allmymuscles | (no subject)

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[ Sometimes he locks Steve--Captain America, his mission--in a holding cell, a little windowless room with a cot to lie on, the door reenforced, thick enough (he knows, firsthand) to hold a supersoldier. Sometimes he keeps him chained face-first to a wall, hanging from thick manacles, his back exposed and vulnerable. Sometimes he keeps him in a room with a chair and metal cuffs that go over his arms and his legs, and a bank of computers to either side, dead and blank now, and a black halo overhead, a piece of machinery that used to come down over his head and run electricity through his muscles and his brain and make him scream, make him lose all the pieces of himself that weren't of use to Hydra's weapon.

The soldier destroyed the machine a long time ago; that isn't what he wants to use Steve for. He doesn't need a weapon. He doesn't want Steve Rogers to forget anything that is done to him here. It's someone else's turn to be used, to be what the soldier requires. There are lots of different rooms here, and lots of things to use on Steve or inside of Steve, but the one thing the soldier never does to him is make him forget, even when he won't stop calling him by that name that he hates hearing, it reminds him of terror and pain and unfathomable longing--

He comes into the room where he left Steve, on his back in the chair, restrained, turning on the bright overhead lights. He left Steve blindfolded, but he knows the lights are bright enough to penetrate the strip of black cloth, to be painful even for closed eyes, after hours in the dark waiting for the soldier's return. He's wearing his mask. He usually does, when he wants to toy with Steve, wants to make him hurt or make him come, because Steve wants to look into his face and see the man he used to be, the man he calls his friend, and the soldier won't give him that. Sometimes he doesn't even take the blindfold off, doesn't let Steve see his eyes. But he knows, in the cold depths of him, that he's afraid to look at Steve, that he hates and fears and yearns for his gaze, the blue eyes so desperately loving even when the soldier is hurting him.

He doesn't take the blindfold off yet. He walks to Steve's side, watching as he stirs a little under the lights, and then raises his hand--the right hand, the flesh hand--and slaps him across the face, hard. ] Wake up.

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[ Steve has lost track of time, marking the days and hours that pass by the length of Bucky's absences and his presence once again, long intervals that wreak havoc on him -- it's torture to be so completely alone, even for a supersoldier. The silence is excruciating; and so is the punishment when Bucky, his Bucky, most beloved decides to take it out on him.

Steve doesn't resist, doesn't fight back -- it's his fault for reducing him to this, it's his fault that everything's shot to hell, and no matter how often Bucky denies it, Steve knows him, down to his flesh and bones and his soul and heart. He knows him in the way Bucky fucks him. Often brutally, but there are times when things change, when Steve knows without a doubt that he's remembering, somehow.

He wants him, loves him to the exclusion of all else, even his life, and his world is thrown into sharp relief, the sting of the sudden light through his blindfold, and the sharp slap issued that wake him. His body aches, but it's not something he hasn't felt before. He's naked, isolated, used, but he doesn't care -- Bucky's here, and he rolls onto his back, towards the man, murmuring. ]

Bucky?

[ He's missed you. So, so much. ]

[ He expects that to get Steve's attention. Almost knows enough, now, to expect the longing in Steve's voice when he speaks that name, like he's missed the soldier in his absence, like the few hours of solitude he gave him were too lonely to bear. The soldier says nothing, but flips the catches that make the cuffs spring open, freeing up Steve's arms and legs, letting him see the bruises that have darkened Steve's skin where the restraints held him: the chair wasn't made for Captain America, it was made for the Winter Soldier, the smaller, imperfect version of a supersoldier, flawed and ugly. The cuffs are too tight for Steve. The bruise him, they cut off the circulation of blood; he doesn't have to worry about Steve getting away from him now, his limbs will be weak for a while. He tugs the blindfold off his face and grips him by the hair. ]

Can you move? Get up. [ His voice comes low and muffled behind the mask. The soldier drags him out of the chair by the hair, hard, merciless, letting Steve stumble onto his feet, looking at him naked and bruised, the insides of his thighs still stained from the way the soldier used him before he left him there. He's still perfect. So utterly perfect, every inch of him; lust knocks into the soldier's chest with a fury that almost blinds him. ] Get on your knees.

[ He shoves Steve down before he can obey, shaking him savagely by the grip in his hair. ] Don't you speak to me. Don't you call me names. Don't say anything.

[ Even if his words are muffled by the mask, Steve recognizes him, leans towards him instinctively. Throughout the past months, Bucky has slowly but steadily become the axis of his world, his enduring love for his friend withstanding the abuse that he gladly suffers.

Bucky, he thinks, is punishing him for not being able to save him all those years ago -- subjecting him to all methods of torture while he slept beneath the ice; Steve is paying for it, and he must, and he will. He doesn't fight back, not actively against Bucky. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the harsh light, blinking before he feels his restraints loosen and fall away, the painful ache of blood rushing back to those limbs.

