Rumlow was starting to worry that the lab techs had fucked up the dosage. Which would be very bad news for him and his team, since at the moment a few hundred milligrams of mind-altering chemicals and a slightly sturdier pair of handcuffs were all that was keeping every single one of them from eating cell-block ceiling the way Rumlow'd eaten elevator ceiling earlier that day. The cuffs seemed to be holding so far, but Cap didn't look very altered. Just pissed off. Rumlow aimed a kick at his ribs and jerked away with a snarl of pain, because Captain fucking America had just lunged and sank his teeth into Rumlow's calf hard enough to draw blood. Incredible. A quadruple dose of this bizarre miracle drug that was supposed to reduce even the toughest men to pathetic, whimpering cocksluts didn't seem to have given Cap anything but a raging hard-on and a willingness to fight dirty. Either he really was the goddamn driven-snow unicorn whisperer some of his biographers wanted him to be, or the techs had fucked everything up by assuming the experiments they ran on their creepy pet assassin would have any application for a real-deal original brand super-soldier.
Rumlow rattled the bars of the cell to get the white-coats' attention. "Hey, get me another syringe in here! I don't think it's working."
There was a dry, hacking sound at his feet, and when he looked down he saw that it was Rogers laughing. "Think it's working just fine, thanks," he gasped, in a voice that could've been ragged from the effect of the drug or from the kicks that Higgins had just delivered to his kidneys.
"Not as fine as we'd like it to, Big Guy," said Rumlow, but he looked down at Rogers through narrowed eyes. The techs hadn't said anything about anybody resisting the mental effects of the drug for more than a minute after the physical symptoms showed up; then again, Rogers was exactly the sort of crazy, stubborn, superhuman sonofabitch who'd manage to do it anyway. And if the STRIKE team caused permanent damage with an overdose this soon in the game, Pierce would have his guts for garters.
Well, then, he'd have to check the progress of the physical symptoms, wouldn't he? Rumlow nudged at Rogers' crotch with the toe of his boot, still unable to make up his mind whether this whole exercise was fascinating or a riot or just a fucked-up distasteful mess. Rogers hissed at the touch and his whole body went rigid. Rumlow chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You want some more of that, huh?"
"That does seem to be what this stuff does," said Rogers with evident disgust.
For a second there, Rumlow almost felt bad for him--they were both soldiers, they both had their heads screwed on straight about what this was, and like hell would he want to be in Cap's place right now. Then the lump on his head throbbed and he remembered waking up in that elevator feeling like all the hangovers of Christmas past had just walloped him upside the head at once. To hell with pity. If America's favorite übermensch was less adept at fending for himself against a handful of mere mortals this time, he'd just have to take what was coming to him. Rumlow drew his leg back and kicked Steve Rogers square in the balls.
There was a satisfying choked-off cry, and Rogers curled up in the closest he could get to the fetal position with his arms cuffed behind his back and half a dozen pairs of feet surrounding him. It took a few seconds for Rumlow to look closer and realize the other effect of the kick: a wet stain was spreading over the front of Rogers' khakis. For a split second he stupidly thought the man had pissed himself, but of course it wouldn't be anything so prosaic; the ominously-sterile, odorless air of the cell now had a faint but distinct whiff of jizz to it.
Behind him, Rollins started laughing. "You like that, you smug bastard? Want another one?"
"Nope," said Rogers, as matter-of-factly as he could when his face was bright red and he couldn't seem to drag his voice back to its normal pitch, "really not my idea of fun."
"Too bad," said Rollins, grabbing the obvious opening with relish, "cause it sure is ours," and he planted a dirty bootprint smack across Rogers' ass that made Rogers twitch and frown, presumably at his own reaction to it.
Then the others piled on him, kicking and punching and grabbing at handfuls of his hair, and Rumlow wasn't actually sure how many times Rogers came over the course of the next few minutes. All the groans and grunts were pretty indistinguishable at first, but Rumlow was willing to bet it was a good number--from what he'd gathered, watching Hydra's prized silent assassin descend into begging for cock in six languages, the first one kind of opened a floodgate.
Eventually he started to recognize Cap's hitching breath right before another one ripped out of him and the way he tried to choke back those groans but not the others. He counted out six, the last five from random blows all over the body and nowhere near the groin, before he shoved a couple of his men away so he could get right up in Rogers' face, yanking his head back savagely by the hair.
"Was there anything you wanted to ask us?" Rumlow growled.
Rogers screwed his eyes shut, caught in the throes of yet another orgasm, this one apparently set off by having his hair grabbed. When he could open them and focus again, his voice was hoarse but implausibly steady. "Yeah," he said. "What the hell is all this for?"
What the fuck. He was supposed to be begging by now. Instead he was doing his Captain America thing and looking all disapproving at them. This was ridiculous. Rumlow brought his face in close, close enough to bite Cap's lip if he wanted to, and hissed the version of the truth he hoped the bastard least wanted to hear: "Fun."
"That's it?" On closer inspection, Rogers' steadiness was more remniscient of a drunk guy trying really hard not to act drunk--wavering every once in a while only to snap back hyperfocused. Except instead of slurring or staggering, he kept slipping into abortive breathy moans or the stunted embryos of what might've been sex faces before returning full force to his scorn. "Seriously, that's it?"
It wasn't exactly the shattered hope Rumlow'd been expecting--in fact, Cap was all but rolling his eyes when he had the wherewithal to do so--but he still had room to twist the knife a little. "Yeah. What did you want, a grand plan you could thwart from the inside? An interrogation you could heroically resist? It's over, man. Pierce just thought it'd be entertaining to pass you around before we kill you so everyone can hear you beg for Hydra dick."
