the original man who was speaking to him continues, stepping back into his line of sight, hovering near his head, “it was a bad one. You might not remember anything. That’s okay. Don’t worry. We are just making sure everything is in working order, and then we can explain more once we know, or, er, when we have a clearer picture. For now, just try to rest and let us proceed with what we need.”
Steve isn’t listening to the words that, if he were processing them, would make it all worse. Just lie back, let it happen. Let us touch you. Let us do whatever we want without a clear explanation. You are just a body. A prop. We know what to do with it. You don’t. We do. Let us. Instead, Steve’s processing—trying to process—how the hands have scattered from his skin and are now being replaced with hands that come one or two at a time, not a million at once, and tools. Tools. Cold, hard-edged metal instruments. Steve may have no idea about the soft, sticky stamps all over his body, but he remembers this. He recalls that first exam, post-serum, he remembers the exams on the front line, tender but usually already healing by the time they made it back to camp, and—
He can’t understand it, not what they’re doing to him or why he reacts the way he does to doctors and medicine, he wants to, he wants to understand both but he’s so caught up in it all, he just… glazes over and lets them touch him, feel him, do all these things to him.
Everything.
Anything.
They touch and feel, poke and prod, and talk to him and talk amongst themselves and even talk to the machines at times(?).
Eventually, someone asks him to open his eyes, which had drifted shut amongst the bright sparks that had started inside him—almost a fire already—he didn’t notice when they fluttered shut exactly. Either way, whenever it happened, he pries them open, working to pull his rolled-back eyes forward, focusing them. When he gets there, trembling, lights smear across his vision, flashing between his eyes and breaking over the bridge of his nose.
Fingers snap impatiently in front of his face, trying to wake him up. It feels violent. Head to toe, Steve jolts, the goosebumps on his skin resonating and pulling him into a full-body shudder.
The same fingers trace slowly from one corner of his vision to the next. Meanwhile, the mouth that, presumably, goes with the fingers, asks him to follow it the best he can. Steve locks shakily on, trying desperately just to think of staring at the tip of the finger and not about how bad his eyes want to roll back into his head, magnetized to the emptiness of his skull. He can’t think. There’s another hand at his foot, dragging, no, caressing its way from the top of his foot over to the side of his ankle, wrapping around his ankle, finding its way to his knee after taking the time to drag a nail against the hard bone of his skin. He’s ragged with want. Steve can’t help but moan a little. It must sound like he’s in pain ‘cause no one reacts. Not that he can tell. Is he in pain? Does it hurt? What even is it? Does pleasure feel like this? It wasn’t that long ago that Bucky was—
Then, another hand lands somewhere near his upper inner thigh, touching him so intimately yet so clinically, and he has to clamp his mouth shut for fear of sobbing.
He’s so, so out of it.
His skin is both electrified by every touch, sparking and hot, yet almost not there. It’s so intense to be touched, it feels like they’re reaching inside him, beneath his skin, and caressing his muscles. Bulging muscle. Red hot. Thick and strong. He’s still not fully acclimated to how much muscle he has. There’s so much packed onto him, lighting him up like a burning furnace. And these people, doctors, whoever, are so determined to touch all of his muscles.
After dragging a finger through his slurry-thick vision, the man in front of him—Steve has totally, utterly, completely lost track of who is who, he has no idea if he’s seen this man before, if he was the first to talk to him, or not—has Steve answer a slew basic questions. Steve… answers? He responds with something, the words exit his lips, and he immediately doesn’t remember what he said. Then, he asks Steve to repeat after him. Again, Steve tries his best but is immediately lost.
Somewhere in the drifting clouds above his stationary body, voices murmur that he’s awake but…
Captain Rogers doesn’t seem to be completely conscious yet.
Rogers has preliminary functioning, but continually slurs his words and makes incomplete sentences when asked to speak or repeat words. Rogers, as may be expected, correctly identified the year for him.
The organic sounds of voices, whispering in familiar yet untraceable accents—not an uncommon thing to come across in the war, he met so many people, so distinctly human and friendly and terrified but with such different ways of falling over the words in the English language if they even spoke it at all—have an added underscore of a rhythmic click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. The sound happens so fast that Steve can’t keep up. As he dizzily tries to wake up more, fighting exhaustedly, he decides it must be one of the machines. Or, actually, is someone taking notes? That must be it. Not one of the sleek, sharp, white machines. It does sound, vaguely, like a typewriter. It continues the more they speak, too. So, it must be. That settles it.
Captain Rogers' eyes appear alert and respond properly to light, but have a distinct glossiness to them. In short, his eyes are glazed and not as focused as they should be. It should also be noted that Captain Rogers continually shuts his eyes.
A gentler voice comes in questioning if they should lower the lights. But it doesn’t happen. Not that Steve can tell. They must need the light for the exam.
Taking more of Captain Rogers’ vitals will assist in determining if he is still waking up or if his level of responsiveness is a sign of shock or some trauma response. He should be, of course, watched closely.
Speaking more directly to him, a doctor lays a hand on his shoulder and claims, “Captain, we’re going to test your reflexes.” Steve can’t help but twist slightly into the touch, seeking warmth and sensation, even as blinding as it is. When he wriggles, the crowd goes wild, murmuring amongst themselves and taking it as the go-ahead to get started—
Tapping and hitting and smacking his joints with a rubber hammer, watching and carefully noting how each of his limbs jolts, one at a time. The little impact sends big shockwaves through him, traveling up his legs when they do each knee and resonating with the deepest parts of him, knotted up and squeezing tighter. Steve’s pretty fucking sure his dick is getting hard. He can’t open his eyes, though. In part, he doesn’t want to see if he is and horrify himself when he could simply recline into the bath of sensations lapping at him, beginning to rise high enough to submerge him. If he just lies here, maybe he’ll drown. Is drowning better than burning alive? Steve doesn’t know.
Then, when they’re done hitting him, they start pricking him. Again and again and again. Each time, trailing down his legs from his hips with something sharp—perhaps a needle?—to ask him to make a sound, any sound, when he feels it, if he feels it. He feels all of it. Each point of sensation pulls a tiny whimper out of him. The sharpness is like a matchstick to its box, blooming a flower of pure heat. Trembling. Bright petals meant for destruction, just too fragile for this world. Steve is going to burst into nothing but flames if they’re not careful. Burned to ash. By the time they reach the top of his foot, Steve’s only got desperate breath left, exhaling noisily, panting emptily, twitching under the hands that hurt and care for him.
God.
They aren’t.
They aren’t careful with him.
They keep on fucking pricking and poking and prodding him, uncaring, or just unnoticing, as his cock plumps up beneath the strange, intoxicating fabric of the medical gown they’ve draped him in. Each tap of touch and his dick twitches and throbs it’s way closer and closer to a full erection.
Just then, someone pries open his eyes for him, lifting his eyelids to peer in once more with a light and double-checking his pupillary reactivity. Steve moans, just a little, feeling his own humid breath leave his open lips, hit their gloved hand, and bounce back to brush across his own face playfully. He feels hypnotized by the flickering lights barely an inch away from the tip of his nose. None of this is helping him cling to consciousness and higher functioning; they’re putting him back to sleep, if anything, plunging him into a highly suggestible state of mind; whatever they tell him to do, he will.
More lights. More reactions. More repeat-after-me.
And more prickling sensation drips down his spine, even though they’ve finally quit with the needles, checking him for sensation down to his toes.
A groaning, soft sound comes out with his next breath.
The stamps—nonsensically disappearing at one point, whether they were peeled off and put back on or not, Steve will never know—appear again abruptly, coming into his focus. The flock of them encircles Steve’s head in a crown, connected via wires like branches. The sticky flock chirps and whistles as the master of all these neat little birds commands them to. Someone is saying something about an EEG and brain activity.
The ring master, commander and chief of the flock of stamps, as well as a flurry of probable doctors, fluffs his pillow. Promptly adjusting Steve’s buzzing head on his pillow and messing with the stamps and wires crowning him. Heavily headed and weakly necked, Steve just lies there, letting it happen. He’s hard where it counts, but limp everywhere else.
Inconclusive readings. There are no specific signs of seizures or any conclusive, recognizable abnormalities. There is some hyperactivity, despite the state of Captain Rogers being supine, but yes, the results are inconclusive.
Did EEGs exist when, uh, y’know? Before? I mean, even if they did exist, it’s not like we have the data for him. Nothing that survived in his records. What’s normal for a super soldier? Those readings definitely look closer to what would be considered normal than they did before he was, ah, awake? That’s good?
Steve’s head spins, trying to keep up with what the men surrounding him are saying, talking amongst themselves as if he isn’t in the room. Though that’s by far not the worst bedside manner he’s experienced and, actually…
As they start to peel the stamps from his temples and forehead, it shifts from bewildering, staggering uncertainty to a simmering heat. His sweaty skin and the tiny, soft, nearly translucent peach fuzz over his face and more golden baby hairs around his hairline catch on the sticky adhesive to the patches they’ve placed all over him. Those little rough-edged patches of pain feed his flaming arousal. Too, the way they speak about him rather than to him engorges his lust. He doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to move. He doesn’t have to do. He can lie here and melt.
They remove the patches from his head and elect to paste them onto his chest instead. But. In order to do that, first they have to puppet him, grabbing and moving his heavy arms to sliiiiiide the slick, synthetic fabric of his medical gown down his arms, opening the neck, and ridding him of any covering.
He’s, they—
They just—
He’s sure for a heart pounding moment that he’s totally fucking naked. Shuddering and wanting to curl in on himself, but held open and exposed by impersonal, gloved hands.
Uncontrollably, his eyes fight to peel open, shocked and needing to know, staring down in a haze to discover that perhaps more embarrassing than naked and achingly hard, they dressed him up in these little cotton girl shorts. The bulge at the front of them is obscene. He’s not even covered down his thighs! They barely hit a few inches below his groin and they’re so fucking tight.
Skin-tight.
Not even girl shorts were supposed to fit like this!
Steve can’t imagine the flak a proper ladies' magazine would’ve got for a display like this. He is mortified; his heated, boiling-over shyness rises beyond anything he’s ever felt like a tea kettle starting to whistle. He squeaks. He must be as red as a fire engine, leaking not water from his hoses but voice-breaking whimpers and leaking a little more below the belt line… if he were wearing a belt.
No one pays him any attention for that, though; they just go on dressing him up with more and more stamps that do nothing for his dignity
but everything for his libido,
slapping them all across his chest. The patches and wires go over his pounding heart and way, way too close to his peaked nipples. Stray fingertips ghost over his nipples, and he
feels
the way his chest tightens, all the blood rushing to the pink, aching points. His nipples practically beg to be touched, pinched, and twisted.
Voices shift and drift around him.
EKG results indicate that his heartbeat is steady, if not a little fast.
Typically, the next step in a normal post-coma check-up—pfft, when the patient is normal and has been in a coma, not… cryostasis? Sure, we’ll call it cryostasis—would be to MRI or CT scan the patient, but… whispers roll through his crowd, perhaps we will hold off.
It’s unclear if moving Captain Rogers is an option right now, and it’s equally unclear of his reaction if he came more awake while being scanned in such an unknown as those tests. We will proceed in light of that.
Whispers become entirely intelligible to Steve, something about if not an MRI or CT, then what?
Someone pipes up, how about an ultrasound?
Someone else, what, no, there’s no way they had anything like that back then! …I’m pretty sure they didn’t, at least. Can we google that?
And another person, well, he’ll probably go unconscious again anyway, what are the chances he remembers any of this? Oh! What if we just sedate him and do it that way?
… Uh, we don’t know if he’ll wake back up again.
Sedation is not a good option. The limited documentation we do have suggests he eats even the heavy, unrefined sedatives of World War Two for breakfast.
Well, shit.
Steve doesn’t know what any of those words mean or, especially, what the hell they mean in that order. All he knows is that the stamps come off, ripping away from his sensitive, now even more raw skin, and in their place, one of the men clicks open a tube of something that—
“Ohh.”
A strung-out, dirty moan spills over his open lips as the freezing cold, slick lubricant is spread across his chest and messily pawed down his torso, toward his hips. Heart pounding in his throat while his vision swims, Steve is convinced as the gloved hands rub him down that they’re going to grab his cock and start stripping it, slick and dripping, just how Bucky liked it whenever they got into trouble. Thick with wetness. So filthy the noise of it, even if they always had to be quiet out of fear of someone hearing, could be enough to get you off. He throbs to the memory, knowing that he’s just getting himself wetter, no need for more slick.
The doctors don’t start to jerk him off, but it’s shockingly, titillatingly close.
The lubricant rapidly heats to his feverish temperature as they spread it around his body, thoroughly massaging high, just underneath the hinge of his jaw and down his neck, his heaving pecs, not bothering to spare his hard nipples, and palming his clenching abdomen, including the low, flat muscle below his naval and the sensitive grooves of the V of his hips. His knees jerk, threatening to draw his legs toward his shoulders. He wants to hide, he wants to use their hands lower, lower, lower until his eyes roll back.
With neck-snapping speed, the arousing, efficient touch is there and gone. The next tool they bring out is some kind of machine thing that Steve doesn’t even bother trying to recognize. What’s the point when, either way, his head is pushed back to reveal the length of his neck, at which point the machine’s cool, flat surface is pressed against his skin. It glides back and forth. Something to do with his thyroid, then? But-?
It doesn’t stop there. He can’t get a handle on it. When is it gonna stop? Please, please don’t stop. Steve wants it to stop—no. No. He doesn’t. He wants, he, yes, just—
Steve can’t breathe, he can’t swallow, he can’t do anything but register the pressure and teasing sliiiide of the machine across his throat; searching first at the sides of his throat but gliding easily down the length of it, too. Riding the waves of the lubricant coating him in a glistening sheen of molten glass, Steve is driven insane. Scanning him from throat to hips, it’s a wave of sensation so overwhelming it’s worth drowning in.
Throat. Thyroid to collarbones. Chest to pelvis. Heart, lungs, stomach, intestines, and every organ soft and squishable under the instant hands guiding the machine as it devours him.
Steve is cradled in the hand of a cruel giant who just wants to see how much pressure he can take, closing their fist around him, squeezing and pressing. And the doctors, who may as well be giants, towering over him, speaking a whole ‘nother language, pay no mind to how he arches when they drag across his nipples and get closer to his armpits. He’s ticklish. He’s so fucking hard it hurts. This is agonizing. Sputtering, moaning, and writhing.
They’re checking for something—did he hear about internal bleeding? —and they seem pleased with the results they find, but Steve doesn’t fucking care. He’s fighting not to tip over the edge. Examined like a doll and discussed as if he weren’t in the room. Maybe he’s not. He doesn’t know. Where is he? When is he? His head is spinning so fast it’s twisting off his shoulders.
He doesn’t need thoughts, though. All he needs is sensation. He is fucking alive with sensation. Each tiny little feeling leaves him more aroused and exposed than the last. He is going to twist up into a knot and, just, fuckin’ explode.
God.
It hurts.
It feels so good.
It feels.
Then, uttered is the request for a blood test and in the same fucking moment that Steve breaths out a sigh of blinding anticipatory relief because he knows what that is and he knows how good it feels—there’s just one prick of pain, then comes the throbbing rush of his blood leaving his body, visercally pulled by the suction. Somehow, so similar to the pumping feeling of ejaculation and the drained, satisfied aftermath—is the same moment that he’s thrown, again, back onto his ass.
They pull out this other goddamn machine that shines a bright light across his skin. (It’s some kind of laser?) And—
Holy shit.
If Steve had the breath in his lungs to laugh disbelievingly, he would.
This is insane.
The fucking thing can see underneath his skin.
Steve squirms where he lies, feeling the way the light hits his skin, resonating, and feeling his salacious, hungry lust pool beneath his skin just over top of his knotted muscles. His twitching—reacting helplessly to the way the lasers caress him from the inside out—results in a flock of hands descending upon him to pin him in place so the doctor can see exactly where his veins are and penetrate him, taking his blood.
Steve groans, his heart pounding in his chest. In the same way his blood rushes south when he gets excited, pulling all his lust-thick blood into his engorging cock, his blood rushes to meet the needle. It’s almost like his body is eager to give, to provide, to be good and give them what they want.
Jesus.
They take what they need.
The hungry drinking and pulsing of his own body goes on and on. Steve’s still dizzy. Dizzier. It’s all arousal, it’s not being drained dry, but he kind of wishes it was. Used up. Would it be like being made to cum again and again and again until he’s got nothing left to give? Would he fade into the dark yet sparkling void beneath his eyelids? Would he turn to ash, burned up and blown away by a single hot, humid exhale?
More.
Steve whimpers when it’s over, already missing the insistent pulling and responding hot, thick rush. It’s a good thing his lips and teeth and tongue don’t quite work yet, if they did, he might mortify himself further, pleading that it doesn’t stop. If the doctors hear his little noises, whimpers and the tiny twitching start of sobs, they must assume it’s hurt motivating him ‘cause they simply keep touching him. Quickly bandaged and given some kind of perverse, pleasurable relief from the pressure mounting inside him, lowering his blood pressure just a little, they move on and on.
In a flurry around him, it takes the entire team to contort and puppet his big, muscular body that he’s totally vacated, leaving him limp, floating above it and watching the strange performance take place. He looks
wrecked.
Checking him for burns, bruises, and any abnormalities, hands grab him and sit him up, rolling him over, and not letting him stand or take his own weight yet. Just.
Hands.
Trailing all over his body. Hands hiding and seeking his skin.
The shivers controlling Steve’s muscles don’t stop; if anything, they get worse and worse.
Someone asks if he’s cold.
Is he?
He can’t tell. He doesn't think so? Their hands all still burn with heat on his skin. Compared to the rest of them, Steve’s sure he feels freezing beneath their impersonal-yet-erotic touch, but beneath his own skin, everything inside him has reduced to molten lava. Blisteringly hot. Engorged with blood and hard.
Particularly erotic is the way, just then, one half of a pair of gloved hands strokes his forearm backward, going against the grain of his body hair, standing on end, every tiny muscle tensed, pulling goosebumps into the surface of his skin. Whoever investigates this must spoil it for the rest of the team, not letting them find out on their own, because somewhere watery and far away, they’re declaring that he is cold, and no one stops to ask him again. He’s not? He’s sweating. He’s burning up on the inside.
They don’t pay any attention to how he feels on the inside, just to what he looks like on the outside. And he seems slack and limp and cold on the outside, barely clinging on, while inside him everything is tight and hard and hot and he’s barely clinging on for an entirely different reason. Another small whimper bleeds out of him.
A thick, heavy woolen blanket is draped over his almost entirely naked body, hiding it from view, no longer devoured by countless sharp, clinical eyes—Steve nearly misses it. His cock twitches. God. He’s fucked. He loves it.
And in response to the blanket, the waves of hands recede, pulled away as if by the force of the moon or simply no longer pulled in by the gleaming, prized trophy that is Steve’s body, irresistible to anyone who sees it, just needing to touch. Through the sharp ringing of Steve’s ears and between his heaving pants, there are murmurs of just let him rest, let’s leave him alone and let him warm up. The ring of doctors around him dissipates and disperses. He doesn’t know what that means. He knows that a rush of cold air pollutes the atmosphere beneath the blanket suddenly, lifted by one of the doctors, but it’s for good reason—they’re bringing him a hot water bottle.
Thunk.
Slosh.
It settles low against his stomach. The elongated shape of it is putting pressure on his core and… lower.
Steve’s knotted gut swoops.
Oh.
Under the water-heavy weight, his thickly erect cock is pressed so much more strictly to the flat planes of his clenching lower stomach and his drawn-unbearably-tight balls are pinned tighter between his legs. Every pounding beat of his heart throbs through his cock, maginified and tripled compared to how it feels in his ribcage which is saying something with how his heart hits his ribs like a fist, threatening to punch it’s way out.
Oh, god.
A low, guttural sound rumbles out of Steve.
He—
He, just—
Yes.
The doctors drain from the room, leaving Steve alone with this new toy. It’s not the same as having countless, latex-coated hands trailing and stroking and petting and touching his body, not thinking about how sensual they’re being but only innocently examining while Steve’s body gets it all fucked up, his wires crossed and sparking too hotly—overexcitedly—but it’s, guhh, ngh, it’s enough. It’s enough for Steve. All the sensations echoed through his body, playing on loop, fraying the end of his rope until nothing was holding him back. He plunges into the ocean of arousal, his rope snapping, leaving him humping, rocking, and grinding against the heavy, warm hot water bottle between his legs.
His cock is wet and throbbing inside the teeny, tiny, tight little ladies undergarments they dressed him up in. Or-? He’s throbbing so badly now he’s unable to tell if his cock is still trapped inside the laughable, embarrassing so-called underwear they stuck him in. He’s probably gone beyond tenting them without realizing it. His cock has definitely slipped out of them, hasn’t it? His aching dick standing up, fat and rock hard, against his abs, the head leaking almost into the shallow depression of his naval with how big the serum made it. And, Jesus, the monstrous level of lust inside him surges to the forefront of his empty mind with nothing to distract him. He grinds, he rocks, he humps. He can’t stop himself. He’s making a fucking ruckus. He can’t help it.
It feelssogood.
Whimpering, moaning, hospital bed creaking, hot water bottle sloshing, groaning.
If he could remember how to lift his fist, he would, he’d bite savagely down on his fist to silence himself, the way he learned to do when in the barracks, at actual, literal war on the front lines with the Germans and at war, at the same time, with himself—his own maddening, unstoppable, serum-hot sexual appetite. He could never get enough. Never. Quickly, he had to learn how to silence himself, otherwise he’d never have the slightest teasing taste of satisfaction to wet his tongue. He needed it. Needed it. Needed it so fucking bad.
So, Steve lays there, twitching helplessly (barely moving, really), whining pathetically, and cums so fucking fast, replaying every hypnotic touch. After so much build up, when he finally fucking gets to cum, he, just—
Bursts.
The pleasure assaults him from every angle, his orgasm ripping up from his curled toes and destroying him. The blast and shock wave are pure, bright, burning-hot white. It devastates him, knocking him out cold.
Notes:
I'm officially on summer break now! So, I hope my writing will speed up a little but I am still working and getting my shit together to apply to grad school so... we'll see 😅😅
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Can anyone guess where we're going next? 👀
Chapter 3: 2014
Summary:
Immediately after the highway and helicarrier fights, Steve wakes up in the hospital, injured and, unknowingly, lying in wait of a surprise visitor...
≈10.3k words
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Blisteringly hurting, head to toe, Steve could be convinced—if his brain we’re still racing with thoughts of Bucky, Bucky, Bucky —that he went through a fucking garbage compactor. Holy shit. A compactor like the kind that crushes modern cars made of all shiny paint and thin yet robust steel, pulverizing them into nothing more than a useless cube; a 21st-century thing that Steve first marveled at, then the more he thought about, got angry about. Waste, in some ways, is inevitable. Yet, there’s something about it that really got to him. Something about the way that those sleek, modern cars (none of which can yet fly) could be stripped for parts—similarly to a mostly good deer carcass to a vulture—but instead are being ruined for no good reason other than resource hoarding.
How much excess can they amount to before it disgusts even those benefiting from it? What the hell is the point of not a junk yard that you might rummage through to find what you need, but a desolate desert of highly compressed cubes, useless to everyone and ugly as fuck?
Strange, displaced anger aside, Steve’s been crushed, pressed in from all sides into a cube, a bale of twisted and broken parts hardly clinging together under the pressure, almost bursting into a million tiny shards. Steve knows how his body screams before he peels his eyes open, surfacing from sleep. His mind is already racing, eyes closed, despite the pleading of the rest of his body to slow down, throbbing and aching on every side. He has too much to think about to slow down. There can be no delay when Bucky’s mask was thrown from his face just hours ago; hours before they had to face off, the soldier unmasked and unknowing of Steve, despite their history; dancing terrifyingly high above the Potomac, the helicarrier crumbling around them like heaven falling under Lucifer's revolt.
His mind is in such a flurry, of course, it wakes before his physical body.
Thinking but not opening.
By the time he is able to open his eyes, Steve’s taken more inventory of what, exactly, hurts, and he’s more expecting to see his whole body littered with bruises. He’s expecting to be hit with the sight of his pale skin transformed into nothing more than cotton paper for watercolors to bleed across, tinting and warping with shades of purple and red and blue—a full-body bruise between the beating, the crushing, and the falling. Hell, just hitting the surface of the water harder than concrete would’ve been enough to do him in.
Instead, he’s distracted from inventorying his body by the faint hum of music, rhythmic and soothing, cutting through the beeps and chirps of modern medical equipment that surrounds him. He’s in a hospital. His eyes darting around, his nose stinging with antiseptic so strong it burns down his sinuses to his tongue, and his ears mapping the room, trying to discern where each noise emanates from.
Steve’s breath stutters in his chest. He’s more than aware of it now. Modern medical equipment, beeping and chirping. And his medical… interests, too. He’s been through the ringer with it. Both of them. That first… day? It didn’t feel like a day. It didn’t feel like hours. It felt like a flash between lives, a brief cross with purgatory, or, maybe heaven, all bright and white and full of pleasure. Blindingly bright. Though, maybe more carnal pleasures of the flesh than god—whoever he is, if he is—might’ve wanted. And even after that first encounter with the modern century, Steve was corralled and confined to many different appointments: tests to make sure his body was functioning, tests to compare him to the average human, tests to satiate the doctors' and scientists' curiosity about what his body was capable of, tests to push him further, just to see if they could.
So.
Now he’s here.
In this hospital room, in this century, beaten to a pulp for his beliefs; new day, same old story.
And, oh, hey, as Steve slowly, painfully twists his head this way and that, scanning the room, he finds Sam. Unnoticing at first, Sam sits quietly, staring down at a book in his lap and waiting patiently for Steve to come to.
Sam.
Ah. The music. It all makes sense.
A twisted smile pulls at his tired, puffy lips, “on your left,” Steve tries to say, but it comes out as more of a teeth-gritting groan and transforms into a rib-clutching chuckle when it spooks Sam, startling him visibly in his rickety chair.
Though Sam quickly schools his reaction, smirking handsomely instead of leaving his eyes wide and caught off guard. “Damn, man! Warn a guy!” he squawks, half laughing.
And that just makes Steve grasp his chest harder, cackling to himself. Yeah, Sam, next time he’s fucked and waking up in a hospital bed with Sam waiting for him, he’s gonna stop and think, now how to I politely announce that I have come back to the land of the living? Absolutely.
By the time Steve’s recovered from his fit of coughing-slash-laughing-slash-relieved-gasping-to-be-alive (alive only for a
second
third chance at saving Bucky), or whatever it is, Sam has gotten up from his chair and is hovering closer. He’s trying very hard not to touch him, speaking volumes about how bad of shape he thinks (or knows) he’s in. Rather than reaching out, his hands are wrapped tightly around the plastic sides of his bed. And with his mouth in a serious, pressed, straight line, he orders, “I’m gonna go get you a nurse, okay? Sit tight.”
“Where, exactly, am I gonna go?” Steve asks, just to be an asshole even while he’s still breathing all raspy and fast, his ribs twinging painfully with every inhale.
“I dunno, man, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got up outta that bed and could do jumping jacks,” he looks him up and down as if he’s suspicious he’s already getting up to some shit just laying there.
Steve doesn’t even say anything; he just blinks innocently at him. He wasn’t planning anything. Yet.
