Work Text:
Your whole job is to tell people what to do to. If a schedule needs coordinating, a mission report needs finalizing, a PR nightmare needs smoothing over, you’re the go-to woman.
Most of the Avengers appreciate it; the rest of them tolerate it. Only two of them hate it. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes have made no secret of thinking they’re above your orders, even though you’re just trying to help them.
You do your best not to take it personally. As far as you can tell, the last person to hold your job was something of a frat bro, the son of a powerful senator, less interested in working than in partying. It’s why he was finally fired, after three and a half years of letting Rogers and Barnes get away with pretty much anything.
Still, it’s not easy to stay aloof. Rogers and Barnes are thick as thieves, self-assured to the point of near-parody. They’ve perfected their personas as humble, down-to-earth boys instilled with the values of their working-class Brooklyn neighborhood. Whenever you’re in public, they turn that charm on you: polite, earnest, good-humored, always ready to help with any task, no matter how small.
But in private, they’ve made it their mission to give you nonstop petty hell. They’ve never submitted a mission report on time. They run late to every meeting you lead, arriving with apologetic smiles and bullshit excuses. They poke holes in every presentation you give at other people’s meetings, asking pointed questions about timelines and budgets and experience levels. They unplug your computer in the middle of critical backups. They snake your lunch deliveries from reception, so you have to scrounge in your desk for crackers and Tic-Tacs to keep your blood sugar from dropping mid-day.
They stop you in the hall to ask, loudly and with fake concern, if you’re feeling okay, since you look so terrible. They get embarrassing Instacart deliveries of laxatives and condoms sent to you on days when important clients are coming in. You’ve had to stop wearing white, since they spill coffee on you any day you do. And through it all, they never fail to call you Stickler—a play on your last name, Stackler—or, if they’re feeling old-fashioned, sweetheart. Either way, they load the nicknames with such scorn it’s almost unbearable.
But you’ve never lost your temper, never raised more than your eyebrows. You’re determined they’re never going to see you sweat.
****
Your first work anniversary is like any other day. If you’re honest with yourself, you’re a little disappointed, since there’s usually bagels in the breakroom to mark these occasions, but you don’t let it faze you. This comes with the territory of your job: you’re the one to arrange celebrations for your team, and you always arrive first in the mornings. You shake off your attitude and get to work. The weekly team meeting isn’t until after lunch, but you have plenty to do before then.
After a few hours buried in spreadsheets, you get up to stretch your legs. On your way back to your office, you’re stopped in the middle of an empty hallway by Captain Rogers.
“Hey, Stickler,” he says, resting a palm gently on your elbow.
You straighten your spine and try not to think about how warm his hand feels, how big, how powerful. Though the man has been nothing but an ass to you for the past twelve months, you’re not immune to his looks, even if you hate yourself for it.
“Captain Rogers,” you say. “Can I help you with something?”
You assume he’s going to comment on your hair (admittedly, not your best effort today) or ask you to track down something impossible just to watch you stress about it (like the time he insisted he could only use a brand of deodorant that hasn’t been manufactured since 1950), but he surprises you.
“I wanted to congratulate you.”
“Congratulate me,” you repeat in disbelief.
“It’s your anniversary with the team today, right?”
“It is.” You can’t help feeling relieved, flattered, deeply suspicious.
“Well. Congratulations.”
There’s a lingering pause as you wait for the other shoe to drop. But he’s just standing beside you, that charming smile shining out from his handsome face.
“Thank you, Captain,” you say with a nod. “I’ll see you later.”
You’re all the way down the hall, about to turn the corner, when he calls after you.
“Stickler?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I’m going to be late with my monthly report,” he says. “Haven’t even started.”
You sigh. It was too good to be true. Of course it was. The sting is worse than ever, since you thought he was maybe, just maybe, saying something genuinely kind for the first time on record.
“That’s unacceptable, Captain.”
His smile takes a fuck-you turn. “Come on, sweetheart, ask me nicely and maybe I’ll do it for you.”
But he won’t get a rise out of you. You meet his gaze with a level stare and say, “We’ll discuss it later.”
He salutes sarcastically and strides off.
You pointedly refuse to linger on his disrespect, even if it twinges at the back of your mind. Right now, Captain Rogers’s ongoing bullshit is the least of your concerns. There’s a major gala next week you’re in no way ready for, and you have to finalize the schedule to review with everyone this afternoon.
So when you get back to your desk, you’re delighted at what awaits you: a latte and bagel from the coffee shop in the lobby. There’s also a note, written in a card you recognize as the standard-issue company stationery used by HR to recognize employee birthdays or milestones.
Happy anniversary—we’re so glad to have you on board!
You’ve never seen the notecards accompanied by snacks before, but you’re so hungry you don’t question it. You don’t realize how ravenous you are until you tear into the bagel, washing it down with the latte. It tastes different than usual—there’s an aftertaste you can’t quite put your finger on, and you get lattes from this place enough to know what to expect. It’s not a bad taste, though, and you gulp down the rest, figuring it’s made with whole milk instead of your usual skim.
But a few minutes later, you start to feel odd. Nauseous, dizzy. You ignore it and continue working on the document in front of you. But the sensation only gets worse, making it excruciating to stare at a screen.
You turn angrily away from your computer, prop your elbows on your desk, and cradle your face in your hands. Of all times for this to happen. You do not need a migraine right now.
