“Uh-oh. Does that mean I should skip the hitting and just shoot the bastard to make sure he's really dead?”
Steve shoved away from him and went to stand at the railing by his empty mug. The last ghosts of the evening light picked out his expression in faint, sparse lines: the jut of his jaw, the slash of a cheekbone, the angry slant of his brow. There was a faint tinkling noise, which Sam couldn't place until he padded up behind Steve and saw that Steve's hand was shaking around the mug handle, jittering it against the concrete.
Sam almost put a hand on Steve's shoulder and then thought better of it. Instead he stepped forward to stand next to him, giving him at least a foot of space between their bodies. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget I—”
“They made Bucky do it,” said Steve in a monotone.
Sam froze.
“Pierce made him do it. Twice. I didn't know who he was the first time. I hated him; I could've killed him. The second time, with the mask off...” Steve broke off, shuddering violently, his voice choked. Almost inaudibly, he said, “It was sick. And I couldn't even say his name.”
Sam edged closer and carefully slid an arm around Steve's waist. Steve barely reacted, lost in his own personal horror. “Did he resist?” asked Sam.
Steve closed his eyes and shook his head, then shrugged helplessly. “They brainwashed him. You should've seen the way Pierce talked to him, like a hypnotist. He didn't remember who he was, but he kept looking at me, like there was something on the tip of his tongue. He asked them who I was. Said there was something he was supposed to know that he'd forgotten.”
“I'm sorry.” Sam squeezed him gently around the waist, and Steve folded like a deck of cards and buried his face in Sam's neck. Sam brought his other arm up and wrapped Steve in a tight hug.
“He's still in there,” Steve said, muffled in Sam's shirt.
“If they got him to do that to you?” said Sam, hating himself for having to say it, knowing that if it were him in those shoes—if it were Riley come back from the dead—he wouldn't be able to hear it either. “I'm sorry, Steve, there might not be anything left to save.”
“No, I meant... okay, I meant that, too. He was trying to remember. If we could get him away from them... but what I meant was, they've still got him. He's still in there with those sick bastards. If they did all that to me, what have they been doing to him all this time?”
It was a rhetorical question that Sam knew better than to answer.
Steve pulled away with a sigh and tried to compose himself, tucking his dick—now drooping at half mast for probably the first time in hours—back into his jeans and shoving his hands into his pockets. He angled himself away from Sam, not quite looking at him, as though embarrassed to have cried, even figuratively, on Sam's shoulder. “It's funny,” he said in a voice like bile. “He was in there for half an hour at most. And I'd trade that half hour for the rest of the afternoon all over again. Walk right back into that cell if it let me erase everything but the knowledge that he's alive. A couple of beatings, six forced blowjobs, a dozen rapes, two guys' fists and an electro-stun baton up my ass, it'd be a bargain. I'd do it all week if it would get him out of their clutches.”
“An electro... the more details you let slip, the more I wonder how you're even alive.”
“I heal fast,” Steve shrugged, staring fixedly at nothing.
“Yeah, I figured. At least now I know what my nightmares will be doing for the next year.”
Steve glanced over, and Sam must've looked rattled enough to snap him out of his private dead-best-friend hell. “You okay?”
Sam snorted. “You're asking if I'm okay.”
“There might as well be one of us.” One corner of Steve's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Seriously, you've already done a lot. If hearing about this is messing you up, take a break. I'll go trade horror stories with Natasha if I still feel like running my mouth.”
“I owe it to you to at least listen.”
“Sam. You don't owe me squat. And I owe you a whole lot. Don't do this to yourself.”
Sam shrugged. Maybe the crickets and the smell of the air were reminding him of that night in the church parking lot, which was one of those scenes that he could call up just as vividly twenty years later. Like his mom's hospital room, or Riley falling in flames from the sky, or—he suspected—finding Steve in that cell. “Maybe I owe it to someone else to get my dumb ass in line and listen when somebody needs me to.”
Steve laid a hand on his shoulder. “You have. You've gone above and beyond.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Something you need to get off your chest?”
