Chapter Text
“Remind me again why I’m doing this.”
Clint sighs but doesn’t look up from where he’s trying to find a vein in Bucky’s sole flesh arm. Clint’s kind of shit at it, but he’s familiar and an omega and pretty much the only person Bucky can stand right now because his employers shot him up full of suppressant-neutralizers and his hormones are going haywire.
“Because the defrosted pillar of truth, justice, and the American way woke up and went into rut,” Clint recites dully, incredulity at this turn of events having faded into resignation out of sheer self-preservation. Bucky gets it. “It’s his first rut in, what, seventy years? And suppressants aren’t working. It might kill him.”
“Why me?” Bucky laments.
He doesn’t call it whining; this is justified, dammit.
Clint isn’t fazed.
“Because you’re our only enhanced omega. Our only enhanced anything, actually. If we send some poor, normal fucker into that containment room, Cap might just kill them with his dick.”
Bucky grimaces. He doesn’t know what it says about his life that it has landed him ass-up, face-down in these circumstances.
Clint finally manages to find a vein. Bucky watches the plunger drop. He’s pretty sure he’s imagining the warmth spreading through his veins. Heat inducers need time to work—not a lot but definitely more than a second. Between this and the neutralizers, he doesn’t even want to think of what his chemical makeup looks like right now.
Will Rogers be able to smell it on him? Would it even matter? Captain America or not, the guy’s an alpha in a long-delayed rut. All he’ll care about is having a tight hole around his knot, and Bucky’s got that dubious honor.
“You did agree to this,” Clint points out mildly. He swabs gently at Bucky’s elbow with some cotton. “You can still back out.”
“I’m going to be in induced heat in ten minutes. If that American asshole doesn’t fuck me, I might die.”
Alright, that’s an exaggeration. A shitton of studies have proven that induced heats are stronger and more demanding than regular ones, but Bucky won’t die, unlike Rogers. That’s why he’s there though. If they could have just let Rogers ride it out with his hand or some toys, they would have. But they can’t.
Bucky wasn’t in station when they woke Rogers and fresh hell broke loose. His pheromones triggered heats in most of the omegas in that wing, even those who were bonded or on suppressants, and it was a good thing the poor guy had enough sense then to barricade himself in his room-slash-prison because they’d have had pandemonium otherwise.
That was five hours ago. Since then, Rogers has been lost to the rut and the facility damn near evacuated. And Fury pulled Bucky out of D.C. and called him here to get fucked. Literally.
Jesus.
“Hey.” Clint sits beside him and puts his arm around Bucky. It’s a little awkward but comforting all the same. “It’ll be alright. We won’t let you get hurt.”
“I know. Just—this is weird, alright? And I mean it. Audio surveillance only. No visuals.”
“Fury doesn’t like it,” Clint says frankly. “But he’ll make sure of it. And I’ll make sure he’ll make sure of it. Just in case.”
He winks, and Bucky absurdly feels a little better.
-
He’s led to Rogers’s room like a lamb to the slaughter.
Bucky shakes his head. Impending heats make him dramatic. Clint is with him, but there’s an eerie lack of personnel in the long, winding corridors between the medical wing and the containment cells. The atmosphere is better suited to having some cuck-crazy supervillain in holding rather than one rutting alpha. But then, Rogers’s serum-laced pheromones are nothing to scoff at. Bucky’s body reacts, nipples hardening, cock throbbing, not that it needs much encouragement with the heat inducers working its magic.
It's Clint’s reaction that fascinates him. He’s bonded to two alphas, and neither Nat nor Laura is weak, but even he’s biting his lip and looking distinctly flustered by the time they reach Rogers’s door.
He goes to open the door, and Bucky stops him.
“No. Leave first.”
“But—”
“No buts. I appreciate your company, and it did help calm me down. But if it’s this bad despite the fucking scent-proof door, then I can’t even imagine what’s gonna happen when we open this thing.”
“He’s restrained,” Clint says weakly.
“He’s not what I’m afraid of. I can afford to lose it and go heat-crazy. That’s the whole point of this shit. You can’t. Scram.”
Gratitude wars with hesitance on Clint’s face as he stands there staring at Bucky, but he nods after a minute and starts to back away.
“Good luck. Remember, you’re safe. We’ll come get you—”
“Yes, yes, just go.”
Clint huffs but turns around and marches off at a pace that says he really wants to run but won’t because he doesn’t want to freak Bucky out. It’s too late, but Bucky appreciates the sentiment.
He turns to the door once Clint is out of sight. The access pad looks far more intimidating than it has any right to. Bucky wants to put this off, but between the injections and Rogers’s scent, he’s on the cusp of heat, and he might as well be inside when it hits.
He punches in the code and scans his thumb and drags in a deep, reassuring breath as the door slides open with an ominous hiss.
Bucky takes one step inside. His first inhale makes him stagger, hole gushing. He stands there, stunned to stillness, one arm braced on the wall as warm liquid trickles down his thighs. He takes another breath, can’t help it, and his ass clenches around nothing.
He casts a wild glance back at the door. It’s already closed.
A loud growl reverberates in the room.
Rogers is restrained. They moved him to this cell in the first half-hour of his rut, when he was more or less in his right mind. It’s plain and sparse, with a big bed in the middle and a toilet in one corner. Both of Rogers’s arms are locked in steel cuffs attached to the wall. It doesn’t look very comfortable, and Bucky feels a twinge of sympathy that he crushes. Rogers agreed to this. He knew the risks.
And Bucky is definitely glad the guy’s locked down tight because the way he’s looking at Bucky says that if Rogers had this way, Bucky would be getting fucked against the wall right now.
His gut clenches at the thought. His hole is dripping wet. His body, at least, wouldn’t mind that turn of events, but his heat hasn’t yet hit, and Bucky is sadly still in his right mind.
But he can’t help looking at what he’s been avoiding until now. Rogers is naked, and his dick juts out obscenely between his legs, hard and flushed a violent red that looks painful. That flash of sympathy again and this time, Bucky can’t will it away. Rogers spent the last five hours chained like this without even his own hand for relief. Bucky tries to imagine being in heat and unable to cram at least his fingers inside him. Horror is what makes his gut clench this time.
