Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve’s nervous, can’t help it.

He’s done black-ops missions on all continents, then left the army, then joined the CIA, then left the CIA and finally joined up SHIELD, the world’s only international secret service—like the UN but with real guns, Sam likes to mock—and the only place he’s found that really makes him feel like he’s working towards the greater good. He’s been shot a total of twelve times, got captured twice and survived not one, but two explosions. He can’t recall ever getting scared of combat, death or pain. It’s not that he isn’t afraid; it’s that he’s usually too busy during those times to leave room for fear.

What he doesn’t like is undercover work.

The Hydra is ridiculously inaccessible, a tiny patch of rocks off the coast of Iceland that’s impossible to reach without a private helicopter, which already says something about its clientele’s baseline wealth. The whole place belongs to billionaire Alexander Pierce, who allows people to conduct their business in exchange for a substantial percentage of the resulting profits. Because it’s so small, it doesn’t actually count as land, but as international waters, which makes it the ideal place to conduct illegal deals. It’s underground—literally—to shield itself from the cruel weather; but of course it’s decadently comfortable inside, much like a luxury resort gone wrong.

Steve just got off his helicopter, moved into his room and changed into a tux. Officially, he’s Mr. Grant, a man interested in buying weapons from none other than Pierce himself. He’s staying for as long as it’ll take to complete his mission; could be a day, could be a month. His goal is to actually buy the weapons, using a money transfer that’s coded to vanish twenty-four hours later. Codename Fool’s Gold. God knows he’ll have competition, so this won’t be easy. But if he can pull this off, he’ll later be able to testify in court to the transaction, leading to Pierce’s arrest and bringing his whole business down to the ground.

Steve can’t count on extraction if things go wrong, not on this godforsaken rock where even satellite can’t get through. Rumors say it used to be a WWII bunker, though Steve can’t imagine what strategic advantage could have been found in such a desolate part of the world. He had to go in alone, because he’s a white man, and they constitute about 100% of Hydra’s clientele at any given time. Shame—Natasha and Sam both vastly overshadow him when it comes to undercover. But those are the cards they’ve all been dealt.

He finishes up his bow tie, takes a last look at himself in the mirror, then gets out into the plush hallway.

Coming down from his room into the lounge, he’s reminded again of how much he hates clubs. It’s all soft mood lighting and wine-red leather seats. The room’s crowded, the air is thick with cigar smoke; the sound of pool keeps clacking in the background. Nothing to do here but aimless drinking and pointless chatting. Steve adjusts his bowtie—that’s twice now; he really is nervous—then makes his way towards the bar. Might as well get a drink for something to do with his hands, at least until he can locate Pierce.

All men in the room are dressed just like him, in tuxedos or expensive suits, which is how, as their dark crowd parts, he becomes unavoidably aware of a blinding expanse of bare skin.

There’s a man sitting on a bar stool, wearing only black leather underwear, fishnets and heels. He looks completely heedless of his surroundings, or of the fact that he’s half-naked in a room full of besuited men. He’s leaning back with his elbows on the bar, staring hard into space.

Steve hadn’t expected that kind of entertainment to be provided—since women weren’t allowed—so the sight sucker punches him. Seconds later, he gets a hold of himself and, as he can’t change course without making it obvious, lands on the bar right next to the guy.

He has to strain his eyes not to stare. It’s odd. Not so much the fishnets—Steve’s done Pride a few times, thanks—but how they don’t match his attitude at all. Usually, feminization goes all the way to effeminate poses, or coquettish shyness or overt flirting or at the very least… make-up, or something. But this guy sits there with straightforward masculine aplomb. He’s beautiful, though, with fine features and chin-length dark hair framing his face. He’s built, and frozen, and so goddamn tense.

Fuck. Steve is staring. Enough that he knows he’s been noticed.

“Hey, I’m Grant,” he says, since he’s got to take the jump now. “What are you drinking?”

The man’s eyes dart to him—too quick, assess him with a few glances that ring bizarrely familiar. Then he looks away again.

“James,” he says. “Sorry, I ain’t allowed.”