“Don’t,” Sam reiterates. He means it. He’s doing that thing with his face, the sincerity that’s also hard. A damn good pararescueman, counselor, and more than either of those things, an irreplaceably good friend ‘cause of his empathy balanced with his take-no-shit attitude. He’s more than worth his weight in gold.
So, even with his aching muscles, Steve lifts up one of his hands in an okay-okay, I’m-giving-in gesture. It’s not Sam, it’s just Steve's inexplicable urge to constantly be as difficult as possible because it’s fun.
It takes until Sam comes back with a nurse, trailing just behind her monochrome form, head to toe in scrubs, both of them entering through the guards and vertical blind shielded glass doors that part like the Red Sea for them, for Steve to realize, shit, wait—
His, uh, um, his… his thing.
And suddenly, Steve’s back is up against the wall.
Swallowing the influx of saliva in his mouth, pooling there, almost choking him, Steve quickly concludes that he has no reason to ask Sam to stand outside or simply turn his back while this nurse does whatever it is that she’s about to do to him. It might even come across weirder if he does ask. Sam would probably question him later about it, wondering if it’s some modesty thing or some belongs-in-the-last-century sexism shit, having no problem calling him out when he needs it. And Steve does not want any more attention drawn to how he acts when being examined like this. Steve…
Steve has nowhere to hide other than beneath his own pain, but he isn’t sure that will be enough, despite how much pain he is in. He knows he’s hurt, but he doesn’t think he’s hurt enough to blame his injuries on why he’s about to start moaning filthily and squirming in place—squirming up, too. The killer detail. Writhing in place and pushing up against the touch that should hurt him worse, rather than flinching away. Fuck. There’s probably not enough pain on the planet to explain why he’s writhing, sweating, and erect beneath his unforgiving, draping medical gown. But, the thing is: Steve knows he will be.
Fucking shit.
What the hell does he do?
Just as the two of them come to a standstill around his bed, his heart monitor immediately leaps with the enthusiasm of an Olympic-level athlete exploding into action. His heart is pounding in his chest, and the frantic thumps are reciprocated in the machine just off to his side, sharply, beep-beep-beep -ing away. The line representing his heart rate is suddenly much more jagged, too, not just faster.
At least the nurse titters politely rather than speeding into emergency panic mode and touching and touching him without giving him a little more time to prep. She must be used to this—patients getting the pre-exam nerves (much more innocent nerves, usually)—not hurrying in the slightest. Only after she introduces herself does she explain that there’s no need to be nervous, she’ll be gentle with him.
Over her shoulder, Sam makes a face at him when she adds that last part, the look in his eyes saying, she’ll be gentle, huh? Is that what you want? A boyish grin graces his handsome mouth—the kind of expression that, if they had ever had the chance to be in a classroom together, would’ve gotten them rapped on the knuckles or spanked with a heavy wooden ruler for sure. But, no matter how familiar making faces and getting in trouble is to Steve, having had Bucky growing up (who was an excellent student but could easily be swayed into making trouble), Steve’s heart just beats faster. All of a sudden, he’s afraid that Sam knows.
Already.
He knows.
It takes Steve a beat to understand, flicking his eyes away from Sam’s knowing stare toward the nurse to get away and, ohh, he thinks he understands. Objectively, she’s an attractive woman. Sure. Sam must be thinking about sex and making a joke about it. An innuendo. He’s not presuming or knowing about Steve’s weird sex-like thing with medical examinations. Steve’s so used to looking at men like that that he didn’t even think that—
Right.
He didn’t catch how she could be gentle with him in other ways.
And.
He hasn’t been listening.
Dammit.
The nurse (whose name Steve still has not caught and her badge is clipped to the bottom of her scrub top, so the end of his hospital bed is hiding it from view) is finishing up her short lecture. Apparently, though, she’s routinely taken care of enough patients enough times that she’s been multitasking throughout, writing down his vitals as they appear on the screen over his head and off to the side as she talks, “okay, Captain Rogers, I’m going to touch you now to proceed with an exam that will help us determine how you’re healing after your fall. Is that alright?”
As odd as he still finds it to be asked every time before someone touches him, as opposed to the apparently old-fashioned way they used to just do, Steve just nods. There’s a pause, though, and he quickly figures that she needs verbal agreement, so he gives it despite his apprehensions about Sam’s close presence.
“Yes, that’s alright,” he says. It’s anticipatorily strained but mostly passable. He’s trying to not sound fucking excited at least. He is. Sort of. He’d be more if… if Sam weren’t about to watch it all happen. Now’s about the time, if not for Sam’s eyes watching it all happen, Steve could use something to distract him from the real world and the twist of fate it’s given him—something innocent but so molten hot and intense.
“Perfect,” she hums pleasantly, motoring on with the modern sensibility of explaining everything to the patient, “I’m going to start at the top of your head and we’ll work our way down from there. I’m going to check over all the injuries we know you came in with, but if anything feels off and I don’t address it, or if anything hurts too badly, please let me know. And you’re welcome to ask questions at any point, of course.”
Steve nods, his heart now pounding in the back of his throat, not in his chest. Okay, so, this isn’t going to be some quick, how-are-you-feeling, pain-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten check-up, this is the real fucking deal. She’s going to touch him and she’s going to touch him everywhere.
Head to toe, like she said.
Fuck.
The muscles in Steve’s throat contract, rolling and clenching, forcing him to swallow as with an unfairly erotic snap, snap she pulls gloves onto both of her hands, one after another, readying herself to dive wrist-deep into this examination.
From the goddamn jump, though, Steve could be convinced that this nurse has a super power of her own, knowing exactly where his most tender places are because she hits every. single. one. of. them. There’s no way his chart is that accurate as to reveal to her his every weakness. Besides, unless she has a phenomenal memory, she hasn’t looked at his chart since before she walked into this room. She must have access to it—Steve can see the tablet tucked under her arm, though again, she hasn’t looked at it.
How does she know?
All of her attention is focused on him, diligently working him over as she assesses his level of concussion, having him follow the tip of her gloved finger with only his eyes, not his head. She guides his eyes into something that feels almost like a roll, her finger tracing a half circle at the very top of his field of vision. There’s something Pavlovian about it—he knows that feeling, he knows his eyes roll when something feels really good. He knows that the farther this exam goes, the better it’s going to feel. His body knows, then, that it needs to prickle with sweat, goosebumps just starting to appear on the backs of his arms.
Already, he’s on the precipice of shivering, jerking, and writhing in his bed.
Fuck.
Still stuck on his concussion, the polite nurse directs Sam to the light switch in the room, off to the side by the door, telling him to dim the overhead fluorescence, and once the darkness creeps in, flicking a small light back and forth into his fields of vision. Her hand, not holding the tiny flashlight (a pen light, she calls it), rests on the bridge of his nose to separate one eye from the other, making a little hum to herself at whatever pupillary response she gets. Steve can’t focus on one or the other. Every flash of light is there, then immediately gone. There is no steady ground to rest on and dig his heels into. He has to go with it, floundering wildly.
He swears he feels the muscles in and around his eyes pull and tighten, demanding attention. It’s like being pulled in two different directions simultaneously. It’s as stretching and as strangely appealing as the descriptions of the torture racks that must feel fucking spectactular before they take it a step too far.
His next breath is a hiccup, almost a cry.
After separating his eyes, she covers one of his eyes completely with her hand, the latex glove clinging to her palm hot from her body heat, hot and slick, too, and touching something as sensitive as his eyelid, Steve just has to shiver. When she switches eyes, Steve shivers enough for her to pause. A rough-edged groan that’s supposed to just be his throat-clearing comes out of Steve, encouraging her to keep going. He’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He just—
She’s pulling away, indicating to Sam to bring the lights back up, and she’s asking him questions.
Steve knows he has to focus to answer. He squints. He feels those same worked-out and tested muscles in and around his eyes squeeze. Tightening. Trying. There’s something about even that winds Steve up. He can’t escape. The rack comes to mind again. He may as well he shackled and pinned to this hospital bed like those unfortunite people damned to torture. He can’t get away. But he doesn’t want to. If he’s not careful, he might beg for restraints to make it easier.
God.
He’s fucked.
Sitting off the side of his bed on a stool that seemingly appeared from nowhere, the nurse wants to know what he remembers. And with every answer he gives, she prods deeper, trying to understand brain injury or concern based on what he remembers or, more critically, what he doesn’t recall. The problem is, though, he remembers everything. He remembers the physical agony, the psychological pain, and the night-terror-ness of it all. How could this be happening? How is this his life? This feels like an unimaginable dream! There’s no way this is real.
It is real.
He remembers, too, but doesn’t proclaim out loud how Bucky, enraged but still drawn to him with an electric crackle impossible to ignore, crawled into his lap and pressed him into the ground, the thick, robust muscle of his thighs tight like a boa constrictor around his waist, the weight of him in his lap, warm, enwrapped in leather, and—
Woah, woah, woah.
Steve makes himself take a deep, steadying breath.
Steve would be concerned for his own well-being—how can he think of that right now and not any of the other much more pressing issues at hand—if he wasn’t intimately familiar with the mind’s coping mechanisms, hellbent on keeping the body moving forward and surviving by any means necessary; sometimes that means bypassing the shutting-down trauma and submerging in the fantasy. He knows it isn’t always the best, but he knows the opposing side, and that’s what got men killed on the front lines. A little fantasy is alright. He can indulge.
Can’t he?
Can he help it?
He doesn’t think he can.
Either way, he’s shaken out of his thoughts by the nurse’s voice, “okay, well,” she confers with the tablet in her hand, looking at her notes. “It sounds like you have no issues with your memory, plus your other reactions and focusing are barely delayed from what would be considered normal, which,” she looks up, locking eyes with him, “is good. But you are a super soldier. So, I would err on the side of caution and say you have a low-grade concussion.” Further, she continues, “when you were admitted, scans told us that you had a small cervical spine fracture as well, so if you don’t mind, I’ll see how that’s coming along now—”
“Sure,” Steve breathes, feeling all the jargon wash over him. The tide is hot and tropical, threatening to pull him out to sea. He’s not going to have a choice but to go. Ready and eager to drown.
“Perfect,” she smiles politely, getting to her feet once more, fingering the buttons at the side of his bed to raise him slightly. “Stay nice and limp, okay?” She requests. Steve’s failed that already, just not in the way she means. His low-grade concussed brain informs him he has a low, gentle throb already going between his legs. He can’t help it! Especially as her hands flutter over the junction between his neck and shoulders, ready to approach the back of his neck, the pain growing sweeter the closer she gets to his injury, “don’t try to move or tense until I get a feeling for what’s going on.”
Sam jumps in, snitching on him for the good reason of health, “he’s already been using his neck.”
“Oh?” She turns slightly, leaving her gloved hands on Steve’s bare skin, though.
Steve shivers. Thankfully, it goes unnoticed.
“Yeah, when he woke up, he looked around the whole room, craning his neck, y’know?” Then, a little softer, “a soldier’s gonna scan the perimeter.”
“Mmm,” she hums in confirmation, hearing Sam’s concern and turning back toward Steve, “that could be a good sign,” she leaves off the or not, but Steve can feel it.
Steve can feel the gentle pressure she exerts on his body, her latex-dressed fingers pressed into his skin and muscle, feeling for his bones as she makes her way up from his trapezius muscles to the nape of his neck where she finds the top bumps of his spine, following them up one by one until she gets to the ditch at the very base of his skull, attaching to his thick neck. Up and then down again, she palpates, searching for any issues and asking him question after question.
“Does this hurt?”
“Does this hurt?”
“Is this tender or is it fine?”
Steve has to resist the urge to shake his head, she told him not to. Be still. Be limp. Just let her do what she needs. Answer verbally. Even if you’re afraid you’re going to moan, answer her verbally, Rogers, c’mon, you got this. This is nothing! The amount of doctor’s fingers you’ve had up your ass and survived-? This is nothing. She’s just touching your neck… breathing every so slightly on you… her perfume filling your lungs… her chest almost brushing your nose… she’s just—
“Can you look to your left?
Steve nearly whips his head to the side, trying to get away from his thoughts and pooling lust. He has to manually force his muscles to swallow, lest he start drooling.
“Good.”
God, there’s all that lust. He can’t get away from it.
“How about your right?”
Gladly, he turns again, intelligently running from his problems with his eyes closed.
“Good.”
Fuck.
Steve can’t help but whimper. It’s the tiniest little sound, high and slipping out between his clenched teeth.
He wants to be good.
He wants to follow every order and have every test done, and be good for all of them; good for every nurse, doctor, or technician who touches him like this; good enough to be rewarded.
“And up?”
Yes.
“Down?”
Yes.
“Perfect.”
Yes.
“Can you wiggle your toes? How about clenching your fists?”
He can. He doesn’t need to have his mind together in one piece to do that. It’s simple enough.
“Good.”
The way her voice slips thoughtlessly over that word makes Steve feel crazy. He knows he’s getting harder and harder, he can feel his blood plunging south, thick and hot as it rushes to fatten up his dick. Christ, he’s so hard.
“Do you feel any kind of unusual numbness, any tingling, or any kind of sensations in your arms and legs?”
Steve’s answer is no. Because the answer is no. He’s not going to pay any attention to the tingling between his legs. That wasn’t part of the question, and he knows what’s causing that. It’s not a neck injury; it’s a brain injury if anything, ha, his wires crossed to find such depths of pleasure in something so innocent and sanitized. Clinical. Jesus, even that word—just thinking it—makes him quiver from the inside out.
Clinical.
Cold.
Professional.
None of those words should raise the hair on the back of his arms, but they all do. Each one makes him want.
“What about any weakness or feeling like your arms or legs are really heavy, almost like they’re asleep?”
“No,” Steve sighs, his voice much breathier than it has any right to be. Again, he isn’t gonna fucking mention how he feels between his legs. Heavy is a good word for it. He’s stiff and heavy and, yeah, maybe weak, weak for how good exams like this always feel.
He’s so weak, a moan tinting his next heaving exhale just the tiniest amount.
“Okay, great,” she steps back and takes her massaging, rubbing, and palpating fingers with her. Immediately, the craving kicks back in, wanting— needing to be touched. Fuck. “I can’t feel anything, and it doesn’t seem like you’re having any issues, so the little fracture we were worried about must’ve already resolved itself. Of course, we’ll get another set of scans to confirm, but we can do that later.”
Steve nods, abusing the hesitant clearance she’s given him. He isn’t thinking about scans. He’s thinking about what caused the fracture in the first place. It could’ve been anything: the fall into the water, the repeated punches he took to the face, whipping his neck back, the collision of his head to one or more of those steel beams, or… most possibly and most excitingly, it could’ve been Bucky’s metal hand around his throat, the mechanics of it whirring loudly, calibrating the thickenness and strength of his neck and squeezing just enough. Just enough. Cutting off his air until he was dizzy. Gripping and bruising him like a ripe fruit. Marking him.
Right?
There has to be marks!
Is his neck bruised? There are no mirrors in here. Is he wearing a crown, choked around his throat, all blue and purple?
Steve’s dick twitches. The sound slight but obscene to his hypersensitive ears. Jesus.
He hopes that of everything, it was Bucky’s hand that almost broke his neck. That’s the way, if any, he wants to go. In that moment, it’s what he wanted, and it’s what he wants now, too.
The nurse’s hands may leave his neck, but she and her hands don’t go far. She has a sudden interest in his face, which is much more tender and aching than his neck was. Tracing the different areas with a fingertip or two, she outlines without a mirror exactly where the injuries are. Even through her gloves, Steve can make out the distinct difference between the softer pads of her fingers and the sharper, harder edges of her fingernails. Her fingernails are his favorite part—an aching, specific sensation that isn’t scratching, she’s not daring to press hard enough for that, but it’s something. It’s something really good. Almost, it feels like she’s plucking the strings of a guitar, and way down the line, the vibrations are still felt. Reverberations throughout his body.
While his toes curl, she’s lecturing Steve on his own face, telling him that he suffered various cuts and bruises. A collection of injuries that dress him up in shades of color from yellow-brown to dark purple, almost-black.
His lip was split, but it’s already well on its way to healing, so much so that they didn’t suture him up. And when she touches his swollen bottom lip, Steve has to clench his jaw, teeth grinding against teeth, just to resist letting his lips fall open and sticking out his tongue to curl around her gloved hands. Latex on his tongue always feels so good. He loves how it tastes, too. Just. Yes. He resists. Barely. Forcing back the yearning, aching need for something in his mouth, filling him up.
Also, he has a zygomatic fracture (his cheekbone, she simplifies) and an orbital rim fracture (the thicker outer edge of his eye socket).
There’s something so intimate yet impersonal about how she cups his jaw, lifting his head, then stroking one finger back from the apple of his cheek to just underneath his eye. The impulse inside Steve is to shut his eyes and wait to be kissed, being held like that. He doesn’t. He can’t. Especially because along with all the bruises laid over his face…
There are bruises throughout his body
She knows throughout his body because they must’ve examined his body.
Oh.
Fuck.
Oh, yeah, he’s not in his suit. He’s clothed immodestly in a slick, synthetic medical gown. Polyester is going to be the death of him, especially this kind, where it’s got a plastic coating on the inside. It’s like his body swims against it. He’s sweating, and the johnny doesn’t breathe, it lets his sweat roll down his skin and pool in the deepest arches of his body, so every tiny shift of his body has the gown gliding across his skin. Involuntarily, Steve is thinking of himself, out of body, picturing in his mind’s eye how they must’ve cut him out of his suit, touching his unconscious body all over, cutting and ripping and revealing. What did they do to him? They could’ve done anything they wanted.
Anything.
A shiver so powerful shakes through his body, noticeable enough that his nurse apologizes for pressing too hard with her palpating fingers, assuming he’s tender rather than assuming he’s fucking outrageously aroused by the thought of a hundred strange hands on him, looking him up and down, touching him up and down, and trying their best to remain calm and professional against the specimen that he is. He doesn’t want them to be professional. He wants just one professional to slip, he wants fingers circling his peaked, hard nipples, hands stroking his cock, and hands examining his prostate as a delicious excuse to milk him for all he’s worth. Tears sting his eyes, he wants it so goddamn bad, fantasies swirling in his otherwise empty head.
After she talks about the bruises on the surface of his bared and exposed body, the nurse transitions to talking about his internal injuries. He’s broken several ribs, and he has pulmonary contusions (in layman's terms, that’s bruised lungs), which may explain why his chest is heaving the way it is.
Oh.
Steve didn’t—
He—
If he were looking in a mirror, Steve’s sure he’d be able to watch his healthy pink flush deepen into an embarrassing red. God, he can feel all the blood that’s not already filling his cock shoot back up to his face, heating his cheeks. Okay. Yeah. His chest is heaving. He didn’t even realize he was breathing like that. Fast and shallow, if not injured, then definitely, obviously aroused. Every shaky inhale and rough exhale leaves him dizzier than the last. God. He has to fucking get it together. But he can’t.
“Unfortunately, it’s going to be difficult to breathe for a while due to the bleeding and swelling in your lungs,” she murmurs. Her fingers feather over the side of his body, not a heavy enough touch to warrant an examiner’s touch; the only excuse would be that she wants to show him where he’s injured. He knows where his ribs are. He knows where his lungs sit in his chest. He knows he hurts. He has the hardly resistible urge to arch his back and press himself up into the aching touch.
He can’t.
Steve doesn’t correct her. It’s not just his lungs and busted ribs controlling his panting, uneven breathing. It’s much more than that. Salacious and explicit.
Further, unknowing, she pushes on, hovering her hand down his chest to his abdomen, “there was also internal bleeding in your abdominal cavity.”
“Makes sense,” Sam cuts in, something like grim humor coloring his voice, “on account of being shot twice.”
The sound of his voice leaves Steve jolting in his bed, the beep-beep-beep of his heart monitor jumps sharply, and he inhales through his open mouth, “hhnnh!”
Guiltily, Steve realizes in that single panicked moment that he somehow forgot Sam was here. Everything in him was so dialed into exactly what the nurse was doing to him and how good yet bad it felt, he wasn’t thinking of anything else but trying to shut down each involuntary reaction.
So, through blurry, dizzy vision, Steve peers shamefully over at his loyal friend, checking in and finding him, thankfully, not totally pissed nor suspicious of how he’s getting more and more out of it the longer the nurse goes on. Rather, he’s just crossing his arms, still baffled that they’re going after this guy to save him. He doesn’t know Bucky like Steve does. He will, though. Once Steve gets him back. He will.
Distracted by thoughts of Bucky, Steve doesn’t exactly hear what the nurse wants to do next, only the tail end where she tells him to do his best in not tensing his abdomen, she doesn’t need him to help her, she’s just going to—
Her gloved, warm hands plunge between Steve’s trembling shoulders and the sturdy cushion of the hospital bed he’s lying on. Quickly and efficiently, she locates the open back of his medical gown and tugs at it, baring his back first, one side then another, before hauling the slick gown over his shoulders and stripping him down to his waist. She doesn’t jostle him too much, probably being careful of his ribs and internal injuries, but honestly, Steve could stand to be roughed up a little more. Involuntarily, he loses one long, hot exhale. Craving.
In response to his suddenly half-naked state, the nurse and Sam both make a noise of their own, overlapping her pleased yet surprised hum and Sam’s more pessimistic hiss. Turning her head over her shoulder, she addresses Sam, a small smile tugging at her lips, “believe it or not, this is much better.” Then, to herself, she shakes her head, muttering something she probably doesn’t realize is still loud enough for Steve to hear, nerding out under her breath, “his factor healing, ohmygod!”
Steve could absolutely believe her.
Better.
His whole chest is covered in splashes of color, especially around his mounded pecs
with his urgently hard nipples
and defined serratus anterior muscles, but none of his bruises look fresh despite being relatively so. He’s healing, mending, and he can feel the familiar undercurrent of exhaustion starting to rise; his body is ready to crash, tired of dealing with his shit, wanting putting him to sleep so it can do all the work it needs uninterrupted by the tides of arousal tugging him this way and that. If he sleeps now, though, he knows he’s gonna have some weird fucking dreams. Wet, desperate dreams.
With his johnny pooled around his waist, the nurse steps closer, leaning into him slightly to look for any signs he’s begun to bleed through the thick wrapping of gauze around his trim waist. “Your internal bleeding should have been solved by the laparotomy, the, uh,” she lifts her head, face-to-face rather than face-to-stomach as she explains the medical jargon, “that’s a surgical procedure done for the purpose of accessing and repairing injuries in the abdomen,” she pauses, going back to searching for any spots of blood, “during that procedure, the bullets lodged in your abdomen were also retrived, and you received a blood transfusion because you lost a lot between the internal and external bleeding.” Steve nods along the best he can, his mind gone, melted and dripped right out of his ears. “Now, you’re being dosed heavily with antibiotics, although we do think it’s likely you can’t get infections anymore.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Sam adds.
“Exactly,” she smiles brightly at him over her shoulder.
When she doesn’t spot any blood seeping through after an extremely thorough visual search, her breathing puffing against his bare, goosebump-ed skin, she returns to using her hands, placing one hand on his sternum as if to steady herself while the other presses exceedingly gently over the thick wrapping where Bucky shot him twice. The padding of the guaze is so thick, he doesn’t really feel anything. It’s more her hand on his chest, between his pecs, putting the slightest amount of pressure on his bruised lungs and broken ribs.
So, his heaving breath gets even worse, stuttering.
She thinks it’s pain, apologizing, and blinking slowly through his glazed vision, Steve lets her have it. Sure. It’s the easiest thing. And surely this exam is almost over, he thunks his head back onto his mostly flat pillow. Arching his neck. Giving briefly into the urge to squirm, spreading his legs, thighs coiled tight, his hips almost thrusting up. He can’t help it. He’s desperate for this to be over. He never wants it to end. He—
He can’t think, head thrown back, panting, so painfully aware of every tiny, insignificant touch, it’s unbearable.
Fuck me, he thinks. Immediately after, slipping up and letting an obviously loud and crude whimper slip through his gritted teeth.
With Sam in the same room, he’s been trying so fucking hard, so especially hard, to hide how he reacts to the nurse’s hands on him. But, damn, abruptly he’s all too aware of his arousal bubbling beneath the surface of his skin. He can’t mask it anymore—not with her hands on the most injured part of his body—and, god, he’s hissing through his teeth, swallowing back moans, unable to not jolt with every touch, his body helplessly twitching into the touch, begging wordlessly for more. It’s a war inside him, how much it hurts in a bad way from the injuries, the bleeding, the bruising, and how much he can’t help but enjoy the attention and the smoldering soreness.
Sam catches on, though, giving him a weird look that Steve has to shy away from, turning to watch the nurse’s hands on him instead of his friend’s gaze, but, Jesus, that makes him even more aroused, being able to focus exactly on what she’s doing now and anticipating what’ll happen next. Her gloved hands work him up and up and up. He’s gonna fucking snap, all that tension—
The next time he can’t fully stifle a moan, Sam pipes up, “isn’t there more you can give him for the pain?”
Oh.
Great.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut. What does he need to see anyway? He can’t see shit, his vision is useless with how blurry and hazy it’s become, overwhelmed by lust. He doesn’t need to see the expression on either of their faces.
The nurse steers her head in his direction, then comes back to Steve, “how bad is the pain?” She asks kindly.
And Steve… Steve has to take inventory of his body to know that. That’s a dangerous game. Playing it finds him swimming in the deep end of an endorphin pool, all the physical touch and all the pain bleeding into pleasure. His empty skull is sluggish and hazy, nothing but the leftover dregs of his melted mind left, sloshing around uselessly. Plucking a number from one to ten feels like an impossible task, despite how it’s literally been designed to be the easiest way to communicate pain. She wants a number. Both of them want a number. Steve can’t fucking remember how to count. What the hell does five even mean? How does he feel when he’s not here and now? What? Huh?
The best he has is an open-mouthed shake of his head—does he shake his head? does he nod? does he move at all?—panting, heaving, and just barely managing to pull his trembling shoulders into a laughable attempt at a shrug. Pulled and melted, Steve’s eyes roll before they manage to open halfway.
The nurse frowns at him.
Sam doesn’t look impressed, either.
“Let me just,” the nurse murmurs after a moment, peering into his heavily lidded eyes and finding… something. Steve doesn’t know what, but he knows what he hopes she can’t see. He hopes to high heaven that he’s not making her—or Sam, of course—uncomfortable. It’s, just, so much. “Let me go confer with the doctor heading your case. I’ll be right back,” she grimaces, patting his knee, “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
Sam watches her leave, only turning to him once they’re alone again as if he thinks that’s the problem—Steve wanting to save face and look tough. “Is it really bad?” He asks.
Steve nods, less discombobulated now that she’s not actively torturing him. It’s the easiest thing to do. Lying. But, god, it’s really hard to face him right now, halfway between exhausted and out-of-his-mind aroused. Maybe he’s both. At once. Exhausted and aroused. Equally. They cancel each other out until he reaches… whatever this is. Blank. Empty. Overwhelmed.
He, he also has no idea what to do or say, especially considering how he dragged Sam into all of this. Sam could’ve been hurt like Steve was. Except. He’s human. Non-enhanced. He could’ve died. And, god, Steve’s ashamed to have put Sam in harm's way like this, selfish, and then further exposed him to something he didn’t ask for. Something so harshly inappropriate, even if Sam doesn’t totally realize it.
