Voyeur!Steve gets safely vored by an unaware Bucky.
He’s got the Pym particles, a custom suit, he’s got the whole damn thing planned out. It’s perfect, it’s safe beyond all measure. Two backup fail-safe options just on the off chance that for whatever reason he can’t zap himself out of it once he’s done.
He sure as shit can’t tell Bucky, because he’d never agree to do it in a million years - no matter how many back-up plans he had. Besides, this... thing he’s got is a little weird, a little personal, he’s a little ashamed of it.
It’s just... Bucky’s got perfect lips, perfect teeth, a plush pink tongue, and every time Steve sees him toss something into his mouth and start crunching it up he stares a little too hard and gets a little too hot in his face.
He plants himself inside of Bucky’s favorite brand of chips while Bucky’s away at the gym, because he knows the guy comes back with a ravenous hunger and too impatient to cook.
He’s beyond small. The bag he’s in is a cathedral. The chip he’s on is nearly the size of the floor plan in his old apartment. If he’s even remotely noticeable at all, it’s as a fleck of seasoning at best.
Sure enough, right on the mark, he can hear the thunder that probably comes at the end of the world. A sound so loud and so deep his eardrums can’t properly perceive it. It’s followed by a rush of air, and then his eyes lift up to the metallic paper walls above him. One of them bends in with a sound so loud it’s like standing at the bottom of Niagara falls. Four more fresh dents appear in the walls around him, then crumple the ceiling in a way that actually makes his heart rate spike.
It’s like demolition. It’s like watching a skyscraper get quarantined and then ritually exploded, thousands of tons of mass falling in on itself - just to stop abruptly because Bucky’s stopped squeezing his fingers shut.
Feeling the movement is different in here. The bag itself is presumably soaring through space, but it almost has its own gravity at this point. What he’s got to look out for is the way the chips rearrange themselves - tectonic plates shifting, the one he’s on suddenly veering down sharply and another slicing across it. He watches over his shoulder as a chip a hundred or more times bigger than him just cracks in half like nothing, sending debris exploding that is also bigger than him.
He’s got to grip on tight to the imperfections in his chip as it tilts up nearly vertically, just shy of a 90 degree angle. It’s at the top of the bag, at least, so he won’t be buried.
The divots disappear with that same rushing, deafening white-noise, and then above him the heavens open up. Where there once was darkness, now a slowly widening gaping light streaming in, blocked in the middle by a god-like face larger than any moon in the night sky. Bucky’s face blown up times a million, every detail enhanced from his bright blue searching eyes to the little chapped wrinkles in his lips.
He stares straight down at Steve, unblinking. He can actually see Bucky focus on him, the pupil of his eye lined up with Steve’s like they’re making direct eye contact.
Except there’s no flicker of recognition. Not even a beat of pause. Bucky’s lips are blocked from his view by an intruder into his space, a massive creature of flesh, skin-toned whirls of fingerprints that are the size of trenches.
He ears a little thud when Bucky’s finger makes contact on the flat wall of his chip. Another slow-motion thud when his thumb clamps down. Soft scratching of friction beneath his fingerprints.
And then the movement - the sheer force he has to fight against as Bucky pulls his chip from the pile, the others catching and falling off, the combination of gravity and g-force thrusting him down so hard he has to cling with every ounce of strength he’s got. Like an angel or like God, Bucky peels him from the darkness and slowly into the light, an unfathomable blurry bright space that stretches on infinitely.
There’s no pause in his motion. Steve sees the top of the bag, the distant colors of furniture and walls too far away to comprehend - he can barely see to the end of his chip. His only real focal point for several miliseconds is that too-close too-big finger pulling them through space, until very abruptly a new landscape comes into view.
He keeps soaring toward it, heart racing, the knowledge that even if he started yelling now, even if he changed his mind, there’s not a thing slowing down Bucky guiding that chip toward stretching, parted lips. He passes over building-sized teeth, and Bucky steers him toward his back molars.
Passing into Bucky’s mouth is like going through a portal - from bright and airy to dark and humid, the feeling of exhaled breath surrounding him even without Bucky actively breathing, muggy and oppressive.
He glances over his shoulder toward the exit, and he sees the vacancy of freedom through the slowly closing frame of teeth and gums and lips.