There’s a knock and you look up to see Rogers standing at your door. It’s a bad idea to move your head. You press your fingertips to your temples in a vain attempt to release the tension. This feels so much worse than any migraine you’ve had before. It’s like your brain is pulsing against your skull.
“Captain,” you say curtly. “I am very much in the middle of something. Please come back later.”
He doesn’t listen. Instead, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. Sure, of course, make yourself at fucking home. “Middle of what, sweetheart?”
“A raging case of menstrual cramps,” you lie, hoping it’ll scare him off.
But he just laughs. Asshole. Doesn’t he have anywhere else to be right now?
“You sure about that, sweetheart?”
“Sure about my cycle? Yes, Captain.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You’re looking kinda grey. Like maybe you ate something funny.”
You slowly raise your head to look at him. What is he getting at? And why does he seem so eager to see you miserable?
He’s directly in front of your desk now, and your eyes have a tough time adjusting. He’s blurred, the room behind him is blurred, everything feels muffled and unstable.
“Or maybe you drank something?”
A chill shoots through your body, almost enough to cure you of your dizziness. Your eyes flick to the empty cup at the edge of your desk. Rogers stares at you with a predatory, expectant look. Your brain tries to race, but it’s slowed to a churn by whatever caused that aftertaste. Finally, it clicks together.
“What did you do?” Your voice comes out quiet and imprecise.
You don’t need to wait for an answer. It doesn’t matter what he did—all that matters is that you need to get out of here.
You push back from the desk. The dizziness increases tenfold once you’re on your feet, your vision winking out at the periphery. Rogers fills most of your visual field, broad and imposing, handsome and terrifying.
He watches as you stagger toward the door. His calm fills you with dread and anger. Rogers has done plenty of shit to you, but he’s never crossed this kind of line.
“The fuck did you do?” you slur, trying to sound self-assured but barely managing to get the words out
“Careful, sweetheart,” he says. “If I did what you’re accusing me of, you probably wanna be real nice to me right now.”
Your knees feel weak, your eyes fluttering closed. Rogers crouches in front of you and you become aware you’ve ended up on the floor, leaning against the door for support, fighting to maintain consciousness. He smiles at you, that shit-eating grin you know only too well, the one that’s made you feel demeaned or infuriated, but never cornered and cold with fear.
“Technically, I didn’t do anything,” he says conversationally. “Bucky left the latte.”
You struggle to push up to your feet, reaching for the doorknob. It’s no use. Whatever they’ve given you, it’s going into full effect. You slip under, into Rogers’s waiting arms. The last thing you hear before you black out is his soft voice in your ear.
“Attagirl, Stickler. Don’t fight it for once.”
*****
When you wake, you feel groggy, hungover. You’re sitting upright, which strikes you faintly as strange, and your throat feels as raw as if it’s been worked over with sandpaper. You try to reach up and rub your eyes, but find you can’t. You try again. It takes a moment for your brain to process that your wrists are tied together behind your back.
In your first moments of confusion, you don’t question why they’re tied. You just want to get them free. You tug and shift, looking for a way out of the bind. You tug faster, struggle harder, but nothing budges. Panic circulates in your body, sluggishly, as the contours of your predicament come into focus.
Wherever you are, it’s dark. All you can see is the faint outline of what appears to be a door a few inches in front of you, light making its way through the crack at the bottom. You’re tied to a chair of some type, not only your wrists behind you but also your ankles each tied to a chair leg. Your head is pounding, your body aching, and your conversation with Rogers comes back to you with a jolt.
Rogers and Barnes. What did they give you? What do they have planned for you? What the fuck are they playing at?
The panic surges. You rock back and forth, trying to make as much sound as possible. Your knees bang into the door and the impact sends a shockwave of pain through your legs, but you don’t care. You have to get out of here. Your logistics-focused brain hones in on that task.
“Help!” you scream, rocking more aggressively. “Help, please!”
As you tip back on the chair’s rear legs, almost falling over, the door swings open. The sudden burst of light half-blinds you and you squint your eyes, turning your head away.
You hear a voice say, “Hey, Stevie, she’s awake.”
You crack open your eyes. Sergeant Barnes is in front of you. As usual, he’s handsome, huge, intimidating. You fall still as his dispassionate gaze runs up and down your body. Barnes has always scared you as much as he’s frustrated you. Rogers may be an ass, plain and simple, but there’s an undercurrent to Barnes’s behavior that makes you wonder if he’s really beat his Winter Soldier programming as comprehensively as everyone wants to believe.
He bends over you, right hand on the door frame, left hand reaching for your chin. His metal fingertips dig into your jaw.
“Hey, Stickler.”
Some tiny corner of your brain yells out an instruction. Stay cool. The stakes may be higher than ever, but your only play is the usual: Maintain composure. Be calm. Don’t let them get to you. Losing your head won’t help you find a way out.
“Sergeant Barnes,” you say, putting all your energy into keeping a stony expression on your face, an even tone in your voice. “Would you be so kind as to help me off this chair?”
He laughs humorlessly. “Unflappable as ever, huh?”
“It’s my middle name.”
“Hmm.” His finger strokes your jawline as if he’s assessing it. “You were yelling pretty good a minute ago.”
You flush, embarrassed at your outburst. “I was sitting alone in the dark a minute ago.”
“Well,” he says, tightening his hold on your jaw just shy of the point of pain. “If you yell like that again, I might have to break this, and that’d be a real shame.”
Your eyes widen and your heart pounds faster in your chest, but you repeat your mantra in your head. Stay cool. Stay cool.