Thankfully, almost immediately, the nurse returns with another woman, the apparent head of his case. They’re immediately washing him out to sea, dazing him with the sheer amount of jargon that spills from their mouths. The prognosis seems to be that he’s on the highest dose of painkillers they feel comfortable giving him, and the only way to further eradicate pain would be to sedate him until his body has more time to heal, though that’s not a guarantee either. They had issues keeping him under anesthesia during surgery. It may be difficult—and unsafe—to keep him under more than two or three hours, if even that.
But…
They look at each other and at him.
Steve doesn’t know what they see. He’s moved beyond awareness of himself on the outside. Barely, inside, he’s aware that he’s in some kind of emotional turmoil, and, sure, what the fuck, everything’s fucked anyway. He might as well sleep it off more, right? Maybe he’ll dream and come to some solution or a next plan of action for locating and saving Bucky. Maybe—and, god, that’d be more than enough—he’ll just quit being so fucking turned on and won’t nearly moan with every innocent touch when he wakes back up.
Nodding his head, Steve affirms, “do it,” a groan halfway out of his mouth when he offers, “I’ll sign whatever consent form I gotta if that’s a concern.”
His nurse and doctor look at each other solemnly as if they hadn’t expected him to agree after hearing the risks. Perhaps they were trying to convince him it’s not that bad. Well. Then they peer over to Sam next, looking, maybe, to out-vote Steve so they don’t have to risk it.
Except he just raises his hands up, palms out, “don’t look at me. Whatever he says goes.”
But, with that reminder from Sam, before they inject whatever drugs they have to into his IV to get it done, Steve twists as much as he can in his bed with his injuries, looking at Sam seriously, “go home,” he tells him, mustering up all the clarity he can. “Please. There’s nothing you can do here right now. I just need time. I—” he swallows “—I didn’t mean to drag you into all this anyway.”
Sam grins, reaching out lightning quick to very, very, gently punch his arm, “yeah, you did. You needed my help. I’m great. I know. You don’t have to say it, though, I would appreciate it if you did.”
Steve cracks a smile. Still. He urges him, “go find, Nat, talk strategy for what comes next… or not.”
“You’re a sick man,” Sam teases, “using a fine lady like that to get me to do what you want. She’s not just a pawn piece, Steve,” but he’s also already getting up out of his uncomfortable bedside chair, standing up straight and brushing himself off, puffing his chest out, rolling his neck. It takes him no time at all to collect his phone, which pauses the music that had been keeping them company the entire time and leaves Steve with just the titillating background noise of beep-beep-beep. Before he really gets going, he informs Steve, “I’m gonna get her and I’m gonna take her to get some good coffee. I’d ask you if you know any spots, but I already know you don’t.” He might as well be sticking his tongue out at Steve, and it’s nice. It’s so nice to have friends. Even though it can make… certain things… more awkward. “I’ll see you,” he says, grave.
Steve nods, “you will.”
Then, he leaves.
And Steve nods to his nurse and doctor, standing off to the side politely, they approach, and—
It all fades to black.
It’s dark outside.
Hours have slipped past like sand through the gaps between his fingers, the world continuing to spin while Steve lay unconscious in his uncomfortable, lumpy hospital bed. All the grains are gone from his palms and fingers. It’s either very late at night or very early in the morning now. The light is so low that shadows spill into the room, darkness in shapeless and shaped forms. His eyes glaze over them all alike, seeing so many things, he sees nothing in the dark void. Shadows shapes like the Winter Soldier take over, stretched and looming, filling the space completely, warding off the lights that remain on in the long, sparse hallways just through the glass walls of his hospital room. The vertical blinds shielding his room are mostly shut, allowing only a few slivers of that light to creep inside; they are not enough to ward off all the darkness.
Wait.
Shadows.
The Winter Soldier.
Bucky Barnes.
Like a torrent of flood water after a horrible storm, it all comes rushing back. Sam is gone. The nurses are gone. The guards must still be outside, but they're still enough that it feels like they, too, are gone. Steve’s in a lot of pain still, but it’s milder now. His healing factor did its job, spinning and going on like the globe itself, moving as Steve slept. In place of the excess pain, the undertow of arousal has kicked up, swelling to fill the space left inside him, molten and sticky, especially because—
Bucky.
Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.
Eyes heavy, Steve gazes through the lace of his eyelashes, seeing what he desires most but impossibly so. It doesn’t make sense. He must be dreaming or hallucinating from the drugs coursing through his dilated veins, flush with heat. But. There he is.
Beep-beep-beep
Beepbeepbeep.
In his aching chest, Steve’s heart skips and pounds.
Bucky is standing at the foot of his bed, enrobed in the tight sheen of leather that glimmers dully when it catches the slivers of light but, somehow, doesn’t make a sound as he breathes. It should creak, stretching with the hypnotic bulk of his chest, but it doesn’t. Impossibly. It doesn’t . Bucky is there, looming in his heavily guarded hospital room, ghostly and almost completely unnoticeable save for the gritty, unwashed stench coming off of him. He smells terrible, sharper than the alcohol, bleach, and antiseptic that clings to every square inch of the well-maintained hospital. Yet, Steve could not give less of a fuck. Instead of being repelled, something deep, deeper than his bones, all the way in the pit of his soul, demands him to inhale, expanding his bruised, aching lungs just for the chance at smelling his rank, long-lost lover. He wants to breathe him in.
Steve feels particularly fuckless (and reckless) when Bucky takes one smooth, soundless step, then another, and all of a sudden he’s lunging into action; prowling forward, wordless, maskless, and unbelievable.
Steve’s heart jolts from his cracked ribcage and surges into his throat, lodging itself there to pound, pound, pound. Every throb hits like a punch to the back of his larynx. Steve is desperate to know where this is going to go, even if it ends in violence with the soldier having come to finish the job, rather than the man beneath it all, curious and daring. He must know. He needs to.
With Bucky’s mask and goggles lost and his face exposed, it’s painful to see all that pretty, as sharp and devastating as he was the day he fell. That hasn’t changed a one bit. Steve feels like he knows the look in his eyes—even in the dark, even groggy, coming off heavy sedatives—it’s the same fury that burned through Bucky’s eyes before all of this, when Steve cornered some asshole, then had the tables turned on him and nearly got himself killed in some shady back alley for what he found to be a good reason while Bucky just barked that he should’ve let it go for once in his fuckin’ life, hauling him away like kitten scruffed, held by the neck.
Now, glazing it, over top of the fury is a kind of detached unclarity that gnaws at Steve’s soul. But. The fury. It’s there. Steve can fuckin’ see it. He knows what that is, even if Bucky doesn’t. He’s stiller than he’s ever been in his life, paralyzed, watching this unfold, but his brain screams to reach for his lover. Hands balling into fists, he wants to reach and grab and pull that fury to the surface and wave it in front of Bucky’s nose like a red flag, showing him, this isn’t who he is. He’s been locked inside his own body. This isn’t him.
Come home.
Please. He needs to come home.
With no such reservations, prowling, Bucky looks like he wants to tear him a new one, dangerously like he might do it himself, too. But he can’t seem to talk, mask or no mask. Grunting roughly at best, Bucky neatly, silently, lifts one knee, places it on the hospital bed, and uses all the strength he possesses in his thick, shapely thigh to lift the rest of him onto the bed. He’s so dialed in, the hospital bed’s plastic frame doesn’t even creak despite how it’s been complaining about Steve’s weight alone. Now there are two grown men on it, yet it doesn’t seem to mind. Funny.
Silent.
Expecting.
And, suddenly, Steve is just lying there, wide-eyed, watching as Bucky sensuously crawls forward. The swing of his hips. The confident way he places one flesh-and-blood hand against the thin mattress, then lays his metal hand against it. Hand over hand. Head forward, the flames in his eyes burning into Bucky. Step after step… coming closer and closer until—
In a single movement, as fluid and elegant as crystal clear water, his thick thighs are splitting wide, swinging one over to straddle his hips and. Oh. All of Bucky’s neat, confident weight settles square onto Steve’s raging erection.
Guh.
Steve can’t speak. His tongue is too big for his mouth and his throat is too dry and his mind is gone. What even are words? What are thoughts? He doesn’t have any. Has he ever had any? Does he need those? It doesn’t fucking seem like he does.
He has a lapful of everything he could possibly need.
Sitting in his lap as if he belongs there (which, to Steve, he does), Bucky soundlessly, smoothly lifts his flesh hand to Steve’s neck, placing it palm-down against the vulnerable flesh, lodged with his heart, and curling his fingers around it to squeeze. Trusting unendingly, not even stopping to consider how this could end poorly, Steve simply lets him collar his throat; he just choked him, nearly killed him doing it, then shot and beat him to the bone, too, but… Steve is weak for him.
If Steve’s neck isn’t meant to be held by Bucky’s hands, what is it meant for?
Why wouldn’t he hand over his throat on a silver platter and plead for Bucky to decorate—to decimate —it with teeth marks?
Impossibly, over his shoulder, his heart rate monitor beeps louder, faster, and his breathing spikes, too. Any speedier and his heart is literally going to explode in his chest. The same for his breathing, any faster and he’d be hyperventilating, surely doing his own damage, breathing so fucking hard it crushes his lungs against his ribs. It’s worth it. He sent his heart into a flurry many times for Bucky before it was remade strong and new, so, in a way, this is familiar.
He’s home.
His bump ticker, Bucky’s pretty face, and their bodies pressed together.
“Buck,” Steve finally starts to speak, limp under his squeezing hand. Yet, it’s more his lips shaping the approximation of the sound than it’s actually any audible sound exiting his lips. He’s half desperately worried Bucky will leave him again and half urgently worried there will be hospital staff rushing into his room to investigate his surging vitals soon; he wants to beg on his hands and knees for his lover to stay and never leave his sight again just as much as he wants to push him away and scream and yell until he goes, driving him back like an animal following him somewhere dangerous. They can’t catch him. They don’t understand. They’ll lock him up. It would be—
Bucky doesn’t let him say anything else.
He crushes their mouths together, shutting him up, sudden and rough with his stubble scratching Steve’s already torn skin and tender bruises. Underneath the cruel, sweet intentions of his mouth, Steve’s lips feel swollen. They probably are. He doesn’t fucking care.
It hurts.
It feels too good.
In the non-existent space between their lips, a high, sharp whine slips from Steve, somewhere exquisite between pain and pleasure. The two are indistinguishable now—one and the same. Pain and pleasure.
Locking lips, all of Steve’s undercurrent arousal boils over. He breaks. Steve can’t stay still and (relatively) quiet for another god forsaken second. All at once, he writhes. His trembling hands scramble to find purchase on the leather wrapped skin-tight over Bucky’s body, needing something, anything, to hold onto desperately. He arches sharply into the weight of the other man, uncaring how his body aches and twinges under the strain, a puzzle made of shattered pieces. Steve instinctively understands that he wants him more than he wants to heal; he needs him way, way more than he needs to be in a single piece. A body. He wants him. He wants him. He wants him. All he does is want him. All his life.
Want him.
Worse, he needs him inside. Viscerally. Cracking open his already broken ribcage to crawl inside the heat of his open body; surging through his veins to pollute him entirely, traveling the length and depth of him so they are interwined, veins full of him like ivy crawling around an ancient building; plunging inside him, deep, rearranging the fit of his guts inside him because the hard steel of him is more important.
He needs every fucking piece of him.
Kissing.
Crushing.
They have to be one.
He rocks up against Bucky’s weight again and again—true insanity by its definition, doing the same thing over and over yet expecting a different result—as his hands claw at his arms. Every aching drag of his sharp fingernails over the leather, cloth, and metal is another proclamation: don’t leave me, you can’t leave me, I’ll die if you leave me. At the same fucking time, writhing, he tilts his chin up, chasing Bucky’s mouth recklessly, opening his lips wide, more than daring Bucky to lick into his mouth.
He does.
His wicked tongue, flicking and sharp, hot and wet as it delves between his swollen, spit-slick lips, claiming his mouth again. He’s always had it. It’s always been his. Steve doesn’t have to think to give it up, it’s the most natural thing. He just whimpers with his whole body squirming more, thrashing and coiling against him. Deep within his tense muscles, his body fights to wrap itself around Bucky like a boa constrictor. He wants him. He wants all of him.
His vitals jump again.
Higher. Faster. More.
This is going to slaughter him, and he wants it to. Kill him. Take him. If he has to go, he’s going to go here, now, with Bucky.
Kissing.
Going on and on without stopping for such stupid, frivolous things as oxygen. They’ve gone beyond breathing. It doesn’t matter. All that there is is the scorching, aching way Bucky devours his mouth, lips pressed to lips, slick and all-consuming.
Yet, too soon, Bucky peels his hand off his throat and takes his lips away.
Immediately, it’s torture.
Though it does not seem to matter to Bucky how desperately Steve pleads with wordless, shattered whines that Steve wasn’t aware he was capable of making, still they simply fall out of his mouth as easily as cries of a lost fawn calling for its mother come. As part of the landscape, it doesn’t think; there are no worries in its soft head, between fluttering, large ears about calling in predators for their dinner. It just does. Steve just whines and whines and doesn’t think about what he’s doing until Bucky’s hand is back, slapped across his mouth to shut him up, pinching off his nose between his thumb and index finger.
In the deafening, sudden silence between their bodies, Steve can understand—
Down the dimly lit hall, urgent footsteps approach. Sensible, comfortable shoes for a nurse on the night shift picking up the pace, readying themselves to burst into Steve’s room, investigating why his vitals are all over the place, and what the hell is that racket?
Bucky, as fearless as he must’ve been to slip between the cracks and come to see him in the first place, pales with panic. He must’ve thought he heard something but tried to ignore it until he was able to stop and listen.
He can’t ignore it anymore.
And as easily, silently as he arrived, he rushes soundlessly into the nighttime shadows, disappearing through the en-suite bathroom.
Instantly, it’s like he was never there to begin with.
Ah, that solves part of the mystery, at least. He must’ve come in that way if he’s leaving that way, probably vaulting out the window to transform back into just another ill-defined, unreal shape in the night. However, Steve gets no more than a single second to enjoy the sizzling aftermath, chest heaving, head spinning, body lying limp and sweaty, leaning back into his pillows with surely a dreamy expression glazing his stupid, goofy face before that nurse does burst into his room.
A man this time, armed with a clipboard and tablet, ready for a fight.
It takes no time before he promptly locks onto the culprit—the screen behind Steve. Nonsensically, it seems to take him a minute, though, to realize that Steve’s awake. It must really be a strange hour. Too late or too early.
When he does notice that Steve’s conscious, he startles. “Oh, um,” he stutters wordlessly for a moment, “wha-what’s wrong?”
A long, awkward pause builds between them because Steve can’t pull his voice from his chest; it’s there, he just used it for Bucky, but he’s gone now, and everything’s come crashing down. It takes a few scratching, too-dry clears of his throat alongside one or two licks of his buzzing lips, knowing he’s blushing hotter and hotter the longer he struggles. By the time Steve finds his voice, it’s rusted-out and likely an obvious lie or, at least, a plainly poor excuse, “bad dream.”
“You sure?” The nurse doesn’t believe him but, mercifully, doesn’t reach out to examine him, especially now that his vitals are trending down toward normal once more. “Anything I can get you?”
Mutely, Steve shakes his head.
And the nurse leaves.
With a sigh, alone again, Steve lets his head hit his pillow with a muffled thunk. The bed takes all of his weight, back to creaking slightly each time he shifts. There’s no fucking way he can lie still. Facing the dark ceiling, squirming slightly, here and there, shifting his weight to his hips and then bucking up against the barely-there weight of the blankets across his lap, his background white noise is nothing but the sound of beeps, chirps, and his own heavy breaths. Bucky. Already, he misses Bucky so fucking terribly.
Where did he come from? Where will he go? Will he come back? What does he remember? He remembers enough to kiss him, but that could mean he remembers next to nothing or everything. What is he gonna do?
Steve’s mind spirals out of control, deeper and deeper. Softly, amidst the nose-diving pirouette, some part of Steve protests— I’m never going to fall back asleep like this.
Yet, somewhere between the million and a half questions his mind raises, he finds time to drift off. He doesn’t stay out of it for very long. The snowdrifts of white, voidful sleep come and go, storms and flurries interrupted by broadcasts of questions. Sometimes. Then, other times by sizzling, steaming bursts of sunlight that crackle like far-off radio stations. The questions repeat what he was thinking earlier, and the sunlight… ohhh, it repeats the memory of Bucky’s lips again and again. Mouth to mouth. Hot and agonizing. For hours, cut between brief snatches of sleep.
It is unbearable.
The erotic memory plays on a loop. So, eventually, of course, it becomes so overpoweringly hot from overuse like a laptop sitting on his thighs, burning him because he’s gone too far down a research rabbit hole and has too many tabs with photos and documents and documentaries and he just can’t stop finding new details, opening more tabs, wanting more to consume. Steve thinks— feels? thinks, probably, at some point, he stumbles into consciousness to find his vitals surging again, beep-beep-beep, frantic and hot, but no nurse is rushing in to check on and he might be half-asleep, sleep-walking, sleep-moving as he recklessly reaches down to palm himself, rutting his shaking hips against the heel of his hand, harder than steel, feeling it in his teeth as he, just, almost orgasms but… falls back into the trap of sleep before his climax can be pulled from his body.
Push and pull, Steve comes to and sinks back beneath the surface, bobbing, floating, sweating. He’s sweating so much. He’s wet. Painted with slick sweat and, maybe, more? He doesn’t know. He can’t. He’s too weak. Sleep is too enticing. Memory is too strong. In and out, he’s involuntarily circling his body’s need. Almost orgasming just from the memory with its phantom sensations. He missed physical touch so much. He thrived in the rush of secrecy in the middle of a hospital, clean and professional, getting so dirty. More than that. He missed Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. He needs him.
Bucky.
He has to get him back.
Notes:
Don't mind me, just thinking really hard about Steve being left in his hospital room all by himself, lonely after Bucky leaves, yes, but mostly glassy-eyed, panting, and sweating through his sheets as his mind is saturated with dopamine and endorphins, trying not to just shoot off from barely being touched by his lover after so much build up with his little medical kink 🥴
What're you thinking about?
Chapter 4: 2016
Summary:
Immediately after one of Bucky's many check-ups, Steve's secret can't be held in for a moment longer... it has to come spilling out.
≈9.6k
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Un-fucking-believable as it may be, Steve is somehow living in a world where he has Bucky back. Back from not simply the dead but from hell itself. What the fuck? Steve wants to ask how and why, although perhaps it’s better that he doesn’t actually know. All that’s important is that now Bucky is here with him again. And more than that, Steve has convinced Stark— Tony, not Howard, though, every time he looks at the man for too long, he still sees Howard in his face and the eccentric lilt of his voice—to smooth things over with Bucky. It’s taken a fucking lot of walking on eggshells, and they’re still not without the delicate crunch, crunch, crunch beneath their feet, some bits of shell left behind, maybe never to be swept under the rug, but there’s certainly less than there once was. It’s been a lot of slow and not-so-steady progress.
Progress is progress, nevertheless.
And, speaking of progress, Bucky is going to therapy—both psychological and physical. Yet again, incredibly, he’s home. That’s so much more than Steve could’ve begged for a few short years ago.
Most of the time, Bucky’s home in the slightly larger, definitely nicer shoebox Brooklyn apartment they have together. He doesn’t go out a lot. Really, the only time he does leave is for medical appointments, and he doesn’t always leave for those, either; it depends on the day, which Steve thinks is pretty understandable, but, also, his medical team is right, he probably should be leaving and Steve could be helping, a little, to push him harder sometimes. But…
Bucky has a fucking shit time with medical appointments and all the professionals that come with them, which Steve understands. For Bucky, doctors will never be inherently trustworthy again. Steve would never push that onto him. Professionals (or strangers) touching and grabbing him, hopefully, will, one day, just trigger a mild stress response that he can mitigate internally, at best, and not be an uncontrollable, externally visible trigger. And any sort of machine that hooks up to him or looks inside him is impossible to have Bucky settle down for without mild to complete sedation, but, maybe, hopefully, not forever.
Forever isn’t here, yet, though, so all those things together are how Steve ends up taking Bucky to every appointment he has scheduled, but also, more often than not, Steve ends up physically going into the tests, exams, scans, and whatever else with him. Even equipped with the full knowledge how, thanks to the serum, he reacts to all that shit now: the opposite of Bucky’s experience, to say the least.
But he’ll do it. Absolutely, he will.
Quickly, they discover that it helps Bucky to take doctors out of their usual context. Shockingly (not), white coats, (forced) authority, and (pretend) knowledge are not good for him. So, on top of obviously rotted-out basement warehouses turned into grimy, makeshift hospitals, too out are overly big, exceptionally clean, exceedingly precise hospitals; the two ends of an extreme, stretched-thin spectrum.
The in-between they find is, unsurprisingly, suggested by Natasha. She has loose ties to the physician who was once Nick Fury’s general practitioner, a G.P. with a host of specialists at the tips of her fingers, no matter the time of day, always with someone to call on in times of need. Natasha makes a tempered comment, too, that Wanda sees this doctor—a telling divulge of information because, one, Steve knows Nat would never put the younger woman in any kind of danger after all she’s been through, and, two, Steve and Nat are both nearly too-aware of the HYDRA experimentation she went through as a girl. The details of what Wanda had to endure were sickening to unveil. So, if anyone who’s been through the fucking ringer with Nazi “scientist” fucks can learn to feel comfortable with another physician, that’s not to be taken lightly.
And today, Bucky has a check-up with that doctor, not in some rotted-out warehouse or illusion-heavy lab but in the doctor’s small, renovated home-turned-into-a-doctor's-office. Squished between other rows of houses (some still houses or split into apartments, mostly they’re businesses, now, though, the city has changed an unending amount since Steve lived here the first time) on a flat-faced facade, the sight of the office is familiar, only a short walk from their own home. It helps put Bucky at ease.
Bucky and Steve, because Bucky’s check-up—making sure he’s doing well after having the arm HYDRA forcibly welded onto his body cut-out and replaced with a sleeker, lighter, more functional prosthetic for everyday use—means that Steve is getting a check-up, too. At the same time. The doctor will focus her attention on Bucky while her assistant deals with Steve. Everything that’s done to Bucky is done to Steve. Another thing to help maintain Bucky’s comfort, he trusts Steve on a conscious and unconscious level, so it settles him almost without him realizing it. If it’s happening to Steve, and Steve isn’t trying to stop it, it must be fine.
So.
Steve has to try and fucking keep a can on it, aiding Bucky to build trust with someone, something, that isn’t just him.
But he can’t keep a goddamn can on it. Not really. No matter how hard he tries to.
It’s just so hard.
With this check-up, the doctor is testing the functionality of Bucky’s new arm, proceeding through standard sensory tests that don’t require a specialist so long as no red flags appear. She’s simply seeing how well the mechanical touch sensors have integrated into his organic system. Tony and Shuri, working together—and what a fucking adventure that was to try and get them to design in combination, literally coming from different worlds—have apparently done a phenomenal job. Steve wouldn’t know; he can’t focus on it beyond what’s being done to him, and knowing the reciprocal is happening to Bucky.
Sharp versus soft pricks down his arm, asked to verbalize whenever he feels a sensation, fighting to say not whimper ‘ sharp’ or ‘soft.’ Shoulder to fingertip once, touching the outside of his arm. Then again, fingertip to shoulder, on the more tender inside of his arm.
Hands on his shoulders, neck, and back. At first, gently palpating, then digging in and massaging his muscles. Steve nearly lets his eyes roll back, a shadow of a groan looming heavily on his tongue.
The rubdown is to help deal with the knots that are still clinging to and slowly coming out of Bucky’s muscles. Not all of the metal from his previous prosthetic could be safely removed from his shoulder and down his spine. The sharp edges still exist. At least all the metal came out of his ribs. Steve knows he can breathe better; he sees it in the way Bucky’s chest expands and contracts less stiffly and how he progressively sits in more slouching positions on their couch. He can actually breathe when he’s scrunched up now. Bucky’s also physically (and mentally) lighter—they weighed him.
Yet, Steve doesn’t realize until Bucky says it, his breathing stuttering and his speech fractured, overwhelmed and deliberately gently laying it out there while the doctor untangles his muscles’ knots and asks how he’s been feeling, that his body, wholly, is better. He reports that it feels less like he’s being poisoned from the inside out by everything they inserted experimentally inside him. Steve wants to grab onto that and twist around it, desperately holding onto it, precious and valuable. He felt poisoned before? All the time? Like, he could feel the metals and drugs coursing through him? He needs to talk about that, if not just with Steve, to get it out there, then his therapist, probably his psychiatrist, too, just in case any remnants might interact with the other medications he’s been choosing to take.
Later, Steve will, he promises himself, he’ll coil around that and squeeze it, harping on it, but—
Right now, it’s a lot, lot of touching, and he can’t focus.
Steve will do fucking anything, anything, to keep Bucky safe, including and never limited to this—holding Bucky’s flesh and blood hand at the same time that they have both their left arms examined. Steve’s an organic limb, and Bucky’s a new, shiny prosthetic with sensory capabilities. To do it, they have to be face to face, holding both right hands together. And Steve has to suck on his own tongue to keep the noises inside. He has to squeeze Bucky’s hand without acting like he’s squeezing it harder and harder as he finds it harder and harder to hide how he’s being wound up.
Physically, Steve must pull himself back from the edge, mentally reminding himself not to let his eyes roll again and again.
Oh, and keep the weird fucking looks to yourself, Rogers. No orgasm faces. This is about Bucky. Help Bucky get through this without putting your own stupid shit in there.
Bending his right leg so he’s half sitting criss-cross on the exam table is the best defence he’s got for hiding the way his erection helplessly tents his khakis, but it isn’t much of a protection. So, there’s another reminder there: keep Bucky’s eyes on yours. Don’t let him look down.
Desperately, Steve doesn’t want to invalidate his lover’s pain. And even more urgently, Steve doesn’t want him incidentally thinking, for even a mistaken second, that he’s getting off on Bucky’s struggle. It’s not that. It’s really not. He just can’t help it. The nurse's gloved hands feel so nice. He wants to react to it so badly—to twitch when hands near his underarms, to sway into this touch and that, and to bite his lip when his pulse is taken, his wrist restrictively squeezed. All of it. More.
On the cusp of a startled moan at one point in the exam, Bucky shoots him a weird look, his fingers uncurling then curling again into a tight hold where they’re holding hands, but… nothing more than that. Maybe Steve imagined it? Hopefully, he imagined it! It is possible he made it up because, y’know, Bucky’s a little too busy with his own shit anyway. Tongue-tied and not looking to make conversation about a strange reaction on Steve’s part.
Hopefully.
That’s what Steve clings to, thinking just get through it, just get through it, just get through it without moaning yourself raw, c’mon, just get through it—
Pleasantly, Steve has witnessed the recovery time Bucky requires after each appointment, check-up, and so forth has shortened over the relatively short period of time—it’s only been a few months. And it’s early evening by the time Bucky’s visible shutters and slight teeth-chattering have stopped. He isn’t gazing quite so emptily at the walls, either. That’s always a good sign. It’s really, though, Bucky’s voice that means he’s feeling better—
Often, Steve doesn’t expect Bucky to string together words at all, generally speaking. There is no pressure from Steve for him to fill the silence; he’s simply, genuinely thrilled to have Bucky in the same apartment as him. He doesn’t need to talk, too, not if he doesn’t want to or doesn’t feel like he can. It makes sense, anyway, that he’s been much quieter after everything, but remains especially silent after medical intervention. Sometimes, it’s a mental thing; other times, it’s a more physical component where they’ve administered a mild sedative so he stays awake but feels heavy and muddled, shrugging his shoulders more than talking. And, drugged to the gills, if he does at all, it comes out very slowly, only narrowly not biting his cheek or thick tongue.