Only then does Steve really take notice of the leather collar buckled tight around his neck.

He’s not exactly surprised to find those kind of games in such a place, but he is puzzled at such a brazen display. Whoever brought James along is someone powerful enough to be openly gay here, and inflict his kinks onto the whole room, and leave his boy toy unattended among some of the most dangerous, predatory people of the planet.

Taking all that into consideration, James should be more relaxed—he’s obviously got a powerful protector—but he definitely isn’t. Maybe he’s waiting for his partner to really feel safe. Steve can hear Nat and Sam cackling at him from beyond the mission—partner! Rogers, you’re so sweet. Fine—sugar daddy, for lack of a better term. Or maybe john, though Steve doesn’t like the word. Could be he’s not entirely comfortable doing this but needs the money. Most wealthy, powerful men like to surround themselves with young beautiful playthings. And James certainly is beautiful.

“You all right?” he tries.

God, he does sound like he’s flirting with the guy. Really, he’s thinking anybody would be tense sitting in fishnets in that kind of place; and the fact that the people around don’t acknowledge James only makes the whole thing more uncanny.

“New here, are you?” James asks, still keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“First time,” Steve admits. “I’m not planning to stay long.”

In fact, he shouldn’t waste his time here—he’s got a deal to make. But something’s anchoring him next to James. He can’t tell if it’s the faint motion of his biceps as he adjusts himself against the bar, the fact that he’s been obviously waxed all over, or the look in his eyes. Stormy but fixed, as if caught in headlights.

Steve’s seen that look before, he’s almost sure. If he could only remember where.

Another guy sidles up to the bar, on the other side of James—and as he does, his hands drags up James’ thigh and lands on his crotch to massage the bulge he finds there. James flinches imperceptibly, but says nothing, just stares harder into space. The guy’s not even looking at him, chatting with his friend while squeezing and kneading James through his leather briefs.

“Hey,” Steve says dryly. “Do you mind?”

The guy blinks at him, slow with drink; then laughs and lets go, slurring out that he hadn’t noticed the spot was taken, or something along those lines. He’s obviously not even involved enough for confrontation—as mindless in letting go of James as he was in getting to him. Seconds later, he’s grabbed another vodka and left.

James hasn’t moved, but his eyes are on Steve again, though not quite meeting his.

“Sorry if that was over the line,” Steve says, suddenly uncertain. Maybe this guy’s living out a fantasy and he’s interrupting. “I thought—that didn’t look too comfortable.”

James lets out a faint scoff. “Comfortable’s hardly the idea.”

The explanation hits Steve like a freight train. It’s written in every line of James’ body. This is a humiliation play. He’s supposed to feel vulnerable and naked, sitting there in this get-up for others to enjoy. He’s been ordered to stay there by whoever put that collar on him.

Before Steve can say anything, someone else comes up to them, this time sliding between Steve and James entirely and grabbing James’ dimpled chin to lift up his head. “Everything all right, James?”

James looks down at once, lashes falling over his cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

“Are we learning our lesson?”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve has to try again not to stare, because that’s Alexander Pierce.

“He’s for public use, you know,” Pierce tells Steve with a genial smile.

He clips a leash onto the O-ring on James’ collar.

“Or he was for the past thirty minutes.” He winds the strap around his hand, making James lift his chin as the leash tenses. “You’ve missed your chance for tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I didn’t want to assume,” Steve says.

Something lights up in Pierce’s dull blue eyes; interest, maybe, or amusement. “A gentleman! How quaint. And here I thought his outfit would make it quite obvious what he’s for.” He looks at James. “Maybe next time I’ll make you sit there completely naked—what do you think?”

James doesn’t answer, still looking down. Seeing him leashed is doing uncomfortable things to Steve, now that he knows this is indeed dominance at play.

He tries to focus. “So this was punishment?”

“Of a sort,” Pierce answers. “Let’s say training.”

He tugs on James’ leash and James responds instantly, getting up with his hands behind his back, eyes down—maybe also so he won’t trip and fall. His heels look definitely wrong on him, like he’s been forced into them. Which he has. He’s awkward, struggling to maintain his posture, but nothing shows on his face.

