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"Fuck, I don't even know if I can get it in."
First good news I've heard all day, Steve tried to mutter. It came out as nothing but a voiceless movement of his lips. He'd lost track of how long the metal arm had been crushing his windpipe, but it must've been even longer than he could hold his breath, because Rumlow sounded far away now. Steve's vision was gray around the edges, the broken glass and video cameras and crowd of STRIKE guys palming their crotches starting to fade out. His awareness narrowed down to two sensations: the blunt head of Rumlow's dick trying to invade him, and the steady rise and fall of Bucky's leather-clad chest behind him.
Bucky. Alive. Breathing. Pinning him down so these chumps could get away with an atrocity they'd never have managed on their own.
Sure, Steve's own dumb mistakes had helped land him here. He'd missed his chance to trip the elevator's emergency brake. He'd been too busy prying his magnetically-cuffed hand off the wall to keep them from hurtling down into the Triskelion sub-basements. His instincts, fine-tuned for combat, hadn't even picked up on the real nature of the ugliness simmering beneath this fight until it had already boiled over. But then again, who would expect this from his own former teammates? And even caught off-guard by the leering and the groping hands, Steve had been well on his way to beating the snot out of everyone else in that elevator. Until backup stalked out of the subterranean bowels of the building, in the form of the Winter Soldier. Without his mask on.
Reality got a little fractured after that. He remembered Bucky taking advantage of his surprise to fling him against the elevator glass. He was pretty sure he'd hit his head. All that really mattered was that he'd ended up here, cuffed to the wall, Bucky behind him, holding Steve down against his body with superhuman strength.
None of it had seemed real until a handful of STRIKE guys yanked Steve's legs apart so Rumlow could slice open his uniform pants. The sudden exposure, the guys laughing as they advanced on him with hard-ons tenting their flies, Rumlow spreading his ass-cheeks with rough eager hands and exposing parts of Steve's body so private that even Steve didn't think about them... that was enough to dispel any illusions about what they were about to do to him, for sure. It was also enough to confirm the creeping, horrified suspicion that they'd done something to Bucky's head. Any one of those things would've had Bucky Barnes hollering and rushing in with fists flying. That much was common knowledge to anyone who knew either of them, but for this... well, for this in particular, there was a lot that had been left out of the history books.
-
"Is this why the double dates you set me up with always crash and burn?"
Bucky stared at the ceiling and slowly blew out his lungful of smoke. "You gotta work on your pillow talk, Rogers."
"Seriously, Buck."
"No. It's not. Christ, you think I'd sabotage you just to get my kicks? It's a game. It only comes out so strong here 'cause I know to keep it out of everywhere else."
"But you do have to keep it out of everywhere else."
"Steven Grant Rogers, are you doubting my self-control?"
"Well, considering your self-control about smoking in bed is going to get us both burned to a crisp someday..."
Two minutes later, Bucky's cigarette was the tragic, stubbed-out casualty of what had started as a wrestling match. He got his revenge by pinning Steve facedown to the mattress and leaving bite marks all over the back of his neck, barely low enough to be hidden behind his collar. "It'd be nice, though, wouldn't it?" he breathed in Steve's ear. "Leaving marks that everyone else can see. Like a 'keep off, he's mine' sign. One you couldn't take off, even if you wanted to."
Steve squirmed and scowled into the pillow. "So like a cattle brand." It always bothered him when Bucky talked like this. Of course, it bothered him even more that the whole thing got him hot like nothing else.
"Hey, I know a place in the Village where you can pay a lady to do that to you. Along with other services." He ground his hips down, making sure Steve knew he'd be ready to go again soon. "You know, we should fuck for real sometime."
Steve choked back a laugh. "What the hell else have we been doing?"
"Turning each other into the two best cocksuckers in Brooklyn?"
"As opposed to... oh. That." Steve got real quiet, which was a lot more worrying than his mock outrage. Usually it meant he was gearing up to tell you something you didn't want to hear. "That's... it might be... too dirty for me. And it's..."
"Spit it out, Steve."
"Too much like a second-rate knockoff of the real thing?"
Bucky sighed. "You're gonna make some girl really happy someday, you know that, right? As soon as I find you one with the good taste to see it."
"But until then..." Steve twisted his head back to tug Bucky in for a kiss. A peace offering.
"Yeah, until then you're all mine. And we'll defintely be the best cocksuckers in Brooklyn by then."
The smile Steve was shooting him now had a wicked edge to it. "How will we know, though, except by comparison?"
That was Bucky's cue to grab Steve by the hair and suck a bruise into the side of his neck. "That what you want, huh? A competition?" Steve squirmed, and Bucky slid a hand down between his legs, where he was well on his way to a full recovery after the last round. "Take you down to the Navy Yard, whore your pretty mouth out to anyone who volunteers as a judge? I'd have to drag you through some sailors' haunts first, find someone who could tattoo 'property of James Buchanan Barnes' across your ass. Else some of them might be tempted."
"And that would just get ugly, right?"
"Damn right. If even I don't get your ass, you don't wanna know what I'd do to any rat bastard who laid so much as a finger between your legs. Pushing him out a fifth-story window would just be the warmup..."
"Aw, Buck, you say the sweetest things."
-
The gray haze covered everything now. Steve closed his eyes and let himself drift. The second he started floating away into unconsciousness, though, sudden pain jerked him back to reality.