“St-Steve?”
“Hmm, Buck?” Steve makes himself hum lowly rather than jolting in surprise, not expecting the sound of his voice. Consciously, he’s making an effort to make this all seem normal. They’re just people. Bucky is just asking him for something, using his name, and Steve is making their dinner, stirring a pot of sauce and meat over the heat on a slow simmer. Steve’s just a man. Bucky’s just a man. They’re normal, steady, and totally usual. Steve’s just fine, thinking about throwing in some chopped vegetables in the sauce from their fridge, he’s wondering if the noodles are done yet, he’s concerned about Bucky, but not showing it. He’s always thinking about Bucky anyway—if he expressed it whenever he thought about him, any normal, sane person would declare him deranged.
“I—you—”
The sounds of his socked feet (and what a revelation are socked feet, not fully booted feet, Bucky finally feeling safe enough not to be constantly dressed and ready to bolt) on the floor signal his further approach from the couch where he had been parked in front of the TV as if he were engrossed in a film, not nothingness, staring blankly at the empty screen. He’s coming into the kitchen, and over his shoulder, Steve hears him slump into one of the stools lined up at their small breakfast-bar-slash-kitchen counter.
“You,” Bucky starts again, “you didn’t have to do that for me.” He corrects himself after his own voice hits his ears, “you don’t have to.”
“Do what, Buck?” Steve’s careful to keep stirring. He doesn’t want to burn their dinner and, again, normalcy. It’s good for Bucky not to have Steve drop every single thing every single time he starts to speak as if it’s this huge event. Sometimes that kind of attention is too much. A lot of the time, it makes him lose his nerve and tongue, and he ends up re-forgetting whatever he was about to say.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Bucky’s flesh and blood hand flit through the air, as if he can pick the words out from the atmosphere. “Y’know,” he chews on his lip, struggling to capture the pesky, nebulous meaning he wants to express, “the, the appointments and things. You don’t have to come with me and—” under his breath, he grumbles the rest like an embarrassed teenager snarking at a parent, “do everything with me.”
“Do you not want me to go with you?” Steve keeps his tone neutral (even if comparing Bucky to a moody teen is, objectively, hilarious). Eventually, this will be a good thing. Bucky should have some independence. He needs that. Steve just… he isn’t in a rush for selfish reasons, he would love to be glued to Bucky’s hip at all times, and because he doesn’t want it to come too soon. What if they force that independence before he’s ready, forcing it, and it ends up biting him in the ass, causing him to regress with whatever looming bad experience that’d create?
“Yuh-nn—” he stops himself, caught between what sounds to be a ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ correcting to the path instead to, “you shouldn’t have to.”
“Why not?” Steve turns his head to the side, still mostly focused on the hot stove but all too interested in what Bucky has to say. He wants the fullest picture he can have, even if it may take a while with Bucky stuttering and struggling for words. He’ll wait. He’s good at being patient when it comes to Bucky.
“‘Cause… ‘cause I know how much,” Bucky sets his jaw, his chin jutting forward, “well, you know how I feel about doctors,” he spits out the word with venom.
It hangs in the air: doctors. And, fuck, every agonizing detail Steve had to gather about Bucky’s history with HYDRA rushes to the forefront of his mind all over again, bringing with it a torrent of tears Steve, right now, refuses to let fall. With his enhanced memory, he sees his hands shaking, holding the crushed, shredded, and molded accounts on forgotten sheets of paper from HYDRA bases they busted and neatly typed reports from Natasha, translated from documents she uncovered or heard from connections she used to rely on as a gun-for-hire. He smells the mold. He tastes the horror coating his tongue. He hears the busted pipes drip-drip-dripping, the concrete and rebar groaning, and the wind howling in agony for Bucky, whipping through the abandoned buildings. A montage of terror of what doctors and scientists and handlers forced him to be. Doctors.
“Yeah, Buck, I know,” Steve encourages him, snapping himself out of the depths of his crystal-clear memory.
“And,” he hesitates for a moment, then, thankfully, gets to the heart of the matter, “I, I can’t ask you to hurt yourself for me.”
Taking the sauce off the direct heat, Steve turns around. Moderate speed. Not defensive or looking to get Bucky in trouble. Normal. Cool. Fine. He croaks, eyebrows drawing together, “why would it hurt me?”
Bucky gives him a look, squinting as he grumbles, “aren’t I supposed to be the one with the brain damage here, pal?”
Steve barks out a laugh. The words come out of Bucky’s mouth shockingly clear, unmuffled, un-stuttered, moved by the strength of the frustration he clearly feels, having to deal with Steve’s shit.
“My bad,” Bucky rolls his eyes, pushing forward, “you were born with brain damage—can’t fix stupid.”
Steve squawks good-naturedly, trying not to flick sauce all over their stove (and himself) as he slowly spoons the cooked and drained noodles in. His ‘offended’ complaints only last so long, though, breaking down quickly and leaving him to chuckle pleasantly—
“Maybe I am stupid, but you’re an idiot,” Steve says over his shoulder, almost done mixing the two pots together, “and a bad communicator, mister—” he rags, sticking his tongue out, not worrying about Bucky taking him seriously, he doesn’t mean it “—‘cause I have no idea what you’re getting at.” With the concoction mixed together satisfactorily, Steve places it back on the flicked-down heat before facing Bucky, turning his whole body and stepping forward in his direction. Their dinner can wait; a little extra cook time won’t hurt it.
“You should get your ears checked,” Bucky responds petulantly, before he more clearly asserts, “I’m sayin’ that you got your own fucked up shit with doctors and I don’t want you to make yourself feel like shit ‘cause I gotta. You’re healthy as a horse and all that, there ain’t no need for you to follow this sick puppy to the vet.”
The Brooklyn twang comin’ out of his handsome mouth is so achingly familiar and sweet, Steve almost loses the words themselves swaddled as they are within it. His brain stutters, leaving them in silence for a split second, then, by the time his subconscious catches up, Steve is blushing. And he knows he’s blushing because, instantly, he can feel the hot rush of a wildfire spreading by angry tempest currents, unchecked and ready to burn down his throat to his chest.
“I,” Steve opens his mouth, having no idea what he’s going to say or where he’s going with it, “uuh, um, I, uhh, I—”
Bucky watches him suffer, tripping and falling over his own tongue with a smirk on his handsome face. “Brain damage, see?” He teases, raising his eyebrows at him.
Steve finally gets out something close to coherent, “it’s fine.”
“Clearly not,” Bucky deadpans, calling him on his bullshit.
“Okay,” Steve blanks, “okay.” He’s trying to reassure himself and find a way to get out of this embarrassing-as-fuck situation, “I, I, um, it’s not but it’s not not fine.”
“What does that even mean?”
Rust in his throat, he weakly tries, “you don’t gotta worry about me, Buck.”
“Too late,” Bucky crosses his arms, stonewalling him.
It’s a very rare thing for Bucky to out-stubborn him, but… today will clearly be one of those days. ‘Cause Steve tries to get away by stepping across the kitchen and gathering a pair of plates for them, only for Bucky to catch him by the arm before he can walk past him toward the table to set up for dinner.
“Not so fast, Rogers,” he mumbles, a hand squeezing around his bicep and pulling him in closer, capturing him in his gravitational pull so Steve’s helpless not to lean into him, shoulder to shoulder. “We’re having a conversation, you lecture me about those all the time. Both of us gotta talk. I know you know what.” Just then, lower, in that smoother voice that Steve can hear echoing through all his memories before the war, charming and fucking impossible to have any resistance to, Bucky murmurs, “c’mon, babydoll, what’s’it? What’s goin’ on?”
Steve highly doubts Bucky knows he’s doing it, rattled as he is after medical intervention these days, talkin’ all nice and ducking his head down like Steve’s still smaller than him, standing beneath him, craning his neck to look up at him. For his voice to turn sweet like that, Bucky’s body must just take over, some kind of muscle memory buried deep, deep inside him. Here and now, in the 21st century, post-serum, Bucky’s slate grey eyes have to look up to meet his—sitting while Steve stands—yet those pretty eyes remain coyly shy and shaded by his dark eyelashes.
God.
It hits Steve in the chest. Devastatingly. He’s never met anyone so charming as Bucky.
And so it’s not wonder his words, in automatic response, come out just as faded and historic, “it ain’t normal but…” he wets his lips, eyes helplessly stuck on Bucky’s pretty eyes, dragging up from the floor to meet the insistent smolder of them, “you don’t haveta worry about me. It’s not exactly a hardship fer’ little ol’ me.”
Bucky squints at him, not understanding. Subconsciously, he leans forward, too, curious as he’s always been.
No matter—Steve keeps spilling his secrets, voice soft and weak against his lover, coming out as a whisper just for the two of them, “‘m sorry, Buck, but for as bad as doctors make you feel, they make me—” exactly then, totally involuntarily, while he’s searching for how to more eloquently, sensitively say as much pain as they create for you, they create pleasure for me, Steve shudders. Visibly, uncontrollably, he’s wracked by tremors. He can’t help but bite his lip, too, cushioning and stifling a particularly breathy, lush exhale. They were just at the doctor's this afternoon. The memory—the sensations are fresh.
He can’t help it.
Good for something, at least with his mortifying little display, Bucky seems to get it, his eyes sharp and head cocking to the side. He may as well ask, big eyes and eager voice, really!? He doesn’t have to say a damn thing; they’ve long since been able to converse without opening their mouths.
Weakly (and still nonverbally), Steve coughs forcefully into his fist and nods despite himself. If he thought he was blushing before, it’s nothing compared to now. All that heat and color is a torrent, ripping through him—his toes must be tinted pink, dyed tip to tail. There’s gotta be more fucking embarrassment inside him than blood at this point.
In response, Bucky’s hand shifts higher up his arm, his thumb almost in his armpit, rubbing back and forth, barely not tickling him, instead leaving Steve on cruel edge, “you’re serious?”
Steve shifts, just shy of squirming on his feet. So fucking bashful, withering with his hands curling to loose, sweaty fists while his knees turning to water. The highest volume he can manage is barely a whisper, “why would I lie about it?”
“Dunno,” Bucky answers just as low, keeping his hand on his body and bringing his other one to join the party, too, landing on Steve’s hip even as he leans back, shying away with weak knees. Chasing him— hunting him. It takes Bucky just a second before his lips curl back into a breathtaking smile—who knew all it took to cheer up his fella was to admit the deepest-held secret he has? if he did, he woulda done it sooner… maybe… probably. he’d do anything for him—“we’re a goddamn pair, aren’t we?” He jokes, abruptly back to talking at regular volume.
With him (like always), Steve bark-laughs, unexpecting the humorous take. They are. They so fuckin’ are. Bucky hates it more than anything, and Steve… his body prickles with electricity at the mere suggestion… Steve likes it way fucking more than he should.
At least Bucky didn’t make me say it out loud, Steve has the thought precisely one second too soon—
‘Cause Bucky is seamlessly getting up off his stool and stepping into his space, bodily pressing against his chest, warm and insistantly pushing him back until he can pin him to the solid countertop and rattle-proof cabinets, “so,” he asks once he has him truly cornered, Cheshire cat grin evident on his pretty face, “what about doctors do it for you, champ?”
There’s that Brooklyn charm again.
Oh, god.
Sputtering, Steve’s whole mind goes blank yet again, providing him with a whole lot of fuckin’ nothing before unhelpfully launching into a full-out assault of memory after memory, layering them together into one huge rush of latex gloves, impersonal yet intimate touch that brings such sensation, everything from pain to pleasure with the gaps filled in by discomfort, hyperawareness, and everything, every inch of his body, being treated like more of an object or learning tool than a human being—just a prop begging for the clinical stares that glide across his skin. All that and more. There’s always more. Each time Steve thinks he knows what’s coming, what examinations, tests, and scans they’re going to order, there’s something else. Medicine is ever-evolving and, seemingly, always growing more erotic.
An ideal, torturous example is the differences between something as simple as taking his temperature: it has become so much sharper and more intense over his time. It was, of course, humiliating to be an ill teenager then a sickly young adult going into the doctor to have a thermometer shoved up his ass, but, oddly, there’s something worse about later having to face the examiner and confront them as it happens. He never had to see their face before; he’d just bend over, and it would happen. He could think of anything else. But…
During the war and now, they ask him to open wide and lift his tongue, placing it underneath the wet muscle and making him hold it there, facing him closely, rawly, looking at his stupidly glazed eyes and out-of-it expression while he tries not to drool. And the rarer gun-looking, infrared thermometer used occasionally today, which is supposed to be less invasive, but is even more so for Steve. They point it at the center of his forehead and stand there. Waiting for it to be done. Meanwhile, Steve can feel it across his skin.
They always shoot him with it at the beginning of an exam, it’s one of the first things beyond height and weight, and so every time he feels his eyes start to glaze in trained response. He reacts to anyone in a lab coat and scrubs. Anyone. Any test. And he fucking loses it despite trying not to. Nothing even happens. It’s just his temperature! They don’t even really touch him. He just can’t help it! And how humiliating is it for the new technology to be so sensitive that they take it once and then again, because already his temperature is climbing, physically hot for it, and the infrared can detect that minutiae.
It’s humiliating—it’s exhilarating.
A rusty laugh shakes Steve out of his stupor, “c’mon now, baby, what about it? Where’d you just go?”
Steve blinks. Once, twice, and a third time. Clearing his vision of salacious memories before the sobering heat of Bucky’s gaze washes over him, bringing with it an intense coat of color—a bright red. He forgot Bucky was right there. The awareness that he is, though, god, it isn’t good for that embarrassment he was just thinking of. His humiliation is barely contained under the surface, bleeding across his muscles and through his dilated veins, flushing his skin, admitting more than enough for him to be guilty no matter what words curl off his tongue.
“I—” Steve can’t hardly get out a single word before he’s strangled and trails off. His eyes are watering, and his mouth is dry. Jesus Christ, he’s a mess. “I,” he tries again, swallowing, trying to bring up words, something, anything, to explain himself. “I don’t know,” his voice is more whine than anything else.
“You do,” Bucky’s hands rub comfortingly on his hips, keeping him stuck where he has to face him and admit it like a man.
Dammit.
“What about it?” Bucky urges. “I, uh, I don’t remember anything funny about you comin’ home from the doctor when you were small,” he murmurs, an offering in exchange for more details from Steve. Maybe. Or, perhaps, he just knows all of Steve’s weaknesses. ‘Cause Steve can’t hold up against that. He wants Bucky to remember everything he can, and if Steve can help fill in the gaps, of course, he’s going to.
“No, no, you’re right, it didn’t start happening until after the serum,” he licks his lips, taking the pause as a moment to attempt (and fail) to collect himself. His volume grows, back to regular speech, “I think it’s that the serum made me too sensitive, like, every part of me, y’know? And—”
Bucky nods, urging him on, tragically not caring that he might be killing him, making him have a discussion about it, making him blush so hard his fucking face feels swollen, making him relive every delicious detail, and making him, making him, making—
Just. Guh.
“I don’t know,” his heart pounds, he can’t stop saying that, but it’s because it’s too true, he doesn’t know, it just happens. There isn’t an explanation he’s allowed himself to come to; he can’t hardly think about it, let alone probe deeper about why. “I think, maybe,” he licks his lips, “maybe, it’s that doctors touch you all over and the first people to touch me after the serum were doctors and nurses when I was so…” involuntarily, his body shivers harshly, “sensitive?”
Bucky’s mouth twitches at the corners, mischievous, “you sayin’ you imprinted on those poor doctors like a big, buff duckling?”
Steve chuckles despite himself, “maybe?” He shrugs, “I really don’t know, Buck.” His face burns. “I think it did somethin’ to me at least. I was all…” he waves a hand around his head, struggling to find words for it, “out of it? I guess? I didn’t know what was happening, but they were so determined and seemingly knew everything, not caring that I didn’t, I didn’t have a say, they just kept—” Steve shudders again, knowing Bucky feels it, pressed bodily against him. He’s an earthquake hardly contained, seconds away from crumbling and grinding his half-hard cock into Bucky’s hip “—kept, just, just, y’know, touching me, finding all these places I’d never paid any attention to before but suddenly felt so good. I mean, honestly, it all feels good, so it wasn’t that hard. But, I don’t know,” he shrugs one more time, almost whining, pouting at Bucky. Then, finally, he recalls, “I didn’t have to do anything but lie there and take it.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, smirking at him, laughing along with him but not at him as he murmurs, “sexy.” Just lay back and take it, doin’ none of the work yourself, ya’ greedy bastard, Bucky doesn’t have to say it for Steve to hear it.
“Shuttup,” he mumbles without heat, pouting, thumping his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he didn’t realize until he quit talking how hard he’s breathing—chest heaving, panting, just, anything but calm and collected.
Unbothered by the harsh way he’s trying to suck in oxygen to fan the combusting flames inside his tight chest, Bucky lifts his chin and lushly kisses the expression off his face, sufficiently adding to the heat of his embarrassment by turning him on so fucking bad.
Eagerly, Steve leans into it with all his weight behind his mouth. Foolishly, he assumes they’re done and Bucky will let him off the hook, instead of talking, getting to fall into messy, mouth-to-mouth necking. The kind of kissing where they don’t stop to breathe and it’s so harsh, hard-pressed and good. More focused on devouring each other than just kissing.
But. No such luck. Of course not.
After only a handful of all-consuming seconds, Bucky peels them apart; not far, just enough to breathe, hardly enough to break the chain of spit that stretches between their swollen lips. In the scant inch of space, his eyes flick up and down Steve’s hot face, searching, looking for something. Steve’s arousal must be scribbled all over his dumb expression because Bucky’s insistently asking, “but what about it, doll?”
His buzzing, wanting lips fall open stupidly.
Naturally, though, Bucky knows what’s about to come out of his mouth before Steve knows, cutting him off from a dazed, useless all of it, I dunno, just, touching me, all over, everywhere, to ask further, “they touched you, yeah, but what specifically?”
Mutely, Steve shakes his head. All of it. He doesn’t know! It’s, just, the whole package.
Everything.
Anything.
Devious and motivated to get what he wants, Bucky leans in, smearing sizzling kisses up his jaw to whisper in his ear, “what makes your heart race just thinking about it. I’m not talkin’ being in the moment. What makes you hot when you think about it, when you see it on TV, or when you walk past it in the store?”
Steve’s brain fucking scrambles.
Damn.
The picture Bucky paints—masterfully depicting Steve as a fucking unhinged fetishist, unable to help himself, not in the scenario itself with people but around objects. Forget his face being hot with his shame, his entire body is glowing red. ‘Cause it’s true. His head is full of cut-and-paste images. Moments. Objects. And to exacerbate his delicate condition, his desperate mortification and thick lust are not at all helped by Bucky’s hands suddenly creeping back from his hips to grope his ass. With demanding handfuls of the curves of his backside, Bucky guides and forces Steve to grind against him, dick-to-dick.
Fuuuck.
“Buck!” He breathes, his eyes helplessly rolling back into his head.
“C’mon, honey, tell me,” he urges, too damn smooth—lips drawling, hips rolling.
What makes my heart race even when it’s not attached to a moment or to a particular nurse or doctor? What, what-? Steve’s so weak he plucks the first semblance of a thought that comes, not stopping to process what it means before he’s speaking it out loud. “Gloves,” he gasps suddenly.
“Hmm,” Bucky hums, kissing the hinge of his jaw in sloppy, hot reward. “The blue ones?” He needlessly clarifies, doing it just to ruffle Steve’s feathers even fucking more.
Nodding urgently, Steve finds that words suddenly can’t keep themselves in his mouth, spilling out in a rush, “the latex ones. They’re so smooth and cold, and just the sound of them, Buck—”
“—Cause you know touch is coming?” Bucky finishes his ragged-with-want sentence.
“Yes!” Panting, Steve involuntarily grinds more against him, humping, defiling his hip and upper thigh, “and, and, it’s not, it’s—the attention,” his face is on fire, admitting all this, private and sinful, “I can’t do anything about it, I can’t get away, I can’t get closer, and they’re so scrutinizing yet they don’t care about me. They care about my body. They, I’m, I’m not important to them. I’m just a body, just curious numbers in whatever test they decide amongst themselves that, that they’re guh-gonna run. It’s, it’s how I’m a thing. A prop. They don’t always ask to touch me, but they dooo,” he whines.
“Yeah?” Bucky agrees, going on, encouraging him almost like he’d talk to a dog, hyping him up, “an’ they touch you all over, don’t they? They run their gloved hands down your whole body and are so cold to you, aren’t they?”
“Yes! Hands—their, their hands, ohmygod, Buck,” the words come like he’s begging, except Steve doesn’t know what he’s begging for. More pleasure? More embarrassment? More? “There are always so many of them, too. T-touching me and staring at me, and I can’t do anything. I can’t get away and curl up or anything. I just have to take it. It’s so clinical and colddd. Th-they talk about me like I’m a thing, like I’m numbers, like I can’t feel any of it.”
“Is it their stethoscopes, too, then? Those fuckers are always so cold,” Bucky chuckles. And Steve knows why he’s laughing because, to Bucky-? To Bucky, it’s a fucking annoyance on a good day and a nightmare on a bad day. He has no idea, no conceptualization, of what the fuck Steve is on about. It’s humiliating. He’s so fucking weird. But—
He can’t help it.
He can’t help it.
It drives him crazy.
He is raw with lust.
“Yeah, yes, anything,” he insists, hardly pausing to breathe between words, leaving him so jumbled and near incomprehensible, “anything. Everything. The equipment, too. I just like it. I dunno, Buck. I like it,” he swallows, basically pleading, telling him, “I really like it.”
Bucky catches him, digging his perfectly mismatched organic and metal hands harshly into his stuttering, jerking hips to hold Steve’s erection tight to his body, making Steve feel, sobered, how it throbs meaning Bucky absolutely feels it against his hip, too. The twitching, jerking, pulsing. “You like lying back and letting them do all the work, huh?” His smirk is wolfish. “Givin’ yourself away, you don’t gotta care or even listen, ‘cause half the shit they say sounds like another language, don’t it? All these strangers working you over, making you shiver and shake, but you gotta stay there and be nice and still for ‘em, don’t’chu, darlin’?”
Steve nods fervently, desperate to bury his face in the curve of Bucky’s neck and hide from his own monsterously needy urges. But Bucky won’t let him go, sparing one steady hand to cradle Steve’s shaking jaw and staring into him. Steve feels hollowed. There is nothing left inside him but the rushing throb of arousal pumped through his veins. Molten hot. Dangerously thick. Every pound of his heart is need, need, need.
Bucky laughs at what he can obviously see inside him, knowing him, “goddamn, baby.” He sinks his sharp teeth into the lush pillow of Steve’s bottom lip, pulling it back just to let it slip from between his teeth, smacking audibly, erotically back against Steve’s lower teeth. “You make a doctor’s visit sound like a fuckin’ orgy,” he growls, “an’ wouldn’t that be somethin’? They all take their cocks out and test your pretty mouth’s ability to service ‘em.”
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah. Wouldn’t that be fucking something? Wouldn’t it?
Steve can not stand it for a single goddamn second longer.
“Please,” he whines with everything he has, grinding harder against Bucky.
Bucky’s hands aren’t even on his ass anymore! He’s not forcing him to hump himself silly; it’s all Steve’s doing—his fault. Bucky’s hands are squeezing his jaw and little waist, and Steve’s the one acting so crazed and needy. All on his own. Dammit. He feels insane. And before the night’s out, he will die of embarrassment. What else is there? He has to. He can’t deal with this. But it doesn’t fucking matter because Bucky’s the one who set the fire inside him, and Steve is just burning, burning, and burning. This is only gonna end when the wooden beams of his bones burn down and he collapses, a building no more.
“Nah,” Bucky grabs his hips, stilling him just for long enough to take the edge off, “I don’t think I got everything I want outta you yet. You can’t have it.”
Steve sobs. He didn’t even realize he was so close until it was taken away. He wanted to cum! He wants to cum! He wants it so badly he can taste it.
Fuck.
It’s miserable not to be allowed what he needs.
“You like it when they’re all cold to you?”
God, Bucky’s gonna harp on this, isn’t he? He’s going to keep going and going until it kills Steve. There’s no way he’s letting this go. Fuck me! He thinks incomprehensibly, lips wobbling with the weight of his delicious anguish. All there is to do is surrender. He can’t fight. Not like this.
So, Steve nods, his heavy, panting silence turning into a stifled, animal whine when Bucky suddenly wraps a fist around his cock, delving into his khakis and deciding to have his way with him. Just because he can.
Guh.
His rough, calloused fingers slide up and down Steve’s desperately hard shaft, his thumb rubbing across his leaking slit, playing with the head where he’s so sensitive he wants to shriek. Every stroke makes his balls draw tighter and tighter, the tangle of need inside him pulling into a larger, tighter knot. He’s never coming undone. Bucky’s not gonna let him.
“What about it?” Bucky demands to know, pulling the details from between his clenched teeth and warbling throat—so mean. “Does it make you shiver?”
“Uh- huh,” Steve clings to his words like he’s a drowning man. He is. It’s all he has. The only thing he can make sense of. Bucky is the one holding the life preserver and the one pushing him beneath the surface. “M-mmakes me—makes me shiver and it’s, oh,” his forehead presses harshly into Bucky’s shoulder, grinding, needing an outlet while he’s jerked off because cumming isn’t it. He wants that release; he can feel it, but he can’t have it. “It’s the… the contrast,” unable to breath, Steve’s head spins, the oxygen-deprivation getting to him terribly, wearing him down, “their hands all over me, making me so hot, but they don’t quit touching me with all this cold equipment, never warning me, jus’ doing it, an’, and I just have to lie there and take it and hope I’m not humiliating myself by reacting inappropriately to it.” He can’t finish his words, but if he could, he would confess on his knees, he is, he does. He humiliates himself. There’s no way he can’t not react so stupidly inappropriately.
“Yeah,” Bucky chases him, stripping his cock and squeezing it until Steve sees stars burst behind his squeezed-shut eyelids, “and they do it head to toe, don’t they? Scrutinizing you.”
Steve shivers head to toe, at the same time lost to the examinations Bucky’s making him relive and so achingly aware of how raw Bucky is jerking him, slick with nothing but his sweat and copious amounts of pre-cum in this exact moment. “‘S cold,” he howls despite burning alive.
“I bet,” he grins sharkishly, shaking his head like he can’t believe him, regardless of how obviously true and real this is for him. “What’s your favorite part?” Bucky murmurs, “c’mon,” he smacks his dick, just enough, his balls held that might tighter to his feverish body by arousing fear, “what is it?”
Steve makes this stupid, high, involuntary sound, squeezed out between his clenched teeth. He goes for the easiest answer—the only one that’s true. “Everything.”