Sam shook his head. As masochistically tempting as it was to come clean with that bit of lingering guilt to someone who'd just been through similar shit, he couldn't, any more than Steve could bring himself to share the gruesome details of what Bucky Barnes had been made to do to him.“Not my story to tell. Not the specifics, at least.” He fidgeted and looked down, trying to figure out how much he could own up to without getting murdered next Thanksgiving dinner. “She's okay now. Successful, happily married, probably still hasn't forgiven me. Brave kid. Tough, brave kid. Raised the rest of us while Mom was sick. That's the thing about people who don't like to dump on anyone else. I should've realized that if she was asking for help, things were a whole lot worse than any of us thought. But I was immature and wrapped up in my own problems and I didn't want to think about the gory details, and I blew her off.”
The hand on Sam's shoulder gave a gentle squeeze, and when Sam finally dared look up at Steve, he didn't look angry or disappointed at all. In fact, he looked sympathetic, which only made Sam's gut squirm harder. “You ever try to make it up to her?” Steve asked.
“It's not the kind of thing you can ever make up for. All you can do is pay it forward.”
Steve nodded. “You have, you know.” His fingers had started to knead absently at Sam's shoulder, which he didn't even seem to realize until his thumb hooked under Sam's shirt collar and met bare skin. He jolted like he'd had an electric shock and yanked his hand back, then tried to disguise the gesture by running his fingers through his hair. “We should get back,” he said, glancing at the door. “We've still got the Insight helicarriers to take down and a lot of Nazi butt to kick.”
Sam was inclined to agree, but even though he couldn't make out much detail on Steve's black clothes in the dark, he was willing to bet that his not-so-little problem was back in full force. “You want one more for the road before we go?” he asked. And, since Steve was already shuffling and waving a dismissive hand and opening his mouth to insist he didn't need any more help, he added, “Because if you've got any more frustration we can burn off right now, I'd rather deal with it while we're out here than find an excuse for one of us to drag you back out later.”
It took a few seconds of squirming, but Steve relented. “I'll try to get it over with quickly,” he said with a pained smile. “And not talk too much.”
There was no need to find a shadowy corner now that there was only the half moon and the faint yellow haze of light pollution from the direction of DC. Steve unzipped his jeans right there on the bridge, and they both turned sideways and rested their left arms on the railing as Sam stepped up behind him and took him in hand.
For the first few minutes it was silent except for Steve breathing a little harder than normal. Then Sam brushed his thumb just so under the head of Steve's cock, and Steve choked back a moan. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“I don't mind you making noise,” said Sam, and did it again. Steve cursed under his breath and bucked forward into Sam's hand, just once, but it broke the spell of stillness and silence and after that he loosened up, shifting his hips around fractionally and keeping up a steady stream of soft noises and hitched breaths.
And now the awkward boner risk was becoming a real problem. Not because Sam had forgotten any of the horrors Steve had recounted to him, but because Steve's face betrayed no revulsion, no indication that those horrors were what was playing behind his eyes when he moaned and arched into Sam's touch—nothing, in fact, but pleasure and fierce determination. It was entirely possible that he was hiding his disgust for Sam's sake, but tell that to Sam's hindbrain. Still, he had the situation pretty well under control until Steve followed one particularly breathy moan with a murmured “Sam—yeah, like that.” At that point Sam had to take a half-step back and pray that Steve hadn't noticed his cock springing to full attention.
No such luck. Steve followed him backwards, seeking out Sam's body with his hips. Sam's hand faltered. And then—“Oh,” Steve said, and wriggled his ass against Sam's erection as though to make sure of what he'd felt. He reached down to curl his hand around Sam's, encouraging him to stroke faster. Sam bit his lip and braced himself to be carried along for the ride.
Soon Steve was outright grinding back onto Sam's cock, and Sam was letting slip a few embarrassing noises of his own. This was wrong. This was so, so wrong. He was supposed to be lending a hand to deal with a drug-induced medical condition. He definitely wasn't supposed to be getting off himself at a time like this. And to make matters worse, then Steve blurted out, “Sam, please,” and immediately stuffed his fist in his mouth in shame.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. That, at least, was a bucket of ice water over the head about the kind of state Steve was in and what Sam's job was in dealing with it. “It's okay,” he said, low and steady. “I remember. Hands only.”
Steve melted back against him, shuddering all the while. “Sorry,” he said, “thought I could hold on, but... you feel so good.”
“It's okay,” Sam repeated softly. “Do what you have to.”
