Someone wrote in [community profile] hydratrashmeme 2014-06-02 03:44 pm (UTC)

Re: Steve/everyone, elevator take 2

"Before we get started," Steve says, "does anyone want to get off?"

There's maybe two seconds of silence as they realize the game is up and brace themselves to start punching. Or so he thinks. Then one of the men in business suits says, "You know, I might just have to take you up on that."

By the time Steve figures out why the guy's laughing instead of crapping his pants, they've already slapped the magnetic handcuffs on his wrists and Rollins is doing his damndest to knock his feet out from under him. He recovers from his moment of hesitation and punches hard, but he's wrong-footed and hampered by the cuffs' magnetic pull. And the worst part is, he can't even blame that colossal boner on the vagaries of twenty-first century slang. He's got an anecdote dating right back to the forties that made the Howling Commandos laugh themselves sick at the time, involving a captured Focke-Wulf bomber and the sentence "don't blow your load before the rest of us get off." You'd think he would've remembered after that.


Sorry, did he say that was the worst part? No, the worst part is that these clowns don't know when to let go of a joke. He doesn't know what their exact orders are for this little ambush--kill him or capture him for Pierce to play more games with him, probably--but he's pretty sure that whatever those orders are, they aren't being served by pinning him facedown, mag-cuffed hand and foot to the elevator floor, and chortling about sodomy like a bunch of schoolkids who just found out why Uncle Allen's been living with his roommate for the past thirty years. All it took was one of the suits--currently unconscious in the corner, because it's not like Steve was going down without a fight--saying "Hey, none of you are going to say no when Captain America makes you an offer you can't refuse, are you?" and now one of the guys pinning him seems to be humping his leg just to annoy him and the ones who aren't busy hitting him are joking about some porno called Captain Twink and the Backdoor Commandos that Steve's really glad he's never seen.

One of them, egged on by a guy who's still gasping on the floor from a fall that broke his ankle and a few ribs, starts cutting Steve's combat suit off with a knife, and that's a little more worrying. Not only is it an awfully long way to carry a joke that wasn't even funny in the first place, Steve can't take nearly as much damage from the stun batons without the thick layers of padding. He's about to tell them to cut the crap, stop embarrassing themselves, and do the job they were sent in to do--but then some bastard decides to shove his finger where the sun don't shine, and Steve realizes this is even less funny than he'd thought.


Rumlow--Rumlow!--calls first dibs. Whatever qualms Steve may have had about the teams and missions SHIELD had saddled him with, however willing Rumlow might've been to turn around and attack him on orders from higher up, he would not have pegged Rumlow as the type to volunteer for a sick stunt like this. Let alone to do it by responding to Steve's quiet, serious "Rumlow, don't do this. Don't get involved in this mess" with "I worked closest with him, I'm going first. Before he's too dripping with jizz to feel a goddamn thing around your dick."

Rumlow ignores the glare of contemptuous disbelief Steve fixes on him as he unzips his fly. "Sorry, Cap," he says, getting into position behind him, "but this is gonna hurt."

Steve grunts, unwilling to show any signs of fear or intimidation, even if he might be screaming a little inside. "More straightforward than the alternative," he mutters.

"Yeah, I know," Rumlow smirks. "I'll be expecting a thank-you card on your best stationery." And Steve has to close his eyes and press his face into the floor for a second, because it's exactly the same as their usual line of banter, except what Rumlow's being sardonic about is the idea that Steve should somehow be grateful to him for making it hurt instead of trying to make Steve enjoy being--

It hurts. As promised, it hurts like hell. Rumlow forces it in dry with almost no warning, and whatever Steve might've imagined it would feel like to be fucked, this just feels like he's being ripped apart. Which is a feeling he could deal with, if he could avoid thinking about literally any other aspect of what's going on.

Which means, in reality, there is no way on earth he can deal with this.