“Nah, c’mon,” Bucky’s hand shakes his throat, collaring the pale skin and roughing him up, it feels so good, “if you wanna cum, you’re gonna have to do better than that. If you’re having trouble thinkin’, though—” huh, why, oh why, could he be having trouble thinking? It’s not like his long-time lover is jerking him off, talking to him about his most intense kink(? Is that what this is? A kink? A fixation? He doesn’t even knowwww), pushing him closer and closer to the edge without letting him fall over it and crash into the highest pleasure. He’s dragging it out, thinning him down, pulling him apart at the seams “—I’ll be specific, what about that first time? What got you so good?”
“Everything,” Steve stresses, voice breaking, no, shattering. “Ohgod, everything, Buck.” He convulses, his breath shaking, too, as he tries and fails to fill his lungs amid the earthquake possessing him. There is nothing inside him except for throbbing, molten lust, filling every inch of his useless, hollowed-out body. “Thought they rewired everything to go straight to my d-dick!” He whimpers.
“Maybe they did,” he teases, “you thought you were becoming the perfect soldier, but really they made the perfect blow-up doll.”
A blow-up doll.
A sex toy.
Ah, a, a—
Put to fucking shame, Steve just wordlessly wails.
It’s only after more choking, hurting, pleasurable squeezing stroke to his sensitive cock that he manages, “i-iit-it, ahh, it waz’like they wanted to touch every—every single inch of mee. They didn’t stop. They wouldn’t. They didn’t even ask!” Tears burn his eyes, the memory is so intense, and his body is begging him to let go of some, of any, of the pressure inside him and just cry. “Thought it was gonna kill me,” he confesses, meaning every frantic, slurred word. “My skin was on f-fire. It was like—it felt like burnin’ alive, and they were just watching, all of ‘em throwing a log on the fire, wanting to see more smoke. ‘Specially when—” he has to stop, it’s so intense, besides, he can’t admit that out loud.
He can’t.
“When what?” Bucky stops stroking him. Torturing him. And instead, he just tightens his fist around the base of his throbbing, pulsing cock. Choking him. Demanding he listen. There is nothing else. Bucky holds all control over him.
Steve chokes on his own spit, drowning—dying.
“I’m so serious, Rogers,” Bucky viciously pulls Steve’s head back by the blond shock of his sweat-damp hair, making his neck arch so intensely the tendons and muscles in his neck scream, begging for mercy as his body disintegrates, “tell me.”
What can Steve do but obey? He’s good. He’ll do anything, anything Bucky asks.
And even while melting alive under the blow torch of embarrassment, he replies, lips tingling, “th-they checked my prostate.”
If Steve’s eyes fucking worked and weren’t smeared by his all-consuming, all-denied pleasure, they would meet the wicked, shit-eating grin of the millennia, “ya’mean they finger fucked you silly?”
There the tears are.
“Yess,” he whines, sputtering and choking as hot, wet tears rush down his bright red, humiliated face, “the doctor fingered me, he, he thought m’prostate felt s-swollen, I think? ‘S hard to remember why. I don’t knoww. Don’t remember. Can’t!”
Bucky chuckles, dark and dangerous.
The sound is so arousing to Steve that he shoves his head harder into his lover’s unforgiving hold, begging him to be meaner, even though—especially because—it hurts. Mortifyingly, Steve’s lips are nowhere near as tight as his neck, spilling over like his wet eyes, rambling, “he, jus’, kept fingering me. Forever. I came so much. Came all over myself and made a huge mess. He didn’t stop. I’d never emptied so much. Didn’t know a body could do that. Didn’t know my body could do that, feel like that, itfeltsogood.” Steve wants to slap a hand over his own mouth and fucking stop, but he can’t. It’s been said. It keeps being said. He can’t shut the fuck up, leaking from his mouth, from the tip of his twitching, rock-hard cock, and from the watery blue of his eyes. He said it. He says it. It’s so over, his eyes rolling back into his head just thinking about it—what he’s done, what has been done to him.
And Bucky just fucking hums.
“Buck—Bucky. Bucky,” Steve paws uselessly at him, his head tipped back and his eyes rolled, blind and crazed, he’s both high on the memory and high on his lover right here, concretely in front of him, actively murdering him. “Pleasepleaseplease, don’t tease, you gotta lemme cum. Ngh-need to cum. Want it s’bad. ‘M so worked up. T-too. Too worked up. Need it!”
“Oh, I know you are, baby, I fuckin’ know you’re worked up,” Bucky cruelly mashes Steve’s poor weeping cock back against the flat, smooth muscle below his naval just to make his point. His fingers squeezing and massaging it. Both of them can feel how fucking engorged he is. Solid and hot. “But I need to know some more before I think about letting you off the hook here. What else?” He slaps his desperately hard cock back against his taut belly, hitting it once, twice, and—
Howling, Steve fucking collapses, his sweaty face smearing down Bucky’s shoulder to bury itself in his armpit. He has to curl around his cock and protect it. It fucking hurts. Steve doesn’t, can’t, comprehend the difference between white-hot pain and searing pleasure, though.
There is nothing else but pleasure. Everything good is good, everything bad is unfathomably good.
He has no secrets, no thoughts, no nothing.
“What other kind’a tests wind you up?” Bucky clarifies, knowing he’s too stupid to get it.
And, of course, Steve can’t process the words for shit.
So, Bucky has to spell it out for him, “what else?” He tugs on his balls so good that Steve whines like a kicked puppy, gritting his teeth and biting Bucky, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his fevered sweat, nose to the thatch of hair under his arm, seeking shelter as Bucky strips it away. “I bet you fucking like it when they fuckin’ grab your balls and make you turn your head and cough, huh?” Steve sobs. “Let see…” he clicks his tongue, “how about when they gotta look in your mouth? They make ya’ open wide and have you say ‘ahh?’”
Steve shudders, twisting and convulsing under his arm. Only held up because Bucky has propped him up. Steve’s melted, once-upon-a-time muscular body has no strength.
“Yeah, honey,” honey, honey, he pronounces the pet name like he’s being sweet to Steve and he is, in the fucking cruelest way, “they press down on your tongue with one of those sticks and you just about cream your panties, don’t you? Can’t have anything on your tongue without your dick getting hard, can you?”
Steve nods. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know what response he’s supposed to have. He, just, yes.
YES!
FUCK ME!
Urged on by Bucky’s heated ramblings, Steve spills, “bluh-uh, uhhh—blood draws.”
With his grin audibly growing wider and wider, Bucky struggles to get a hold on his writhing, sweaty body, “really?” He sounds fucking thrilled.
And just like that, Steve has stepped over a fatal line he didn’t realize was there. Yet, he doesn’t give a shit. Not anymore. Not when he feels like this.
“Oh, your wires really are crossed, aren’t they?”
Steve doesn’t need his enhanced senses to hear what Bucky’s not saying, ‘ oh, you’re really fucked up, aren’t you?’ And he helplessly whimpers against the onslaught of emotion that brings, the sound jerked higher and all the more sharp by his frantic nodding.
Then, without waiting to be urged back into the conversation with his broken, panting additions that are hardly useful, Steve blubbers, “I, I can feel it pulling the blood out of my body. ’S all hot and thic’ and makes me feel like ’m hard.”
Bucky cackles, “holy shit.”
In the same goddamn breath, his lover stops pulling and twisting his tight, sore balls and choking the base of his aching cock and torturing him so hard and he starts jerking him faster instead. Quicker and slicker, spitting in his palm lewdly, loudly, to jack him off so good it hurts. Steve’s wires are crossed, just like he said—like he knew. He’s been steeped in so much delicious denial, so much wonderful hurt, that now that he’s not hurting, he doesn’t recognize the feeling. The pleasure is painted thickly against his skin like pain. He’s sick. He loves it. He needs it. More of it. He needs more, more, more.
“You’re so easy, darlin’,” there’s more of that sting, right there in Bucky’s basement-deep, smooth voice, fuuck, “they don’t even gotta fuckin’ put in work to get you off. They just slap on gloves and take a little blood, and you’re gone. You precious little flower.”
Steve whines, he can’t help it, his head spinning with how close Bucky is to calling him a pansy. It should hurt. It does. But it doesn’t hurt the same as it did coming out of someone else’s mouth. It hurts good. His hips jack-knife into Bucky’s fist, chasing pleasure.
“You’re easy for it. Yeah, yeah,” faster, tighter, and slicker with more spit and more dripping, overflowing pre-cum, he jerks him off like he wants him dead. “Look at yourself right now, babydoll,” he demands. Steve, with how stupidly aroused he is, does. Out of his own body, he stares down at himself, shivering and shaking so hard his teeth chatter and his head lolls back. He’s gone and never coming back. “I don’t see any latex gloves in this room, I don’t see any white coats, no equipment either, we’re just talking and you’re leakin’ all over my hand, dripping down my wrist. If I let you cum, you would, wouldn’t you?”
Thoughtless, Steve begs with the last traces of strength, of brain power, of anything he has: “yes! Yes! Please! Let mmmmmgh—”
He has nothing.
And Bucky knows it. His begging is useless. He doesn’t need to beg. He doesn’t know what he needs, not like Bucky knows. And Bucky presses one of his spit-slick hands over his swollen, red lips, effectively muzzling him. No more meaningless, drooling words.
Steve—already barely able to comprehend up from down with his tear-stained, blurred vision—feels his eyes go double, painting two smeared, thick Buckys in front of him as his eyes cross and roll. His whole body goes with them, arching his spine like he can roll back into a little ball, breaking himself into tiny little pieces.
Too much.
Too good.
Bucky is still jerking him off. Hard, fast, wet.
Oh, god.
“Shhh,” Bucky grins meanly, keeping him quiet, “you don’t gotta beg,” he mocks Steve terribly, incredibly, “it’s not gonna make a difference.” He’s gone back now to stroking him impossibly slow, barely dragging his hand up and down his shaft, not paying anywhere near enough attention to the head, not tracing the throbbing lines of his engorged veins down his shaft, and not bothering to torture his drawn-up, taut balls. “I’m just gonna do what I need to do,” he tells him, “you don’t get a say. Just take it. I have data to gather and theories to put together and—”
Out of his body, out of his fucking mind, Steve can see Bucky has the worst, most shit-eating grin plastered across his devastatingly handsome face that Steve’s ever seen in his life. And. Worst of all? It’s working on him. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s doing it for Steve. He’s treating him like a prop. A medical prop. A lesson to be learned. A specimen to be explored. Exploited. Steve’s so exploited, held and worked like this, eyes crossing before rolling back into his head, sweating until he’s glazed with it, panting so hard he’s dizzy, every button not just hit but mashed. He’s, he, he—
Oh.
Ohgod.
Ohfuckme.
The whine that careens in a thin, unstoppable line out of Steve’s shattered body is impossibly shrill and embarrassing.
Bucky is continuing to stroke him desperately slowly. But. The way he’s talking? The secrets he’s reaching inside of his mouth and down his throat to find? His fist is a knot deep in his stomach, groping—punching around, finding and grabbing onto confessions Steve didn’t even realize he was keeping inside, vowing never to speak aloud until he is? He is! Bucky is pulling them out of him. Ripping. Steve is gagging around them, sputtering, gurgling, and spitting them out.
For Bucky.
He’s saying everything. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He can’t hear over the ringing and pounding and cacophony of pleasure in his ears. He’s rambling on about the perverse attention and inability to get away and how every test makes him feel, how it started immediately after the serum but didn’t dull during the war, when he was thawed, when he was put onto missions again, or now. It’s sharp. Fresh. Hot.
And.
Bucky fucking still isn’t jerking him off fast enough, he’s drawing it out, playing with him, fondling his balls like he’s examining them, and it isn’t enough, but—
‘Enough’ is utterly inconsequential when Steve’s body gives in.
And just like that, he’s spilling in all-consuming pumps over Bucky’s fist, painting his hand and wrist, and dripping over even more, spilling onto the floor because, fuck, it’s been an entire day of build-up—back up. He’s backed up, and it’s too much.
The pressure.
He shrieks from behind his teeth. High and raw but guttural, too. All at once.
All.
Everything.
From far off, ripped out of his corporeal form, Steve barely recognizes that his sudden, explosive, gutting orgasm has Bucky laughing. He only just hears it, and he’s sure, deaf to everything else, that Bucky’s teasing that he should’ve seen it coming, but still, damn, he wasn’t even trying to make him cum, he still had more he wanted out of him, and, oh well, they’ll just have to do this again.
Again.
Steve’s physical knees, just, can’t.
They won’t hold him up.
He melts into the floor and leaves. He leaves. Everything. Everywhere. He’s gone.
Notes:
Fuck yeah 😈 I am so thrilled to finally have Bucky more actively participating in this story! Hopefully, he was worth the wait, haha. How did you feel about this chapter? Did you enjoy the kink discussion through the lens of dirty talk, lol? Are you fucking excited for how Bucky is going to weaponize his new knowledge in the next chapter 👀
Chapter 5: 2017
Summary:
Immediately after coming home from a mission... Bucky had plans for Steve and his little kink...
≈19.0k words
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Returning from a mission always goes one of two ways: either Steve is so fucking ready to be home that the whole time they travel back, he’s buzzing, bouncing his knee, too prepared to be surrounded by his familiar four walls and furniture again, or Steve is so fucking beyond ready to be home that the whole time they travel back, he’s sitting perfectly still, his back rigid and straight, his eyes unmoving from a single spot on the quinjet walls, looking past the pit in his stomach that’s homesick, just wishing they were already there so he might crash and burn for the next 48 hours, sinking into his bed.
He’s closer to the first option, too ready to be home but excited about it, after a milk run mission—a short little “mission” that was actually just him sitting, bored out of his mind, in some dingy, rundown motel room, capturing intel (on not one or two but three different systems, just to be sure they don’t lose one shred of information if one of the systems failed or had issues). Meanwhile, Natasha was undercover and having all the fun to herself, outside that moldy, muggy motel room. He can’t blame her, though, not when he’s terrible undercover. She’s said it to his face, and he’s felt it himself, a terrible blush across his own face in the heat of the moment, not from the heat of the moment.
As anyone else (and even sometimes as himself), he’s always too awkward and big in his own body; it’s to the point that it’s like everyone he encounters while undercover can see him from miles away. And, while he can lie, absolutely, he’s capable (especially when it’s a lie that leads them toward the right thing), he’s not particularly good at lying on his feet. Natasha can breathe out lies without thinking and continue to add to them without stepping on her own feet, weaving and dancing among all these lines she’s drawn, keeping everything together in her mind. Steve feels, complicatedly, that Natasha is ‘better,’ faster, and more comfortable undercover than she is at being herself. It makes him melancholy, knowing some of her history but wondering all of how it got to be this way; it makes him overjoyed when she trusts him enough to show parts of herself to him, her soft, white underbelly seen in quick flashes at first, now he can coax her into lying down next to him for extended periods of time. Sometimes.
Right now, not undercover nor collecting intel, Steve’s ready to be home because he wants to fucking do something. Obviously, he was doing something, but letting a bunch of computer systems eat and file away data isn’t the same as punching Nazis with his bare fucking hands.
He wants to do something. But he already texted Bucky their approximate ETA and gave him the bare minimum information about how it all went, mostly just a promise that nothing, nothing went wrong. So, Steve just has to sit, bouncing his leg and squeezing his fists while Natasha flies the quintjet. At least, there’s no real way Steve could have gotten hurt this time around. No one breached the hotel room, not even close. Even Natasha isn’t bruised or scratched. Her cover never slipped, not until it was all over. So, at least when they arrive home, stepping off the quinjet onto the big, flat platform at the top of the Avengers Tower, there will be no one urging him to go straight to medical. Or, that’s what Steve thinks…
When Steve actually gets home, still suited up in his dark navy tac gear—muted-colored shield strapped to his back, thick, fingerless gloves pulled over his hands, zippers and latches closed tightly over his body, fully entombing him in Kevlar—he’s not sure what to say, sputtering, as Bucky pulls him urgently inside. His hands grab Steve by the straps of his shield harness and pull so hard, his entire body sways. Swoons. Steve hadn’t even been able to try the lock before Bucky busted through, door swinging open, hands outstretched, grabbing him by the waist, by the arm, by the uniform and wrestling him inside— luring him inside with a dangerously charming smirk thrown over his shoulder. His voice is as smooth as honey but hot, so fucking hot, as he claims Steve needs to be checked over now ‘cause he knows he hasn’t been yet.
“Buck—” Steve starts to protest, a hysterical laugh somewhere in his chest, confusion on his breath. He knows Bucky knows that he’s absolutely not hurt, and he knows Bucky knows how he feels about doctors. They’d had several encounters with it by now, his secret out in the open; these days, more often than not getting handsy after doctor appointments of all kinds, but also riling him up for the hell of it when Steve goes through a dry spell of doctors and Bucky doesn’t hesitate to tint his filthy mouth with medical jargon to get him off faster than he’d care to admit. So… what the fuck? What’s going on?
Bucky doesn’t listen to his half-hearted, confused complaint, nor does he give anything away more than that damn charming grin. He just keeps tugging him along, now his hands at his wrist, pulling him through their home, boots skittering over the slick wooden floors. The walls blur around him with Bucky’s rushing, and suddenly, he’s transported at warp speed to their home office.
Or… what used to be their home office.
Abruptly standing there, just beyond the doorway with his arms hanging at his sides, Steve barely comprehends Bucky over his shoulder, still in the hall after shoving him through. All Steve’s trying to do is figure out where everything went and what’s left. The other man is hollering that he’ll be right back, and then they can start working on getting him a check-up. But. Yeah. Steve has no idea what’s happening—what he means.
The small, square room has been stripped of all office-related items. Their messy desk with cups of pens (more, realistically, than two people could ever need, even when one of them is an artist), a petite houseplant (that Bucky single-handedly has kept alive, Steve’s pretty good at accidentally killing them), and too many wires between their computer, laptop chargers, keyboard, and mouse has disappeared. Too, the desk chair is gone, along with all the shelves and even the books that populated them. The framed art and calendar have been peeled off the walls, baring them. And—
It’s not a home office anymore, it’s just a white room with—
Oh.
Whirling around despite not going anywhere, just… standing. Just standing there as the room shifts and morphs around him, giving him whiplash, Steve realizes that there’s a big fucking wooden and white-leather table sitting in the center of the room. The piece of furniture is only joined by a pair of lone chairs at the farthest corner of the room. The table commands all attention, though. It’s. It, it’s clearly a piece of furniture from a doctor’s practice gone past. It’s old. Vintage, they say now.
Either way, it looks so fucking heavy with its warm, dark-colored wood cabinets, lacquered thickly, its bronze-looking metal knobs, its various other matching metal attachments, and its creme-white leather padding. Heavy. It gut-punches Steve’s awareness. It’s all he can see.
The big, monumentous vintage table is the only thing he can think about.
The leather part of the exam table is flat, but Steve sees that it has three distinct cushions with levers to adjust the angle on the side. The top(?) third of the upholstery has an almost full circle missing but not quite; the top of the circle has been cut off to make a straight edge, the entire perimeter a rectangle. It looks like a massage table. Kind of. It’s clearly not.
It’s… something.
Definitely, something, Steve swallows.
Further, there’s more metal, this metal less about handles for opening cabinets or adjusting the incline or decline of the leather, and more about… it’s. Just. It looks like restraints. Suppressing a shiver, Steve has no idea what for. They’re big, too big for wrists, and they’re not adjustable; not the loops of the metal, at least. The stems of the metal arms (that must not be for arms… right? unless-?) seemingly can raise or lower but not do much else. And, as he takes a fascinated step forward, he realizes there’s a drawer directly beneath the half-to-three-quarters missing circle. So. If it’s like a massage table—and that’s a big if—if… if your head hangs back there, does the drawer support your head? Steve squirms. Do your hands go through the metal loops? Do they restrain your wrists?
Is this a doctor’s table?
An exam table?
What the fuck else could it be for?
Steve has no idea what the table is for, other than clearly being medical in nature, but, just—
AH!
A knock on the door has Steve jumping about a fucking foot in the air. Along with the rest of his body, his heart leaps, lodging itself in the back of his throat to pound against his windpipe, reminding him of its thundering in his chest, as if he could forget. It’s all he can feel. Pounding, pounding, pounding. He’s trying to put together the pieces, heart racing and mind spinning out of control, attempting to see it from every angle.
But, oh, thank god, it’s just Bucky. He’s not sure who else would be rapping at their used-to-be office door, but stranger things have already happened today, let alone happened in his whole life. It’s a weird fucking life. And it’s just Bucky, so things can’t be that weird. It’s just—
Steve’s thoughts screech to a halt the moment the door creeaks open dramatically and he gets just a taste of who he thinks is behind that door.
…Is it?
Just Bucky?
Bucky, seemingly, peers around the square edge of the door at him, barely revealing anything. A sliver of the man Steve loves. His eyes are shifty with mischief, squinting at him as if he doesn’t understand, and his glossy brown hair is no longer down in flowing waves but thrown up into a messy bun that peeks out much farther than his face, tantalizing Steve.
The tone of his voice throws further shadows of mischief and confusion, elevating the narrowing of his eyes and accompanying divot between his eyebrows. He sounds so mixed up, “oh, Captain Rogers, excuse me. I thought you’d be ready already.”
“R-ready?” Steve repeats, just as bewildered as before, if not now more.
“Yes,” Bucky hums, his words clear and snipped, not unpleasant or annoyed but… professional. Talking as if anything about this is formal. “For your exam.”
And, ohh, everything comes together with a practically audible ding! in Steve’s head all at once. In bright shining lights, he thinks, oh, you idiot. Of course, Bucky didn’t mean a real check-up! How did you not realize that immediately!? The fuckin’ exam table should’ve been a dead giveaway! C’mon!
Still, dumbly, Steve stutters in response, “I, I’m, I’m not ready?”
“No,” Bucky laughs, sounding pleasantly amused as if he’s told a joke rather than being sweetly befuddled by the game he didn’t know they were playing, “I told you to get changed.”
Steve, out of habit, placed suddenly in the medical environment where he’s more used to being treated like an object than a human being with free will, doesn’t argue. Even if he’s lost, he’s not questioning Bucky—the professional, suddenly—he’s simply thinking, did you? I wasn’t really listening, I guess, so maybe you did. However, he does start to ask, change into what, though?
Yet, as if reading his mind, Bucky beats him to the punch before he can do more than stupidly let his mouth hang open, “I handed you your robe.”
Steve shrugs his shoulders, floundering, bringing both hands up, and being genuinely shocked to find that, oh, yeah, he does have a folded-up, cotton fabric johnny in one of his ever-so-slightly shaking hands. When did that get there? Even rewinding his perfect, eidetic memory, Steve can’t figure it out. He’s spinning too fast, drifting off untethered into a void of anticipatory arousal.
What’s happening?
What is Bucky going to do to him?
A faint, soft whimper—the kind of sound that only another enhanced human being can hear—rushes out of his open lips.
Then, of course, in flirtatious response, curling his lips and batting his lashes just past the edge of the door, Bucky asks, “do you need assistance getting out of your uniform, Captain? It does seem rather… tight.”
For the sudden change in setting, his tone is scandalous and inappropriate. Hearing it, taking it like a punch to the gut, Steve must be flushed scarlet. Yet, again, out of habit, he squeaks, “uhh, no!”
“Okay,” Bucky’s back to cheery, almost professional. There’s just this salacious, playful edge that’s ruining Steve. What would Bucky have done if Steve said yes, he did need help? It kills him, mouth watering, just thinking about it. “Just say so when you’re ready. I’ll wait right out here.”
The door shuts again.
He’s alone.
The atmosphere of the room stills, no less heavy, just immobile. He doesn’t move. Steve doesn’t move. And… Bucky doesn’t move, either. Nowhere. Right there. Just like he said he wouldn’t, waiting just beyond the wooden door, twiddling his thumbs or whatever, waiting for Steve to get naked and then get dressed again. He’ll hear every slide of fabric from Steve’s body, every exhale and intake of air, no matter how normal or ragged, and he’ll know every. single. thing. he does.
Because of that, the proximity of their bodies, Steve is overcome with ridiculous shyness. A blush creeps up from the pit of his stomach to his cheeks, even bleeding into the tips of his ears. He can feel the hot, rushing static of color tinting his pale, pale skin. It bewitches him, almost launching him into motion. He wants to squirm, to tighten into a ball, to hide, to—
Steve grits his teeth through a sound way too close to a whine. His embarrassment is fucking stupid. Bucky has seen him naked a billion and a half times. He’s seen him in every state from sickly thin, shivering outside death’s door, to freshly transformed, come into a body bigger than the fittest man either of them had ever encountered, thanks to the depression. Bucky loves either, both, of those states and everything between. There’s no need to cover and cower now. Even if he really, really feels like it, all pink and shivery around the edges.
So, without hesitating for another moment, Steve growls to himself, going in—stripping as quickly and efficiently as possible. A soldier’s strip. With his cowl already off, next comes the shield and harness, removed from his body and set aside, propped up against the wall and piled next to it. He doesn’t bother taking the step back to stand closer to the center of the room; instead, he lingers by the edge where he takes off his gloves, boots, and struggles out of the uniform top. The latches and zippers, meant to be hidden and overlapping to provide his armor with no weak spots, give him as much trouble as they always do, meaning he twists and stretches his thick muscles to reach, grunting with effort to wiggle out of his uniform.
But, then, relievingly with nothing on his upper half, bare and marked with goosebumps, Steve next unbuckles his heavy tactical belt and drops his pants. Red, impressed marks from the weight of it circle his hips, perpendicular to the lines of his Adonis belt and strike right through his dimples of Venus. Normally, he might waste a minute to rub his stained skin, but… he doesn’t make it, fingertips to flesh because… do I keep my underwear on?
Rather, his fingers catch on the elastic of his thin, tight briefs—the only kind that work beneath his skin-tight uniform without getting bunched up or riding up, no matter how mortifying it is to know that under all this butch armor and muscles he’s wearing less than what gals of his original time did and about the same as modern girls. He’s sure, standing alone, tracing the top line of elastic, he’s burning even redder. Brighter. Hotter.
He could, so as not to waste time and avoid all the rushing, surging questions and scenarios that swirl through his head—a twister in the making—call out and ask but… he’s much to embarrassed to call out and ask. He knows, he knows it’s just Bucky on the other side of the door and still. His heart races.
Staring down at himself, considering his briefs, he realizes he’s trembling. What if he calls out to ask, but the words don’t come fast enough, and Bucky thinks he’s ready and done and comes barging in? Seeing him red in the face, mostly naked, standing next to a pile of his thrown-down, unorganized clothes, and hard.
Shit.
He’s so hard.
When did he get that hard?
Hand hovering, no longer touching, Steve stops for one second to consider touching himself like that. Bucky never said he couldn’t? Bucky never said he could. Closer, he hovers, his bottom lip getting stuck between his teeth, vividly imagining wrapping his fist around himself, or, fisting himself as much as he can when trapped in his underwear—cupping, squeezing, rubbing himself, all sensitive and leaking, feeling the cotton of his briefs dragging against the aching tip of his cock and need throbbing through his engorged shaft, veins pulsing, and balls tight to his body with his briefs but also his own fucking lust. Steve’s eyes roll, just a little, back into his head. His imagination is so fucking intense, he can almost feel it already. He, he’s gonna, he—
He’s gonna tent the fuck out of the medical gown, Steve’s hit with a too-real thought. If he’s bulging his briefs like this, filling them out, his cock just barely staying inside them, begging to be touched and revealed… it’s gonna be so obvious in a johnny. Especially if he takes off his underwear. Then his cock will have no compression. Nowhere to hide. Just, just, jutting out, heavy and thick, throbbing, needing attention that Steve stubbornly refuses to give it.