Steve reached back, and for a second Sam froze, thinking Steve was trying to get his pants open, but instead he was fumbling with Sam's hard-on through his jeans, nudging it until it was facing straight up towards his belly button. Sam wasn't sure why until Steve started grinding on him again, serious, dirty, fucking-through-clothes grinding with Sam's cock wedged into the cleft of his ass. “Oh God,” Steve groaned, “Sam—want you inside me so bad, but at least fuck me like this.”
That gave Sam pause. It wasn't that much heavier than anything they'd been doing before, but now that Steve put it like that Sam had to wonder if it was really in the spirit of their agreement. They were both still fully clothed, and Steve was still aware enough to preserve the technicality instead of trying to get Sam's pants off. And yet. “You think dry humping really counts as hands only?” asked Sam.
Steve made a strangled, impatient noise, but he slowed down. “We've been doing it since before I got this worked up,” he pointed out. “It's fine. No clothes off, no penetration.”
It still made Sam's conscience prickle. He could bring the whole thing screeching to a halt, drag Steve back towards full lucidity long enough to get a trustworthy response out of him, and then try to build back to where they were now despite the added load of self-conscious mortification. Or he could switch to doing it face-to-face to eliminate the temptation, and probably draw it out longer he had to. Or he could shut the fuck up, trust Steve to still be able to distinguish between what he wanted and what he wanted, and honor Steve's express wish to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Six counseling certifications above my pay grade,” he muttered, and thrust up to meet the backward jerk of Steve's ass.
“Oh,” Steve moaned, and “oh, yeah,” and “know it would be a terrible idea, still wish you could put it in me.” He rubbed himself up and down along the length of Sam's dick, trying to give them both the best approximation of the real thing he could manage through four layers of clothing. Sam swore and sped up his hand, wondering if he would have to resort to reciting baseball stats in his head to hold on until Steve was done.
“Want you to do it,” said Steve breathlessly. “Want to do everything, fuck you, blow you, get you to blow me, but oh God I want you to fuck me so bad and don't you ever tell another living soul I said any of this crap or I swear I'll hunt you down myself.”
“You're good,” Sam assured him, “you're good. Secret's safe with me.”
Steve bit his lip, rutting frantically back against him, and held out for a few long moments of silence before the words tore themselves out of his throat: “God, do it, fuck me, please, Sam, I want you to be the last one to have been inside me, please, please, fuck—” He choked on the last word, shuddered, and came.
FILL: Hydra/Steve sex pollen gangbang 15/?
Steve shoved away from him and went to stand at the railing by his empty mug. The last ghosts of the evening light picked out his expression in faint, sparse lines: the jut of his jaw, the slash of a cheekbone, the angry slant of his brow. There was a faint tinkling noise, which Sam couldn't place until he padded up behind Steve and saw that Steve's hand was shaking around the mug handle, jittering it against the concrete.
Sam almost put a hand on Steve's shoulder and then thought better of it. Instead he stepped forward to stand next to him, giving him at least a foot of space between their bodies. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget I—”
“They made Bucky do it,” said Steve in a monotone.
Sam froze.
“Pierce made him do it. Twice. I didn't know who he was the first time. I hated him; I could've killed him. The second time, with the mask off...” Steve broke off, shuddering violently, his voice choked. Almost inaudibly, he said, “It was sick. And I couldn't even say his name.”
Sam edged closer and carefully slid an arm around Steve's waist. Steve barely reacted, lost in his own personal horror. “Did he resist?” asked Sam.
Steve closed his eyes and shook his head, then shrugged helplessly. “They brainwashed him. You should've seen the way Pierce talked to him, like a hypnotist. He didn't remember who he was, but he kept looking at me, like there was something on the tip of his tongue. He asked them who I was. Said there was something he was supposed to know that he'd forgotten.”
“I'm sorry.” Sam squeezed him gently around the waist, and Steve folded like a deck of cards and buried his face in Sam's neck. Sam brought his other arm up and wrapped Steve in a tight hug.
“He's still in there,” Steve said, muffled in Sam's shirt.
“If they got him to do that to you?” said Sam, hating himself for having to say it, knowing that if it were him in those shoes—if it were Riley come back from the dead—he wouldn't be able to hear it either. “I'm sorry, Steve, there might not be anything left to save.”
“No, I meant... okay, I meant that, too. He was trying to remember. If we could get him away from them... but what I meant was, they've still got him. He's still in there with those sick bastards. If they did all that to me, what have they been doing to him all this time?”
It was a rhetorical question that Sam knew better than to answer.