“Would you care for a more private drink?” Pierce asks, his eyes still on Steve. “I do enjoy the company of men who know how to mind their manners.”

Now that’s got to be the most double-edged statement Steve’s ever heard. It could be innocent, a play on both James’ submission and Steve’s politeness. Or it could mean Pierce wants to fuck Steve.

Steve decides in a flash that he’ll let him, if it comes to that. There’s no question about it, really; the stakes are beyond him. Nat and Sam would do the same. He’ll lie back and think of Brooklyn if it means hindering a massive weapons sale. If it means bringing this guy down.

“Lead the way,” he says.

Pierce smiles, then leaves with James in tow. The heels do look punishing, high and too narrow for James’ strong feet. Steve tries not to stare at his ass as he falls into step. He’s not stupid; Pierce noticed his interest and will be using James to test him. He’s got to be ready for that. But James’ also got thick thighs and a wonderful back, all dips and curves of muscle, and his shoulders—

Focus, for the love of God. The crowd of men in suits part just as easily as before, no one giving James a second glance, which means the sight is commonplace. Training must mean indeed that this happens regularly, James being put at the disposal of Pierce’s hosts. Steve thinks again about that drunk guy who just groped James without even looking at him, enjoying the feel of him, maybe relishing his flinch of discomfort—some nice entertainment while he was waiting for his vodka. Steve’s slacks suddenly feel a bit tight, which in turn makes him feel like an awful person. He exhales deeply.

Pierce opens the door to a comfortable room with leather seats of the usual wine-red color, forming a semi-circle. In the middle sits an odd stainless-steel stool. It’s got a large, circular base, its insides seem to be spring-loaded, and it’s supporting one massive unlit red candle.

There’s a thin chain dangling off the ceiling, too.

Steve casts a glance to Pierce, quirking an eyebrow. He can’t afford to look anything but politely intrigued.

“You must forgive an old man his quirks,” Pierce chuckles. “I like to keep James busy while I talk shop.”

Frankly, Steve had expected a blowjob to take place, or something along those lines—involving any possible combination of James, Pierce, and himself—but whatever’s slated for James looks more elaborate than that.

“Off with the heels, dear,” Pierce says, unclipping the leash, “you know they make you too tall for this little exercise. And get rid of the fishnets too, they’re a hazard.”

James obeys quickly, leaving him in nothing but his leather shorts. Steve looks away from muscles shifting under waxed skin—but then comes back to it, because he’s interested and he has to show that he’s interested. James looks even more naked without his feminine get-up—stripped bare like a face without make-up. His shorts are so tight he might as well be naked. Despite himself, Steve looks away again.

Pierce takes a classic leather harness from a cache in the wall and binds James up, trapping his arms in his back and squeezing tight enough for the straps to sink into muscle. James is looking down, long hair half-hiding his face. Pierce clips the ceiling chain to the back strap of his harness, then pulls hard on it; it reels back up by itself into the ceiling, until James’ forced to move over the miniature stool, shuffling forward and spreading his legs to accommodate the width of it at the base. Pierce crouches down and cuffs his ankles to the stool, getting back up with the pained groan of an aging man.

Sitting down on the leather seat with a noise of relief, Pierce takes out a silver lighter and leans forward to light up the candle between James’ legs. Then he sits back with a contented sigh.

“Just a little show,” he says. “Will you join me?”

Steve sits next to him, studying the whole set-up. James looks expressionless—resigned, perhaps. His ankles are locked into what essentially amounts to a circular spreader bar, so he can’t move his legs or get away from the candle, which burns high—the room clearly has proper ventilation—but not high enough to hurt him.

“You look confused, my dear man,” Pierce says. “Can I enlighten you?”

“Just wondering what the spring’s for,” Steve says, nodding at the insides of the stool, where the massive coiled spring is clearly visible.

“Ah, you’ve spotted it,” Pierce appreciates. “Good eye, very good eye.”

Above them, James’ looking down, breathing deep, like he’s trying to brace himself for something.