Steve’s bitten lip can’t muffle the throaty, deep groan he gives. And he’s sure it’s audible to Bucky even through the door.
It’s not about Bucky, his partner, seeing him aroused and raring to go; it’s about the gut-twisting urge to hide. The humiliation of being unable to control himself without an acceptable explanation. Medical exams don’t turn normal people on—he’s not normal. He’s too much. A stiff fucking breeze could do it for him, and it’s shameful. He should learn to control himself. He’s a grown man. He, he—
With a swallow, desperate to stifle the breathless, panting exhale that wants to come out, bursting through his mouth, no longer biting or he’ll start bleeding, Steve decides to leave his briefs on. He has to.
Urgently, knowing he’s spent far, far too much time undressing, lost in his desperate, messy thoughts, Steve gets redressed at lightspeed, slipping into the medical gown and feeling a knee-weakening swoop in his gut at the familiar but far-off, “old-fashioned” style of medical gown that’s all cotton that had been, apparently, placed in his hands by Bucky.
Oh, god.
Steve can’t tell anymore if it is him, his poor knees, or if it’s the floor. He’s sinking into the floor, trembling and watery. He’s dizzy. One arm, then the other, sliding the open-backed gown into place, there’s no slick, ultra-light polyester here. It’s heavy on his skin, hanging over his shoulders and mounded pecs, dragging down long enough to brush his shins. It skims all of his skin, hiding the exact shape of his body modestly, except, of course, his bulging arousal. It’s obvious as ever.
But, with a stiff upper lip, desperate to not whine, Steve calls out, “ruh- ready!” His voice breaks. Great.
“Perfect,” Bucky echoes and steps inside, no hesitation, sweeping the door wide open. So open that the door hits the wall with a muffled thud and brings with it a cloud of cold air flooding into the tension-thick atmosphere of their office.
The goosebumps tightening even more, rising higher on his skin, isn’t the worry on Steve’s half-melted mind, though. Far from it. Bucky steps into view, swaggering and smooth, as always, and—
Steve’s jaw hits the fucking floor. Bone on hardwood. Loud. Clattering.
Bucky hasn’t just changed how he’s wearing his hair, throwing it into an effortless, messy bun with strands escaping to frame his pretty face and handsome jaw in a way that undoes Steve, making him think of Bucky on his knees, putting his hair back, getting ready to swallow his cock, he’s, he—
Even in his skull, his thoughts stutter and stall, coming to a halt. He can’t. He, how is he supposed to fathom that—he, what, he, he— huh!?
Bucky is wearing scrubs.
Actual. fucking. medical. scrubs. on. Bucky’s. goddamn. body.
They—they couldn’t be more obviously, clearly medical scrubs if they tried. They’re the classic, powder blue fucking scrubs that every modern medical examiner dons. Steve can’t breathe. And, of course, no detail has been spared because the scrubs have been overlaid by a long white coat and a stethoscope curled around his neck. What. Bucky even has a customized badge clipped to the bottom hem of his scrub top! Christ. He went all out! It’s a picture of him with Dr. James Barnes written on it, his best, attractive cursive for a signature. Fuck. He looks unbelievable.
If he didn’t already have a thing for medicine and medical professionals, congrats, Barnes, he’d have given Steve one now. Scrubs shouldn’t look so hot on anyone. They’re boxy, never custom fit, they all look the same, they—they’re hot to Steve because Steve likes them. They, they. Bucky. Bucky makes them look illegal.
He’s so fucking hot.
Steve can
feel
his cock twitching in his briefs—he just hopes Bucky
can
can’t.
Concentrating entirely on not having a fucking meltdown, Steve hardly registers how the goddamn white doctor’s coat to go with it all doesn’t last a minute. It doesn’t stay stretched across his broad shoulders and falling over his thick chest because, “okay, Captain Rogers—” Bucky begins to explain, shrugging out of his white coat like he’s stripping for Steve. Inch by inch, exposing his strong flesh and robust metal forearms, then his biceps that barely fit the sleeves of his scrub top, and leaving Steve to have a heart attack over the breadth of his shoulders and chest, eyes stuck on the V of his top, just the faintest tease of chest-hair peaking out “—how are you feeling today?” He asks, sunny over the torture he knows he’s putting his lover through, but not too unprofessional as to break the scene entirely. Balanced.
Meanwhile, Steve is spinning out of fucking control. He whirls around, spinning in place. Still, “good?” He answers automatically. The word simply flies out of his mouth while he flies and turns and tumbles in circles. It’s like his neck is being twisted and twisted with the speed of his incoherent thoughts, flooding his head. Soon, his head will come off his shoulders, and he’ll be thoughtless for good. Forever. He can’t survive this. He won’t.
“That’s good,” B-Bucky— Dr. Barnes returns the small talk, otherwise busying himself with putting his white coat on one of the chairs now in the corner of the office, filling the space and acting as a tiny waiting area. Steve entirely glossed over it earlier, too busy drooling over the medical exam table shining in the center of the room, now, just for a moment, it becomes important.
Not for long, though, because Dr. Barnes pulls his clipboard with notes and a wheeled stool (stored-slash-hidden in the other corner, behind where the door swings open) closer before sitting on the cushioned stool with his legs spread deliciously wide. Not too obviously wide as to be obscene, but a little more than his usual, appropriate manspread—he’s showing off the edible stretch of his thick thighs in thin, draping fabric. His scrubs.
Steve is going to have steam coming out of his ears by the end of this exam. The only thing he can think about is burying his face between those thighs and feeling the pressure between his ears exponentially skyrocket when Bucky squeezes his head, keeping him there.
Fuck.
If Bucky can tell that Steve’s undressing him with his eyes, he doesn’t show it. Besides, he may be a bit occupied pretending to read over Steve’s patient details on his chart.
“So,” after a moment, he looks up from his notes decisively, “we’re just doing a comprehensive exam today?” Dr. Barnes politely offers, despite being the one who’s in control, commanding the whole room. “There aren’t any other specific complaints for me to pay attention to?”
“N-no?” Steve squeaks, desperately trying (and failing) to stop his eyes from running up the inside of Dr. Barnes’ left thigh, getting suck on his crotch, then slowly looking down his right thigh before jumping knees and getting caught up in the whole fucking loop again. He’s staring. He can’t help himself. He knows what’s underneath his scrubs, hell, he might know Bucky’s dick better than his own, but right now he feels on-fucking-edge, wanting to confirm what Dr. Barnes is packing. If his chest is that big… if his thighs are that strong… his dick has to be thick, doesn’t it? Thick and heavy. Steve exhales like he’s panting. Maybe he is.
“Good, that’s good to hear,” Dr. Barnes fixes him with a mischievous look, looking up from his stool at him, fluttering his lashes.
Steve shivers. He’s good. He’ll be good.
“If you would,” he blinks sweetly, “have a seat.”
“Oh, um, r-right,” Steve nervously realizes that he’s just standing stupidly in the middle of the room. He didn’t mean to! He was just—
He doesn’t know. He’s just fucking here. There are no excuses, and so Steve simply crashes back, acutely realizing exactly now that he didn’t tie the back of his gown as his nearly bare ass is dropped onto the soft, creamy leather.
Oh.
There is only one, exceedingly thin layer of fabric between his naked body and the leather he so desperately wants to feel. It’s agonizing, he wants to feel it. It’s fucking great that Steve isn’t. Can’t. He’d be going fucking crazy.
Crazier.
Because, in vain, Steve is trying really hard not to react to the sensation, but he’s nothing if not a terrible liar when he’s flustered, and he has a sensitivity like no one else. Sitting, stumbling, his skin comes alive, prickling and chilled. He no longer has to wonder if the leather would feel as buttery soft as it does under his palms everywhere because he knows. It does. Through his underwear and against the bare backs of his thighs, it feels exorbitantly soft.
Steve isn’t soft.
Okay.
Okay, Steve tries to fucking talk himself down, breathing hard, he needs to calm down. He’s, nothing has— nothing has even happened yet! He needs to calm the fuck down or he’s gonna fucking die. He won’t make it through everything Bucky has planned for him. That’d be just awful. He, at least, has to make it through the whole thing. Then he can die. Simple as that.
Simple is not fucking easy—
“Well,” Dr. Barnes clears the tension-thick air, standing up now that Steve’s sitting and setting down his clipboard where he just was, on the seat of his stool, “let's begin then.”
Beginning, though, means bending at the waist (don’t look at his ass, don’t look at his ass, don’t look at his ass, Steve mentally repeats his new mantra to himself) to rustle around through the cabinets sitting just underneath Steve’s body, part of the medical exam table he’s sitting on. It feels… strangely intimate. Like, he shouldn’t be going through the cabinets because Steve’s sitting on them. It’s almost an extension of his body. Though Steve supposed Dr. Barnes is about to get a hell of a lot closer to him, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Anyhow, Dr. Barnes shortly finds what he’s looking for after just a short delay—snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves in a truly dramatic, should-be-more-silly-than-sexy way. It’s confessionally so erotic, though. He’s showing off. Displaying the length and thickness of his fingers and the way the latex struggles to encompass his wide, square palms. With each snap, pulling the gloves into place, he stalls a moment to outstretch his fingers, then curl them all into fists.
Steve’s mouth waters.
Dr. Barnes looks him up and down, layers of calm, collected professionalism enwrapping what Steve dares to think is desire—his stomach twists into a knot. “Forgive me,” his voice is cool and smooth, “I neglected to get your height and weight before I had you sit down.”
Steve jolts, reading himself to stand, but Dr. Barnes raises an eyebrow at him, daring, did I tell you to do that?
He didn’t.
Steve shouldn’t’ve, he just thought—
A whimper slides out of Steve’s mouth. Quickly, he jerks back into place where he has to sit through Dr. Barnes locating a scale and tape measure from the cabinets just below him. It’s just as fucking weirdly intimate, approximately-his-own-body-but-not-his-body as it was the first time. He feels weird.
“If you would,” Dr. Barnes finally directs him, allowing him to move, “step down onto the scale for me.”
Steve obeys.
“Thank you,” his response is clipped, and yet it still crawls down Steve’s spine, reaching his gut and twisting his arousal tighter. To himself, the doctor murmurs, “220 on the dot, that matches your chart exactly.” Even though Steve has done nothing to control that, it’s all the serum, he again feels a pleasant squirm of accomplishment and praise. Louder, Dr. Barnes formally informs him, “your weight is as expected,” as he pulls him by the arm off the scale and toward the wall, spinning him around so he can take his height with his back straight.
Steve lets himself be led. He’s a doll. He’s numbers. He’s measurements and test results and a prop. Just a thing. Things don’t move or moan. He won’t. He can’t. He just—just needs to soak it in.
Feel it.
To measure his length, Dr. Barnes must drop into a crouch, hitching the end of the tape measure underneath the heel of his foot, pressed to the wall, and leading the tool up, up, and up. Aaaall the way to the top of his head. Steve doesn’t think it’s an accident when rising to his feet again, the doctor lingers at his crotch, breathing against his tented, obvious erection.
If he could move, Steve would be thinking about bringing his hands forward and pushing his fingers into Bucky’s hair to guide his mouth that much closer to his cock. He doesn’t even have to stick it inside! Just Bucky’s open mouth rubbing and nuzzling against his erection through his medical gown would be enough—Bucky’s lips and tongue leaving wet, heavy marks on the cotton, all hot and humid, and—
Steve accidentally whimpers. He aches to suck the sound back into his lungs, face burning at the highness and pathetic nature of a sound like that. But he can’t. He can’t take it back, and so he just has to face it when Bucky hesitates, clearly having heard it but not understanding why. He’s weird. This is weird. No one else gets desperately hard having fucking nothing done to them at all. Dr. Barnes is barely doing anything medical! He’s taking his height and weight! What?
“6’2”,” Dr. Barnes murmurs to himself before clearing his throat, squeezing Steve’s bicep bruisingly with his metal hand as he retracts the measuring tape, “you know,” he leans in close and conspiratorially, hot breath brushing across Steve’s already blushing skin, “I never liked BMI.”
Steve doesn’t understand. What? What are they talking about? Is he supposed to respond? He doesn’t think he can. He has no thoughts. He can barely string two letters together, let alone three. BMI?
Thankfully, the doctor picks up where he left off… almost as if Steve doesn’t matter at all. It’s not about his understanding. “It’s the widely implemented system, sure, but even excluding the poor origins of the scale, if you’re ignorant enough to not know, clearly it’s incorrect.” He lets his hand drift up, groping from his bicep toward his thick shoulder, “for people like you, who are packed with muscle—” as he says it, muscle, he dares to grab his pec, squeezing it, weighing it, hefting the bulk of muscle like he’s fondling a breast. Steve is going to die “—it’s patently unhelpful from a medical standpoint. I don’t need to examine you to know you’re in fantastic shape,” his fingertips brush Steve’s hard, hard nipple, one then the other, and Steve hears more than he feels his head dropping back, hitting the wall, his neck going weak as pleasure laps at his sensitive body, eroding him into a useless pile of sand at the mercy of the ocean’s lapping waves. “But, because I am examining you, I have to know how tall you are, how much you weigh, and I need to run the numbers to determine your BMI, which I already know, because of how much muscle you have, will appear terrible. Overweight, pfft,” he rolls his eyes, “sure.” Inappropriately— more inappropriately, he adds, “you’re not overweight at all, you’re just a fuckin’ hunk.”
Steve rolls his head this way and that against the wall, overwhelmed. Dr. Barnes is talking numbers and technicalities, and it’s flying right over Steve’s head. All he can think about—all he can feel, he’s not doing anything as complex as thinking, is how Bucky’s touching his pecs and talking about him as if he’s some prime cut of beef: a bull.
God.
Steve might moan. “Oh-ahhh-!” Just a little bit, all air and breath, barely audible.
“Alright, Captain Rogers,” Dr. Barnes brings him back from his stupor, tugging him by the bicep away from the wall, forcing him to stand up straight and hold his own weight, only to shove him right back into the fucking stumbling, weak, useless mindset he barely surfaced from.
Another item to be retrieved from the cabinets is done so as Steve slouches, sitting up on the table, eyes drifting far away and dreamy.
Hazily, Dr. Barnes stands in front of him, staring down at him with one of the blood pressure cuffs Steve’s familiar with, but, “mmm, no,” the other man decides, “I need the bigger one, actually.” Flashing him a downright devilish grin before fetching the other, he informs Steve, “I can tell just looking at you, your arm is so thick with muscle, this isn’t going to do the job.”
Steve does another one of those embarrassingly audible exhales. Almost a moan, just barely not quite.
“Okay,” Dr. Barnes places his gloved hand on Steve’s right knee, “uncross your ankles for me and let me just—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because the moment Steve’s legs do as he says (without Steve’s brain even needing to talk to the rest of his body), he’s sliding the blood pressure cuff up his arm, fumbling with strapping it in place, still muttering about his muscles and, Christ, the shape of your body, Captain… my, my, my. And. And then—he’s, he’s squeezing, he’s pumping, he’s inflating the cuff.
Oh.
A wild, skittering spark of arousal jumps off the fire burning in his belly, floating up to his empty head, crackling hotly in his skull.
It’s constricting Steve’s arm.
Steve can feel the way his veins struggle to pulse and rush with hot, thick blood, carrying all the desperate lust he feels all throughout his body, including to the tips of his shaking fingers. He can feel the shiver-inducing coldness creeping into his digits. He has the compulsion, like he always does, with every doctor, to hold his breath when Dr. Barnes comes in close, leaning down with his stethoscope to listen to the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his blood, the pressure, or whatever the fuck he’s doing. Barely resisting, Steve only just manages to not moan right in Dr. Barnes’ ear as he comes in close.
He may choke instead, but that’s better than the humiliation of doing something else.
Time comes to a standstill—the tight squeeze of the cuff around his arm, the heat coming off of the other man’s body, so close to him, the logical knowledge that the results will come back normal being overridden by the emotional, perverse terror that Dr. Barnes will be able to hear how fucking horny he is. Pulse. Please. Pulse. Please. Please. Pulse. Please. His heart and his internal pleading become indistinguishable.
Unfortunately, finally, Dr. Barnes pulls away, deflating the cuff in a rush, and dropping the equipment onto his rolling stool in favor of collecting his clipboard so he might write down his findings. He doesn’t bother to inform Steve; he knows Steve won’t be able to comprehend it. It’s okay. He, he—
What’s happening anyway?
Steve’s so caught up in his need, he can only blink, and he can, really, barely even do that. Blink. Pulse. Throb.
Next, as if Bucky didn’t just fuckin’ do that, it’s time to take his pulse.
Rather than using his stethoscope, any fancy monitor, or machine, though, Dr. Barnes steps into his personal space, using his hip to shove Steve’s knees shockingly apart, brushing between them, and standing before him calmly. Static. As if it isn’t stiflingly hot. As if Steve doesn’t forget everything about everything the moment Dr. Barnes puts his gloved hands on his body, sweeping up from his shoulder to his neck. Fingertips light and easy, he sweeps up the sides of his neck to press much harder, barely just below the angle of his jaw where his pulse is hardly concealed beneath his paper-thin, delicate skin.
Oh.
In his chest, his heart kicks that much harder. Throbbing. Thrashing. It’s so fucking intense. The slick latex and his thin, pale skin. The probing way Dr. Barnes’ fingers press into him. It’s hard to breathe. He’s not being choked, not with a whole hand around his throat, but it’s close. So close. Two fingers on one side of his high, high up throat and a thumb on the other side. All three digits squeezing.
Steve doesn’t need to feel his own humiliation to know he’s going a shade of red previously unknown to man, but he can feel it. He really fucking can. The way Dr. Barnes touches him— oh. His heart trips and falls and tangles its veins around itself. Steve is already turning bright red in the silence as his pulse is counted by the minute, but it’s nothing compared to the color he becomes when he coughs and chokes and can’t stop.
Oh, god.
Sputtering, choking, and coughing on nothing but his own perverted desires, the medical examiner, both totally and incompletely responsible for it, decides to pat him on the back hard. Hitting him as if Dr. Barnes thinks he can dislodge his humiliation as swiftly and easily as he could Heimlich it out of him as easily as he might a piece of unchewed food gone down the wrong pipe. He can’t. Steve—Steve’s gonna die with all this embarrassment and arousal and need and—
Smack!
He hits him. He hits him like he hits him on the ass when he’s fucking him. Spanking him. Guh. The heat spreads throughout Steve’s entire back, curling down his spine and spreading over his shoulders. It coats him. Swallows and drowns him. He wants so fucking badly to curl into Bucky, grabbing him, fisting his hands in his lover’s scrubs and whining at him, begging him, just fucking touch meee, ohmygod, ‘m so hard! Please! Pluh-please! I neeeeed it! But…
He can’t.
He won’t.
He wouldn’t. No matter how fucking deranged and desperate he is in an exam, he’d never do it to a real doctor. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t reach out to Bucky and cry into his chest out of sheer desperation. He wants to, but he won’t. Besides. They’ve barely begun. Steve has much more torture to suffer.
And it’s only, impressively, once he gets his raspy, gasping breath under control that he manages to regret that.
Because Bucky doesn’t comment on how out of control and inappropriate he’s being—how not good of a prop he’s being, whining and complaining and choking. Instead, he moves on to the next test as if nothing happened. He’s keeping cool. Calm. He’s—
He’s notifying Steve, dripping with faux-sympathy, that he’s going to take his temperature next and, “I apologize, Captain Rogers, this may be embarrassing, but the rectal thermometer method is the most accurate method and it’s dire that we have the best health information for someone as important as you, so…”
Again, there is no fucking end to that sentence. None. Not at fucking all. There are simply abrupt, professional hands on his body suddenly, helping jerk him up to standing and spinning him around to lean against the exam table rather than sitting on top of it, exposing himself.
Steve scrambles to get himself together in the slightest bit, fumbling onto his hands to hold himself up at enough of an angle to have something put inside him (and, no, his eyes don’t involuntarily roll a little at that. Nope. Not at all, that’d make him so easy). But it apparently isn’t enough, because with a heavy, hot, and huge hand suddenly smacking down across the small of his back, Dr. Barnes pushes him down hard, knocking him effectively and efficiently onto his forearms. His forehead narrowly missed his thumbs of his folded-together hands, almost smacking himself square in the head. Instead, he rolls his forehead against the smooth, cool leather.
Guh.
He’s so fucking embarrassed that the air feels thick around him, squirming on the inside and gasping audibly— panting, really. He can’t get anything into his lungs ‘cause the moment any oxygen enters his mouth, it burns up with the combustion and ignition of so much lust. It doesn’t matter how short of breath he is. Nothing matters. Nothing else matters.
“Oh,” Dr. Barnes' surprised voice cuts through the chaos rushing through Steve’s head. He doesn’t even know what’s in there, though, despite all that heady rushing. He can’t think. He doesn’t know what any of it is—what any of it means. What it is doesn’t matter when Dr. Barnes keeps talking, stuffing words into his ears and fucking his head up even more, “I thought I told you to remove your clothes?” He questions, all sharp, cool authority, and Steve tries to answer, but he can’t.
Words won’t come out.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens. That’s all. Nothing but drool will leave his lips. Drool. He’s fucking drooling now. Drooling.
Great.
I’m a fucking mess, he fragile-ly thinks, trembling. He has to get it together.
Maybe it’s a good thing he can’t make any comprehensible sounds, because Dr. Barnes would’ve interrupted him anyway, intelligently speaking and thoroughly embarrassing, “so why did you keep these on?” He snaps the elastic waistband, making Steve whine. “These,” under his breath, he adds, “ tiny little things… like panties, aren’t they?” And Steve wants to die. The doctor corrects himself at a level he knows Steve will be able to hear, regular human range, as he educates him, “these are in my way,” he exclaims, matter of fact, and strips them down his body, off his ass, down his shaking thighs, and directs Steve to step out of them. Steve buries his burning face into his forearms and clasped hands, toes curling while he shakes out of his last layer of dignity. He never waited to let Steve do it himself because he knows better. He can’t. He won’t. There’s no functioning like this. And if he shakes any more, he’s going to tremble apart, breaking and fracturing into a million tiny little pieces.
Fuck.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut, letting another wave of drool lazily drip from his gaped lips (not that he has much of a choice).
But, in contrast, Dr. Barnes takes a closer look, leaning in all too steadily to insert the thermometer with just a quick smear of lubrication over the narrow tip of the instrument.
The tip is so small it almost feels sharp, penetrating him so intimately in such a sterile environment, whether he wants it to or not. He wants it. But he’s just a thing. A prop. He doesn’t have wants. He, he—
He can’t get over the sensation of it. It isn’t sharp, it’s just small and his rim is just desperately hypersensitive, but his body doesn’t know that it isn’t sharp—it’s so fucking mixed up and the only thing that can be done is letting go of a terribly scrambled moan, “oooohhhngh.”
He feels like he’s being hurt. He feels like he wants more. He feels needy; it isn’t enough. He wants more. More. Thicker. Longer. He wants so badly, even as it slides in so easily. Steve’s hole just takes it. It’s thin. It’s easy. It’s wet. But it’s cold. In stark contrast, Dr. Barnes' gloved hand burns hot on the small of his back, one hand steadying him while the other plunges the thermometer inside and holds it there as if he expects Steve to be too loose to properly clench around it.
When it’s inside and in the proper position, he pats his bare ass, removing the palm from his back for a moment to do it.
Steve wants to writhe. He wants to whine. He wants to melt into the floor. He wants, needs, aches for cock, not some stupid plastic little fucking thing that doesn’t stuff him full until he feels it in his throat. He—
Apparently, Dr. Barnes is satisfied enough to encourage him politely, sighing, “there we go.”
They have to wait a whole fucking eternity until it beeps, announcing cheerily that it’s finally done its job.
Finally.
And Steve breathes out a hitching breath of relief too soon because, of course, Bucky doesn’t miss the opportunity to fuck it into him a handful of times, pushing it in and pulling it out. He makes use of the whole, unsatisfying tiny length of it; sliding the smooth plastic against his clenching rim, making him feel it, before removing it. Making sure, too, to make a mess of him, fucking him, and getting him to driiip the excess lube down over his perinum and onto his tight, heavy-feeling balls.
Steve’s lungs stutter in his chest, saving himself only barely from making a whole host of shrill, stupid sounds by chewing so urgently on his bottom lip. The thermometer, as it slides out of him for the last time, is too small to do anything for a spoiled bottom like Steve—Bucky is and has been packing —but the action of it is more what gets him off.
He’s so close. And, worst of all, he knows he’s gonna stay close. Dr. Barnes won’t let him off the hook. No way. He’s not gonna get him off. He’s not going to help him. He’s going to hurt him. He’s gonna make him feel good. He’s gonna do whatever he wants to Steve because Steve’s the patient and he just has to take it.
Oh, god.
When Steve turns around again, pulled off his hands and elbows, he’s dizzy, getting dragged into place like a kitten, scruffed by the back of his neck, and squeaking when his only vaguely loosened hole drags wet slick across the leather. He can’t sit still. Jesus. He’s—he’s so wet for such a little fucking thermometer and, sure, he’d rather it be wetter than dry, but, oh my god, it makes him feel like a girl. Like Dr. Barnes is the most attractive man she’s ever seen (which would be the truth), and now she’s—he’s— who is he, again? —leaking all over the leather, about to cream her panties, if he, she, was wearing any.
And the leather—the leather really is as butter soft as it felt under hand everywhere. He can feel it on his blushing cheeks and squirming thighs and his hanging balls. He didn’t tuck his johnny around his body when sitting back down. He didn’t think. Couldn’t. He squirms raggedly, ready to fuckin’ explode.
Through the smeared, useless colors of his blurry vision, Dr. Barnes is explaining that now that they’re done gathering his basic vitals, they can move onto the physical exam, and, ohmyfuckinggod, there’s still a physical exam.
More?
Steve doesn’t know what the fuck to do. To be. Terrified? So fucking excited it's mortifying? Yes?
Yes.
The first step Dr. Barnes takes is to visually look him over, taking his sweet, salaried time to scrutinize his face, his cheeks so red with his blush that he’s sure his face is vaguely swollen, all that blood, and his definitely swollen, bitten lips. His gaze puts Steve to shame, staring at him, every sweaty, lust-hot detail of him. Head to toe.
And speaking of head, that’s where they begin—
Stepping near-silently into his space, standing between his open legs, hardly covered by his askew medical gown, as close to his dripping, obvious erection as he can get while maintaining plausible deniability, Bucky puts his hands on his face. Blue, slick gloves clinging to his big hands and sliding all over his face to examine his head. Bucky moves with impressive, meticulous ease, checking for swelling and tenderness by rubbing his thumbs across his sinuses, pressing the tips of his fingers into the bones around his eyes and eyebrows, tracing the defined line of his cheekbones and jaw before delving down, sweeping his throat from just under his chin to his collarbones.
Suddenly, a hand cupped around the front of his throat, Dr. Barnes commands, “swallow.”
Steve can’t understand him for a moment, bewildered like never before, drool pooling in his mouth, beginning to slide over his lips and down his jaw, getting onto Dr. Barnes' respectable hands.
Evidently, Dr. Barnes does not like having to repeat himself, steel in his voice as he demands again, “swallow.”