“Ah, come on, Buck,” you hear Rogers say from behind him. “We’ve got plenty to gag her with.”
Barnes locks his piercing eyes on you. “Only if she’s good.”
“She’ll be good.” It doesn’t sound like a vote of confidence as much as a threat. You hear the tinny sound of metal-on-metal, the snapping sound of latex gloves being adjusted. “All set.”
Barnes grabs the frame of the chair on either side of you. He drags you out of the closet with a loud scraping sound. With one glance at your surroundings, you realize you’re being held hostage in your own apartment. They had you locked in the pantry, and now you’re sitting beside one of the kitchen counters.
A swell of hope and fear washes through you. You’re still in the Tower. Help must be close by. They can’t possibly get away with this.
Or they must be so cocky they didn’t even bother to take you to a second location.
Rogers is fussing with something on the counter beside you. He turns his head over his shoulder and smiles.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Welcome to my home, Captain,” you say.
Rogers laughs. “You sure keep it tidy, Stickler.”
“I also keep it heavily surveilled.”
From behind you, Barnes says, “Don’t even try.”
“Try what, Sergeant?”
He leans over you again. fingers running along your scalp and pulling your hair to tip your head. A contented snarl flits over his lips as you cry out.
“You’re not going to scare us off,” he says. “This is happening, so you might as well be good and take it.”
You struggle to catch your breath and find a retort. “This building is one of the best secured places on the planet, Sergeant,” you say. “In case you forgot.”
“And no one’s security clearance is higher than ours.”
Your mouth hangs open, but you don’t have a response to that. Fuck. Of course they’d be able to turn off any cameras or microphones, anywhere, anytime. The gravity of your situation sinks in.
He releases your hair and slides his metal forefinger under your chin to push it closed. “Poor little Stickler.”
“Stop antagonizing her, Buck,” Rogers says. “You know that never works.” He turns away from the counter. “But this might.”
You see he’s holding a small syringe in his gloved hands. Your eyes widen and you start a fresh struggle to get free. You don’t have a particular fear of needles, but this is something else. Something awful.
Rogers smiles when he sees your response. He nods towards Barnes, who unties your arms. His metal fingers wrap around your left wrist to keep it pressed to your side. He pins your right wrist against the counter, stretching your arm along the granite from wrist to elbow.
Your voice is breathy and sparse when you manage to speak, but you keep the tone level. “Wha—what do you have there, Captain?”
Rogers shakes his head. “You’re not asking the questions, sweetheart.”
He rubs an alcohol swab on the crook of your elbow and holds up the syringe. You wince as he brings it closer.
“Stop,” you say. “Please.”
It’s not firm enough to be a command, not desperate enough to be a plea. But it is something you’ve never said to either of them before.
“What is it?” you ask again, a quiver coming into your tone. “Please, I—please tell me.”
“Nothing that’s gonna hurt you.” Rogers slides the needle into your arm with expert precision, just a tiny prick, and you wonder where the fuck he learned to do this. “We’re not monsters.”
You would beg to differ, in this moment more than ever, but you’re silenced by the press of the plunger on the syringe. A stinging warmth spreads through your veins, pumping from your elbow up your shoulder. He removes the needle and sets it back on a metal tray. Barnes pulls your hands behind you and reties them, tighter this time.
“Supposed to be some kind of female Viagra, but it never hit the market.” Rogers laughs. “Too potent, apparently.”
“Banner’s newest assistant was happy to help us get some of the prototypes,” Barnes says, stepping to join Rogers in front of you. “Not everyone is as impossible as you, Stickler.”
They’re so casual in their explanation that it takes you a moment to realize the implications. You want to scream, cry, beg, but you find a last reserve of strength to be deadpan.
“So you’re going to rape me.”
“Sweetheart,” Rogers says, offended. “We wouldn’t do a thing like that.” As if he hasn’t already drugged you, kidnapped you, injected you today.
Barnes reaches for something else on the tray: a wand vibrator, the sort of thing you’ve seen in stores but felt too intimidated to ever try. “Steve’s right. By the time we fuck you, you’re gonna be begging for it.”
“Never,” you spit at him. “Fucking never.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Rogers reaches for the hem of your dress and flips it up, exposing your thighs, your underwear. You flush as he spans his hands over your legs, running a light touch up and down them.
“At least buy me dinner first, Captain,” you say, clinging to your bravado.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, clucking his tongue. “We’ll get to that mouth in a minute.”
Barnes hands him the vibrator and he holds it just in front of your clit, the silicone head not quite touching the fabric of your underwear. Barnes wraps a length of rope around the vibrator and binds it to your left thigh. It feels heavy and foreign against your skin.
From the counter, he lifts a ball gag, bright red and huge. He brings it towards you and you turn your head away. His hand darts to your jaw.
“You know what happens if you don’t take it,” he says, and based on the strength of his grip, you believe his earlier threat. “We’ll try one more time.”
He forces the ball between your teeth, pushing your jaw wide and sending twin streams of drool out either side of your mouth. He buckles the gag snugly behind your head, running his fingers along the leather as he steps back.
They look almost wistful as they admire their handiwork. As they do, you feel a jolt in your breasts, a throb between your legs, a pulse of arousal that comes and fades immediately. Your hips twitch. Shit. What the hell did they give you?
“We’re heading to the team debrief, sweetheart,” Rogers says. “Everyone’s gonna miss you, but you already sent an email saying you went home sick for the day.”