Bucky stumbles forward from the wall. He shakily strips out of the loose sweatpants Clint gave him to wear. It leaves him naked, and this time, Rogers’s growl has intent behind it. He’s staring at Bucky’s soft cock, which fills a little at the attention. Traitor.
“Captain,” Bucky greets.
He’s surprised when that makes Rogers actually look at his face. Rogers himself has a very nice face. He’s jacked to all hell and pretty to boot, the kind of alpha Bucky would have happily taken for a ride if they’d met in some bar. As it is, his physical appeal is dulled a little by the situation.
“I’m Bucky,” he says, soldiering on despite the incomprehension on Rogers’s face. “I’m here to…help you.”
This is starting to feel more and more like a really wild porno.
Bucky should probably get on the bed. Get on Rogers, actually. His cock sure looks inviting—
He pries his eyes away from Rogers’s dick, ignoring the pulsing heat between his legs. It’s close, he can feel it, but it’s not there yet, and Bucky’s going to make the best of these lucid moments while he can.
“Probably shouldn’t keep calling you Captain,” Bucky tells the man on the bed, who clearly has no fucks to give what he’s called. But he might remember this later. And Bucky wants to keep talking, even if to just fool himself that this is totally normal, yes sir. “Or Rogers. We’re about to be past surnames soon. Steve then. Can I call you Steve?”
The only answer he gets is another growl, lower this time, the sort of alpha noise that drives Bucky wild in bed. He’s not in bed, yet, but his asshole’s sure happy to hear it.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bucky grits out, clenching his thighs together like that will make them less wet.
There’s a building heat in his body, familiar but not quite, just off enough to leave him disoriented. Bucky likes heats just fine as long as they’re not interfering with his work, but he’s heard horror stories about triggered heats. The S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor told Clint who told Bucky that this cocktail is safe, but he knows his body and knows this isn’t how it should be.
There’s something unnatural about the onset. It should be a slow, gradual build, not this—this wave.
Bucky staggers forward as his stomach cramps, crashing to his knees at the pain. It only lasts a few seconds, but he’s left panting through clenched teeth in the aftermath.
He looks up.
Steve is silent, staring down at Bucky. There’s concern on his face, but Bucky can’t tell whether it’s genuine or more alpha bullshit. Probably the latter. The poor sonuvabitch hasn’t been in possession of his mental faculties for hours.
It strikes him then that this is even less fair to Steve than to Bucky. He knew what he was agreeing to. Steve’s rut hit too fast for him to do anything more than hide in his room and let beta agents escort him to a better cell without killing anyone. He hasn’t consented to this.
“I’m sorry about this,” Bucky says, still on the floor, panting through the heat flooding his system. “Just, uh, oh Christ, I can’t—think, think of it as desperate measures. When you’re back, when—fuck, fuck, shit, I—”
Bucky falls onto all fours, limbs weakening as his scent spikes.
Steve roars.
There’s a loud, wrenching sound. Bucky doesn’t realize what’s happening until there are legs in his visions and strong arms hauling him up and tossing him into the bed. He lands on his stomach, bouncing a little, and it’s instinctive to try and scramble upright, but that’s a mistake. There’s a thick body pushing itself between his legs, rough hands palming his ass, and that’s when what happened finally sinks in.
The metal cuffs dangle from the wall, shattered.
Steve spreads Bucky’s ass, and Bucky yells a panicked “Wait—”
A hot, wet tongue laps at his hole, and Bucky’s elbows buckle. He howls into the sheets, drowning in the sudden, searing pleasure. It’s too much, too fast, but Steve thrusts his tongue inside, still growling, the sound trembling against Bucky’s hole, and he can’t help pushing back against it, grinding his ass against Steve’s mouth.
He's wet, fucking gushing, and the tongue sloppily fucking him isn’t enough.
And then it stops.
Bucky cries out, angry and helpless, and his unthinking attempt to move—to push back, turn around, do something—earns him a hand at his nape, shoving his face into the bed. It leaves him with his ass in the air, fucking presenting, and that gets him dripping too.
He has a moment to think, half-hysterically, that this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Steve was tied up and harmless, and Bucky was supposed to start them off easy—ride him, take his knot, maybe untie him once he calmed down from the frenzy. Best laid plans, and here he is, pinned down and spread wide like some alpha’s dream feast.
Steve’s hand tightens on his neck. His weight shifts, and Bucky knows what’s coming, but the scorching press of a cock to his hole still makes him gasp. It’s huge, something he’s been carefully not thinking about, and Bucky’s wet but not prepared, not nearly enough stretched, and he can’t, he can’t—
It pries him open.
Bucky shouts, the sound muffled by a faceful of mattress. He tries to squirm out from under Steve, get away, buy himself time, something, anything, but the hand on his throat holds him down without effort, and he’s got no choice but to keen into the sheets as that monster cock tears into him.
He drags in a deep, shuddering breath and gasps at their mingled scent. It’s the kind of shit meant to wreak holy havoc on your libido, and it works. He’s wet, so wet, more than he ever remembers being, heat or no heat, and it’s the only thing keeping Steve’s oversized dick from splitting him in half. The hand holding him down shifts its grip, an errant thumb brushing his scent glands.
Bucky whimpers and clenches hard around the cock pushing into him.
Steve stops. Someone’s keening nonstop, and Bucky think it’s him until his head clears and he realizes it’s Steve. It sounds like it hurts, like he’s in pain, and Bucky can’t help it, crooning softly and reaching back to blindly grope at whatever part of Steve he can reach. It’s just instinct; a hurting alpha is dangerous, but knowing it’s stupid motherfucking biology doesn’t ease the intensity of Bucky’s reaction when Steve stops keening and groans instead, free hand gripping Bucky’s.
His body relaxes, turns slick and loose, and Steve bottoms out in a swift, fiery slide.
Bucky doesn’t make a sound. He can’t. Air’s trapped in his throat, and his body’s a quivering wreck.
He’s never been this fucking full, and Steve hasn’t even knotted him yet.