There’s no cum flooding his mouth, there’s no cock heavy on his tongue, shoving down his throat, there’s no fingers pinching his nose, mean, making sure he takes it, but still—the command is familiar, it just took a minute to hit him. He’s working on a delay. Too hot for his smarts to kick in. Steve swallows on instinct, feeling his Adam’s apple scraping against his close-held hand. It’s hard. Difficult. It’s difficult to swallow. (And, goddd, he’s hard. So hard. Bucky makes him so hard it hurts.)
After such a challenging test, Dr. Barnes moves back up, carding his hands through his hair with an excuse that he’s looking for lice, bruising, or rashes that might be present but not obviously seen, covered by the hair. “And what a head of hair you have,” he teases, massaging Steve’s scalp until—
“OH!”
He pulls the rug out from underneath his lover, taking a fistful of hair at the crown of Steve’s head and yanking. Undoing all the easy, sweet sensations of pleasure that dripped down his scalp and spine, pooling in his gut to replace the feeling with the gutting, hard-hitting strike of a lightning bolt. Pain cracking through him.
A guttural, mortifying sound leaves him. There’s no way to smother it when his neck is arched back so far that all he can see is the ceiling, trusting Dr. Barnes in front of him to not do anything inappropriate while he’s not looking. He, heart beating faster and faster, doesn’t. It makes him swoon, pushing his head harder into his mean hold. Tingles, well, tingle through his whole body.
God.
It feels bad. It feels good. It feels.
Yet, Dr. Barnes lets him go after a moment as if nothing happened.
Steve might choke out something a sob, if he’s confessional, he, he just—he wanted Bucky’s teeth against his neck, scraping his adam’s apple, biting his throat, chewing and gnawing on him until everyone can see what’s been done to him. What Steve let him do, not putting up a fight unless pushing back, angling for worse, counts.
So, acting like nothing happened, Dr. Barnes clears his throat, not having to physically pull Steve’s head to direct him to drop his chin and look at him. Steve wants to look him in the eyes, but he can’t. His vision is fucked, smeared and blurred with unshed tears. He blinks, but it isn’t enough. He’s lost. It takes the doctor snapping his fingers directly in front of his stupid face to get him back.
“Follow my finger,” he commands.
Blearily, Steve follows.
It’s a challenge that requires a few more jolting, embarrassing snaps of fingers in front of his dreamy, dumb face, but—
He does it.
He thinks-?
Maybe?
There’s something about lagging behind, barely tracing the sharp, fast motions of Dr. Barnes' index finger that feels good. He doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to be one step ahead of anyone. He just has to be. Be good. Be useful. Be a prop. Be.
He’s almost sad when it’s over, and rather than following, he’s being offered a handheld eyechart that he’s told to read the lines of text down to the smallest line he can comfortably see. Steve, at first, before he processes what he’s seeing, thinks it’s a normal, everyday chart, the standard, boring sentences to read. It’s not until a full ten seconds after he’s been handed it that he realizes: oh.
It’s custom.
Oh no.
His voice shivers and shakes as he attempts to recite the lines, eyes blurring, aching to cross, to roll back into his skull, and to, just, not. He doesn’t want to say that. Oh, god, it’s mortifying. “I, I…” Steve has to fight, seeing the rest of the sentence laid out ahead of him, not to slap a hand over his own mouth, “I tuh-turn my boyfriend on so much,” he pauses, trying and failing to collect himself, “that I think there, there—I think there might be something wrong with me, Dr. Barnes. I don’t have to do anything before he’s ah-all over me. I think I need to be checked out ff-fuh-fully,” he swallows, mouth thick with saliva, “head to toe.”
All these easy, slutty little sounds keep coming out between the words and with his every stuttered breath. He can’t help it. Hardly functioning, hardly breathing, definitely not reading well.
Dr. Barnes clears his throat, prompting him to continue despite how he’s drowning right before his very eyes.
The words continue on, written as if they’re a confession, making it all the worse, “is there something in my—is… is there something in my mouth? Is my saliva an aphrodisiac? Is it something about my neck, d-d-doctor?” Steve trips and falls terribly over that word. Doctor. He can’t imagine saying this at all, much less before a medical professional. Is this really happening? Really? Ohgod. “Is it wrong when I throw my head back and moan, blushing all the way down to my nipples? Would,” he exhales shakily, “would you like a demonstration, just-just to make sure? I can’t help it, though. I’m so pale, and I think my nipples are always hard. Is… is that bad? Should th-they not be?”
This is torture.
The sentences just go on and on, steadily shrinking the farther he delves down the page, but getting no less filthy. If anything, Steve’s pretty sure they’re getting worse; he wouldn’t fully know, though, because he can hardly focus on what he’s saying if he wants to have any semblance of functioning, fumbling and tripping over his lips, teeth, and tongue.
“Is it my sweat?” He squints at tinier words, trying not to see better but to keep his eyes from rolling back compulsively, “I sweat s-so much, especially for a super soldier. I’m always—I’m always glistening. I look so good in any kind of light, all of it catching on my skin. Do you see it? Do—do I look good enough to, to… to eat? Do I smell particularly good, doctor? How do I smell to you?” Steve’s voice breaks, leaving the rest of the short paragraph hoarse and whispered, “did my pheromones change with the serum? Do I smell like sex all the time?”
Dr. Barnes makes a low, rumbling sound in uncontrolled response. Jesus. Steve wants to roll around in that sound. But he can’t. He has to—he, he’s gotta keep fucking reading. What a fucking travesty. Especially considering what comes next.
“Is it my penis, Dr. Barnes?” Steve’s horrified by how suddenly, clearly those words come out of his mouth. He can’t control himself. Not at all. What the fuck? What’s happening to him? He’s been fucking captured and hypnotized, he swears it. “Can you tell me what the average is? I think I’m bigger than average in porn—”
Steve’s mouth hangs open, just practically unhinged, nothing else coming out.
The rest, as he cheats, eyes darting beyond his mouth, is even more fucking filthy.
“Is that the smallest you can read, Captain Rogers?” Bucky sounds gleeful. Taunting him.
Mutely, Steve shakes his head.
“Well,” the doctor sitting before him, seemingly so enraptured in his scripting abilities, innocently tilts his head to the side, “how am I supposed to know that unless you continue reading?”
Steve whimpers. For a flashing-past second, he considers huffing and puffing, putting up what he knows would be a pathetically small fight, stomping his foot like a petulant child, you can’t make me. But. He doesn’t. Why would he? He wants this. As terribly, horribly embarrassing as it is—because of how terribly, horribly embarrassing as it he wants this.
“You’re not lying to me, are you, Captain?” Dr. Barnes leans forward, using his curled-up index finger, hand formed into a loose fist, to tilt his chin up.
Steve burns. He writhes like a pit of snakes and burns like a wild fire and whimpers like a pathetic, aching creature internally, barely keeping it (sort of) together on the surface. Twitching away from his agonizing, sensuous hold, Steve keeps his head down and he keeps reading, “I think I’m bigger than average in pornography. Their cocks aren’t anywhere near as, as…” he swallows back another cry of ohgod, beyond embarrassed. “As lengthy or girthy as mine is, and when they cuhh- cum, they don’t ejaculate anywhere near as—anywhere near as much as I do. Could there be something wrong with my… p-penis or, Jesus,” he shudders with his whole body, “my testicles? Would you examine them, d-doctor? Do I need to provide a sample? Is there something about them? Am I really supposed to be that pink? Down there? I, I, I’m so pink, my hole is—”
Steve trails off into a rattling, loud moan because, for as much as this little script reads like all of the corny, stereotypical porn he’s seen for ‘medical kinks,’ it is really, really working on him. It’s underneath his skin, polluting his bloodstream, surging through him, and melting him. All he is inside is molten. No muscle, no bone, just heat—thick, hot lava.
He drips, thick and viscous but dripping.
Very abruptly and somewhat mercifully, Bucky doesn’t demand that he read the rest. Instead, he snatches the card away like he can’t listen to another minute of his broken, trembling recitation. “That’s good,” he concedes sharply, for the first time, visibly ruffled by their play. Breathing heavily, eyes swallowed by darkness, upper lip starting to shine with sweat.
Woof.
He looks divine.
And Steve supposes that makes sense, he did write the card, and he wrote it about what he likes most about Steve. So, for Steve to say it, in his own voice, feeding it back to Bucky… it must be making it even more erotic than the other man realized it’d be.
His mouth. His neck. His chest. His sweat. His cock. His balls. His hole.
All the delicious, naughty things Bucky adores about him.
He should feel bad—bad-er than he does, panting, squirming, broken apart inside—because he’s been objectified to shit in that little writing sample, but he really, really, really doesn’t. As hard (ha) as it was to read, he kind of doesn’t want to stop. More. He always wants more. He can always feel more. It doesn’t matter if it’s agonizing, only wanting to desperately touch himself or needing to squirm away because it’s too much, he still wants it. More.
Fuck.
And he’ll get what he wants for better and worse. He’s harder than steel—harder than he’s ever been in his whole fucking life. It’s fucking awful. He can feel every punch and kick of his heart, thundering in his chest like mad, and throbbing between his legs with how engorged his cock is.
Jesus.
Gritting his teeth, Steve doesn’t remember if Dr. Barnes informed him of what test he’s going to perform on him next. If he does mention anything, it goes straight over his fucking head. He’s in a stupor and, just, all of a sudden, Dr. Barnes’ handsome, gorgeous mouth is shockingly close to the bright-red shell of his ear. Every feathery, exhaled rush of humid air brushes directly over his sensitive skin, curling over his bare ears and threading in between the hair on his head, making every hair stand on end. Close and closer. Dr. Barnes gets nearer, almost bodily pressing against him. The rough, sharp sensation of his stubble dragging across his ears is unspeakably sexual.
Destroyed by sheer want, Steve doesn’t realize how fucking tense he is, drawn tighter than a guitar string turned past tune, until the impact of a whispered, filthy word hits his eardrum, processed languidly by his non-existent brain and colliding with his body as if he’s been stroked, tip to base.
“Erection,” Dr. Barnes’ rough, low voice presses against his ear.
Steve whimpers.
Huh?
What?
He has no idea what to do until the other man chuckles, laughing at him because then Dr. Barnes pulls back just enough to look him dead in his glazed-over eyes, “I told you to repeat after me. Aren’t you paying attention? I’m testing your hearing. If you don’t respond, I’m going to think you’re either deaf or daft.”
Oh.
Steve is turning shades of red previously unknown to man.
Oh. Okay. No big deal. Just repeat after him, say the dirty words he’s whispering into your ear, so close you can feel every syllable and practically sense his flicking tongue and sharp teeth on your skin. Fine. This is fine.
Too little, too late, Steve meakly repeats, voice cracking, “er-erection.”
Switching sides by very intentionally walking behind his back, adding more tension to his already goosebumped skin, Dr. Barnes switches sides. He places his hands heavily on Steve’s shoulders, looming over his back and making his fight-instincts buzz and squirm uncomfortably. Nevermind that, he pushes further, murmuring into his other ear, “ejaculation.”
Quivering, struggling to get the word out of his mouth, Steve eventually repeats, “ejaculation.” He can’t describe the sensation washing over him, beyond humiliation, beyond mortification, beyond soaked with shame. He’s, he is—
Ohmyfuckinggod.
Bucky is too good at this.
Evidently, disgustingly good at this wind-up game they’re playing, toying with each other until one or both of them snap, because Steve has steeled himself, expecting another medically sanitized yet filthy, intimate word to parrot back as he switches ears again. However, instead, Bucky drawls, “floozy.”
“Floozyyy,” Steve half-whines, half-chirps, nothing more than a parrot. A bird. Thoughtless. Animal.
“Slut.”
“Slut.”
“Whore.”
Shaking, he hoarsely stumbles to echo, “huh-hh-wh-whore.”
And, thank fuck, it’s time to move on after that. Steve can feel his body fraying, starting to come apart with his nipples so hard they tingle and the muscles below his belt tensing and squirming and fighting tooth and nail to pull his orgasm out of him, touch be damned.
Though, perhaps he celebrates much too soon, ‘cause after his hearing comes a test of smell. And Dr. Barnes is, as ever, delightfully wicked in his pursuit of examination. Held up in gloved hands, one after the other, are pieces of paper that’ve been smothered with different scents. The first is a false start, meant to lull Steve into a false sense of security—lavender. Oh, this won’t be so bad. But. It gets worse. Much worse. Cinnamon. Rose. Spicier and racier. The smell of sweet, syrupy wine. And—
Then, the deep, dark scent of Bucky’s deodorant. Something about smelling that and knowing it’s Bucky’s deodorant is vulgar.
God.
After, it’s the smell of his cologne—the one he wears for special events, galas, and dinners. Torturously, the scent Steve has to inhale and taste when he has the most visible access but the least physical access to his lover. At events, he always looks delicious, but Steve can never taste him to know for sure until hours have passed and it’s all over. With all the smoozing, all the drinking, and all the dazzling finished. Finally.
But the mouthwatering smells don’t end with that strip of paper, dry to the touch but still dripping with the suggestive scent of Bucky’s cologne. Nah, that’d be too easy. Rather, Dr. Barnes ducks to extract one last item from the cabinets of the examination table.
At first, foolishly, Steve thinks it’s only a t-shirt and he, confused, thinks he’s safe. It isn’t just a t-shirt. He isn’t safe. It’s a sleeveless, tight, black dri-fit shirt. Oh. It’s—Steve swallows back a flood of drool—it’s one of Bucky’s workout shirts. And so, before it gets anywhere near his nose, Steve can fucking smell it. Hell yeah. He doesn’t need it to get all up in his face, but Dr. Barnes makes shirt it does, wadding up the shirt and shoving it in his face. The musk. The toe-curlingly masculine scent. The dirty filth of a man who sweats testosterone, rich and distracting, practically glazed with it by the end of his workout, lifting heavy shit, throwing it around, grunting, and bearing his teeth.
Holy fuck.
Dr. Barnes doesn’t softly press the shirt to his nose; he shoves it against his mouth and nose, and Steve swears to fucking god, he just about goddamn faints. Like it’s chloroform. And he’s been pulled under, going so limp that Dr. Barnes has to catch him with one blazingly hot, latex-covered hand at the small of his back while the other keeps suffocating him, pressing the fabric to his stupid, hanging-open-mouthed face. Steve is pretty sure he, biologically speaking, can’t go into heat, but… if he could? That would be the sure-fire way to make it happen. A shirt soaked with sweat, saturated in pheromones, and inhaled straight to his brain. He’d be lit like a fucking fuze.
He is.
Fucking fuck.
The mewling whine that exits him is mortifying. He can’t fucking handle it, practically blacking out while sitting on the table as his harder than fucking rock dick twitches and begs to be touched, barely concealed beneath his medical gown.
He hurts.
He wants to faint.
Unable to help himself, his legs spread wider because feeling his tight, swollen-feeling balls against the inside of his thighs isn’t an option anymore—if the touch keeps happening, he’s gonna cum just from that. The prickling, shivery feeling of the peach fuzz on his legs against his shaven balls. Oh. And, worse, he knows, he fucking knows if he dares to glance down for even a second that he’s going to have to confront a huge, blatant wet-spot.
This is terrible.
“Open,” Dr. Barnes cuts through his tantrum, moving on to examining his… throat?
And what is Steve to do but obey? Opening ‘cause it doesn’t really matter what he’s doing, just that he keeps doing it. He can almost hear his jaw clattering against the floor, but he can’t see it hitting the ground; there are too many welled-up tears in his eyes, blurring his vision and leaving him behind a sheen of arousal that he feels alone in. He doesn’t know if Bucky’s hard, as close as he is, he’s not at the right angle for his erection, if it’s there, to brush Steve. Too, he doesn’t know if his partner’s mind is even there or if he’s fully lost in this roleplay that has been going on for ages and ages. (When will this end? Does Steve want it to end? Does he just want to live here forever?) He doesn’t know. He can’t think. He—
“You must get a lot of attention for these, hmm, Captain?” Dr. Barnes purrs, his voice and fingertips inappropriate as the sound practically strokes him off, velvet against his ears, and the touch literally strokes him. Against his lips, petting and tracing the gape of his open mouth. He’s gonna start drooling again. “No wonder you were so popular in the army,” he smirks, insinuating that Steve drowned himself in army cock the second he was let loose on the front lines.
Steve chokes. His reaction is just a moment too soon, though.
Because once he’s done with his fit, Dr. Barnes keeps going, “show me your tongue.”
And Steve sticks his wriggling, wet tongue out, half-hoping all the filth he has done with his mouth isn’t written across it like a confessional journal and half-hoping it is.
“Hmm,” the taste of latex follows Dr. Barnes' thoughtful hum, sliiiiding across the broad flat of his tongue, fingertips gliding back and forth, unbelievably arousing, vaguely, somehow ticklish. “Yes, that’s good,” the doctor confirms without being done. Continuing, he presses down against his plush tongue until all the excessive, over-eager saliva in Steve’s mouth rushes over his swollen bottom lip, messily drooling out. Fully fucking drooling. Again.
Goddammit.
He is unrelenting, pressing until he can’t help but dribble down his chin.
Steve whimpers in mortification, his whole body smoking with it. He is burnt to ash. There’s nothing left. How can he be so combusted yet also so wet and messy still?
“Okay, put that back where it came from,” Dr. Barnes winks. Steve assumes, incorrectly, that that means he’s done. So, he shuts his fucking mouth, spit slick across his chin. He isn’t done. Although, Dr. Barnes doesn’t bother to waste his breath telling him so, instead, he just uses his wet, gloved hands to pry his mouth open again and invade his body. His only explanation-? “I just ran out of tongue depressors with the last patient, would you believe it?”
Steve makes a useless sound, something of a whimper, his mouth wide open and making it much more embarrassing and uncontrolled. His cock weeps another rush of pre-cum—he feels it, wetter than wet. Jesus. He can’t even sort of modulate his own volume with Bucky in his mouth. He never can, but especially not now, in this clinical, agonizing setting.
Then, still under the guise of checking his mouth, Dr. Barnes' invasive, big hands scrub around his mouth, working between his lips and teeth to check his gums like he’s a dog, lifting his jowls out of the way and grabbing his muzzle to pull his head up, making sure to press down hard just to watch the bright pink color return. Running the pads of his fingers against the velvet-slick insides of his cheeks. Sparing one more moment to glide back into his mouth, traveling over his tongue again, just before shoving his fingers back, checking his gag reflex and finding it apparently notably dulled. Steve sees a screen of white, imagining that being put in his official medical chart—the medical equivalent of he’s had his gag reflex throat-fucked out of him: the patient’s pharyngeal reflex is noticeably absent unless especially roughly stimulated.
Guh.
Dr. Barnes pushes, rough and rougher, fingers down his throat until he chokes. All those heavy, hot tears built up in his eyes? Oh yeah, they come rushing down, glistening as they fall down his bright red face. Dr. Barnes doesn’t seem to care about the mess he’s making of Steve, though. All he cares about is the exam. Why would he care about Steve? Steve’s a prop. He’s not even a patient—he’s a prop!
Oh, god.
Then, without delay, Dr. Barnes extracts his hand from his mouth and busies himself with squeezing his throat. Pressing in hard against the tender flesh, palpating down his throat with one dry hand and the other spit-soaked. When he gets to the sharp lines of his collarbones, rather than being done— oh no, he’s never done —he fists his throat. Actually fucking choking him.
It’s a goddamn wonder Steve doesn’t immediately cum. His body tries, his cock and balls fucking lurching, gasping for air, mouth opening and closing as desperately as a fish out of water, surely looking the idiotic part too with his crying eyes opening wide and his hands flailing out, jerking, wanting to grab Dr. Barnes’ wrists and hold on, but being unsure. He shouldn’t touch the doctor. He shouldn’t even move. He should choke. He should just take it.
Take it.
Sputtering, leaking, crying, and sweating, totally out of control and so needy he’s sure he’s gonna die sooner than he cums, Steve tries his fucking hardest to take it.
Just take it.
It’s at least a tiny bit easier as Dr. Barnes moves on from the erogenous spill of his tongue drooling out of his mouth to his chest. Or, Steve expects it to be easier, hearing it from Bucky’s mouth. He forgets about everything wicked that he could do to that part of his anatomy. He forgets about his own body—that there isn’t an inch of him that isn’t sensitive and shivery. And his heart is, of course, in his chest. His chest? His chest! His fucking pecs and tight, peaked nipples.
He’s in for it now.
And it isn’t a good sign when the doctor peels the shoulders of his johnny down to bare his chest for easy access.
God.
Of fucking course, then, Dr. Barnes breaks out the cold, hard-edged stethoscope. He digs the side of it into his chest while his other hand palpates, multitasking, feeling and listening. His fingers become just more cold metal across his skin, circling his aching, throbbing nipple and—
“Are you nervous?” He cocks his head to the side mischievously, “do I make you nervous?” Dr. Barnes teases him, standing up straight, taking the stethoscope away from his chest, finally realizing just how hard his heart is thundering. When Steve finds that he can’t answer, he goes on, bored, “well, we’ll have to come back to this later, then, Captain Rogers—when you’re less nervous, so I can get a proper reading.”
Almost begging, bright and loud, ‘NO!’ Steve’s heart does a fucking backflip, fluttering and skipping a beat, already anticipating more—already terrified of more. But he doesn’t say a thing. He only struggles to breathe as Dr. Barnes impatiently swings into the next part, asking him to breathe deeply for him because he wants to listen to his lungs.
“Breath deeply and evenly,” Dr. Barnes corrects him with emphasis.
It doesn’t matter because, again, Steve literally chokes. This time, there aren’t fingers in his mouth or a fist around his throat to blame—the closest he has to a culprit is his own spit, puddled in his mouth and running over his bottom lip. Stethoscope to his chest, pushed against the pillow of his pec, then lower, trying a few different places, moving his hands around at the same time, rubbing his chest, teasing his nipples, pulling him forward, closer, with a smooth hand on the low of his back, Dr. Barnes tries and tries and fails to get Steve to breathe easy.
He can’t.
His nipples are so hard, tight and peaked, that every exhale becomes a low, rasping moan, dripping from Steve’s mouth. He wants them to be touched for real so bad. He wants Bucky’s mouth, lips and teeth and tongue, he wants Bucky’s fingertips, pinching and suffering and not clinical, he wants the tip of Bucky’s hot cock, tracing them and painting them with glistening pre-cum, and, impossibly, he wants even more. He’s greedy. He’s been starved, so now he’s ready to feast.
Every touch—every clinical caress sets off another smoldering inferno inside. He is converging wildfires that demand that not a single forest tree or blade of grass be left uncharred. Steve is sure Dr. Barnes can hear the crackling coming from inside him. If he does, he doesn’t mention it, though. And why would he? That rushing, obscene reminder floats hazily through his burning head: he doesn’t have to tell you anything. All you need to do is take it. It doesn’t matter how hard you are, it doesn’t matter how close you are to ripping your orgasm out of yourself in sheer, agonized frustration, needing some, any, kind of release. Just take it. That’s all you can do.
Dimly, softly whimpering, Dr. Barnes lays his gloved hands on his body to push his shoulders unkindly, all but throwing him back to spread out on the exam table so he has room to further scrutinize him. Bucky doesn’t palpate his abdomen like a real doctor might—he does something much worse. There is no way to say it, other than to say it: he feels him up, groping him, and rubbing down his body.
Every. inch. of. him.
Steve sweats, so fucking slick he’s about to slide off the exam table, all that buttery soft leather too much against him. He’s barely wearing anything anymore. He hasn’t fixed his johnny since having his temperature taken up his ass, nor has he pulled it back up since having his lungs examined, the thin cotton pulled down to expose more than his cleavage. All of him. His fucking tits. He’s more naked than clothed. Exposed and undone.
Dr. Barnes doesn’t mind, though, cracking into his abdomen by starting with retracing his steps, pushing his hands—fingertips still dressed up in sexually slick latex—down either side of his neck, pressing down hard on his collarbones, cupping his pecs and grapping them obscenely, thumping his urgent nipples, finding the center line of his body, traveling down his sternum only to lay his palms full and flat on his clenching abs. Into his quivering stomach, he presses in hard, like he’s feeling for something beneath the surface, but, then, he takes a handful of his muscle, grabbing and squishing. Squeezing. Steve can’t help grunting through his clenched teeth. His thick, lustful blood surges to his gut, thumping and pulsing, wanting eagerly to be groped, too. He wants to be touched so bad it’s making him insane. Inside and out. Touch meeee.
The muscles in his abdomen flex and tremble while the delicate muscles around the base of his cock and testicles tense, jerking beneath his hiding nothing medical gown.
Dr. Barnes hums, meant to be a neutral, oh-interesting sort of tone, but coming out just a little too wicked. Cruel and enjoying the way he’s prolonging Steve’s suffering. His fingertips walk down Steve’s body, unhurried, dipping beneath his thrashed-about johnny until he finds the indentations of his Adonis belt, scratching his nails through the thin latex into his skin.
“Hnngh!” Steve gasps, the sound bursting from his lungs. There is no way not to make the sound. He’s going to fucking die. He’s burning. There’s all this heat and smoke building up inside him, pressing and pressing, and Bucky’s teasing, squeezing and scratching and having. He has all of him. Steve doesn’t know what to do other than gasp and cry out and—
Oh.
Suddenly, he’s deathly still.
Oh.
Hot, prickling pressure builds behind his eyes, wanting to cry because, mortifyingly, he can feel the wetness of his pre-cum soaked all through his medical gown and all over his own skin, trickling down the painfully engorged shaft of his cock. He thought this whole time he was leaking, too hard not to be, but now he knows he is, and it’s awful. He’s so turned on, it isn’t fair. Bucky isn’t being fair. He wants to cry and huff and stomp his foot, throwing a tantrum because holy shit. What is he supposed to do?
He wails.
Steve gives this stupid fucking, loud as fuck caterwaul when, speaking of leaking, Dr. Barnes lays one flat hand palm-down on the low of his abdomen then, as if one hand it’s enough, applies pressure with his second hand layered over the first, shoving the weight of his body against Steve’s; meanly, cruelly pressing right on his bladder when Bucky damn well knows that Steve habitually chugs water on the quinjet, so used to being so dehydrated after a mission from physical exertion and inaccessible water while fighting, that he did it earlier today, too, even though he wasn’t dehydrated this time. Steve didn’t get to do anything before coming here! He didn’t go to the bathroom. And he didn’t even realize how fucking bad he needed to piss until, un-until—
Ohfuckinggod.
The tears caught in Steve’s eyes, welling and wetting, stampede down his flushed red cheeks with sudden aching, full-chested sobs. He’s swollen. He’s about to piss himself. Bucky doesn’t care. He’s just pushing. Pushing Steve’s limits recklessly and clinically. Pressing on the bulge of his full, full bladder with both hands, digging into it until Steve makes this sound he’s never heard himself make, high and shrill and practically screaming: I’m in danger. You have to stop! You have to stop or I’m going to piss myself now.
Miracle of miracles, Dr. Barnes stops.
Steve doesn’t know if it’s better or worse when he stops. He, personally, can’t stop crying. All that happens is his sobs stifle into quieter but no-less earth-shattering heaves of his chest and trickles of tears and his body gets all confused. He doesn’t know anymore if he can cum, he wants to, but the urge to piss is so fucking assaulting that he doesn’t know he—he—is he even gonna be able to cum? He can’t cum and piss at the same time? What does he even want? What if he just explodes?