You never call in sick. Never. You’re famous for it. Will someone on the team realize it’s a lie? Or, more likely, will everyone breathe a sigh of relief that you’re finally taking a day off?
You let out a groan of displeasure from behind the gag. It only seems to please them.
“You’ll be ready for us when we get back.” Barnes rests his hands on your shoulders and, with a featherlight touch, runs them down your arms, thumbs ghosting over your nipples, all the way to the vibrator. You’re clothed, but your skin feels so sensitive that a trail of goosebumps flares in the wake of his hands.
The vibrator whirs to life between your legs, sending an immediate shudder through your body. Your hips thrust upward, your back arching, and you let out a whimper loud enough that the gag can’t swallow it.
The smile on Rogers’s face is positively wolfish. “Don’t have too much fun without us.”
You hear the front door close behind them, leaving you alone in the kitchen, half-convinced, half-hoping this is all some terrible dream.
*****
It’s terrible, but it’s not a dream.
Even in a dream, you wouldn’t conjure up this all-encompassing swell of sensation. Barnes knew what he was doing, setting you up for the perfect torment. The vibrator is positioned at the exact angle to let you feel its power, kept tantalizingly out of reach. It buzzes through the muscles of your thigh, through the wood of the chair, but you can’t make it make contact with the part of your body that craves it most. You’re completely bound, unable to do more than shift futilely—just enough to heighten your sense of helplessness.
At first, you try to remain calm. You clench your teeth around the gag and breathe through your nose. Focus on that. Deep breaths. Whatever they gave you is fast-acting and potent, dialing up your libido with an acceleration you’ve never experienced before. You will yourself not to notice the throbbing between your legs, the trickle of arousal blooming in its wake, the way every muscle in your body wants to contract and contort to get what you need.
No. No. Deep breaths.
But then the vibrator shifts patterns and you realize the initial intensity was child’s play.
The buzzing accelerates and you groan loudly, every calming, defiant thought drowned by a wave of frustrated agony. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. The toy’s intensity doesn’t waver but it begins to pulse, random stops and starts that make your heart flutter along with it. The trickle of arousal grows steadier. You feel a flush from your clit radiating outward, like a stone has been thrown into the equilibrium of your body.
Rogers and Barnes aren’t here to see you, so you give in while you can, thrashing, moaning, tugging with that horrible fruitlessness. The chair scrapes across the floor but nothing else changes, the relentless vibrations still buzzing away, like dental drills and swarms of bees, that low-level drone.
You’re dangled above pleasure so acutely it feels like the worst form of torture. Your desperate mind casts around for something, anything, to slake the feeling. Slam the chair against the kitchen cabinets to shake something loose? Start banging and kicking up a racket to get someone to notice your plight? If the devil himself showed up right now ready to make a deal, you’d gladly sell away your soul, your health, your savings, anything.
But Barnes and Rogers have you tied down far too expertly for you to make an attempt at getting away.
You take a deep breath. The team meetings only last an hour. You only have to wait an hour. But you realize with a final surge of despair that they’ve positioned you so you can’t see any of your kitchen clocks—not the one on the microwave, or the oven, or the coffee maker. The only sign you have of time passing is the exaggerated tick-tick-tick of the analogue clock hanging over your refrigerator.
You’re stuck in this purgatory as long as Barnes and Rogers want it to last, avenging angels turned demons. And you think, with a sob, that you won’t be able to stop yourself from begging them for release.
*****
You’re in a stupor when you hear the apartment door open, two sets of footsteps heading into the kitchen. Your captors stop in front of you and you lift your head wearily. You’re in a haze of need, everything else blurring at the edges, your thighs damp, jaw aching, your body involuntarily grinding and clenching towards the source of the ongoing vibration. Your wrists and ankles are sore from the friction burns caused by your struggle. Your throat feels parched as spit continues to trickle down your cheeks. You don’t want to imagine how wrecked you must look right now, how pathetic and needy.
You know it must be especially bad because Rogers and Barnes look so pleased as they loom over you. You want to stay cool, but there’s an undercurrent in your body saying beg them beg them beg them.
Rogers turns off the vibrator. He unties it and holds it in his hand for one agonizing moment, considering it almost nostalgically. Then he presses it against one of your breasts and turns it quickly on and off. You gasp sharply into the gag at his teasing, your nipple pebbling instantly.
He laughs. “Never gets old, does it, Buck?”
Never gets old? What the fuck does that mean?
Barnes must see the look of shock on your face. He lifts his metal hand and strokes it mockingly along your cheek.
“I know you didn’t think you were our first, did you, sweetheart?”
These bastards have done this before? How did they get away with it? How the hell did no one catch on?
But then you realize—because they’re just that good. They know exactly how to perform their personas, making it impossible for most people to believe they’d be capable of something like this. It’s cold, calculated, pathological.
A surge of anger swells inside you, though in the state you’re in, it transmutes into a feeling like arousal. You pull your shoulders desperately back and forth, making muffled protests into the gag.
Rogers shakes his head as though you’ve told a silly but charming joke. He wraps his hands over your shoulders, pushing them flush with the chair and holding you still. Your chest heaves as you pant from the exertion and the excitement of having him touch you. You want him to back off. You also want him to tear open your dress and touch your breasts and your waist and—
“You really are a pistol, aren’t you,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
He moves his hands to the buckle at the back of your skull and undoes the gag. It drops to the floor and you feel the urge to get the rubbery taste out of your mouth.