“The candle’s hollow, meaning the wax will trickle out of the bottom. That’s when the spring comes into play. As the candle grows lighter, the spring pushes it higher.” Pierce smiles. “Poetic, isn’t it?”

“Poetic?”

“Well, fire play is usually quite limited by the candle growing smaller over time, thus lowering discomfort,” Pierce says reasonably. “As this one melts, the discomfort grows. I like to think of it as a little symbol. There’s nothing on this earth that can’t be made to bend backwards for my accommodation.” He smiles, affable. “Isn’t that right, James?”

“Yes, sir,” James says, again.

“Quiet, now,” Pierce says, reaching under the seat for two beautiful chiseled whiskey glasses and an unlabeled bottle. “My friend, let’s talk. I didn’t catch your name?”

Steve frankly didn’t expect to be so damn successful at catching Pierce’s attention on the very first day; now he has to make the most of it, awkward circumstances be damned. The man’s more intelligent than expected—using his plaything to unbalance his interlocutors is one thing, but the sheer cleverness of the spring-loaded candle contraption is also a testimony to the structure of his mind. Organized, methodical, and cruel.

The conversation starts slowly, then picks up, a contrived dance of metaphors, implied meanings and unsaid facts. It’s like playing poker without cards, slowly amping up the stakes until one of them decides to outright bring up weapons trade. So far it hasn’t happened; they’re using war-adjacent events to evoke it. Steve has to call on everything he knows about the world’s recent turmoils, while keeping a very close watch on himself—talking about Sokovia makes sense, as it’s common knowledge Pierce was a weapons supplier in the conflict; but he absolutely cannot mention the Wakandan border incident, because nobody’s supposed to know Pierce was involved in that particular mess, and this knowledge would immediately out Steve as a counterintelligence agent.

Natasha would breeze through this convo; Sam would at least make it look easy; but Steve has to stay focused and in character—so focused that he’s completely taken off-guard the first time James moans.

Steve’s head jerks up. James is pressing his lips into a tight line again, looking anxious and angry at himself.

“Ah, there we go,” Pierce says with relish. “I mostly do this for the background noise, if I’m being honest.” He pours himself another few fingers of rich earthy Scotch.

Steve looks at James. His legs are shaking, braced against the ankle cuffs. The candle’s melted down—and gone way up. The flame’s almost reached James’ crotch. He’s twitching in his harness, abs clenching and releasing, muscles shifting in his thighs. There’s a drop of sweat making its way down his chest. He can’t stop moving—shifting his posture, trying to find relief that can’t be found.

“Is this still training?” Steve asks, because he has to say something.

“Entertainment,” Pierce says. “I’m in dire need of it. I do get a steady trickle of visitors, but most of them are rather unimaginative. Not like yourself, Mr. Grant.”

“Honored,” Steve says, maybe a bit too succinctly, but—James’ slow twists of suffering are messing with his brain, which is probably the point.

James is obviously trying not to moan again, maybe so he won’t give Pierce the satisfaction, but—sometimes noises do make it out of his throat, mostly hisses of discomfort. Looking down at the stool, Steve can see drops of wax plopping down between the coils of the slowly unwinding spring. A few more trickle down, the flame pushes up, and James lets out another noise—sharp and desperate—when the fire gets close to his inner thighs.

“Well, this can’t go on for much longer,” Steve observes.

Pierce lifts his eyebrow. “Oh?”

Dangerous waters. James’ pain isn’t faked—there’s nothing to fake; the flame is real, the restraints too. But he’s obviously been put in this position to test Steve’s morals. Steve has to consider him an enemy, too. He has to consider everyone an enemy.

All the same, he’s spoken up already, so he has to forge on.

“I do enjoy the performance, of course,” he says, watching James contort and strain, “but I’ve got to assume you’ll want him to be operational for other sessions. You don’t have to push it for my sake, Mr. Pierce; I’m already impressed.”

Pierce’s smile comes back. “So thoughtful. Don’t worry—his shorts aren’t quite leather. He can feel the heat, but it would take a lot for him to suffer actual injuries in all the places that matter.” He finishes his glass. “On the topic of Sokovia…”

They talk for another half hour, by the end of which James is making continuous ‘background noises’, increasingly shaky and desperate, body glistening with sweat in the flickering candlelight, twisting and jerking in his restraints. The flame starts licking his crotch, tearing high-pitched noises from him.

