Another wave passed over him and this time his thighs and ass clenched in sympathy as his cock bobbed towards his chest, heavy and hot with blood. It was hard to get enough air, with Bucky's hand still clamped over his mouth and the pulses coming faster now. He could feel his whole chest flushing red under Bucky's cold hand, nipples tightening in the cool air of the lab as Bucky traced unknown patterns over his skin. Not words or coded messages but spirals, swirls, aimless jagged lines Steve didn't understand and couldn't respond to. Steve desperately wanted to get away, couldn't stand knowing other people were right there, the technicians working just a few body-lengths away from the two of them. Bucky was holding him tight and just watching him.
There was a minor flurry of activity as Ginger Lab Coat burst back into the room, carrying clear tubing and a flash of steel in one hand, and several precariously-balanced glass bottles in the other. Steve tried to get a closer look but ended up throwing his head back involuntarily and gritting his teeth as his cock pulsed, throbbing as current passed through him. Bucky's hand smothered the whine threatening to slip out behind his teeth.
"Oh, good, he's responding adequately," Ginger said, a bit out of breath, "Wasn't sure whether the benzodiazepine mix would suppress cardiac function too much to--"
"I told you!" a woman interrupted him from across the room, "I told you, just increase the etomidate and use a blocker and Denhoy's new NPP derivative instead of fentanyl--"
"Yes, well," Ginger continued, flustered. "The collection apparatus is all here, and for God's sake gag him if you need to, I can't be distracted while I'm fractioning off the pleural fluid." Bucky accepted the tubing with his metal hand without looking up but didn't lift the other from Steve's mouth, and Ginger fluttered for a moment before stacking the bottles on the monitor and dropping a few thick strips of fabric on top.
Bucky hesitated, glancing at his hands and the pile of equipment, then seemed to come to a decision. His hand came off of Steve's mouth for a second, and, "Bucky no, don't, please don't--" a few seconds later Steve's mouth was full of the sterile, dead taste only achieved by autoclaving something repeatedly for ten years. Bucky knotted the gag tightly behind his head. Steve didn't even get a chance to attempt to spit it out because then he shook and shook and shook as the next cycle ripped through him, leaving him writhing soundlessly on the table. Bucky surreptitiously wiped the corner of Steve's eye with an extra scrap of fabric.
He had only gone limp for a few seconds when Bucky moved to grab the collection apparatus, whatever that had meant, and then Steve suddenly realized exactly what that meant and bit off a scream as a hollow metal rod slipped into his urethra. Lubricated, thank God, but this was nothing like being catheterized, this was thick and solid and unforgivingly cold -- it was--
His muffled yells of protest were totally ignored by the lab coats, who were busy pipetting nearly-indistinguishable liquids from one tube into a series of smaller tubes, and then putting different kinds of coloured stickers on the results. Bucky returned to his side, actually managing to shove his arm under the small of Steve's back this time. His bulk blocked out a good third of the room and Steve did his best to curl into him, welcoming any familiar anchor in his confused mix of anger and humiliation and confusion.
Whatever the machine was, it seemed to have a sense of where Steve was at, or maybe it was directly monitoring his vital signs, it wasn't clear. At any rate it must have decided that Steve was ready for the next phase because the pulses in his groin accelerated, each one coming faster and lasting longer than the one before. He was clinging to the idea that Tony must have gotten out, Tony was armoured and unaffected by the darts, Tony would find him, when the ache in his balls reached a new peak and he felt them contract, spurting liquid out into the steel cylinder seated deep in his cock and watching it trickle out into the clear tubing. He bared his teeth in a silent scream as it went on, and on, long enough to realize this was not an ending and nobody was going to switch it off anytime soon.
The device extracted pulse after pulse after pulse of fluid from him. When his production started to taper off, it began alternating the shocks to his balls with more stimulation to his sensitive cockhead, and eventually Steve's suspicions about what had happened while he was unconscious were confirmed as he felt other electrodes light up deep in his ass. Steve felt like Bucky's warm arm under his back and metal thumb stroking his cheek the only things keeping him conscious. "You're doing fine," Bucky murmured, lips brushing against his temple, "they're not watching, they don't care," and surely none of them could see Steve crying, not with Bucky's body shielding him.