You don’t exactly intend to spit in his face. But you feel a momentary glow of satisfaction when the glob lands just next to his nose.
He closes his eyes and slowly reaches up to wipe his cheek. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a glare behind them you’ve never seen before.
“That was really stupid, sweetheart,” he says.
Your satisfaction evaporates. You stare at him, lips slightly parted, trying to look braver than you feel. Shit. Shit. Shit. That was really stupid.
“What should we do to punish her, Buck?” Rogers says, stepping back and crossing his arms.
As if they haven’t punished you enough. As if they haven’t tortured you enough. As if—
Barnes brushes a fingertip with agonizing lightness between your legs.
You press your mouth firmly closed and hold your breath. You’re not going to give them anything. You’re not going to break. You’re not going to—
He pushes his finger against your clit and holds it there for a beat, rubbing it back and forth. Without the vibrator teasing you mercilessly, you can pretend you aren’t panting for attention—but the second he touches you, it’s game over, and you’re right back in the swirl of your need. You gasp hugely and lift yourself away from the chair as best you can.
He smirks and removes his hand. You sink back in the chair, swallowing hard and trying to resume your regular breathing. Your gaze falls to the floor and Barnes nudges at your foot with his boot.
“No, no. Keep ‘em on me.”
You scowl at him, but obey. You still have some fight left in you. He’s still smirking.
“You wanna be stubborn, we can play with that.” He nods at Rogers, who pushes away from the counter and disappears from your field of view. Barnes’s voice gets lower, huskier. “You want us to fill you up, don’t you?” You shiver and it takes everything in you to keep from begging him to touch you again. He smiles, the tip of his tongue just licking at his lips. “I can see it, I can feel it, I can fucking smell it.”
Rogers returns into view holding an odd assortment of items in his broad hands. He sets them on the counter next to Barnes, who inspects them approvingly. He picks up a wooden spoon in his metal fingers, all business now.
“You’ll get our cocks when you beg for them, Stickler.”
Without a second thought, you spit out, “Never.”
“Thought you might say so.” He spins the spoon in his hand so the bowl faces down, the handle faces up. “So here’s what we’re gonna do until you can follow a simple command.”
He pulls aside the drenched fabric of your underwear, then slides the tip of the wooden handle along your skin. The handle is smooth, hard, and small—so small, maybe the diameter of a dime. You suck in a breath. You need this. You want this, and more. He makes a few passes, then slows down, slower, slower, until he angles the handle and slips it just inside of you.
You’re so wet, and it’s so small, and he’s got it inserted so shallowly you can barely feel it. But you know it’s there, and it sets off every alarm bell in your head. It’s not enough. More. More. More.
You clench around it with almost painful tension, trying to draw it further in. He pushes it another inch or two along. It’s still not enough. To your dismay, you let out a whimper.
“Something you wanna say?” Barnes asks.
You stare at him, tight-lipped, though your pulse is an ocean tide in your ears.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He turns back to the counter, leaving the spoon inside you. Rogers leans over and indicates something with a nod of his chin. Barnes holds it up in his metal hand: a pair of kitchen shears, the blades closed and covered in a plastic sheath. You’ve used them plenty of times and know, intellectually, that the plastic is thick and locks firmly in place—there's no way the blades can cut you. But you still feel a surge of fear as Barnes lowers the scissors to tease you with the rounded plastic tip, tapping it against the wood of the spoon handle. It sends a few pulsing vibrations echoing in your core and you wince.
Barnes slips the scissors inside you, keeping the tip running along the length of the handle. You bite your lip and remind yourself to keep breathing, keep breathing, but shit it’s so hard. You want this, you need this, but also it’s awful, the oddness of the shapes and the materials, the sense of being so inadequately filled—it’s exquisite, degrading—and you want their cocks, goddamn it, you want them to fill you, you want to beg them till your voice turns hoarse, you want it you need it you—
“There’s more where this came from, Stickler,” Barnes says. “Stevie, what does she have laying around?”
Rogers opens the fridge. “Cucumber, zucchini,” he says. “Beer. Plus the whole bunch of bananas on the table.”
You feel humiliated at even the thought, but your body experiences it as arousal—yes, yes, anything inside you, you’ll take it all—
“That what you want, sweetheart?” Barnes says. “You want us to keep fucking you with everything in this room until you finally learn your place?”
“No,” you moan. It slips between your lips before you even know it’s on your mind to say it. You can’t stand the idea of them continuing to torment you like this when what you need could be yours, if you’d just stop fighting, if you’d just obey…
Barnes’s smile widens. Bastard. Damn him and his perverted pleasures. You tighten your lips, catching yourself, trying to win the battle ranging inside you.
He turns the implements back and forth in little half-circles. “Go on.”
You shake your head in a few tight nods, willing yourself to stay strong even as the motion inside you drives you almost out of your mind.
He sighs and shakes his head in return, slipping the spoon and the scissors out of you and setting them on the counter. Their ends, covered in your slick, glisten in the light as they move. You mourn the loss but steel yourself for whatever’s coming next
“Alright, Stevie,” Barnes says. “Your turn.”
