(Btw, sorry I wasn't responding to comments earlier, I was away from the computer for a lot of this weekend... but rest assured, your feedback is sweet sweet sustenance to me and the knowledge that there are other people aboard this hell-train gives me life. ♥)
When he remembers where he is and how to make his voice work, he finds himself saying, “Just give me the information, Steve. Tell me what I was sent here to find out, and this will all be over.” He's lost his hard-on. He probably won't be able to get it back up.
“Yeah, and what then?” Rogers' voice is pitched low and urgent. “You go back to wherever they keep you when they don't need you, I rot here waiting for the firing squad, and neither of us gets a decent night's sleep until the day they decide to put us down like stray dogs. To hell with that. You know this part of the building, I know the surrounding area, you've got enough firepower for both of us, we can escape. You and me, Buck, just like old times. We've gotten out of worse places than this.”
He hits Rogers across the face with his metal arm. Then he leans in real close and hisses, “They're watching. They might be listening. Even if I wanted in on your crazy plan—which I don't—talking about it here is a real dumb move.”
“Where else are we going to get the chance? Bucky...”
“I'm not Bucky.” The Winter Soldier flings him to the ground in a rage and gets the stun stick back out. He jabs it into the hollow of Rogers' throat. “Now. Three options. I throw you over that bed and fuck you. I get to work on your kneecaps. Or you tell me what Nick Fury told you before he died. I'm on a mission, and any of those would count as completing it. Your choice.”
Rogers gazes up at him with a pleading look on his face, but the Winter Soldier is pitiless. After a lot of squirming and a few “c'mon, Bucky...”s, he screws his eyes shut and mutters, “Guess my butt's already taken all the damage it's going to take. Can't believe I'm signing up for more of this, but option one it is.”
It's the answer the Winter Soldier has been both dreading and hoping for. Hoping for, because there is a scrap of an idea germinating in the back of his mind, and it will go off a lot easier if Rogers can walk. Dreading, because he doesn't know if he can go through with it. He drags Rogers to his knees, shoves him forward so he's bent over the cot, and tries to stroke himself back to full hardness. No go. Rogers has got one hell of a nice body; some animalistic part of him that his programming can control but not eliminate had recognized that from the start. But every time he tries to think about that, the image of Rogers staring up at him with his mouth open around the Winter Soldier's cock and desperate grief contorting his features springs unbidden to his mind. Not only is it the opposite of a turn-on, he's got the feeling that thinking about it for too long will bring on another inconvenient flashback. He wonders with vague irritation what other people think about to get themselves off.
He tucks himself back into his pants with a noise of disgust and considers his options. He can always fall back on option two, plain old torture, and try to find something that isn't too disabling but is impressive enough to convince Pierce that Rogers isn't going to talk. Or—there's more than one way to violate somebody. He rests a hand on the small of Rogers' back, right above his tailbone, and says, “Don't move.” Lays the stun baton horizontally over the backs of his legs, right at the crease where thigh meets buttock, and gives him a good solid jolt. Rogers twitches violently and bites back a cry of pain. He does it again, and Rogers abandons whatever's left of his pride and sinks his teeth into the thin blanket to keep from screaming. A third time, sliding it over so the tip of the baton digs into his perineum, and the scream tears its way out of his throat anyway. Pierce had better be watching this little display.
The Winter Soldier pushes the tip of the stun stick inside him, and Rogers goes very, very still. His breathing is fast and shallow, his eyes are wide with fear. This isn't what he signed up for, and for all he knows the Winter Soldier is about to see whether his body can withstand a shock from the inside. Good. It's all very, very believable. The spectators on the other side of the mirror glass are getting a hell of a show. He starts sliding the baton in and out, fucking him on it, and angles it to inflict more unwanted pleasure. It's a skill he learned from the best, and with a little help from his right hand, soon he's got Rogers flinching in utter horror as he stiffens in the Winter Soldier's grip.
“Tell me when you're close,” he hisses as quietly as he can, hoping to hell that their audience either isn't listening or doesn't have equipment sensitive enough to pick up the words over Rogers' strangled groans.
He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he definitely wasn't expecting Rogers to breathe out an almost imperceptible “Okay” and relax under him. The stupid bastard trusts him. Enough to let go and give himself over at the first indication that the Winter Soldier's got a plan, even with a glorified cattle prod shoved up against his innards. What the hell is wrong with him, and what the hell did this Bucky ever do to deserve that? The Winter Soldier is torn between the temptation to push the button and let him reap the reward of his idiocy, and the return of that absurd horror of letting Steve Rogers down. Horror wins out. He keeps fucking him, trying to make it look a lot more vicious than it really is, and keeps jerking him off, but doesn't do anything worse. He keeps his left hand on the small of his back to pin him down, right below where his hands are cuffed behind him, and Rogers grabs his metal wrist with both hands. One of them is still bleeding where the Winter Soldier put a knife through it, and the red smear on the metal matches the fresh bloodstains on the stun stick. The gesture probably looks like a last-ditch struggle or plea, but the Winter Soldier is pretty sure he knows what it really is. Clinging. After everything he's just been through, Steve Rogers is holding on to him—to him—for support.