With a hoarse cry of victory, Rumlow shoved past the last resistance and plunged his dick into Steve's body. The wrongness of it crashed over him in a shuddering wave, just as the metal arm let up and Steve gasped in huge lungfuls of air. God, this--this was what it felt like to be raped. To be fucked, the most vulgar and unnatural kind of fucked, the kind his body was now clenching up convulsively to reject. Underneath and mixed with it all was the pain. It burned and stung where he was being split open, and deeper inside, his gut seized up in revulsion and sent alternating waves of heat and chills radiating out over his skin.
Steve threw his head back and gasped soundlessly into the empty air. When he could finally open his eyes again, he found himself staring up at Bucky's face from below. Bucky wasn't even looking at him. His eyes flicked restlessly over the guys holding Steve's legs in place and then returned to the middle distance. His face was impassive, but underneath the Winter Soldier, Steve thought he saw the echo of the unimpressed look Bucky got when Steve dragged him into something really stupid.
"Bucky," Steve gasped, another round of shudders sweeping over him as Rumlow pushed in deeper. "You don't have to do this."
"Ignore him, soldier," said the man in the bow-tie, who was filming the whole travesty on a rose-gold iPhone that Steve wanted to kick right through the elevator glass. "He's delirious."
Bucky didn't spare a glance to that side, but he did look down. "Who's Bucky?" he asked, a brief flicker of interest rising up under his blank expression.
Rumlow chose that moment to haul Steve's hips towards him, driving his cock in and in and in until Steve could feel the coarse hair at the base of it on his skin. "I wouldn't get too chatty with the attack dog, Cap," he said casually. "We might invite him to join in. Or have him blow a few of the guys waiting their turn."
Steve physically felt his hackles rising—just another wave of gooseflesh spreading over the back of his neck in reality, but no less vivid for that. "Don't play at taking hostages," he said flatly. "I'm really not in the mood to negotiate." Bucky had been eyeing the men holding his feet. The weak point.
"You're not in a position to--"
Steve jerked one leg free and kicked Rumlow in the face. If he'd had anything near a normal range of motion, the blow could've been fatal. Instead Rumlow staggered off to the side, cursing and spitting blood onto the polished floor. His dick, wrenched free of Steve's body, was streaked with more blood.
He didn't know what he expected after he'd kicked aside the other men holding his legs. He was still cuffed to the wall, and Bucky was still holding him down, although his whole body had gone tense. For one exhilirating second it felt like they were about to work in tandem again.
And then, like putting your weight on a missing stair, there was nothing. Bucky tightened his grip on Steve's throat. Don't make me do this again, was the clear unspoken message. Easy way or the hard way, your pick.
They yanked his legs back open. Rumlow took up the same position between them, his fingers probing, laying bare all the most forbidden parts of Steve's body like a warm-up to the main defilement. Everything was the same, except...
Except this time, Bucky was half-hard against Steve's back.
Rumlow, twisting and spreading two fingers inside Steve's ass with great difficulty, muttered something about chafing. He pulled his fingers out and spat directly on Steve's asshole, and for some reason that, of all the things he'd been through today, was what made Steve's cheeks burn and made him long to hide his face.
He settled for burying half of it in the crook of Bucky's metal arm as Rumlow forced his way back in. "You really should join in," Rumlow said, starting to get short of breath. "I bet he'd love it."
Bucky's growing hard-on flagged a little. "Not interested," he said, packing (what sounded to Steve's ear like) as much legendary-assassin menace and disdain as he could into those two words.
"Like you get a choice," Rumlow panted. "We've got the override. Make enough trouble, and you'll be doing what we tell you whether you're interested or not."
"Yeah," Bucky said, in a tone that made Steve twist his neck to look up at his face. He was staring at Rumlow looking openly mutinous, so intently that Steve was sure they were talking about something else. "You can safeword out anytime you want, hotshot."
Rumlow snarled and slammed into Steve's body--once, twice, three times, until he finally held his position and slowly the tension seeped out of his body. Steve hadn't been thinking ahead to how this would end. To his immense horror and mortification, when Rumlow pulled out, he left a trickle of bloodied come leaking out Steve's ass.
"Enjoy your sloppy seconds," Rumlow leered, and retreated to the elevator doors, leaning against them with his arms crossed.
Another STRIKE guy, one of the ones who'd been holding his legs, took up Rumlow's former position. He prodded at the mess between Steve's legs with one finger, made a face, and started undoing his fly. "Least the rest of us won't have to worry about getting our dicks chafed," he said, and flashed Rumlow a shit-eating grin.
Steve had really been hoping Rumlow would be the only one.
-
Bucky cleaned him up, after, or at least did what he could. Tossed him a clean pair of pants and a damp rag to wipe off the mess between his legs. Silently checked him over for signs of internal injuries, his touch clinical but not particularly gentle. Steve didn't understand. Bucky had held him down the whole time. They wouldn't have been able to do any of it without him.
"Buck," he asked into the silence of the wrecked elevator, "do you remember me? At all?"
The Winter Soldier smiled a sharp-edged, unnerving echo of Bucky Barnes' old grin. "No. But you were more interesting by a mile than those meatheads and their hazing rituals."
"Are you... is this your idea of helping me?"
The Soldier stood up and made for the door. "Another team's on its way to escort you to your cell. There's nothing I can do to help you. But everybody makes mistakes sometimes." With that, he was gone.
Steve frowned. He rattled his handcuffs--heavy-duty adamantium alloy, not going anywhere. Except as soon as he shook them, they came loose and fell off, like they had never been locked in the first place.
He staggered, painfully, to his feet, and caught his reflection in the elevator glass. It looked shockingly unchanged; his top half had come out of the past few hours more-or-less unscathed. Except, clustered around the line of his collar but definitely visible above it, for the collection of dark-purple fingerprint bruises around his neck.