He thinks, then, of calling out, telling Clint—or Fury, someone—to get in here and get him the fuck out, because enhanced or not, he’s not going to survive this. It’s already too much, and Steve’s hasn’t even started moving, stock still inside Bucky as he drags in deep gulps of air. He can’t imagine more, can’t imagine being knotted on that thing, and he should get out of here and suffer through his heat in his cozy apartment and never, ever see Steve Rogers again if he even survives and—
It’s not sympathy for Steve that stops him. It’s not even a sense of duty.
It’s the cock that starts moving, the angled thrust that screws along Bucky’s prostate, and the sheer, gut-clenching pleasure that slams into him.
The overwhelming fullness sinks sharp hooks into Bucky’s gut, but it’s heat-laced want that spills from the wounds. It’s still too much, it’ll always be too much, but Bucky’s got a body made to survive things that would kill most humans, and this isn’t different.
He doesn’t really get to enjoy it before it’s over.
The swell of Steve’s knot doesn’t surprise him, not when he knows how long they left him without relief or release, but Bucky only has a moment to acknowledge that S.H.I.E.L.D. kinda fucked up before the pain hits.
He’s split it two, burned to the bone, and he knew Steve’s knot would be a monster, he knew, but the reality is a sudden, searing shock.
Bucky sobs, clawing at the sheets and wrenching away from the hand on his nape, but it just fists in his hair instead, keeping him there on his belly as Steve damn near kills him with his swelling knot.
It grows and grows and doesn’t stop—
Bucky can’t, he can’t—
Steve grinds his hips in deep, and Bucky screams, and they’re locked together, and the knot hasn’t stopped growing, and Bucky can’t breathe, it’s all too much, his blood’s on fire, he’s cleaved in two, god, it hurts it hurts it hurts—
Steve stills.
Liquid fire drenches his insides, shocking Bucky into utter silence. It doesn’t—it doesn’t end, Steve’s dick jerks and his knot pops, filling Bucky with so much come that he feels bloated in seconds, all of it sloshing around inside him, plugged up with nowhere to go.
There’s a soft sigh. The hand holding Bucky’s and the one clenched in his hair loosen their grips. Bucky doesn’t move, can’t if he tried. It’s all he can do to breathe.
It’s so much.
Cap might just kill them with his dick, Clint said, and it was a real fear, Bucky’s sure of that, but it’s just that they don’t know enough about the serum, not that they actually thought Captain America would impale someone on his dick.
Bucky knows better now.
He turns his head to the side, and it’s still hard to breathe, but he drags in deep breaths and tries to blink the spots out of his vision. Everything aches. He tries to move, just a little, but the knot plugging him up is huge and hot, and he can’t help clenching all around it. He screams, but it dies into a whimper when Steve groans and tries to work his hips, grinding his knot against the nerves around Bucky’s hole. It hurts, but it works too, pleasure spiking sharply through the pain. Bucky spasms around Steve and drips some more, but he can’t come like this, even though that would put them both out of their misery.
Steve rolls his hips again, and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head. The sheets tear under his left hand and the right one digs blunt nails into Steve’s palm.
“It hurts,” he says, barely recognizing his voice. “Stop moving, please, it hurts.”
Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the words or his tone that penetrates.
Steve untangles his fingers from Bucky’s and lets go of his neck. Despite everything, the sudden absence of those points of contact tears a pitiful whine out of Bucky, but Steve touches him before the sound quite makes it out, large, warm hands stroking up Bucky’s back and along his shoulders, their touch firm but gentle. In some twisted way, it’s a more shocking gesture than anything that’s happened so far.
And Steve’s crooning too, the same sound Bucky made earlier, lapping gently at some small, animal part of him and coaxing him to relax in spite of himself.
Slowly, so slowly that Bucky holds his breath and feels his lungs burn, Steve lowers his body. His knot tugs at Bucky’s rim, digs into all those soft, hollowed parts of him that were made to cling the blunt swell of a knot. It’s not pleasure, not yet, but it’s not pain either anymore. Just sensation, slithering up his spine.
Steve’s weight settles on him. He's heavy. Bucky’s heartbeat starts to slow.
There’s instinct, and then there’s this, bodies burning beyond control.
Steve’s breath stirs Bucky’s hair, tickles a tiny strip of skin. He makes a small noise and tilts his head a little, and it’s not quite invitation, but he doesn’t protest the rough drag of lips along his skin. Steve’s got dry lips, chapped almost to bleeding. Hard bits of dead skin scrapes along his throat. It makes him shiver.
Bucky likes to kiss his alphas before they fuck. He likes, sometimes, to let a kiss decide whether he’ll take someone home.
He can’t fathom turning his head enough to let their mouths meets. He can’t fathom moving at all. Steve’s knot has still got him struggling to breathe when he focuses on it too much. It’s a miracle that it fits in him. He can’t imagine coming around it.
He knows he’ll find out.
Steve’s still crooning, softer now, closer to Bucky’s ears. It keeps him limp, relaxed, and as long as he doesn’t move, doesn’t even stir, and Bucky’s doesn’t really mind. It could be worse.
He wonders what Clint and the rest think about the sudden silence. He wonders how loud he’ll need to scream before Fury will send help.
Wonders if he’ll send it at all, unable or unwilling to distinguish between an omega caught in the throes of heat and one screaming for help. It’s a familiar enough story. Maybe he should have allowed video surveillance, but he doubts that would have changed minds that don’t want to be changed.
He’s being unfair, probably. He doesn’t trust Fury with anything but the bigger picture, but he does trust Clint.
Lips brush his ear. Bucky jolts and regrets it when his insides turn molten. He can’t bite back the whimpers, it’s all he can do to keep his reaction contained to something so quiet, and Steve—
Steve kisses his ear, the delicate skin behind it, and drags his lips into Bucky’s hair. He makes shushing noises, and one of his hands strokes along Bucky’s side, up and down and up and down, and Bucky realizes then that Steve’s got his other hand braced on the bed, keeping his full weight off Bucky.
It’s more consideration that he expected, not because he thinks Steve’s a bad guy—he can’t be, he’s Captain America—but because Bucky assumed he’d be too far gone to remember to care.
And he is far gone, no doubt about that, but here he is, trying to comfort Bucky with lips and hands.
It helps, surprisingly.