Some unknown amount of time later, after a very petite technician had switched out the glass collection bottles twice -- holding each one critically up to the light each time and writing notes furiously all over it before handing it off to a colleague -- the shocks stopped. Steve would have sagged in relief if he hadn't already already been a sweaty mess against the table.
"OK, push another litre of saline and let's move into Stage 2. There'll be plenty of time for behavioural analysis after reprogramming, remember we're only interested in baseline physiology right now. Follow the workflow plan, let's keep this moving!"
A team of technicians wheeled a complicated apparatus over to his head, and cut away the gag to replace it with a ventilator mask. Steve shouted Bucky's name until the paralytic set in, and faded out as they intubated him. He wasn't a quitter, but he was glad he didn't have to see what happened next. Tony claimed it was both disgusting and a triumph of modern organometallic chemistry, and to be frank Steve felt like he had just about had it with science by that point.
--
Several days later Steve sat beside Natasha in Bruce and Tony's lab, staring at a series of blue-and-white printouts and frowning. Bruce and Tony themselves had begun a discussion of modern anaesthetic technology that devolved into a heated debate about the nature and meaning of consciousness, and Steve wasn't in the mood for either philosophy or first-person narratives about psychotropic drug use in the 1970s. No matter how interesting Bruce's early career had been, there was nothing as boring as hearing about somebody else's acid trip. And he wasn't sure that Tony had as firm a grasp on Jungian psychology as he seemed to think he did.
"So, my liver really will grow back?"
Natasha looked over at him. "Oh, yes, definitely. Even in normal people, the liver regenerates really well. They actually took less from you than they would have if you were going to donate, and living donors' livers regenerate to ninety percent of their original size within a few months."
"Huh."
"It looks like they didn't have time to get to your kidneys at all. Dr. Connors was a nephrologist, did you know, I'm sure he's terribly disappointed."
"Well, we all have our disappointments."
"Bruce said he personally destroyed each one of those samples. They kept meticulous notes, it wasn't that hard to find them all. They were a very organized working group of mad scientists, I've never seen anything quite like it. You should have seen their spreadsheets." Natasha paused. "Steve -- give it time. Your face looked a lot worse last time."
"Are you saying my face looks nice?"
Natasha's lips quirked up in to a smile. "I would never say that. Your face is terrible."
Steve laid a head on her shoulder. "I just worry," he said softly.
"I know. Me too." Her small hand covered his, and he laced their fingers together and squeezed gently.
FILL Re: "Specimen" Steve [2/2]
There was a minor flurry of activity as Ginger Lab Coat burst back into the room, carrying clear tubing and a flash of steel in one hand, and several precariously-balanced glass bottles in the other. Steve tried to get a closer look but ended up throwing his head back involuntarily and gritting his teeth as his cock pulsed, throbbing as current passed through him. Bucky's hand smothered the whine threatening to slip out behind his teeth.
"Oh, good, he's responding adequately," Ginger said, a bit out of breath, "Wasn't sure whether the benzodiazepine mix would suppress cardiac function too much to--"
"I told you!" a woman interrupted him from across the room, "I told you, just increase the etomidate and use a blocker and Denhoy's new NPP derivative instead of fentanyl--"
"Yes, well," Ginger continued, flustered. "The collection apparatus is all here, and for God's sake gag him if you need to, I can't be distracted while I'm fractioning off the pleural fluid." Bucky accepted the tubing with his metal hand without looking up but didn't lift the other from Steve's mouth, and Ginger fluttered for a moment before stacking the bottles on the monitor and dropping a few thick strips of fabric on top.
Bucky hesitated, glancing at his hands and the pile of equipment, then seemed to come to a decision. His hand came off of Steve's mouth for a second, and, "Bucky no, don't, please don't--" a few seconds later Steve's mouth was full of the sterile, dead taste only achieved by autoclaving something repeatedly for ten years. Bucky knotted the gag tightly behind his head. Steve didn't even get a chance to attempt to spit it out because then he shook and shook and shook as the next cycle ripped through him, leaving him writhing soundlessly on the table. Bucky surreptitiously wiped the corner of Steve's eye with an extra scrap of fabric.