Rogers skips the beer, the bananas, the cucumber, and walks to the pantry. When he steps in front of you, you see he’s holding an old-fashioned push broom, with a long wooden handle ending in a thick rounded bulb, easily twice the width of the spoon and scissors combined. Your eyes widen, your mind at war with itself. If he tries to fuck you with that handle, he could easily do you real damage without even meaning to. But you can practically feel the bulb sliding inside you, spreading you, making blissful contact with every inch of you, something you can really work with…
You know you won’t be able to stop yourself from begging if Rogers puts it inside you. So it’s a blessing, really, when you blurt out a plea before can take a step closer.
“Please,” you say, locking eyes on Rogers, then darting over to Barnes. “No. Not that. Please.”
“Getting warmer,” Barnes says.
“Please, I—” you swallow thickly, not wanting to say it, needing to say it. “I need your cocks.”
“Oh, that’s just a fact, sweetheart,” Rogers says. “That’s not what we wanna hear.”
You close your eyes and say, as tonelessly as possible, “Please give me your cocks.”
Rogers shifts, leaning over you, and he says, more sternly, “Open your eyes.”
You don’t dare disobey that tone in his voice, harsher than you’ve heard from him before. That’s his Commanding Officer tone.
“You have your orders, Stackler,” he says. “Obey them.”
It cracks your last defenses. Rogers has been good-humored up till now, but there’s such a dominant tone to his voice, and he’s so close—you can see his muscles, smell his detergent and his sweat, see the growing bulge in his pants—you can’t resist any longer.
“Please,” you say, and this time your voice is exactly the way he wants it, pleading and submissive. “Please, give me your cocks.”
“Better.” Rogers crosses his substantial arms and fixes you with a stare. “Again.”
“Please,” you say, putting all your desperation and ache into the word. “Please. I need them. I need you to fuck me. Please.”
“And what do we call someone who begs for cock?”
“I—I don’t—”
“A slut,” Rogers interrupts you. “That’s how you’re going to refer to yourself. Understood?”
You nod.
“Then say it.”
“I—I’m a slut.” You feel your cheeks warm as you stumble over the word.
“You’re our slut,” Barnes interjects, looking amused as he watches your exchange with Rogers’s serious side
“I’m your slut,” you parrot back without question. “Please.”
There’s a long silence. You think desperately if you did anything to piss them off. But you did exactly as they asked, and you meant it.
You shift in the chair as much as the ropes will allow and it prompts Barnes to turn to Rogers.
“You think she’s earned it?”
“No. But I’m tired of waiting.”
Barnes makes quick work of your bonds and you move your limbs slowly, rotating your wrists and ankles, trying not to let on how sore you are. You stare at Barnes apprehensively, waiting for his next command. He leans down to whisper in your ear.
“Strip naked,” he says. “Then get on your hands and knees. Understood?”
You can only nod, trembling.
"Then get moving."
Your limbs are stiff from being bound and heavy from the need still pulsing through them, but you stand, shedding your dress, bra, and underwear as quickly as you can, refusing to think about it, just following orders. Even the air on your bare skin feels like a new torment. You need them. You need release. You move faster, falling clumsily onto all fours, the kitchen tile hard beneath you.
“On the coffee table,” Barnes says.
Again, you don’t question it, you don’t think. You keep a laser focus on his command, crawling past Rogers’s legs, out of the kitchen, around the couch, finally clambering onto the coffee table. It’s big and sturdily built, lifting you eight or ten inches off the ground, the perfect height for whatever they want to do next.
Rogers and Barnes step into the living room after you. It kills you not to look at them, but you don’t dare move your head. The suspense builds around you to an almost unbearable degree.
You hear the sounds of a belt buckle and a zipper, the more silence.
You jump when you finally feel two human hands grip your ass. Rogers digs in with his fingertips, kneading your muscles. He slides his hands down your ass, along your thighs, your calves. You will yourself not to moan. His hands tighten on your hips to keep you in place as he teases you, drawing the head of his cock slowly up and down your core.
“You should be thanking me,” he says. “How long’s it been since someone fucked you right?”
You don’t trust yourself to answer. Your mind can barely form a cohesive sentence. You keep your focus on the thick glass of the table beneath you.
He slows even more, pulling your hips toward him. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”
He pushes one finger into you to his first knuckle. It’s worse than nothing, a taunt. He flexes and you make a whining sound that would embarrass you in any other circumstance. There’s static noise in your mind. This this this.
“Be a good girl and you might get a reward,” he says, moving his fingertip in delicate circles. Your eyes roll back in your head.
“Two years,” you gasp out. “Almost two years.”
“Fuck,” Rogers says under his breath. He slides his finger fully into you. “You must have the tightest pussy in town.”
You clench so much that your muscles start trembling. You whine again.
“You want something, Stickler?” Barnes says.
“More.”
He tsks. “Not with those manners.”
“Please, more.” You push your hips back towards Rogers’s hand. “Please.”
You feel a second finger join the first, but it’s still nowhere near enough.
“Let’s hear it again.” Rogers stills his fingers.
You genuinely feel like you might keel over if you don’t get fucked, and soon. The drug has saturated your body and your mind, everything taken over by nothing more than this sheer need.
“Please fuck me,” you say.
“Didn’t catch that, sweetheart,” Rogers says.
He has enhanced hearing; he could have heard that from three floors up. But you have to play along.
“Please,” you say more loudly. “Fuck me.”
Rogers flexes his fingers inside you. “We told you what to call yourself.”
Your dignity is scattered to the winds as, without pause, you almost scream, “Please, fuck your slut.”
Rogers’s fingers slide out, immediately replaced by his cock. He’s huge, almost big enough to satisfy you, the most beautiful stretch you’ve ever felt. You moan as he seats himself.