Not for long though. Steve’s knot isn’t going down. It won’t any time soon, not unless Bucky comes. He doesn’t know which one’s the better devil. He thinks of lying like this for an hour, Steve a hot weight on his back, and feels suffocated. He tries to imagine coming, and his body’s eager enough, cock hard and hanging heavy between his legs, but he can’t make himself reach for it, can’t move at all.
Bucky stews in indecision. It’s a luxury of its own. A few hours in, he won’t care about anything but being fucked full of come. But for now, he can and he does, right until Steve handles his dilemma for him.
He doesn’t do it kindly, and Bucky chokes on air when that huge hand wraps around his cock. Steve nuzzles into his hair and starts stroking. He jerks Bucky off the same way he fucked him, hard and fast and single-minded. Bucky chews on his lip until it bleeds, and then he can’t keep quiet, but the sounds just seem to spur Steve on, his hand moving faster, wrist twisting just right, and it doesn’t take much to get Bucky writhing between the fist on his dick and the knot in his hole. It’s good, and it hurts, and he can’t not move, and that hurts too.
It’s a relief to just let go, fear and desire all pushed aside by sheer, relentless sensation. His gut tightens, his cock jerks, and he tightens like a vice around the knot inside him, again and again—
White spots dance in Bucky’s vision.
Someone screams. His throat aches.
When he comes back to himself, Steve’s knot has deflated a little. Not entirely—that will take a few more minutes, and it’s still big enough to keep him plugged full of come—but it’s not perfectly slotted into Bucky’s hole anymore. He feels oddly hollow. His cock’s limp between his legs but won’t be for long.
Steve’s purring now. His scent has changed, the acrid tang of desperation replaced by the rich musk of satisfaction.
He settles more firmly on top of Bucky, weighing him down without suffocating him. It’s not the most comfortable position, but they’re tied together, and Steve’s warm, and Bucky tries to just sink into it and think of nothing.
-
Steve’s knot goes down after maybe ten more minutes. Fluids drip out of Bucky’s hole, come mixed with slick. Steve’s dick slides out, still hard, and Bucky’s sore rim flutters around the sudden emptiness. His crack is wet, dirty. Bucky can’t dislike it.
Bucky takes advantage of Steve’s weight lifting off to turn around. His muscles ache and joints twinge, and the discomfort becomes acute when pins and needles spread through the parts that were forced to be still. Steve’s still sated enough to indulge in concern. Bucky numbly allows the hands that wander over his body. In a way he’s looking forward to the mindless haze that will soon descend on him; he won’t care, then, about uncomfortable positions or fucking an alpha he has never talked to.
Until today, he’s only known Rogers from a myriad of articles and old film reels. It was a mild obsession, nurtured by how the compound that warped Bucky’s DNA was an inferior version of Erskine’s miracle serum.
Now, he looks up at the legend who’s been haunting America since the 40s and finds that he’s just a man after all.
He’s not surprised when Rogers doesn’t allow him more than a few minutes’ respite before fucking him again. The worst of Bucky’s heat is still a few hours off, but Rogers has no such luxury. At least Rogers doesn’t need much from him. He’s strong and made stronger by the rut, and it’s nothing to him to hold Bucky’s legs in the crook of his elbows and screw in deep.
It doesn’t hurt anymore. Bucky would be sore if he weren’t in heat, but now, he’s just soaked with slick that eases the hurt and grips Steve’s cock with the same, blood-hot desperation with which Steve fucks him.
Bucky just lies there, rocking with Steve’s thrusts, and it’s easier than before, when he was pinned down and pried open, but there’s a thrumming under his skin that makes him restless. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good, because once the pain and the strain of too-long-too-thick-too-much ease, Steve’s got the kind of cock that presses in just the right way and sends warm tendrils of pleasure with every solid stroke. But this—flat on his back, legs spread, and thinking of Jesus—isn’t Bucky. He doesn’t fuck like this.
He reaches for Steve, both hands framing his face, and musters a small, vindictive smile when the touch makes the big, bad alpha start and freeze.
But that flash of spiteful smugness turns into something else entirely when Steve shoves his cock in deep and pushes into Bucky’s open palms, rubbing his face against them like he’s a huge, happy dog. It’s Bucky’s turn to freeze, though he can’t hold on to the stillness when Steve starts moving again, fucking Bucky at a relentless pace that’s at odds with the tender way he nuzzles into his palms.
He keeps one hand on Steve’s cheek but buries the other in the sheets, needing something to hold on to. That gets him a rumbling groan and deep, grinding thrusts that keep him full to choking. Bucky’s cock is half hard again, the heat reducing his refractory period. It’s got its limits, but one of the perks of being an omega is that his orgasms are more varied than they are for non-omega dick-owners. Bucky’s got the feeling that he’ll be very grateful for that soon enough, judging by Steve’s blissful expression and the relentless glide of his cock inside Bucky.
Steve comes with a rough groan, dick jerking inside Bucky. It’s an insane amount of come, even for an alpha, and between Steve’s two orgasms and his own slick, Bucky feels like a clogged sink.
It’s not a very sexy image, but then, neither are induced heats and lethal ruts.
Steve’s knot doesn’t pop, but he also doesn’t soften, doesn’t slip out. He rumbles happily as he shoves his cock as deep in as it can go, turning his head to rub his face into Bucky’s palm. His stubble catches on Bucky’s palm. It’s pleasant, and he indulges in a few moments of trailing his fingers along Steve’s prickly facial hair. His actual hair is much softer, bright like spun gold and smooth as silk. He sifts through the pale stands, scrapping his nails against Steve’s scalp, which earns him another round of oddly gentle purring.
“Aren’t you sweet?” Bucky asks, amused in spite of himself. “Really wish we were doing this in different circumstances, Steve.”
The sound of his name makes him look at Bucky, dark eyes boring into his. The files said they’re blue, and the picture accompanying them proved as much. But now, Bucky has to squint to see the thin circle of color around Steve’s blown pupils.
Bucky wonders what he looks like. Not unaffected, he’s sure, but not completely gone either.
Steve starts moving again. Each thrust makes wet, sloppy sounds, all that come sloshing around inside of him while Steve fucks in. He doesn’t quite pull out, always keeping Bucky spread around his insane girth. It feels nice, Bucky’s always liked that burn of almost too much, but Steve’s got no technique to go with his monster cock, and Bucky’s sadly not so lost to his heat that he can get off on just a mediocre fuck.