Above him, those molars descend unstoppably. They’re irregular and uneven, and Steve finds himself flat on his back staring up as his largest tooth comes down around him, the highest peaking ridges slamming down in sequential cracks to his left, to his right, grinding the chip there into dust before he even finishes biting down.
And he does finish biting, but Steve’s made himself so small that even with his teeth really and properly shut they don’t crush him into nothing. He has one second to experience being pinned between upper and lower molar, the platform he’d been on cracked beyond repair, the enamel grinders around him merciless.
They part again, but barely. Bucky’s mouth doesn’t completely open, so no new light streams in. Just a sudden wash of saliva, the shifting of new chip over top of him, and then another pulverizing crunch that gnashes the chip into a clump that sticks him to the bottom tooth. He’s still trapped there when he hears the deep, guttural vacuum of a swallow that takes place off to his left, the surge of suction that follows it - it gently pulls at his prison, but it doesn’t dislodge him.
The teeth part more widely, and Steve sees in slow-motion the oncoming of a new predator. The tongue he always thought of as soft and plush becomes a tidal wave of probing muscle, the tip of it slamming down into him and grinding him back and forth against the surface of Bucky’s molar. It’s wet, there are long strings of saliva that cascade off of it as it moves, working and shoving Steve out of his tiny divot.
He manages to dislodge himself from the remnants of his chip platform, winds up rolling end over end off of the tooth and to the floor beneath him - the slick, slippery underside of a tongue and the place it meets gums.
Seemingly satisfied, the tongue moves to drop heavily onto him, shrouding him in heat and darkness, trapping him beneath it so that he can only barely see the influx of light from Bucky’s parting lips. Another chip passes through them, and this time Bucky’s mouth closes completely before he chews - the tongue thrusts the chip up with great force into the roof of his mouth, cracking it and breaking it at the center so saliva and gentle guidance steer it in uneven halves toward teeth on either side.
Steve uses this freedom to thrust himself forward, clearing great distance toward the back of Bucky’s front teeth. If he stays beneath the tongue he’ll wind up trapped there.
He launches himself as high as he can, barely managing to catch onto the ledge of Bucky’s lower front tooth. They don’t line up flush with the upper front teeth, so he thinks there shouldn’t be any grinding or swallowing to end him so soon if he takes up an audience view there.
What he’s not counting on is the force of the swallow, the way it drags him backward, the way he lands plastered to the bottom of the tip of Bucky’s tongue.
Lips part slow, and he can hear the sound of the skin unsticking, tacky with saliva. He can hear the almost velcro-like sound of the middle of Bucky’s tongue peeling away from the roof of his mouth, and then he’s soaring through the air toward the light again - then down as Bucky licks his lips. He peels Steve off on accident by the way he keeps his lips closed for it, the sheer force and weight of his tongue pushing Steve down into one of the little divots in Bucky’s lower lip and sealing him there with sticky, glue-like saliva.
He’s stuck there, caught in the folds, arms outstretched and legs straight down. Staring up grants him only a limited view - Bucky’s upper lip stretching out in either direction like sprawling lawn, the very tip of his nose, maybe the edge of a high cheekbone, and nothing else. Not even a chance at eyes, because he’s just too god damn small to see over the curvature of Bucky’s face. It’s disorienting and a little overwhelming to know that he’s beneath even the ability to make one-sided eye contact.
But the experience isn’t over, and Steve watches another chip pass over his head like a UFO, soaring slow motion into the cavern behind him.
Lips close, meaning Bucky’s top lip presses down onto his bottom. As it descends, he sees every uneven bit of texture, every plump piece, every crumb still caught and still larger than him. He sees it coming down on him unrelentingly, sealing together on his left and his right until finally it seals him too.
He’s caught between upper and lower lip, and the upper one grinds back and forth over him while Bucky chews, dragging dry skin and heavy weight left and then right.
The tongue doesn’t come back.
Two or three more chips pass before there’s a break between them, and something new arrives in his sphere of vision.
A bright pink mound, a smoothed over surface, shiny and as thick as the lip he’s on.
It touches down a hundred yards to the right, landing with a sticky, deafening thud. Then it begins to drag, passing at great speed and clearing too much distance toward him.
It passes over his entire being, and he recognizes the smell and the taste instantly. It’s chapstick, and Bucky coasts it back and forth, sealing him in place with two coats.
He didn’t account for this particular scenario when he made his backup plans. He’s trapped, unseen and known, on Bucky’s lower lip.