Steve pulled away with a sigh and tried to compose himself, tucking his dick—now drooping at half mast for probably the first time in hours—back into his jeans and shoving his hands into his pockets. He angled himself away from Sam, not quite looking at him, as though embarrassed to have cried, even figuratively, on Sam's shoulder. “It's funny,” he said in a voice like bile. “He was in there for half an hour at most. And I'd trade that half hour for the rest of the afternoon all over again. Walk right back into that cell if it let me erase everything but the knowledge that he's alive. A couple of beatings, six forced blowjobs, a dozen rapes, two guys' fists and an electro-stun baton up my ass, it'd be a bargain. I'd do it all week if it would get him out of their clutches.”
“An electro... the more details you let slip, the more I wonder how you're even alive.”
“I heal fast,” Steve shrugged, staring fixedly at nothing.
“Yeah, I figured. At least now I know what my nightmares will be doing for the next year.”
Steve glanced over, and Sam must've looked rattled enough to snap him out of his private dead-best-friend hell. “You okay?”
Sam snorted. “You're asking if I'm okay.”
“There might as well be one of us.” One corner of Steve's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Seriously, you've already done a lot. If hearing about this is messing you up, take a break. I'll go trade horror stories with Natasha if I still feel like running my mouth.”
“I owe it to you to at least listen.”
“Sam. You don't owe me squat. And I owe you a whole lot. Don't do this to yourself.”
Sam shrugged. Maybe the crickets and the smell of the air were reminding him of that night in the church parking lot, which was one of those scenes that he could call up just as vividly twenty years later. Like his mom's hospital room, or Riley falling in flames from the sky, or—he suspected—finding Steve in that cell. “Maybe I owe it to someone else to get my dumb ass in line and listen when somebody needs me to.”
Steve laid a hand on his shoulder. “You have. You've gone above and beyond.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Something you need to get off your chest?”
Sam shook his head. As masochistically tempting as it was to come clean with that bit of lingering guilt to someone who'd just been through similar shit, he couldn't, any more than Steve could bring himself to share the gruesome details of what Bucky Barnes had been made to do to him.“Not my story to tell. Not the specifics, at least.” He fidgeted and looked down, trying to figure out how much he could own up to without getting murdered next Thanksgiving dinner. “She's okay now. Successful, happily married, probably still hasn't forgiven me. Brave kid. Tough, brave kid. Raised the rest of us while Mom was sick. That's the thing about people who don't like to dump on anyone else. I should've realized that if she was asking for help, things were a whole lot worse than any of us thought. But I was immature and wrapped up in my own problems and I didn't want to think about the gory details, and I blew her off.”
The hand on Sam's shoulder gave a gentle squeeze, and when Sam finally dared look up at Steve, he didn't look angry or disappointed at all. In fact, he looked sympathetic, which only made Sam's gut squirm harder. “You ever try to make it up to her?” Steve asked.
“It's not the kind of thing you can ever make up for. All you can do is pay it forward.”
Steve nodded. “You have, you know.” His fingers had started to knead absently at Sam's shoulder, which he didn't even seem to realize until his thumb hooked under Sam's shirt collar and met bare skin. He jolted like he'd had an electric shock and yanked his hand back, then tried to disguise the gesture by running his fingers through his hair. “We should get back,” he said, glancing at the door. “We've still got the Insight helicarriers to take down and a lot of Nazi butt to kick.”
Sam was inclined to agree, but even though he couldn't make out much detail on Steve's black clothes in the dark, he was willing to bet that his not-so-little problem was back in full force. “You want one more for the road before we go?” he asked. And, since Steve was already shuffling and waving a dismissive hand and opening his mouth to insist he didn't need any more help, he added, “Because if you've got any more frustration we can burn off right now, I'd rather deal with it while we're out here than find an excuse for one of us to drag you back out later.”
It took a few seconds of squirming, but Steve relented. “I'll try to get it over with quickly,” he said with a pained smile. “And not talk too much.”
There was no need to find a shadowy corner now that there was only the half moon and the faint yellow haze of light pollution from the direction of DC. Steve unzipped his jeans right there on the bridge, and they both turned sideways and rested their left arms on the railing as Sam stepped up behind him and took him in hand.