He pats Steve’s face and his eyes flutter shut. Poor guy’s absolutely gone. It really is best if Bucky takes matters into his own hands.
He’s strong, but Steve’s stronger. Steve’s entire mind is currently pulsing on his cock, and Bucky’s still in possession of most of his mental faculties. It evens out, more or less. Bucky pets along Steve’s face and hair until there’s a happy pile of purring alpha screwing lazily into him.
Bucky braces, muscles tensing. The tight clench of his ass distracts Steve, and Bucky takes advantage of that moment to flip their positions, pinning Steve’s shuddering body under him. His ass throbs from the violent withdrawal of Steve’s cock, but Bucky’s more concerned with the beginnings of a snarl on Steve’s stunned face. He scrambles to straddle Steve properly and reaches behind him to grab Steve’s dick. He uses his left hand, because it’s his dominant arm and he’s in a hurry, and the touch of cool metal on his dick has the dual effect of pausing Steve’s retaliation and pulling a sharp cry out of him. Bucky likes the sound, likes that he’s the cause of it.
And when he positions himself above Steve’s cock and sinks down on it, Steve throws his head back and howls, and Bucky likes that too.
He doesn’t take it in one go. Can’t. It’s all good and well for Steve to cram the whole thing into him like a true dickhead, but when Bucky’s on top with his thighs trembling and rim burning, it’s a lot harder to ignore the sheer size of Steve.
“What did the damn serum do to you?”
Steve just growls. His hands fly to Bucky’s hips, clamping tight, and Bucky grabs his wrists in turn, all too aware that if Steve really wants to use Bucky like a glorified cocksleeve, there’s not a lot he can do.
Well, he can fight, but he knows how that will end.
“Wait,” he says instead, soft and whining. “Give me time, let me just let me—”
It works. Steve’s grip tightens, fingers pressing bruisingly into Bucky’s skin, but that’s all he does. Bucky breathes, Steve already so deep that he can taste it in his throat, and slowly works his hips down.
It’s a breathless eternity later that he’s seated on Steve’s cock, thighs flush to his hips. He’s got his hands braced on Steve’s chest, its rock-hard solidity oddly grounding. He shifts experimentally and bites down on his lip when sparks claw up his spine.
Steve’s still holding him by the hips, staring unblinkingly. Bucky meets his gaze but finds that he can’t hold it, the burning hunger in them too much for him to take. He focuses instead on their bodies. That, at least, is familiar. Bucky’s an old hand at taking dick, and Steve’s got a damn good one.
He squirms a little, clenching helplessly around Steve’s cock when every twitch makes it press into him in ways that make his whole body flash hot. It’s easier to just start moving, tugging free of the suffocating fulness. The burning glide of it inside him doesn’t make it any easier to breathe, but Bucky knows how to lose himself in the rhythm of it.
He bounces on Steve’s dick, digging blunt nails into his chest and grunting every time the head tugs at his rim, and Steve’s nascent snarl becomes rough, punched-out breaths that make Bucky grin wide in satisfaction. He likes this, the slick slide of that thick cock along his walls and the trembling alpha under him.
Steve’s cock is slick with a filthy blend of bodily fluids. There’s more dripping down Bucky’s crack with every thrust. It’s messy, dirty, and it curls deep into the most primal parts of Bucky and riles them up, drives him wild.
He lifts himself until it’s just the head inside him, pulsing blood-hot where it spreads him wide. He slams down, his whimper swallowed by Steve’s shout, and he does it again and again until Steve’s roaring, a constant, ferocious sound that echoes off the walls. Bucky’s not unaffected, anything but, the dull pleasure of earlier sharpening into deep, jagged spikes that reel him into a torrent of sensation.
It won’t take much for him to come, just a touch on his cock, but Bucky refrains, clutching more firmly at Steve’s chest, fingers digging in meanly. He wants to watch Steve come, wants him trapped in pleasure and helpless, wants some sweet memories to carry out of this room.
Steve doesn’t seem to have objections. He’s a flushed, sweaty mess under Bucky, broad chest heaving obscenely with every breath. His hands are sure to leave bruises on Bucky’s hips, but all they’re doing is holding tight. There’s no attempt at control, just Steve clinging to Bucky and being swept along for the ride. Bucky has always liked blowing his partner’s mind a little—a lot—and Steve just makes it so easy.
He throws his head back and grins up at the ceiling as he bears down with a tight, clenching ass, and Steve breaks apart.
It’s glorious.
He shouts through gritted teeth, face and chest flushed a blotchy red, and jerks his hips up, trying to push deeper into Bucky than he can go. Bucky whines and squeezes his thighs around Steve’s hips, holding on as the base starts to swell. It’s still too big, thicker and hotter than anyone can take, but Bucky fucking takes it.
Steve’s knot locks into place, and Bucky falters for the first time, legs suddenly weak. It’s digging into all those parts of him that were made just for this, and the bundle of nerves clamped around Steve’s knot throb with heat. Bucky pants weakly and slumps, held in place only by his hands on Steve’s sturdy chest.
Steve has calmed, bright-eyed and loose-limbed the way alphas get when they’ve got their knot locked in something warm and tight. A purr vibrates up Bucky’s chest, but he swallows it down. His own need is a live, pulsing thing, and Bucky takes another moment to catch his breath before taking his dick in hand.
His fingers barely brush his cock before his wrist is caught and pinned to his side. Bucky tries to twist away on instinct, but Steve’s hand is a vice, and his left hand is also caught and held, the straining metal as ineffective as the weaker flesh.
Steve’s still got that happy, fuck-drunk look on his face, but his eyes are oddly keen.
He rocks his hips. Bucky burns white-hot.
Steve does it again, and again, his knot pulling at Bucky’s tender flesh one moment and grinding into sensitive nerves the next. Bucky can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do a damn thing except squirm on Steve’s knot as if he can wriggle free if he pulls just right. But there’s no escape; Steve’s lodged tight inside him and his fingers are tight and unforgiving on Bucky’s wrists.
And he’s rocking Bucky on his knot, pushing and pressing, over and over.