He's weak for a few moments, dropping on his knees before him, naked but unbruised, used so well and so thoroughly for the winter soldier's pleasure. The good thing about recovering quickly is that he's still as tight as before, his cock still perfectly thick and ready for more. His scalp stings, and Steve wisely stays quiet, looking up at him with blue, blue eyes, full lips parted briefly, as if in unspoken invitation.

If Bucky doesn't want him to speak, he won't speak (at least for now), but it doesn't mean he can't issue his own brand of temptation, wanting to draw him near, wanting him to fill him up again. ]

[ The way Steve looks up at him makes the lust weigh so heavy in his chest he can barely breathe for it. He feels himself beyond all control in these moments, his body belonging to someone else, still following someone else's dictates and commands; it's frightening, it's infuriating, how he can't control the things he wants to do to Rogers, the ways he wants to use him. His mission, the soldier tries to call him in his mind, his target, his prisoner. His toy. But his name keeps slipping into his mind, occupying it. Those blue eyes are so gentle and certain, even after weeks of torment and degradation. They still look at him with unbroken, unbowed strength.

The soldier reaches for a coil of black rope and begins to knot it methodically, moving around behind Steve, seizing his arms and pulling them up behind his back. The rope goes around his wrists, binding them tightly together, and the end of it up the center of his spine; he makes another loop around his throat, pulling it tight enough to be uncomfortable, making a knot against his jugular. It leaves a leading end for his hand, like a leash, but he lets that hang down his shoulder for now, coming back around to his front, his right hand capturing his chin and lifting it up so their gazes meet again.

Steve is beautiful even like this, on his knees with black rope knotted around him, naked, every inch of him warm and appealing. The soldier hates him--hates himself--for the times he has given in and let himself sleep beside him, his head on his shoulder, inevitably waking with arms around him and Steve's entire body curved against his as though to shelter him, protect him--as though he's the one in need of protection, not Steve--

His thumb smooths over the fullness of Steve's lower lip. Then he draws back his hand and slaps him again, not as hard this time but insolently, a casual insult. ]

You're going to get me hard. [ the soldier tells him, undoing his belts, opening the front of black cargoes, pulling out his soft cock. ] You're going to suck me until you're choking on my dick.

Edited 2014-09-27 13:01 (UTC)

[ Bucky reaches higher and more creative levels of cruelty, and it breaks Steve's heart every time it happens, every time his best friend, his lover presses forward and punishes him to silence what he needs to say, what he'll always say. But he lives for the glimpses of the old Bucky that he sees in his eyes, fleeting but there, the cracks in the armor that this Bucky is so desperately trying to seal up.

He doesn't resist when the soldier comes around and restrains him, remembers the rope, the sinfully arousing way he keeps him trapped -- he can break it, he thinks, if it pulls hard enough he would, but he wouldn't. Bucky wouldn't want him to. He struggles to take a breath when the loop is fastened around his neck, his cock twitching with obvious arousal at the way his breathing is restricted, wishing that it had been Bucky's hand on his throat instead.

Even so, he obeys, watching as Bucky unzips himself and eases out his cock. Bucky's soft but still thick, still like Steve remembers. Steve thinks of all the times he'd done this before; but they had been kinder times, better times -- he thinks of kind eyes and warm smiles and a man who twists himself into knots because he'd loved him and he hadn't known how Steve would've reacted.

He leans up to mouth at the tip of his cock obediently, sucking gently, sweetly on the slit of it before he's working sideways up his shaft, licking and suckling on him like he was born for cock, greedy and eager and wanting to please Bucky all the ways that he can. One day, he thinks, one day he'll listen to him. He wants to touch him, to fondle his balls, but all he does is to take him into his mouth, inch by inch and more, until he's burying his face in that thatch of dark hair, breathing him in and letting the head of his cock push down his throat.

He bobs his head, lets him go after a few moments, determined to get him harder, thicker. ]

[ No, that's where Steve Rogers is wrong. The Winter Soldier doesn't have to be creative to be cruel. He only has to dredge up the only reliable memories he has, the memories of things that were done to him in between the long, black years of being kept on ice: the grafting of the metal arm to his sawed-off bones, the currents of electricity pulsed through his brain, the tortures designed to break the last remnants of a man he had once been. And the other things, the way he was passed around, the pain and degradation after he was too much a machine, a weapon, to disobey or resist or even care about what was happening. There's a long litany of cruelty to inspire him.

And yet no matter what he does to Steve, no matter what ugliness he pulls up from his past and takes out on this man (his mission, his target, his prisoner), using him as cruelly as he'd ever been used, that yearning, that gentle certainty doesn't ever leave Steve's eyes. The soldier wants to humiliate him, wants to make him look at him with revulsion and hatred and he can't, he can't make Rogers look at him that way no matter what he tries.