Whatever internal damage Rumlow caused turns out to be the gift that keeps on giving, because even though the next two guys go slow and paw ineffectually at Steve's junk, it still hurts too much for them to get anything but bitter, ragged laughter out of him. They can't be on much of a time limit, because they're going one by one taking turns, drawing out the ordeal as long as possible. Steve would almost rather be piled on en masse than have nothing to distract him but the sight of ten guys palming themselves through their trousers and arguing over who'll get him next.

At one point they get the bright idea of going two at once, one at each end. That lasts all of a minute before Steve almost bites off the first cock to get shoved in his mouth. The kick to the face he gets in retaliation knocks a tooth loose, but it's worth it just for the inhuman shriek he elicited and the sobs now emanating steadily from one corner of the elevator.


Steve never thought he'd have cause to regret the super-healing, but round four barely hurts at all and now his fifth assailant is pounding steadily at an angle that... doesn't feel good, exactly, but gets him half-hard and dripping with pre-come, to a round of gleeful jeering and catcalling when the others notice. It really isn't pleasure, just pressure against some unidentifiable internal organ (pressure from the inside, and doesn't that just make him want to retch all over the floor) that's having some unwelcome visible side effects and making him feel like he's got to pee. He hasn't been this aware of his body as a slab of meat since his last bout with pneumonia before the serum.

Rollins is on deck and looks scared shitless. Keeps darting glances at the guy in the corner whose dick almost got bitten off. Three or four of the others shove him forward, laughing and hissing encouragement in his ear, and he visibly steels himself before lunging in to try to stroke Steve to full hardness. The bastards want to make him come while he's being held down and gang-raped on the floor, and the prospect is enough to make him shudder--but luckily for him, and unluckily for Rollins and whoever's pounding away back there, he's finally shifted his weight and maneuvered his knees and elbows into a position where he can put the strength of the magnetic cuffs to a serious test. He briefly manages to wrench one of his ankles free, feels it being pulled back to the floor too hard for him to keep it up, and just manages to cross his leg over the leg of the guy behind him before it slams back to the floor. There's a crack and a reedy scream as the man's leg breaks. Rollins swears and starts babbling--"Fuck, Rogers, don't kill me, I didn't want in on this, I was just going to help take you into custody, c'mon, you saw, they were making me--" and doesn't shut up until Steve spits, "Well, then you can tell them it wasn't your fault because I overpowered you," yanks one of his wrists off the floor with a groan, and clocks him around the head with the metal cuff. He goes down like a load of bricks.

Then it comes down to a fight between Steve Rogers' one available fist and the two or three guys who aren't either incapacitated or too fucked-out to contribute much. It's a fair enough fight that it takes Steve a few minutes to go down, and when he does there's only one attacker left in any kind of state to take revenge on him. This time, he doesn't have to worry about anyone trying to make him feel good.


In the control room, Jasper Sitwell stares open-mouthed at the security footage. "You have got to be kidding me. Get some reinforcements in there, pronto."


The reinforcements don't even comment on the situation in the elevator, half of whose occupants are out cold or nursing grievous bodily harm. The other half, exhausted, most of them with their pants still open, look more than happy to leave other people with the task of keeping Captain America restrained, except for Rumlow who elects to come with them. Steve is put in heavy-duty cuffs and escorted at gunpoint to the holding cells in the fifth sub-basement that aren't officially supposed to exist.

Alexander Pierce is waiting for him in an antechamber separated from the cell by foot-thick glass. He looks Steve up and down--bruised, half-naked, his suit in tatters, covered in blood that's only half his own, semen from half a dozen different men starting to trickle down the backs of his thighs--and flicks a piece of lint off his own impeccable suit. "Captain Rogers," he says. "I was told that the team assigned to take you into custody got a little carried away when you resisted, but not to what extent. I'm impressed."

Steve stares him down. "If you were hoping you could still persuade me to give you information about Fury, you just blew whatever chance you had left."

"I figured." Pierce sighs. "Persuasion was always a weak tool in the first place, but still. It's a pity to have to move on to messier methods." He beckons Rumlow into the room; Rumlow hands him the Captain America shield, and Pierce leans in to murmur in his ear. "Bring the asset down. Tell him we need him to conduct an interrogation."

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