“S-stop,” Bucky gasps, voice shot. Steve doesn’t seem to hear him. “S-Steve?”
A rumbling purr answers him. Steve’s movements become more forceful, hips bucking with savage intent. Bucky’s caught on his knot, body locked around the swell of it, and he can’t breathe, can’t see past the stars in his vision.
“Come on, fuck, stop it, I can’t—what are you—stop.”
Steve doesn’t stop.
He keeps Bucky there, seated on his cock with no escape, and grinds his knot into him. It’s filthy, the pleasure so sharp it’s pain, and Bucky can’t, he can’t—
“Please,” he whimpers, shaking uncontrollably, all twisted in on himself. “Oh god, please, please, please—”
He begs, and Steve fucks him with his knot, and Bucky doesn’t know when he stops begging for it to stop and starts begging for release. He’s close, he’s so fucking close, and he just needs—just a touch, all Steve has to—oh god, he’s—
The orgasm hurts too. His insides ripple around Steve’s cock, milking his knot, and it feels bigger then, huge and hot where it’s locked inside Bucky. It tears through him ruthlessly, and Bucky can’t even scream.
And then it’s over, and they’re left with Bucky’s come staining both their bellies, his slick making his rim a little looser around the base of Steve’s cock. Bucky takes it all in with dazed eyes. He wants to collapse—on the bed, on Steve, it doesn’t matter—but he can’t, not when he’s seated on Steve’s knot and straddling his hips.
Steve lets go of his hands. Bucky brings them up to brace himself on Steve again, numbly watching his flesh tremble. The metal one’s steady, but the plates recalibrate with a series of clicks.
He looks at Steve’s face. He’s watching Bucky with eyes that are too sharp for a rut. He’s still lost to it, that Bucky’s certain of, but this isn’t a look that belongs to the half-crazed creature he encountered when he first stepped into this room. An orgasm or three, and there’s some light behind those eyes. It’s eerie, this blend of instinct and intelligence.
Bucky doesn’t know what to make of how Steve’s first priority was to force Bucky to come on his knot. The sentiment’s nice enough. Considerate alphas make good lovers. But whatever is left of Steve’s good sense clearly isn’t enough for Bucky’s words to truly reach him.
Steve reaches for him again. Bucky braces himself, but Steve just touches his face with the tips of his fingers, trailing them from Bucky’s cheek to his jaw, the touch tender and at odd with everything Steve has done so far. Bucky’s a little more prepared when his hands drift lower, resting briefly against Bucky’s pulse before following the path of a drop of sweat down his chest.
Bucky peers through half-closed lids as that strange, electric touch slithers along his treasure trail and comes to a stop at the base of his cock. Steve cups his palm over the soft length of it.
Porn likes to show omega dicks as being comically tiny as compared to alpha or even beta cocks, but Bucky’s pretty sure they just hire actors with small dicks, designation be damned, and shove some lube up their holes for effect. Because in his personal experience—and that of literally everyone he’s discussed this with—dicks tend to come in all sizes in all designation, same as any other body part. An alpha’s appeal isn’t in the size of his cock anyway. It’s in the knot.
Point is that Bucky’s not a small guy, but nestled against Steve’s huge fucking palm, his cock looks tiny. Delicate.
Bucky hasn’t been delicate a day of his fucking life, and it’s—unsettling. He doesn’t know whether it’s unpleasant, and not knowing is its own brand of discomfort.
It’s almost a relief when Steve wraps his hand properly around Bucky’s cock and starts stroking, but only almost, because he’s still weak at the knees from his last orgasm and in no way ready for another. His cock throbs with oversensitivity against Steve’s rough palm. Bucky tries to bat him away, but he might as well be a Pomeranian trying to rein in a horse for all the good it does. Bucky still tries but when he digs his nails into Steve’s arm, he bounces Bucky, a brief, almost gentle motion turned savage by the knot securely lodged in his ass. Bucky doubles over with a whimper, and Steve keeps stroking, and Bucky wants to squirm away, but then his cock starts to swell and his ass gets wetter, gushing so much slick that he can feel it even with Steve’s come drenching him, and it all makes him dizzy.
There’s slow, steady throbbing in his gut, like a second heartbeat.
Steve’s hand moves easier over him now, precome slicking the way, and Bucky—
Bucky’s arching into it and grinding back on the knot and writhing, and he’s so fucking wet, and his blood’s on fire—
He shudders through another orgasm, cock jerking dry in Steve’s grip, ass tightening painfully around Steve’s knot. It’s looser, after, enough that Bucky can collapse without anything tearing, and Steve’s not a bad pillow, chest warm and solid under Bucky.
Strong hands slide down his back. They spread his ass, and Bucky whines when a finger traces his rim where it’s stretched taut around Steve’s cock. It’s wet too, messy from come and his own slick, and Steve’s finger rubs along it smooth and easy. Even the gentle touch stings, but the pain makes him clench too, squirming helplessly on Steve, around him.
Steve keeps touching him, hands gentle and groping in turns, leaving blazing trails of sensation wherever the touch. They squeeze Bucky’s nape and slide between their bodies to grope his pecs. Nails scratch at his scalp and slide sweetly over his scars, and Bucky trembles, and he must be making some noise because Steve’s crooning and rubbing his cheek against Bucky’s hair, and it’s nice, it helps, he can’t think—
There’s a touch on his scent gland, another in his hair, and it’s nice before it turns harsh, a fist in his hair steering Bucky into—
A mouth on his, the warm swipe over his lips, and Bucky opens up without thinking, sucking clumsily on the tongue that slides into his mouth. It’s a wet, dirty kiss, and he can taste Steve’s rut in his spit, and there’s a flash of awareness that this is a bad idea but then teeth sink into his lower lip, and the knot plugging him deflates in a gush of filthy heat, and Bucky’s on his back before he knows it, solid warmth pinning him down and rubbing against him, and he’s still so wet and so empty, and there’s a promise in the line of heat pressed to this thigh—he arches into it, spreads his legs and bares his throat and begs around the tongue in his mouth.
Fingers dig into his thighs, bends him half, and he’s filled in one, slick slide, his alpha’s cock sliding home.
-
It’s a haze of heat and skin.