Rogers grimaced. "Don't hold your breath on that one."
"Might not be your choice to make, Cap." Fuck it, the psychological symptoms had to show up sooner or later, didn't they? If not at a particular point in time, then at least past a certain point of desperation. Rumlow looked up at his team. "Blackwell. Get his pants off."
FILL: Hydra/Steve sex pollen gangbang 1/?
Rumlow rattled the bars of the cell to get the white-coats' attention. "Hey, get me another syringe in here! I don't think it's working."
There was a dry, hacking sound at his feet, and when he looked down he saw that it was Rogers laughing. "Think it's working just fine, thanks," he gasped, in a voice that could've been ragged from the effect of the drug or from the kicks that Higgins had just delivered to his kidneys.
"Not as fine as we'd like it to, Big Guy," said Rumlow, but he looked down at Rogers through narrowed eyes. The techs hadn't said anything about anybody resisting the mental effects of the drug for more than a minute after the physical symptoms showed up; then again, Rogers was exactly the sort of crazy, stubborn, superhuman sonofabitch who'd manage to do it anyway. And if the STRIKE team caused permanent damage with an overdose this soon in the game, Pierce would have his guts for garters.
Well, then, he'd have to check the progress of the physical symptoms, wouldn't he? Rumlow nudged at Rogers' crotch with the toe of his boot, still unable to make up his mind whether this whole exercise was fascinating or a riot or just a fucked-up distasteful mess. Rogers hissed at the touch and his whole body went rigid. Rumlow chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You want some more of that, huh?"
"That does seem to be what this stuff does," said Rogers with evident disgust.
For a second there, Rumlow almost felt bad for him--they were both soldiers, they both had their heads screwed on straight about what this was, and like hell would he want to be in Cap's place right now. Then the lump on his head throbbed and he remembered waking up in that elevator feeling like all the hangovers of Christmas past had just walloped him upside the head at once. To hell with pity. If America's favorite übermensch was less adept at fending for himself against a handful of mere mortals this time, he'd just have to take what was coming to him. Rumlow drew his leg back and kicked Steve Rogers square in the balls.
There was a satisfying choked-off cry, and Rogers curled up in the closest he could get to the fetal position with his arms cuffed behind his back and half a dozen pairs of feet surrounding him. It took a few seconds for Rumlow to look closer and realize the other effect of the kick: a wet stain was spreading over the front of Rogers' khakis. For a split second he stupidly thought the man had pissed himself, but of course it wouldn't be anything so prosaic; the ominously-sterile, odorless air of the cell now had a faint but distinct whiff of jizz to it.
Behind him, Rollins started laughing. "You like that, you smug bastard? Want another one?"
"Nope," said Rogers, as matter-of-factly as he could when his face was bright red and he couldn't seem to drag his voice back to its normal pitch, "really not my idea of fun."
"Too bad," said Rollins, grabbing the obvious opening with relish, "cause it sure is ours," and he planted a dirty bootprint smack across Rogers' ass that made Rogers twitch and frown, presumably at his own reaction to it.
Then the others piled on him, kicking and punching and grabbing at handfuls of his hair, and Rumlow wasn't actually sure how many times Rogers came over the course of the next few minutes. All the groans and grunts were pretty indistinguishable at first, but Rumlow was willing to bet it was a good number--from what he'd gathered, watching Hydra's prized silent assassin descend into begging for cock in six languages, the first one kind of opened a floodgate.
Eventually he started to recognize Cap's hitching breath right before another one ripped out of him and the way he tried to choke back those groans but not the others. He counted out six, the last five from random blows all over the body and nowhere near the groin, before he shoved a couple of his men away so he could get right up in Rogers' face, yanking his head back savagely by the hair.
"Was there anything you wanted to ask us?" Rumlow growled.
Rogers screwed his eyes shut, caught in the throes of yet another orgasm, this one apparently set off by having his hair grabbed. When he could open them and focus again, his voice was hoarse but implausibly steady. "Yeah," he said. "What the hell is all this for?"
What the fuck. He was supposed to be begging by now. Instead he was doing his Captain America thing and looking all disapproving at them. This was ridiculous. Rumlow brought his face in close, close enough to bite Cap's lip if he wanted to, and hissed the version of the truth he hoped the bastard least wanted to hear: "Fun."
"That's it?" On closer inspection, Rogers' steadiness was more remniscient of a drunk guy trying really hard not to act drunk--wavering every once in a while only to snap back hyperfocused. Except instead of slurring or staggering, he kept slipping into abortive breathy moans or the stunted embryos of what might've been sex faces before returning full force to his scorn. "Seriously, that's it?"
It wasn't exactly the shattered hope Rumlow'd been expecting--in fact, Cap was all but rolling his eyes when he had the wherewithal to do so--but he still had room to twist the knife a little. "Yeah. What did you want, a grand plan you could thwart from the inside? An interrogation you could heroically resist? It's over, man. Pierce just thought it'd be entertaining to pass you around before we kill you so everyone can hear you beg for Hydra dick."
Rogers grimaced. "Don't hold your breath on that one."
"Might not be your choice to make, Cap." Fuck it, the psychological symptoms had to show up sooner or later, didn't they? If not at a particular point in time, then at least past a certain point of desperation. Rumlow looked up at his team. "Blackwell. Get his pants off."