It's not like the guy doesn't know, right? This isn't like that time Bucky got way too into puzzle videos and guiltily jerked off to a cheerful guy with big hands innocently putting together 1000-piece jigsaws of Escher art. Steve’s channel is called BDSM Kitchen, for fuck’s sake. This is very clearly a sex thing.
Bucky's just not sure if it's a serious sex thing. They're high-quality videos, from what he can tell before he inevitably goes cross-eyed, and the recipes themselves stand up on the very few occasions he's been able to pay attention enough to follow them. The guy's been posting videos for over a year, and that seems like a lot of effort to go to for a joke or a gimmick. It just seems unlikely that there are enough people out there like Bucky to make the whole thing worth the trouble. (People like Bucky, in this case, would be the ones who find themselves furiously jacking off to a YouTube chef showing how to test the ripeness of plums.)
The point is, Bucky likes the channel much more than he thinks he's supposed to. He came here for the recipes, wanted to know why his mashed potatoes never turned out quite right, and somehow found himself with his hand down his pants in the middle of his kitchen while he watched a video of a man absolutely destroying a bowl of potatoes. The key wasn't force, apparently, but control: there was something to be said for beating it until it did what you want, Steve had said with a smirk, but that was for tenderizing meat. This was for potatoes. Strength, yes. Speed, no. He was in no rush. Didn't want to break them the wrong way, after all, but they were still going to break. All while the masher moved up and down and up and–
The point is, Bucky has watched every video on the damn channel, some of them multiple times (bacon wrapped asparagus, because Steve went on and on about making sure they were wrapped tight and pinned down hard) and some only once (mashed potatoes, because he couldn't put himself through it a second time). He found the channel three months ago. He's put off the most recent video for two weeks.
How to Roast a Turkey from Beginning to End.
He knows what's coming. The thumbnail is innocuous, a pretty picture of a cooked turkey resting on a tray surrounded by roast vegetables, the BDSM Kitchen logo sprawled in the top right corner. But Bucky knows the guy pretty well by now, or at least knows his content, and he knows there's no way Steve would pass up this opportunity.
He sets up the laptop on his kitchen island as a weak attempt to convince himself he's here for the recipe, but the only ingredient he grabs is the olive oil. He's not fooling anyone, least of all himself. All he does to feed himself is order takeout and thirst-follow chefs on YouTube. He's really, really not here to learn how to cook.
Title card. Bouncy piano riff. Fade to Steve, standing in his own, much nicer kitchen, and waving at the camera.
“Today,” he says, smiling serenely at the camera, “we're going to stuff a turkey.”
Bucky lets out a defeated sigh and reaches for the oil. He almost made it a whole five seconds into the video. Look at him go.
“Gather up your ingredients,” Steve says, gesturing at the food and spices already laid out on his counter. “I've got a list in the description, so you'll know exactly what you need to make this good for you.”
Bucky bites his lip as he shimmies out of his jeans. Why does he even try? Who is he trying to impress? Why is Steve fondling a potato, and why is Bucky so into it?
“You have to do this right, of course,” Steve says, plucking absently at the twine holding the turkey’s legs together. Bucky might whimper, but he's alone in his kitchen and he very conscientiously taped over the webcam before he came in here. No one can prove it. “Thick, round thing like this, you have to treat it right.”
He looks up sharply at the camera, gone from teasing and faintly amused to nearly scowling in the space of a second, and Bucky groans. “Seriously, I'm not joking, salmonella’s a real concern if you don't do this correctly. The juices from the turkey can soak into the bread, and it's extremely difficult to cook that out from inside the bird.”
He twists his finger in the twine, pulling it tight enough to make the meat bulge out on either side. “Of course, sometimes there's no way around it. Sometimes the turkey deserves it. Sometimes it needs it.”
Bucky just got his hand on his cock two seconds ago and he already has to grip the base painfully tight at that, because dear god. This isn't fair. Steve isn't fair. The damn turkey isn't fair.
Steve takes a break from feeling up the turkey to talk about the glaze (“Get it nice and wet, just absolutely dripping, such a pretty little mess.”) and spices (“You want just enough for it to bite back when you sink your teeth into it.”), and Bucky takes the opportunity to snatch up the dish towel hanging off the stove, spread it out of the counter, and hop up on top of it so he doesn't plant his bare ass on the laminate. Once he's got himself situated with the laptop on the island across from him, he hikes his left leg up, heel braced against the edge, and gets his fingers wet just as Steve gets around to getting ready to stuff the turkey.