Crumpled sheets against his back. A rough fist around his cock. His fingers in spun-gold hair. Teeth on his throat. Blood on his tongue. His hole fluttering around a swelling knot.
And that scent, dark and rich, lapping at his senses, coaxing his own scent out of his glands, the two mingling into a warm blend, sated one moment and hungry the next—present, burning, his.
-
Someone brings food. Thin packages slide through a slot in the door.
He watches from the bed, vaguely aware that it’s been hours. His body’s a mess, drenched in sticky fluids. Everything aches but nothing hurts. He’s floating in sensation. He looks at himself. There are dark marks all over him, fingers and teeth.
Steve gets the food and feeds Bucky, bite by bite, before he eats himself. They each take a bottle of water, and Steve watches Bucky drink his fill, eyes warm and pleased, before he drinks his own.
A kiss, before exhaustion takes him, and Steve’s mouth tastes like Bucky’s heat.
-
He wakes up flat on his belly, cock in his ass, swelling knot tugging painfully past his rim. He keens, claws at the sheets, but he’s pinned down, Steve’s whole weight on his back. He hushes Bucky, kisses his neck, sucks on the side of his throat, and Bucky gives up the fight with a trembling breath, moaning at the piercing heat of Steve’s mouth on his throat.
The knot shoves in, popping in a rush of blood-hot heat, and Bucky’s body closes around it like it should.
He’s full to bursting, split on a cock and stuffed full of come.
Steve slides a hand between Bucky’s body and the bed, groping his stomach, long fingers spreading over the swell of it. He’s moving, swiveling his hips, knot throbbing as it tugs and pulls and shoves Bucky, gasping, into another orgasm. His cock’s limp, barely twitching, but his ass milks Steve’s knot for what feels like hours, a fresh wave of slick heat triggered by even a slight shift.
He pants through it, too tired to even squirm, and Steve’s heavy bulk is reassuring on top of him, pinning Bucky down and tethering him to his skin.
Steve’s knot goes down an eternity later. He licks at Bucky’s throat, the wet warmth of his tongue soothing on the pulsing ache there. He pulls out of Bucky, cock soft as it slides free, but Steve’s hand is there the next instant, three fingers sliding in.
Plugging him up.
Breeding him. Making it catch.
Except—
“C-can’t,” Bucky rasps.
Steve hums.
“Got, ah, rid of it. Won’t catch.”
Steve hums again, perfectly pleasant. He kisses Bucky’s throat. He’s gentle now.
His fingers twitch inside, grazing softly, accidentally, against Bucky’s prostate. He groans. Breathes. Gives in.
-
It lasts days.
Bucky’s vaguely aware of time passing. He counts his hours by the scorching swell of Steve’s knot. He takes it on his back, up on all fours, down on his stomach, cradled in Steve’s lap. It’s the easiest thing, their bodies slotting together like they never knew anything else.
Food comes, now and then. Steve feeds him, and then eats while Bucky watches. It’s satisfying to see his teeth tear into dry meat and his throat work around great gulps of water.
There are voices sometimes. Familiar, but not Steve’s. Steve growls each time. Bucky soothes him with soft sounds and softer skin, drawing him down into his arms, into his wet, aching body. He ignores the voices. They don’t matter.
Steve matters.
Steve’s got blue eyes and blood on his mouth and a deep voice that trembles around Bucky’s name.
He sleeps with something inside him—Steve’s cock, his knot, his fingers, and he’s never not bloated and so full he can’t breathe, but he likes it, likes the way Steve’s broad palms cradle the swell of his stomach.
-
Later, when he tries to remember, this is the last moment he’ll be able to recall—lying on his side with Steve behind him, soft cock nestled inside Bucky, one hand lying gently over his stomach, the other folded under Bucky’s head. He’ll remember gentle kisses on his throat and over the scars marring his left shoulder. He’ll remember Steve said his name before they fell asleep.
-
Clarity returns in slow, aching dregs.
Bucky smells it before he sees it. He’s more familiar with this facility’s med-wing than he ever wanted to be. It’s also mildly alarming to find himself here when the last thing he remembers is—
Steve, he remembers Steve and that grey room—the rough sheets under his sensitized skin, a warm body blanketing his own.
He doesn’t remember the heat breaking. He sure as fuck doesn’t remember Steve’s rut waning enough for him to do more than say Bucky’s name in varying tones.
Opening his eyes is almost painful. Even with his eyes affirming what his nose told him, Bucky can’t relax. Clint’s snoring form in the chair beside his bed helps a little, but not much.
“Oi.” His throat is dry, voice a hoarse croak. “Barton, wake up. Clint. Clint.”
Clint startles awake with a snort. His eyes flit around, a swift survey, before narrowing on Bucky. The smile he breaks into is a lot relieved and a little guilty. It pretty much confirms that something went wrong.
“What did you do?” Bucky snaps. He’s—irritated, bordering on angry, and he can’t quite put his finger on why but also doesn’t care enough to try too hard. “I can’t remember how I got here. Why?”
Clint’s got a good poker face but not with his friends. The guilt on his face triples. Bucky’s got a very bad feeling about that.
“Clint,” he says, quieter now and not because he’s less pissed. Clint flinches. “Start talking.”
“The, uh, the memory thing is because of the…knockout gas. Side-effect. It should be temporary.”
“Knockout gas,” Bucky echoes. “Should be temporary.”
Clint’s a little wild around the eyes now, squirming like he wants to be anywhere but here. Bucky darts out a hand to grab his knee, shooting his arm a surprised look when he finds it shaky and weak. The grip won’t do shit to keep Clint here; Bucky would be surprised if he even feels it. He flexes his left arm, and the plates ripple up his forearm.
Now that he’s paying attention, the rest of him is not that peachy either. And some tiredness is normal after a demanding heat, but this—he doubts he can get out of bed.
“How about you start from the start,” Bucky says, and it’s not a suggestion. “Like why you assholes used knockout gas on your own fucking agent.”
Clint grimaces.
“We couldn’t separate you and Cap,” he says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to be placating while also expecting to be punted through a wall. It’s not very reassuring. “And we had to knock him out. So, uh, we gassed the room. It’s harmless…as much as supersoldier-grade knockout gas can be harmless. Cap started shaking it off a couple of hours ago. We’ve sedated him the usual way now.”