What. if. he. just. explodes.
He might.
Because Dr. Barnes needs to see the state of his reflexes, but there is no rubber percussion hammer. He has nothing but his hands. Deadly weapons. And he tickles him to determine his reflexes. Reaching out so abruptly that Steve can’t help but flail, his arms shooting out to grab the other man weakly, shaking and needing something, anything, to give. It has to. He can’t keep going like this. Jesusfuckingchrist.
Dr. Barnes, though, is displeased by Steve stopping him, even if it’s involuntary. So, sliding into his best disappointed, professional tone, he informs him, “I would’ve expected more restraint out of you, Captain.”
The words are like a sledgehammer to his chest.
Steve’s eyes go very, very wide and wet.
His mouth trembles.
Oh.
Dr. Barnes is unmoved by his pathetic little display, though, giving him that face. Going on, he insists, “very well. If you could, then, to make this easier,” his fingers encircle Steve’s wrists, biting into the delicate bones as he efficiently explains, “cross your arms at your back like you’re in parade rest.” Steve does, because… what else can he do? “There,” Dr. Barnes sighs, “just like that—sit on your hands because you can’t control yourself.” Ohgod. “I will proceed with the test now that you’re not interfering.”
He will. Not can he? He will. There is no room for argument.
Steve shudders.
Then, all at once, Dr. Barnes launches back into his test, no warning, just tickling, squirming hands. And Steve? Steve doesn’t even know what the fuck is happening. What is going on? How is he reacting? He can only half tell, giggling so hard he cries, yet he can’t hear himself, but, confusingly, he knows he’s squirming—thrashing, really—and begging to stop. But he’s beginning in that tone that makes it sound like he isn’t serious—he can’t be! He’s laughing. He’s so, so—he’s so serious though. Stop. Please. No. Tears leak from his squeezed-shut eyes. Don’t. Don’t stop.
And he knows Bucky is fucking merciless with it when he crawls up onto the exam table with him, ‘helping’ him by using his knees to pin his legs down so he can’t writhe so hard as his fingers dig into his sweating underarms and creep down expanding and contracting ribs. Tickling him and tickling him and tickling him. All the while, the only thing Steve can hold onto is his own wrist, tensing and flexing, reacting to every touch involuntarily. What else is he supposed to do? He clings to his own body for his fucking life—for his sanity. There’s none left. His shoulders shake and twist, and he throws his head back, crying.
Sobbing.
There isn’t a strong enough word for the way tears rip out of him and rush heatedly down his screwed-up face; there isn’t a good way to describe how he thrashes and fights to roll over and off the exam table, but he can’t because Bucky is on top of him, bony knees digging into his thighs. Pinned and tortured. It’s like he’s being fucking filleted open, spread out and filled with hot, molten marmalade—a feast for Bucky to devour with his hands.
When it finally ends, leaving him as nothing, Dr. Barnes climbs off of him as if nothing happened. Though, he doesn’t deny it for very long, cocking his head to the side and meanly cooing, “see? That wasn’t so bad.”
Steve wants to punch him. Steve wants to kiss him. Steve wants to be kissed, to be punched, to be fucked, to be fucked up, to be held down and open and destroyed. Obliterated. He wants to feel it all. He wants to feel nothing. Yes. Please.
And he gets what he desires.
The words “pelvic examination” and “checking for sexually transmitted infections” hit Steve’s ears a second too late, leaving him open and vulnerable to be manhandled and placed in perfect position before he can do anything but open his mouth, gasping, wanting to express with tears leaking down his face that he can’t get any sort of infection and certainly not the sexually transmitted kind but—
All the words he once knew are gone from his head. His mouth stays gaping open, incoherent and useless. The torture of being tickled has broken him. More than that, all of this has shattered him. He has nothing left. No words, no fight, nothing. So, without consciously doing it, his mouth closes, and he accepts his shiver-inducing fate, slathered in red from his hairline down his face, neck, and chest. Hell, if he had the muscle control, he’d lift his head and surely find, looking down his body, that he’d be red to his toes. Fucking mortified.
He can’t say anything. He can’t fight it. Won’t. He’ll take it.
Dr. Barnes’ hands flutter over his body, brushing and caressing and grabbing, moving him down to the edge of the exam table. It’s easy to glide along, weightless, with how slick with sweat and lube the soft leather is. At first, Dr. Barnes is careful, then, when he realizes just how far Steve’s surrendered to this, he gets meaner, grabbing and pulling, not scooting him, pulling him. Closer, closer, and closer until he’s unsteadily perched right at the edge of the table, almost falling off of it.
Then, his big, warm, gloved hands wrap themselves around his ankles, fingers almost touching, not trusting Steve to move his legs himself, and instead just doing it.
At his direction, Steve feels the hard, cold embrace of those loops of metal against the underside of his heels and Achilles’ tendons. Oh. Steve is mortified to know, now, that that’s what this exam table is meant for. For legs. For spreading legs. Like the footrests in a horse’s saddle— stirrups. Steve’s been strapped in, spread open, and he’s ready for a fucking ride.
If he could figure out how to open his eyes, he’s sure he’d be staring up at the ceiling with swimming vision, even dizzier than he already is.
It’s impossible for him to fucking get over how wide his legs are splayed out. And, horrifyingly, at this point, teased so fucking thoroughly, whimpering with every rough, raw exhale, it’s almost enough to make him cum.
Every. exhale.
“Haah, aahh, hhhaah, haah—”
His lungs are ragged.
Torn and trashed.
Fuck meee.
The back of Steve’s johnny is still wide-fucking-open, leaving his ass bare against the creamy leather, and even worse—if there’s such a thing—the two open sides have shifted wildly without his shoulders to hold them up. The side of the fabric barely brushes the one of his spread thighs while the other side drapes way, way over his other leg.
Askew and horrible.
Perfect.
Dr. Barnes, of course, does not stop to adjust his embarrassingly awry medical gown. Why would he? He knows, staring him down, that it’s making Steve appropriately burn with sensations of being all used and messy. Rumbled. His clothes are no longer even close to straight and appropriate, but totally out of place, as if he’s been fucked in a broom closet and kicked out immediately after. Shoved from a world of stolen, secret pleasure into the real world, interacting with everyone while he reeks of sex, his hair a mess from being pulled, his shirt on backwards, and his pants unzipped; all the while, still with that obvious, flushed, dumb look of ecstasy smeared across his face. Everyone knows what he did. He is exposed. So fucking exposed. Emotionally and literally because—
He’s being examined.
God.
He’s being so thoroughly examined.
Started at.
Touched.
Reaching up between his hardly covered legs, Dr. Barnes goes straight for the kill, ruthless as he cups, rolls, and touches his testicles without warning. Of course, using his gloved metal hand, knowing that it’ll feel fucking freezing. Clinical and cold. Not groping his balls but examining his testicles. There’s a difference, and it undoes Steve.
“HAH!” Steve jumps so hard—reacting to the sudden touch impulsively—that it makes Dr. Barnes’ hand pull his sensitive testicles by virtue of his staying perfectly still.
Oh.
OH!
Steve, he, he didn’t mean—
He—
He didn’t mean to move! He didn’t want to! He just did and, shit, now he’s paying the price. He almost howls. It aches. The pain of having his testicles yanked coils and curls deep inside his guts. His thighs snap shut, again moving without thinking.
Muscles squeezing, tensing, protecting the most vulnerable parts of himself, of course, Dr. Barnes won’t have that for a moment. And, instead of letting him self-sooth, wanting to curl up into a ball but unable to figure out how to pry his legs from the stirrups, Bucky pries his legs apart by the knees, “now, now,” he chuckles, scolding him, “I’m not done with you yet—there’s no need to be hasty, Captain.”
Steve drops his head back hard against the exam table, panting. It—it didn’t really hurt that bad, he guesses, but he’s so hard. Sniffling and crying still, Steve doesn’t know how else to take it than to squirm, wanting to hide, wanting to crawl away, wanting to melt into the floor. Please! He doesn’t even know if he wants to cum anymore. He doesn’t know if he can. This is his perfect hell. This forever.
“Shh, shh,” Dr. Barnes hushes his squirming frustration, uninterested in his protesting yet patting his side like he’s a pony he can gentle with a few quick pets to its flank—perfunctory, nothing more.
Steve tosses his head back and forth, up and down, side to side, he doesn’t even know, he’s barely thinking he’ll get through this, he can take it, he just, he just has to wait until Bucky’s done rolling his balls in his hand, and then he—
He isn’t done down there.
Thin and high, Steve whiiiimpers.
Dr. Barnes' gloved fingertips walk back behind his balls and pet and stroke over the flush of soft, pink skin between his tightly hanging testicles and his tightly clenched asshole. He’s so tight. It hurts.
“Hmm,” Dr. Barnes considers, pressing a little hard. Too hard. He’s massaging circles over the tiny erogenous, sensitive area, driving Steve fucking insane, “how often are you relieving yourself these days?”
When was the last time he had a coherent thought? Hours? Days? When will this end? Does it have to end?
“Whah!—uhh, um,” Steve’s voice is high and cracking. Distressed. He’s leaking so bad… is he cumming yet? He is wild and out of control. Crying. Leaking. Sweating. Wanting.
Dr. Barnes remains calm and cool, remaining as steadfast and professional as Captain America should but can’t, “I only asking necessary questions, Captain Rogers. For your health, of course—”
Steve makes a sound like metal creaking from being bent too far.
“—Because you see, this area here—” he presses harder, tapping, rubbing, and enticing Steve impossibly more. Every touch, right there, sends gutting pulses of pleasure through him like he’s being penetrated again and again with a hot, iron poker laid into a fire then into his flesh, sizzling, aching awfully and terribly hot and confusingly worthy of drooling, wanting more at the same time. A glutton for punishment in the way that after so much denial, he’ll take any kind of sensation, painful or pleasurable, and he’ll lap it up “—is called the perineum, and with men like you, particularly high needs, active men—”
Steve interrupts the good doctor with another mortifying sound. He’s high needs? Particularly high needs? How embarrassing.
“—If you’re not giving yourself regular attention, you can get backed up, and then your prostate swells. You, Captain, are so backed up I can feel it from the outside of your body. It must be terribly uncomfortable.” But even as he says all that, he presses harder, humiliating Steve by pushing crashing, destroying waves of pleasure like back-to-back tsunamis that erode Steve from a sturdy sandcastle to a flat stretch of beach, just a million more grains of sand. Nothing special. Pressing harder.
Harder.
It’s—
It aches, it throbs, it hurts so fucking bad. Steve can’t stop drooling ‘cause his stupid mouth won’t close. He doesn’t even have enough control over his melted muscles to shut his mouth. He’s destroyed. He, he wants—he wants Bucky to keep rubbing, pressing, touching, and—
“Ohgodyes,” it comes out in one eyes-rolling-back rush as Bucky’s fingers slip back toward his twitching hole. If he even fucking fingers him a little, Steve’s gonna die. He’s been feeling it for hours, but he means it this time; it’s not just a threat, it’s a promise. He’s gonna fucking die.
And he knows it, because Dr. Barnes fingers him more than a little.
With far, far too much lube, slick down his thick fingers, pooling in his searing hot palm, trailing down the bottom edge of his gloves at his wrist, and smeared across the curve of Steve’s asscheek and uppermost thigh when he slides it inside, Dr. Barnes slides one, squelch, then two fingers, squelch, into his starved hole.
Steve’s hole eats them.
Devours.
Body burning white hot, pure heat, Steve lets them in because it’s the easiest fucking thing he’s done in his entire, lengthy life. Inside. He needs his fingers inside him. He needs something of Bucky inside him, or he’s gonna die; he requires something of Bucky inside him because he wants to die. He needs release. He wants—he needs—
GOD!
After all of it, teasing and drawn-out denial, there is nothing left. His testicles are as swollen and tightly drawn as they could possibly fucking be. Yet, it’s no describable sensation, no comprehensible feelings, just heat.
Fevering.
Roasting.
Burning.
Steve sobs his heart out, emptying, quivering and cracking apart, fracturing into a thousand tiny pieces, meanwhile Dr. Barnes, just, grunts as if unimpressed with having to fight so hard against Steve’s strong, tight internal muscles; he’s trying so hard to rub against his walls, examining and curling and twisting and making sure he touches every single part of his body. Inside. Inside. Inside. It’s so intense. It feels like being fingered because he is being fingered, but it’s also so much fucking worse. He’s not being fingered, he’s being examined. Dr. Barnes is searching. It’s terrible. It’s so clinical. It’s not about pleasure, and that makes it so much more pleasurable. Dirty and taboo. Steve is simply a dinky, stupid, little plastic cup floating in the ocean—that’s how much overflowing pleasure there is inside him. He’s full. But, also, he’s surrounded on all sides. Overflowing, sure, but more just drowning.
Choking, sputtering, and inhaling lungfuls of saltwater, Steve doesn’t even notice when he starts to finally orgasm. It isn’t a tipping point. It’s everything. He’s spurting hot, thick messes of cum across the inside of his medical gown and all across his clenching abdomen and squirming thighs. He doesn’t notice the moment it starts, it’s just happening, unending waves, because it all feels so good and he’s so distracted by the way Dr. Barnes has honed in on his swollen prostate and is ruthlessly pressing down on it, not massaging it but beating it up. He, he—he maybe had the feeling that he was actually, involuntarily starting to cum when the first thick fingertip slid inside him, but, ohhhh, he’s definitely fucking cumming now. Definitely. Uncontrolled and unstoppable. He’s drenching himself in cum. Soaking his medical gown and dripping across his skin, flowing over his heaving side, and getting the white, creamy leather that much creamier—it’s disgusting. Lewd and vile, and he just can’t anymore.
He has to cum.
Keep cumming.
It doesn’t matter how close Dr. Barnes is and how he can definitely feel it—there’s no mistaking the way his hole clenches and twitches and milks pleasure from his invading fingers—Steve’s fucking gushing. Cumming. Cumming so hard.
Harder!
Steve makes a sound so shrill that it hurts his own ringing ears as Dr. Barnes catches on and uses more of his muscles, those handsome, corded-muscle forearms, to press harder. Two fingers on his prostate. Milking him while Steve milks his fingers, wanting something even thicker inside him—craving it. Craving cock. Emptying and unraveling.
It is violent.
Howling, thrashing, Steve cums everywhere. If not for the johnny swamped crookedly around his hips, he’s sure his fucking load would make it up to paint his own tits, probably even his own fucking face. It’s explosive.
He’s a mess.
And, through it, at the last of it-? He doesn’t know! He doesn’t know—when he’s still dribbling, leaking cum, Dr. Barnes clicks his tongue.
“Captain Rogers,” he shakes his head, side to side, as if disappointed in him. His fingers are still inside him, pressing indecently as Steve can’t stop the wanton sounds and wetness from leaking out of his body anymore. He’s a broken faucet. “Your swelling still isn’t going down.”
Steve’s already fucking dead, so how is Bucky killing him more?
But Dr. Barnes just patiently questions him further, humiliating him beyond six feet down, “how often do you pleasure yourself?”
“How often do you have partners to pleasure you?”
“Alone or by yourself, do you ever stop to pay attention to your prostate?”
“I believe you could benefit from regular messaging to make sure you don’t get this bad again. With or without a partner, you need to spend time taking care of yourself, making sure you aren’t getting this backed up. Honestly, I have no idea how it wasn’t painful, all of this ejaculate and semen just sitting, waiting inside you.”
Oh, god. Steve wants to cover his face with his hands and never see another person again—Bucky’s making it sound like he’s just fucking full of it. Full of cum. Full and swollen. And, and—he is. The worst part is he is. He can feel it. Gutting and deep inside, he feels the way his body starts to coil and churn and already rushes to make more. The fuckin’ serum. God. He can’t stop. Couldn’t if he wanted to. He’s still hard. He can’t go soft. Won’t. Not with Bucky just talking and talking while massaging him from the inside. Jesus. Rubbing, rubbing, rubbing these tight little circles right over his fucking prostate, every now and again tap-tap-tapping his thumb against his perineum for good measure.
Guuuhh.
Release is still fucking leaking out of him, twitching, pulsing, spilling. It doesn’t even feel like an orgasm, it’s just pleasurepleasurepleasuuuure, so stretched out there is no ending and no beginning. Just. Constant. More. All of it. Zero coherence to the whole fucking thing. Pleasure but not. It just is. This is his life now. Milking. He’s spilling, gushing, pouring waves of cum over his twitching stomach. He can’t stop. Dr. Barnes is milking him like a veterinarian would milk a bull for its semen; it’s not about pleasure, it’s about volume.
It’s hot, erotic degradation at its fucking peak.
Through it all, fingers inside him, Dr. Barnes refuses to touch his cock. It’s so goddamn agonizing. He’ll tap and stroke and pet his perineum; he’ll tease his stretched-out, wet rim with another fingertip, leaving him aching worse for more; he’ll roll his balls in his hand, feeling them all over, squeezing him hotly, but he won’t go fucking near his cock.
He’s killed Steve already, but now he’s murdering him. Here. Now. Murdering him.
So consumed by the unending, disorienting, so-good-it’s-bad, so-bad-it’s-good, overwhelming sensations, Steve doesn’t even know if he’s making a sound anymore. Is he moaning? Is he breathing? Is he gurgling? Drowning, dying—is he-?
OH!
Suddenly, Dr. Barnes doesn’t tease but leaps into action. He knows Steve is expecting him to slip a third fingertip into his lax, wanting rim only to pull it back before giving him anything to really clench around, so he does the opposite: he plunges forward with a third, and he gets mean. Bucky digs his fingertips, three now, into Steve’s abused, tender prostate and thumbs his perineum from the other side, pinning his prostate between a rock and a hard place and letting. Steve. howl.
Steve explodes.
Cum everywhere.
More.
Dizzily, Steve suddenly can feel the difference. His other orgasm was over and that was just milking—waves and waves of cum rushing out of him with no respite, nowhere else to go—because this is another orgasm, and it’s vicious. All teeth. Chewing and gnawing him down to pulp just to spit him back out.
He can’t take it.
There’s no way he’ll make it through.
He has nothing left to give. He can’t possibly fucking give in anymore. There is nothing left of him. He’s drained and bled. He’s fucking useless.
And, Jesusfuckingchrist, Steve lies there, head as lulled back as it can possibly be, neck limp, broken, chest not rising and falling when he can’t move, can’t twitch, can’t breathe—they fucking have to be done, right? More than dizzy and spinning out of control, he’s totally discombobulated. There’s nothing but smoke, smoldering and crackling. He can’t give anymore; Bucky can’t take anymore. So, they’re done, aren’t they?
Aren’t they?
They’re not.
Bucky has more.
Is Steve still crying? When would he have had a breather to stop? He can’t feel his face. Everything tingles. Everything hurts. If he’s not still sobbing, if he’s run out of tears, he wishes he could sob. If he is sobbing, he wishes he could stop. He doesn’t know what he wants. It’s too much. Too confusing. But it doesn’t matter because he can’t give in anymore, he’s given everything over, so… it will just happen.
It’s good.
Fucking great.
And somewhere, through his ringing, underwater-sounding ears, Dr. Barnes is announcing cheerfully that now that he’s nice and open, and now that he’s had some of his swelling relieved… he’s going to have a closer look to make sure everything is in otherwise proper working order.
What.
Steve dimly, sort-of, almost-thinks through the blinding haze, just, what?
What does that mean?
But then, Dr. Barnes pulls out this thing. An object made of metal and undeniably, obviously medical in its form, but nothing Steve’s ever seen before. It’s either very modern or very old… right?
It’s a speculum, Dr. Barnes explains, holding the instrument up for him to see (as if he can see) through his doubled, smeared vision.
Not knowing that it is or what it does, Steve’s feet impulsively jolt in the stirrups, the last spark of his frayed nerves getting to him. But… he’s so fucking beyond logical consciousness that he doesn’t even know if he’s nervous or hot for it? What’s the difference anywhere? Fear and arousal both make his heart beat funny and his whole body sweat. But, god, with his muscles weak and filleted wide open, Steve wants to shut his legs. He couldn’t dream of it, though. He’s beyond incapacitated. He doesn’t know what’s going on. All he’s got is the tantalizing sensation of Bucky’s breath fanning inside him—he talks while he’s looking at his hole, scissoring his worked, stretched, gaped rim to make way for the speculum thing.
Certain words float past his ringing ears and fill his otherwise empty head, compliments and praise that make him feel more than drunk, look how pink you are, Captain. Aw, you’re trying so hard to stay tight, aren’t you? But, oh, wow, look at how you open right up for me. Good. Good job, Captain Rogers. You’re being so good and still for me.
Jolting and quivering, the speculum is fucking cold as it slips inside him.
Dr. Barnes doesn’t even pretend to apologize. Rather, he chuckles knowingly, knowing the frostbite sensation travels immediately to Steve’s cock, sharp and oversensitive. Steve likes it. Well. It feels good. But everything feels good now. Everything feels bad, too. He doesn’t know what anything feels like just barely registering that he feels good and he likes feeling good and—
Oh.
His entire body shivers, no, convulses, as one of the metal arms of the speculum presses hard against his massaged, milked, and fucking abused prostate. He feels the entire device slide coldly inside, then he feels it turn and move, and he feels it spread.
Steve’s mouth is so fucking wide open it hurts. Jaw stretched like his hole is stretched because of the speculum and he’s never felt anything like it. It’s, it’s—it’s kind of like being fucked on a metal buttplug but not really. He’s full, but the fullness is hollow; he knows, he can feel the cold air from the room and the hot air from Dr. Barnes talking mouth at the same time that the metal presses to his drenched, quivering internal walls. He… he knows. He likes it. He wants it. He—
He’s so fucking weird.
It feels so weird.
His whole body is wet. He’s crying and sweating and leaking and cumming from every hole and pore and gland and—
He’s not a body anymore. He’s pleasure. He’s pain. He’s… he is. He, just, is. He’s here and he’s experiencing it as his walls are stretched wide so sensitively. And Dr. Barnes has something—some device, maybe it’s part of the speculum, maybe it’s his fingers, but it couldn’t be, right? There’s no room? Is it a dildo? A fucking stick like a tongue depressor but for his… his other end? Steve’s head swims, he has no idea what’s happening to him, he doesn’t think he wants to know either, just let it happen, let it feel, but there’s something more inside him and it’s using the spread of the speculum to its advantage, plunging in so deep that it’s shocking. It feels like it’s in his goddamn guts.
If he could breathe, he’d be choking on whatever’s so deep inside him, fucking his ass and pressing into his guts to fill his chest and throat and jesusfuckinggod.
After all this fucking intensity, how can Steve react? What is he supposed to do? He’s gone from his own body and he doesn’t know, he just—
He’s deep.
The constant pressure of the speculum against his velvet-slick walls generally and his achy prostate specifically and the wash of Bucky’s hot, humid breath against and inside him and the probing, prodding, plunging push of more inside him and, ohfuckkk, Steve is clenching, rippling, spasming, and cumming around it.
Steve is a goner.
He’s lost all thought and certainly lost count of how many times he’s cum. Is he even cumming at all anymore? Does he have anything left? Is he just cumming dry and the pleasure is ripping through him, turning the brittle charcoal forest already burned inside him to nothing but ash? Because holy fuck. He feels flattened and drained.
Probably, likely, cumming dry with his throat raw from moaning feverishly, hoarsely, he’s unable to make a sound. Mouth hanging wide open. Eyes rolled back until it hurts. Skin sizzling with his blush. And he doesn’t make it through. He whites out completely before the pleasure stops. His glass ceiling shattering, leaving him obliterated.
There is nothing but heat.
Langurously, Steve’s blonde, tangled lashes twitch and struggle to part, opening incrementally to find no real visual—he can’t process what he’s seeing, his eyes don’t open wide enough and his brain is still offline—the only thing he knows is that he’s rocking. Rising and falling as gently as a ship drifting in the middle of a calm sea, out on the open ocean for so long he’s forgotten what it is to be still. Isn’t stillness just—hasn’t stillness always been this? Rocking. Up and down. Slight and unbelievably comforting.
Somewhere between the blinking, if you can even call his subtle twitches that, and the bobbing, rocking, moving Steve’s skin resisters that there’s a soft, easy kind of pressure around him—not unlike clothes, but definitely not clothes either. It’s… he can’t put his finger on it for what feels like just a blip of a moment, but it could be a thousand years just as easily. Drifting. Sinking. Floating.
It isn’t a sudden realization, though, it’s a morning hum, just fluttering to it, no real before or after: it’s a blanket.
Naked and warm, he’s wrapped in a blanket. And the rocking isn’t the deck of a traveled ship under his cheek at all, but the broad expanse of Bucky’s chest, expanding and contracting smoothly with his breathing.
Hmm,
a soft murmur of a noise emanates from inside Steve, coming to know that he’s been cocooned in the dim lighting of their bedroom rather than continuing on in the bright white of their
doctor’s
office. His head and shoulders are sprawled across his chest.
More than a murmur, before Steve can process it, he realizes that he’s breathlessly laughing. He doesn’t know why, either, not until—
Bucky’s laughing.
The sound does more for his bodily warmth than the blanket ever could, “wh-what?” Steve giggles—actually giggles, not laughs. Giggles. He can’t help it, stupefied, and he’s become from so back back-to-back climaxes.
“You, what?” Bucky shoots it right back at him, nose-to-nose with him, smiling so brightly it kind of hurts Steve’s sensitive, tired eyes, existing in the otherwise dimness of the room. He wants to nip playfully at that handsome nose, snap and bite, but that would require moving and he is too delightfully exhausted.
“What the fuck,” Steve sighs, dreamy, almost not realizing anything has tripped and fallen out of his mouth.
“Again,” Bucky’s eyes crinkle endearingly at the corners, “what?”
Steve doesn’t know what he meant previously, but he knows now even if his brain is moving through viscous molasses, fighting to know anything at all after such a hard fucking reset, “wha—” he laughs a little, ridicious as he stumbles, “what, when, I—where did you come up with…” he’s at a loss for words, “all that?”
Bucky shrugs, smirking like a bastard and yet pretending he doesn’t know.
“‘M so serious, Buck—” Steve breathlessly threatens.
“That bad?” He teases.
“No,” Steve’s whole filter is gone, not just shot through with irreparably big holes but dissolved. He shivers. “No. I. Jesus. I thought I was gonna die. I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard!” He slaps a hand over his own mouth a moment too late.
Bucky cackles, jostling him on his chest—it feels like magic. “Rude!” He squawks, “I’ve so fucked you and made you cum that hard before!”
Steve laughs harder, too hard to apologize for his flustered, filter-less words and too hard to turn it around into a challenge just to drive Bucky up the wall. He can’t catch his breath, the best he’s got, when Bucky teases him, “you’re lucky I like you, Rogers.” Is sticking his tongue out at him, but even that doesn’t work too well. He’s giggling, laughing, and fully stupid. He can’t hold onto the petulant gesture for more than a second. Jesus, his sides hurt from laughing—all this laughing between the tickling earlier and this now. He really, really loves his best guy. He does. He’s the best around. The only.
Notes:
I've never had a speculum in me, as a guy, and I hear they're not fucking fun, but for this Steve, with this kink, I kind of feel like I had to have one. I think he'd like it. I think he'd enjoy any kind of pain and the embarrassment of being spread with it and, of course, the medical nature of it all. So... what do you think? What was the best part of this exam roleplay in your eyes?
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