He had only gone limp for a few seconds when Bucky moved to grab the collection apparatus, whatever that had meant, and then Steve suddenly realized exactly what that meant and bit off a scream as a hollow metal rod slipped into his urethra. Lubricated, thank God, but this was nothing like being catheterized, this was thick and solid and unforgivingly cold -- it was--
His muffled yells of protest were totally ignored by the lab coats, who were busy pipetting nearly-indistinguishable liquids from one tube into a series of smaller tubes, and then putting different kinds of coloured stickers on the results. Bucky returned to his side, actually managing to shove his arm under the small of Steve's back this time. His bulk blocked out a good third of the room and Steve did his best to curl into him, welcoming any familiar anchor in his confused mix of anger and humiliation and confusion.
Whatever the machine was, it seemed to have a sense of where Steve was at, or maybe it was directly monitoring his vital signs, it wasn't clear. At any rate it must have decided that Steve was ready for the next phase because the pulses in his groin accelerated, each one coming faster and lasting longer than the one before. He was clinging to the idea that Tony must have gotten out, Tony was armoured and unaffected by the darts, Tony would find him, when the ache in his balls reached a new peak and he felt them contract, spurting liquid out into the steel cylinder seated deep in his cock and watching it trickle out into the clear tubing. He bared his teeth in a silent scream as it went on, and on, long enough to realize this was not an ending and nobody was going to switch it off anytime soon.
The device extracted pulse after pulse after pulse of fluid from him. When his production started to taper off, it began alternating the shocks to his balls with more stimulation to his sensitive cockhead, and eventually Steve's suspicions about what had happened while he was unconscious were confirmed as he felt other electrodes light up deep in his ass. Steve felt like Bucky's warm arm under his back and metal thumb stroking his cheek the only things keeping him conscious. "You're doing fine," Bucky murmured, lips brushing against his temple, "they're not watching, they don't care," and surely none of them could see Steve crying, not with Bucky's body shielding him.
Some unknown amount of time later, after a very petite technician had switched out the glass collection bottles twice -- holding each one critically up to the light each time and writing notes furiously all over it before handing it off to a colleague -- the shocks stopped. Steve would have sagged in relief if he hadn't already already been a sweaty mess against the table.
"OK, push another litre of saline and let's move into Stage 2. There'll be plenty of time for behavioural analysis after reprogramming, remember we're only interested in baseline physiology right now. Follow the workflow plan, let's keep this moving!"
A team of technicians wheeled a complicated apparatus over to his head, and cut away the gag to replace it with a ventilator mask. Steve shouted Bucky's name until the paralytic set in, and faded out as they intubated him. He wasn't a quitter, but he was glad he didn't have to see what happened next. Tony claimed it was both disgusting and a triumph of modern organometallic chemistry, and to be frank Steve felt like he had just about had it with science by that point.
--
Several days later Steve sat beside Natasha in Bruce and Tony's lab, staring at a series of blue-and-white printouts and frowning. Bruce and Tony themselves had begun a discussion of modern anaesthetic technology that devolved into a heated debate about the nature and meaning of consciousness, and Steve wasn't in the mood for either philosophy or first-person narratives about psychotropic drug use in the 1970s. No matter how interesting Bruce's early career had been, there was nothing as boring as hearing about somebody else's acid trip. And he wasn't sure that Tony had as firm a grasp on Jungian psychology as he seemed to think he did.
"So, my liver really will grow back?"
Natasha looked over at him. "Oh, yes, definitely. Even in normal people, the liver regenerates really well. They actually took less from you than they would have if you were going to donate, and living donors' livers regenerate to ninety percent of their original size within a few months."
"Huh."
"It looks like they didn't have time to get to your kidneys at all. Dr. Connors was a nephrologist, did you know, I'm sure he's terribly disappointed."
"Well, we all have our disappointments."
"Bruce said he personally destroyed each one of those samples. They kept meticulous notes, it wasn't that hard to find them all. They were a very organized working group of mad scientists, I've never seen anything quite like it. You should have seen their spreadsheets." Natasha paused. "Steve -- give it time. Your face looked a lot worse last time."
"Are you saying my face looks nice?"
Natasha's lips quirked up in to a smile. "I would never say that. Your face is terrible."
Steve laid a head on her shoulder. "I just worry," he said softly.
"I know. Me too." Her small hand covered his, and he laced their fingers together and squeezed gently.
They sat there quietly until Steve fell asleep.