He stops and looks expectantly at Bucky, who’s been effectively stunned to silence.
“Barton, what the actual fuck.”
Clint looks down at his lap and rubs his face with one hand. When he looks at Bucky again, he doesn’t look guilty or like he’d like to be anywhere but here. The serious expression he’s wearing only makes nausea curl in Bucky’s belly.
That’s not a good expression, not from Clint.
“You haven’t noticed, have you,” he says, and it’s not much of a question. “Check your neck, Bucky.”
Bucky’s irritation turns to ice in his veins.
He reaches for his throat, already knowing what he’ll find because there’s only one reason an omega will be told to check their neck after a heat. Denial still makes a valiant attempt to soothe him, but half-formed explanations die a quick death when his fingers touch the jagged scar on his scent gland.
It’s raw but the ache of it isn’t unpleasant. Bucky brings his fingers to his nose. The scent is recognizably his, but it’s mixed with another, familiar one, and the merging is equally obvious.
And now that he’s been told, now that he knows, Bucky can feel it, that indescribable—something. He’s read about it, in trashy novels and scientific articles and casual blog posts. It’s impossible to avoid, and Bucky was curious anyway. The descriptions ranged from a second heartbeat in your chest to feeling your other half’s moods. The journal articles talked of chemicals up until the scientists ran out of logical explanations and cited the wonders of the human brain.
It's lot more and a lot less miraculous than all that. It’s a presence, slotting into Bucky’s skin as if it has always been there. It’s not uncomfortable. He can spend whole lives ignoring it.
“You have to accept a bond for it to take,” Bucky says, staring at his fingers. “I had to have accepted it.”
“You did,” Clint says, gentle and merciless. “I was listening. But you—well, the heat. You weren’t in your right mind.”
“I’ve shared over half my heats with alphas,” Bucky grinds out. “We didn’t fucking bond because the few that tried got kicked through a fucking door.”
“It’s—”
“I want to see.”
“What?”
“The video feed. I want to see it.’
“Bucky, there is no video feed. You wanted me to make sure of it. So I did.”
Clint reaches out and lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Not wrenching away from the touch takes more restraint than Bucky wants to admit to. He closes his eyes and drags in a deep breath. Clint takes his hand away.
“Audio then.”
Clint sighs. Then he nods, reaching to the table next to Bucky. There’s a tablet on it with the S.H.I.E.L.D logo. Bucky watches Clint tap on the screen and takes the device when it’s handed to him.
“Uh, wait a sec.”
Clint plunges both hands into his pockets. One emerges with a tangled set of earphones clutched in his hand. He even untangles it for Bucky, who’s grateful despite the situation because in his state, he’d either fumble with it or tear it into pieces.
“Here. Just play, I’ve adjusted the timestamp to what I think is the, uh, right time.”
He’s not wrong.
It’s odd to listen to the sounds of him moaning and panting like—well, like he’s getting mounted and fucked stupid. Bucky’s never been ashamed about his sexuality; he likes sex, and he likes the way heats let him go fucking wild, but it’s a wholly different beast to listen to this and know his fucking boss heard it and that assorted S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel with a hard-on for Erskine’s original serum will be hearing it.
He can hear Steve too, grunting and growling, sounds that shouldn’t be distinct from a random porn clip Bucky watched but somehow is.
When it comes, it’s easy to recognize what Clint meant by the right time—it’s not particularly subtle.
“Yes,” says Bucky’s past self. “Yes, yes, harder, bite me, oh, oh—”
Bucky’s voice rises into a fever-pitch and then breaks into a scream. Steve’s eerily silent until he groans too. It’s both pained and pleased, and Bucky doesn’t think too hard about why he knows that with such utter certainty.
He hands the tablet and earphones back to Clint.
“Explains the gas,” Bucky says after a while.
Clint huffs.
“Yeah. One thing to separate you after his rut and your heat were over. But a newly bonded alpha with his omega is…let’s just say Fury wasn’t keen on losing a couple of STRIKE squads to Cap.”
“I’m not his omega,” Bucky says stonily.
“Um. Right.” Clint sounds both uncertain and contrite. “Sorry.”
Neither of them speaks for a long time. Bucky doesn’t look at Clint. At some point, he becomes aware that he’s brushing his bonding scar absently.
He has a bonding scar.
“Woah, hey, hey—”
Clint reaches over and ever so gently pries Bucky’s hand away from where it was digging nails into the scar. He breathes deep and snarls when the scent that floods his nostrils is his combined with Steve’s. It screams freshly bonded omega!
“I’ll break the bond,” Bucky says. “Should take what, 3 heats? A year? Fine. Fucking fine.”
Clint shifts uneasily.
“Okay. That’s—that’s good, that’s the smart thing to do.”
Bucky glares at him. Clint flattens himself against the back of the chair.
“Where is he?”
“Wh—oh, uh, he’s been shifted to one of the rooms. Drugged. Fury doesn’t want him to wake until the…immediacy of the bond has faded a little.”
“You’re going to keep him sedated for, what, a week?”
Clint shrugs.
“Probably. It’s tricky. He burns through everything way too fast. They’re pumping him full of the kind of shit that would kill or cause permanent brain damage to anyone else.” Clint gives him a wry smile. “Even you.”
Bucky nods jerkily but finds he can’t say anything. It’s not…pleasant, the thought of them doing that to Steve. He can’t tell whether that’s the bond talking or just sympathy. He’s sure this fucking job has stripped him of a lot of basic decency but well, there’s something about a post-rut alpha—Steve—being knocked out and forcibly kept unconscious for days on end that makes his heart twinge.
“Do you—do you want to see him?” Clint asks carefully.
For a terrible moment, Bucky’s tempted to say yes.
“No,” he forces out. “That would make…it stronger. I’m going back to D.C. the moment I can get out of this fucking bed.”
“Okay.”
They avoid eye contact in awkward silence for a few minutes. Clint, brave in the way of someone who made two separate careers out of flinging himself off insane heights with no safety net, is the one to break it.
“Are you sure?”
Bucky stares at his clenched fists. His right wrist wears fading bruises from Steve’s fingers.
“I am.”