“I actually made the stuffing earlier,” he says. “Link to that here–” He points are the corner of the screen, where a small red square pops up for a few seconds. “–because I didn't want this video to be too long.”
His smile turns wolfish, all teeth. Bucky, tracing circles around his hole with one finger, clenches involuntarily. “And besides, we all know actually stuffing the turkey is going to be much more interesting.”
The video cuts to what must be a few minutes later. The turkey has been moved, facing away from the camera, and Steve is just setting down a glass bowl full of stuffing. Bucky barely spares it a glance, eyes trained on the turkey and the slim knife that Steve picks up off the cutting board.
“Of course,” he says, “the first step to stuffing a turkey is getting it open.” The knife slits through one of the cords. “You might have to coax it a little.” Another snip. Two strings spring away from each other. Bucky bites his lip. “Maybe it's shy, but that's okay. It just needs the right touch.” He cuts the last cord. The legs fall open.
Steve grips the knobby ends and spreads them.
Bucky shoves two fingers into his ass hard enough to make himself yelp. He misses a few seconds as he squirms around to a more comfortable angle—or at least a less actively painful angle—only to let out a gut-punched noise as he looks up just in time to see Steve peel back the flap of skin and fat hanging over the open end of the turkey, revealing–
“Look at that, all soft and pink,” Steve says softly. “Poor thing, so raw and empty, just gaping. Practically begging for someone to fill it up. It's okay, I’m gonna take good care of it.”
Bucky moans out loud, shoving in a third finger before he's anywhere near ready for it, but the burn is just distracting enough to keep him from coming on the spot when Steve scoops up a handful of stuffing and sticks his entire goddamn fist into the turkey.
“Some things, it's important to stretch it out,” he says casually, like he's not melting Bucky's brain with every word. “But look how open and ready this is already. This is just what it needs, isn't it? It's why I chose it. Saw it and knew exactly how it should be used.”
He grabs up another handful of stuffing and presses it into the turkey, palm flat as he slides it around, pressing the stuffing up against the walls. Bucky wiggles his hips helplessly, halfway trying to ride his own fingers, and bites his fist just to keep it off his cock. The video's not done yet. He doesn't want to finish before Steve does. He's not sure he'll manage it with Steve up to his wrist in an increasingly-full turkey, but he'll do his fucking best.
“I'm not gonna fill it up all the way,” Steve says. “Look at it, you can see how bad it wants it, but that's not what I want. The turkey’s not in charge. It's here for me, not the other way around. It's not making the decisions here. Remember, you're the chef here. You're the one calling the shots.”
Bucky blinks down at his hand, now buried four fingers deep in his own ass. It doesn't feel like he's calling any shots. He's pretty sure he's actually the turkey in this scenario.
Steve slides his hand out, absently tracing a single finger around the edge of the opening. “Of course, I'm not entirely cruel. I do still want the turkey to get a little something out of this. It's been so good for me, letting me do all this to it, just sitting there so nicely and taking whatever I give it. It deserves to feel good, too.”
He reaches off camera and comes back with a small, neatly wrapped spool of twine. “Maybe I can't stuff it completely full, but I can still help it a little, make sure everything stays in nice and tight. I gave it such a nice present, after all. It's only fair that it gets to keep it.”
He takes the two legs and pushes them slowly back together, gripping the ends to keep them in place. Bucky whines despite himself as the hole is forced a little smaller, a little tighter, and he drives his fingers into his prostate so hard he sees stars.
“There it is,” Steve coos, unraveling the twine with his free hand. “So good for me, staying right where I put it, doing exactly what I tell it to.” He starts to wrap the twine carefully around the legs, pinning them in place, and Bucky sobs out loud, finally giving into the temptation to touch his cock. He lets out a loud, ragged breath when he does, gasping and shaking and hoping–
“How about it, sous chefs?” Steve says, smiling sweetly at the camera. “Following okay? Did you do a good job?”
Bucky bites his lip on a shout as he comes, squeezing his eyes shut and fucking his fingers in and out as he listens to Steve in the background talk about temperature and cooking time. Even that is laced with innuendo, all about seeing how much the turkey can take and how it's not finished until Steve says it is, and Bucky leans back against the cabinets, pants like he just ran a marathon, and wonders if he can get it up again in the four minutes left while Steve talks about roasting vegetables along with the turkey.
Well, he thinks, reaching for the almost-empty bottle of olive oil, there's no point in not trying.