He doesn't remember the times when Steve's mouth closing around him would have made him groan, made his fingers curl sweetly into Steve's hair as he pleaded, his whole heart disheveled and his thoughts scattered, unable to believe that this was happening, that Steve would so willingly, gladly give him what he'd wanted for so long. He doesn't let himself remember moments like that. He knows they're lies; he knows nothing good or warm or sweet ever happened for him, and he hates Steve for lying to him, enough to grip his hair in hard fingers and force him down on his cock, shove himself down his throat before he's even fully hard. It isn't the pleasure that he wants, the lashing heat of Steve's mouth and his wet, ceaseless sucking, it's to see him degraded, to see his lips swollen and bruised, his face dripping with seed. To choke his breath, to hear the helpless muffled sounds he makes when the soldier starts to fuck his mouth, his cock getting harder and thicker with every thrust. ]

You like that? You like the taste of cock? Bet you don't know what you like, bet you don't even have likes, you mindless piece of trash. [ It isn't his voice, his words. They spill out of him, ugly and senseless, someone else's words, something else dredged up from the past. ] You don't need to like it. You're just going to kneel there and take it.

[ The words hurt, because he knows that Bucky's not the one saying it -- it cuts deep down to the bone and Steve aches for it when his mouth is full of cock and he sucks even harder, quietly furious at the men who did it to Bucky, accepting the words because somehow, somehow Bucky needs to purge this poison, right? It sits in his heart and it haunts him, makes him think of the men who could have said this to him, when he had been helpless and afraid --

-- he's sorry. He's so very, very sorry.

Steve closes his eyes and makes a soft noise, because those ugly words, those vile words hurt him in ways that have everything to do with Bucky. He should pay for that, too, and he only shifts, more eager to make up for it, wanting to take all of everything that Bucky gives him. He will swallow every drop of cruelty and take it into himself, and he will love James Barnes no less. Come home, he wants to say when his nose is pressed against the base of his dick, when Bucky is so hard that it almost makes him choke. Come back to me.

But it's not going to be so easy. He wants to touch him, to please him, to somehow wipe away all the pain and suffering -- even if he knows he can't -- and he pulls right back to the head of his cock to suckle at him, meeting every thrust and falling into his rhythm, feeling the way he pushes right down to his throat every time, with a slick, obscene sound. His mouth is getting fucked, and he's harder for it, his cock thick and curving between his powerful thighs, but entirely at Bucky's mercy, his to command, his to punish. ]

Mmm --

[ He hates it--the way Steve looks at him, the regret that fills his eyes even when he is using his mouth, using his body, abusing him the way he was abused. The way he sucks him, opens up his mouth and his throat and lets the soldier thrust and thrust until he's choking on his cock, lets him work through the memories and back, landing here again with Steve, seeing him, recognizing him with his blue eyes filled with love and regret and sorrow and his cock hard between his legs--

Furious, wanting, he shoves himself into Steve's mouth, hands gripping his hair mercilessly as he uses him. He's going to bruise Steve's pretty lips. He's going to fill his mouth with come until he's choking it down, until it's spilling down his chin. He's going to gag him, fuck him until he can't take anymore, until he's near to giving out. All the things that were done to him, all the punishment and humiliation that keeps crawling up out of the black mire of his mind, lost memories resurfacing to make him suffer, he's going to inflict them on Steve, he's going to hurt him until he stops looking at him like he loves him. The soldier hates him, hates his love and his pity, hates his quiet strength that endures everything he does without complaint. It's been weeks, he should be broken by now--

He jerks forward, burying himself in Steve's throat as he starts to come, yanking at his hair to keep himself sheathed in his mouth and throat, his balls pressed to Steve's chin. Spurting and spurting down his throat, making him swallow every hot, filthy load, choking him on his cock and his semen, this is all Steve is good for, to be used. This is all the soldier wants of him. He pulls back at last, shoving Steve insolently away from him, the last of his release spurting across his cheeks and lips. He looks obscene, mouth red and wet and open, come dripping from his face. The soldier swipes at some of his own come with a thumb, painting Steve's face with it; he is so proud and beautiful, naked on his knees, even stained like this, used. ]

You liked that? [ he asks him when he catches his breath. ] You think I'll believe anything you say just because you suck my cock like you like it? I don't need you to like it. It doesn't matter what you like. You're just a thing to use.

[ Do they say that to him when they ravage him? His best friend, his lover, at the mercy of all the monsters that become Hydra -- Steve makes more than a note to destroy all of them when he can, to find the ones responsible for making Bucky the way he is, for hurting him and destroying every shred of dignity he once had to become... this.

He doesn't fight him, and he takes all the abuse, knows that in some way Bucky is purging, and someone has to take all the poison. Someone like him -- he doesn't look away, doesn't resent or hate him as he sucks on his cock, tears burning behind his eyes, on his long, long lashes as he chokes on his cock, forces himself to swallow, spurt after sticky spurt.

He would swallow every drop of him if it would help, and he looks back at him after Bucky comes one last time, his beautiful, damaged lover -- his seed spattering on his face, over his cheek, his lips, dripping and obscene and used.

He kisses his thumb, quietly loving, revering, forgiving. He won't break, for Bucky's sake -- Bucky needs him, even if he's still fighting it, and he's not leaving this place without him. His voice is rough from the throat-fucking but he forges on anyway, ] Then use me. Fuck me. Take it all out on me, Buck. Because I love you. I've always loved you, and that's not going to change.

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