“See, sweetheart?” he says. “That wasn’t so hard.”
He starts to fuck you, moving at an almost sensual pace, dragging his cock out of you and sliding it back in again. You were expecting him to be fast, hard, demanding. But he’s teasing you even now. It feels so good, so good, but you need more, you still aren’t full enough. You clench around him and he hisses in pleasure.
“Fuck,” he says. “Buck, she’s got a great pussy.”
Barnes takes a swaggering step towards you, reaching for the waistband of his pants. He opens the zipper and stops just in front of your face.
“I’m interested in something else.”
The tip of his cock presses against your lips and you open for him. Unlike Rogers, he isn’t gentle; he pushes his full and considerable length into you in one shove. You cough and gag, but he hushes you, wrapping his metal fingers around the back of your skull to keep you from pulling away, and you obediently settle.
“Fuck, Stickler,” he says. “You like that? Like having us fill you from both ends?”
You can only moan, his cock more effective than any gag. Even you yourself don’t know if it’s a moan of protest or agreement. Your panic is subsiding. You needed their cocks and now you have them. The flame in your body calms and resurges in quick waves. You moan again and run your tongue on the underside of his cock, as a sign of submission, of pleading. A delighted, evil smile turns up the corners of his lips.
“Oh, you want more? Is that it?” He tightens his hold on your head. “Stevie, let’s see who can come first.”
They pound into you from both sides, relentlessly, heedless of your pleasure. Rogers moves with more urgency now but still some semblance of sensuality in his motions; Barnes is truly fucking your mouth, no concern but his own gratification. You’re pinioned between the two of them, the sensations building and merging, fanning the flames of your lust even as they quench them. You lose sight of how this will end, settling into the moment of being used, of being filled. This is what every cell in your body was crying out for, this is the answer to the need they stoked in you, and you moan, you whimper, you whine, you move your tongue and clench your core and try to move even in their iron grips.
Barnes comes first, all over the front of your neck, your chest, your breasts, dribbling down onto the coffee table. You let out a moan when he does. To your lust-addled skin, the weight of even his cum is enough to send you reeling. At your sound, Rogers comes inside you. You gasp as it fills you, seeps out and starts slipping down the insides of your thighs.
The emptiness is unbearable, the slick on both ends of your body evidence that their cocks were there but didn’t give you what you’re craving. All your begging and all their fucking have only made it worse. You push away from the coffee table, your only thought to get your release, soothe the burning ache radiating off your skin.
Before you’re quite aware of what you’re doing, you’ve straddled the arm of the couch. You grind along it, Rogers’ cum striping the navy fabric as you try to get a decent angle, try to get enough friction, something, anything—
—but Rogers is lifting you free of the couch, and you let out a sob as you sink towards the floor, letting yourself go limp. You have to have this, anything to stop this, anything—
“Poor little slut,” Rogers says. “You need to come, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you babble. “Please, yes, I need to. Please.”
All you can see is their legs and you imagine wrapping around them, humping, grinding, anything—
“Like a bitch in heat, aren’t you?” Barnes says. “You’d take anything we give you.”
You nod frantically. “Yes, please, anything, anything, please.”
As if he read your mind, he slides one foot toward you, nudging at your knees.
You stare down at his boot. Barnes and Rogers both favor simple footwear. Barnes’s boots are black, laced to the ankle, with practical lines and thick soles. They strike you as ruthless, just like their owner; you’ve seen clips of him as the Soldier wearing similar shoes. They’re meant for crushing, conquering.
You lift your tearful face to look at Barnes. He’s staring down at you with no trace of empathy, nothing but a malicious desire to see you completely debase yourself, his end game all along. His lips curl at the corners.
“Don’t make me regret my generosity,” he says.
He doesn’t have to tell you twice. Humiliating as it is, you shoot onto your knees and slide your thighs eagerly along either side of his boot, lowering onto it. He has large feet, and the toe of the boot is tucked just behind your core, the top of the laces pressing against your clit. It feels substantial and hard between your legs. You feel a kick of shame, but then you start to grind and everything else falls away.
Fuck, it feels so good. You tighten your muscles to go harder, faster. The slick from your arousal and Rogers’s cum make the friction bearable, make the harshness of the laces and the leather feel pebbled rather than rough. You bring your hands up to your breasts to try and bring yourself to orgasm even faster.
“No, no,” Barnes says. “Stevie, you got this?”
Rogers kneels close behind you. His hands wrap around yours and pull them from your breasts. You whimper.
“No,” you protest faintly. “I need—I have to—”
Rogers make a hushing sound in your ear. He brings your hands to the small of your back and crosses your wrists. “Leave ‘em there, sweetheart.”
You do as he says, but you feel the loss keenly. Then, miraculously, Rogers’s hands settle on your breasts. It’s perverse that you feel so grateful to someone who has put you in this predicament in the first place, but you sigh, arching into his touch. His hands, so much larger than yours, cover the entirety of your breasts, palms grinding against your hardened nipples. Barnes pulses the toe of his boot upward to meet your body and you moan.
“That’s right, Stickler,” he says. “You’re not better than us, are you?”
“No.”
“The only thing you’re good for is polishing my boot.”
You want to feel humiliated but god you feel so turned on, so overwhelmed by their authority. “Yes.”
“Come,” Rogers growls.