For the first few minutes it was silent except for Steve breathing a little harder than normal. Then Sam brushed his thumb just so under the head of Steve's cock, and Steve choked back a moan. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“I don't mind you making noise,” said Sam, and did it again. Steve cursed under his breath and bucked forward into Sam's hand, just once, but it broke the spell of stillness and silence and after that he loosened up, shifting his hips around fractionally and keeping up a steady stream of soft noises and hitched breaths.
And now the awkward boner risk was becoming a real problem. Not because Sam had forgotten any of the horrors Steve had recounted to him, but because Steve's face betrayed no revulsion, no indication that those horrors were what was playing behind his eyes when he moaned and arched into Sam's touch—nothing, in fact, but pleasure and fierce determination. It was entirely possible that he was hiding his disgust for Sam's sake, but tell that to Sam's hindbrain. Still, he had the situation pretty well under control until Steve followed one particularly breathy moan with a murmured “Sam—yeah, like that.” At that point Sam had to take a half-step back and pray that Steve hadn't noticed his cock springing to full attention.
No such luck. Steve followed him backwards, seeking out Sam's body with his hips. Sam's hand faltered. And then—“Oh,” Steve said, and wriggled his ass against Sam's erection as though to make sure of what he'd felt. He reached down to curl his hand around Sam's, encouraging him to stroke faster. Sam bit his lip and braced himself to be carried along for the ride.
Soon Steve was outright grinding back onto Sam's cock, and Sam was letting slip a few embarrassing noises of his own. This was wrong. This was so, so wrong. He was supposed to be lending a hand to deal with a drug-induced medical condition. He definitely wasn't supposed to be getting off himself at a time like this. And to make matters worse, then Steve blurted out, “Sam, please,” and immediately stuffed his fist in his mouth in shame.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. That, at least, was a bucket of ice water over the head about the kind of state Steve was in and what Sam's job was in dealing with it. “It's okay,” he said, low and steady. “I remember. Hands only.”
Steve melted back against him, shuddering all the while. “Sorry,” he said, “thought I could hold on, but... you feel so good.”
“It's okay,” Sam repeated softly. “Do what you have to.”
Steve reached back, and for a second Sam froze, thinking Steve was trying to get his pants open, but instead he was fumbling with Sam's hard-on through his jeans, nudging it until it was facing straight up towards his belly button. Sam wasn't sure why until Steve started grinding on him again, serious, dirty, fucking-through-clothes grinding with Sam's cock wedged into the cleft of his ass. “Oh God,” Steve groaned, “Sam—want you inside me so bad, but at least fuck me like this.”
That gave Sam pause. It wasn't that much heavier than anything they'd been doing before, but now that Steve put it like that Sam had to wonder if it was really in the spirit of their agreement. They were both still fully clothed, and Steve was still aware enough to preserve the technicality instead of trying to get Sam's pants off. And yet. “You think dry humping really counts as hands only?” asked Sam.
Steve made a strangled, impatient noise, but he slowed down. “We've been doing it since before I got this worked up,” he pointed out. “It's fine. No clothes off, no penetration.”
It still made Sam's conscience prickle. He could bring the whole thing screeching to a halt, drag Steve back towards full lucidity long enough to get a trustworthy response out of him, and then try to build back to where they were now despite the added load of self-conscious mortification. Or he could switch to doing it face-to-face to eliminate the temptation, and probably draw it out longer he had to. Or he could shut the fuck up, trust Steve to still be able to distinguish between what he wanted and what he wanted, and honor Steve's express wish to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Six counseling certifications above my pay grade,” he muttered, and thrust up to meet the backward jerk of Steve's ass.
“Oh,” Steve moaned, and “oh, yeah,” and “know it would be a terrible idea, still wish you could put it in me.” He rubbed himself up and down along the length of Sam's dick, trying to give them both the best approximation of the real thing he could manage through four layers of clothing. Sam swore and sped up his hand, wondering if he would have to resort to reciting baseball stats in his head to hold on until Steve was done.
“Want you to do it,” said Steve breathlessly. “Want to do everything, fuck you, blow you, get you to blow me, but oh God I want you to fuck me so bad and don't you ever tell another living soul I said any of this crap or I swear I'll hunt you down myself.”
“You're good,” Sam assured him, “you're good. Secret's safe with me.”
Steve bit his lip, rutting frantically back against him, and held out for a few long moments of silence before the words tore themselves out of his throat: “God, do it, fuck me, please, Sam, I want you to be the last one to have been inside me, please, please, fuck—” He choked on the last word, shuddered, and came.