Elevator take 2, SEQUEL 7/?
When he remembers where he is and how to make his voice work, he finds himself saying, “Just give me the information, Steve. Tell me what I was sent here to find out, and this will all be over.” He's lost his hard-on. He probably won't be able to get it back up.
“Yeah, and what then?” Rogers' voice is pitched low and urgent. “You go back to wherever they keep you when they don't need you, I rot here waiting for the firing squad, and neither of us gets a decent night's sleep until the day they decide to put us down like stray dogs. To hell with that. You know this part of the building, I know the surrounding area, you've got enough firepower for both of us, we can escape. You and me, Buck, just like old times. We've gotten out of worse places than this.”
He hits Rogers across the face with his metal arm. Then he leans in real close and hisses, “They're watching. They might be listening. Even if I wanted in on your crazy plan—which I don't—talking about it here is a real dumb move.”
“Where else are we going to get the chance? Bucky...”
“I'm not Bucky.” The Winter Soldier flings him to the ground in a rage and gets the stun stick back out. He jabs it into the hollow of Rogers' throat. “Now. Three options. I throw you over that bed and fuck you. I get to work on your kneecaps. Or you tell me what Nick Fury told you before he died. I'm on a mission, and any of those would count as completing it. Your choice.”
Rogers gazes up at him with a pleading look on his face, but the Winter Soldier is pitiless. After a lot of squirming and a few “c'mon, Bucky...”s, he screws his eyes shut and mutters, “Guess my butt's already taken all the damage it's going to take. Can't believe I'm signing up for more of this, but option one it is.”
It's the answer the Winter Soldier has been both dreading and hoping for. Hoping for, because there is a scrap of an idea germinating in the back of his mind, and it will go off a lot easier if Rogers can walk. Dreading, because he doesn't know if he can go through with it. He drags Rogers to his knees, shoves him forward so he's bent over the cot, and tries to stroke himself back to full hardness. No go. Rogers has got one hell of a nice body; some animalistic part of him that his programming can control but not eliminate had recognized that from the start. But every time he tries to think about that, the image of Rogers staring up at him with his mouth open around the Winter Soldier's cock and desperate grief contorting his features springs unbidden to his mind. Not only is it the opposite of a turn-on, he's got the feeling that thinking about it for too long will bring on another inconvenient flashback. He wonders with vague irritation what other people think about to get themselves off.
He tucks himself back into his pants with a noise of disgust and considers his options. He can always fall back on option two, plain old torture, and try to find something that isn't too disabling but is impressive enough to convince Pierce that Rogers isn't going to talk. Or—there's more than one way to violate somebody. He rests a hand on the small of Rogers' back, right above his tailbone, and says, “Don't move.” Lays the stun baton horizontally over the backs of his legs, right at the crease where thigh meets buttock, and gives him a good solid jolt. Rogers twitches violently and bites back a cry of pain. He does it again, and Rogers abandons whatever's left of his pride and sinks his teeth into the thin blanket to keep from screaming. A third time, sliding it over so the tip of the baton digs into his perineum, and the scream tears its way out of his throat anyway. Pierce had better be watching this little display.
The Winter Soldier pushes the tip of the stun stick inside him, and Rogers goes very, very still. His breathing is fast and shallow, his eyes are wide with fear. This isn't what he signed up for, and for all he knows the Winter Soldier is about to see whether his body can withstand a shock from the inside. Good. It's all very, very believable. The spectators on the other side of the mirror glass are getting a hell of a show. He starts sliding the baton in and out, fucking him on it, and angles it to inflict more unwanted pleasure. It's a skill he learned from the best, and with a little help from his right hand, soon he's got Rogers flinching in utter horror as he stiffens in the Winter Soldier's grip.
“Tell me when you're close,” he hisses as quietly as he can, hoping to hell that their audience either isn't listening or doesn't have equipment sensitive enough to pick up the words over Rogers' strangled groans.
He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he definitely wasn't expecting Rogers to breathe out an almost imperceptible “Okay” and relax under him. The stupid bastard trusts him. Enough to let go and give himself over at the first indication that the Winter Soldier's got a plan, even with a glorified cattle prod shoved up against his innards. What the hell is wrong with him, and what the hell did this Bucky ever do to deserve that? The Winter Soldier is torn between the temptation to push the button and let him reap the reward of his idiocy, and the return of that absurd horror of letting Steve Rogers down. Horror wins out. He keeps fucking him, trying to make it look a lot more vicious than it really is, and keeps jerking him off, but doesn't do anything worse. He keeps his left hand on the small of his back to pin him down, right below where his hands are cuffed behind him, and Rogers grabs his metal wrist with both hands. One of them is still bleeding where the Winter Soldier put a knife through it, and the red smear on the metal matches the fresh bloodstains on the stun stick. The gesture probably looks like a last-ditch struggle or plea, but the Winter Soldier is pretty sure he knows what it really is. Clinging. After everything he's just been through, Steve Rogers is holding on to him—to him—for support.