You obey. It feels as though a jolt of electricity zips up Barnes’s boot, through your pelvis, all the way past your belly button, connecting with your breasts where Rogers is still manhandling them, all the way to your throat, and you release it past your lips. You’ve never heard yourself make this noise before—didn’t even know you could make a noise like this, don’t know how to categorize it—a kind of throat-clearing groan mixed with shame, arousal, and surrender. They’ve managed to weaponize your pleasure against you and yet it feels so good to be their puppet.
Rogers’s hands slide from your breasts to rest around your waist. You slump over, cheeks flushed, body humming with satiety. You scoot backwards and try to rock onto your heels, but Barnes stops you.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, eyes flashing with perverted pleasure. “That’s one down, three to go.”
He shifts his weight and slides his other foot forward. Another thrill of shame courses through you. Resigned to obey, you press yourself against his second boot. Rogers’s hands drift down to wrap around your thighs. Barnes threads his metal fingers in your hair and tilts your head back, forcing you to stare up at him as you move. Though you’re sore and humiliated, it doesn’t take long for you to come again, a pathetic aftershock of your first.
As if they’ve choreographed this degradation, they switch places, Rogers slipping a foot between your legs, Barnes wrapping a hand around your throat and holding your upper body flush against his as you buck wildly from the waist down. You’re not so much grinding now as you are spasming, your muscles crying for rest, your clit overstimulated and raw. You’ve gotten their cocks and your orgasms, and now all that’s left is pure power and humiliation.
They goad you to a third orgasm, a quick burst of pleasure streaked with pain, and you fall to one side, spent, a burning sensation of a new sort between your legs now.
You stare at Rogers’s second boot. His are slightly more fashion-forward than Barnes’s, the leather softer, the laces narrower. That only means you have to clench and grind all the more to get the right sensation. You close your eyes. You can’t. You just can’t.
“Please,” you say, shaking your head. “No. Not again.”
Barnes slips his hand up to hold your chin and whispers in your ear, “Finish what you started.”
“But—but it...it hurts.” It’s the most pathetic thing you’ve said all day, appealing to their sense of mercy as if they care, as if they’ll stop now after everything else they’ve done to you.
“I know, sweetheart.” If you didn’t know the context, you would almost say his tone was romantic. “I want you to ruin that pussy of yours just because I say so.”
You whimper.
“Go on,” he says. “Show us what a useless slut you are.”
You don’t have any other options and you’re terrified of the consequences. You lower yourself on the final boot. Barnes’s hands snake around you, his metal fingers tickling your throat, his other hand stroking the side of your thigh.
“Fuck,” Rogers sighs from above you.
“That’s right,” Barnes whispers in your ear. “Just like I told you. Keep going.”
You’re crying, silently, feeling your body respond between your legs even through the burn. Barnes traces his metal fingertips along your neck and brushes a lock of your hair away from your sweaty shoulder.
“You wanna know the worst part?” he says, outlining the contours of your ear, up and around, with one finger.
You shiver, though it’s not quite a “no.”
“There was nothing in that syringe,” he says. “Just a placebo.”
He’s bullshitting you. He has to be, trying to comprehensively fuck your mind like he’s fucked your body.
“No,” you protest feebly.
“Fight it all you want, sweetheart, but this is all you.” Barnes grinds against you and you feel the length of his erection against the small of your back. “You and your filthy whore thoughts. Just needed us to help you see what a slut you really are.”
You moan again, the sound more pitiful than ever, and squeeze more tightly.
“You’re gonna treat us a little nicer now, aren’t you?” Barnes says. “Not gonna be such a bitch now you know what you are.”
“Yes,” you say, nodding over and over.
“Who’s in charge?” Rogers says from above you.
“You are,” you say.
Barnes leans down and nips at the corner of your neck he’s just exposed, his tongue circling your skin in a spiral bounded by the confines of his teeth. You keep grinding against the fourth boot, willing yourself to come but not quite able to get there. It feels like hours have passed. You groan with frustration. If you come again, this will end. It has to end.
“Stickler,” Barnes says warningly. “If you don’t come soon, I’m gonna have to try something else.” He runs his hands along your thighs, dipping down to rub just where they meet your core. “It’s been too long since I’ve hogtied a desperate little slut. You wanna be my first this century?”
“No,” you say. “No.”
“Then show us you learned your lesson.”
Your fourth is your most intense orgasm yet, far more pain than pleasure. Your clit throbs with a pulse so strong you fear for a flash that Barnes has somehow slit it open. You contract and buck your hips, writhing against him. Rogers slips his boot clear of your body mid-orgasm, leaving you humping the air until you finally, blessedly, slide down from the high.
It feels like your bones have evaporated, leaving only your trembling muscles in a sweaty, cum-covered pool on the floor. You sag against the couch, staring at the carpet in front of you.
Barnes clears his throat and says, “Look at us, Stickler.”
And of course, you do as he says. They’re in charge.
They stare down at you and you’re surprised to see looks of pride on their faces. The corners of Barnes’s eyes soften and crinkle, and Rogers gives you a full Captain America smile. It’s extraordinarily disconcerting, but even now, praise from America’s heroes is a potent drug. They’ve cracked your façade, they’ve broken you, and there’s no going back.
“You were so good for us,” Rogers says. “Just like we knew you could be.”
Barnes leans down and you tense, ready for him to tweak or pinch or prod. But he only smooths your hair and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Get some rest, slut.”
Without another word, he and Rogers leave the apartment. You don’t turn to watch them, waiting to move until you hear the door click closed.