“Sir,” he finally gasps, cutting Steve off mid-carefully constructed argument.

Pierce looks up leniently at him. “Yes?”

“Sir,” James repeats, and actually struggles against himself for another few seconds before he lets out, “please—”

Pierce goes back to Steve. “I’m sorry for the interruption. You were saying…”

“Please,” and James abruptly starts sobbing in panic, “God, God, please, no more, please—”

“Oh, very well,” Pierce says, and blows the candle.

James sags in his harness, breathing in loud wet gasps. His genitals might be intact under his underwear, but his inner thighs are shining with burns; when Pierce leans forward and digs his nails in, he bites back a scream that devolves instead into more sobs.

“James is a tough one,” Pierce says, letting go of him. “Did you see how long it took him to beg?”

“I did,” Steve says, genuinely impressed if quite disturbed. He’s never seen play so extreme before. He supposes that was the intended effect. And they do have sort of a safeword system in place after all.

“It doesn’t come easy to him, but I’m a patient man,” Pierce says. “And I’m aware humility must be taught over and over. Isn’t that right, James?”

“Yes, sir,” James gasps.

“All it takes is for you to appeal to my kindness. You know it’s there. Will you be quicker to beg next time?”

James is shaking. “Yes, sir,” he repeats miserably.

“He’s lying,” Pierce chuckles, “but that’s what makes it fun. I’ll get him there one day, you’ll see. He’s already made so much progress since I first got him—he wasn’t calling me sir back then, I can tell you that.” He lies back against the padded seat. “I think I’ll turn in for the night, Mr. Grant. Thanks for sharing a drink with a lonely old man.”

“My pleasure,” Steve says, getting up. “I hope we can speak again tomorrow.”

He goes back to his room trying to smooth down the noise in his mind. This is exactly why Pierce made him watch this—to throw him off-balance. He can’t think about any of it, he can’t wonder about what sort of arrangement they have, which parts of James’ desperation were faked and which weren’t. Most of all, he cannot think about his own uncomfortable enjoyment. He can only think about what he came for. He must.

Chapter Text

The knock on his door isn’t entirely unexpected.

Steve’s still in his tuxedo, having spent much too long staring at the wall, trying to sort out the white noise in his head. When he opens the door, there’s a blank-faced man there, holding the end of James’ leash. James is still wearing his harness, arms strictly bound into his back. As Pierce isn’t there, he’s looking into space again, at something no one but him can see. Steve’s pretty sure if he tried to stand in front of him, James would stare right through.

The blank-faced man wordlessly hands Steve a folded sheet of paper, then unclips James’ leash and leaves. Steve sneaks a worried glance at James, who still isn’t looking at him. Then he reads Pierce’s elegant script with a furrowed brow.

Dear Mr. Grant,

I do appreciate a polite man with the right ideas. Yours to exercise for the night, and we’ll talk business again in the morning.

P.S. Do make him sleep on the floor when you’re done. He needs to toughen up.

Steve crumples the paper with a twist of the lips. Pierce is still testing him—and getting his rocks off at the same time. He’s perfectly aware that Steve wants something from him; he’s perfectly aware he can quite literally make Steve do anything to get it. In this fucked-up icy kingdom, Pierce rules absolute. And he obviously enjoys the thought of someone else exercising James. Hell, he had James sit in a crowded room to be groped at will.

Steve was prepared to let Pierce fuck him if needed be. And this is what it is, in a way.

He glances at James, who’s standing there, staring ahead, not acknowledging Steve in a way that’s beginning to feel desperate. Like he’s drawing up sand walls before the ocean tide. He knows exactly why he’s here—it must be a regular occurrence—but he has no way of knowing what he’s in for. How Steve will fuck him.

Steve can’t do it. Not without negotiation. He’s very aware that this is a show, though—meaning people are watching. In the end, he hooks a finger in James’ O-ring to pull him further inside the room, affecting disinterest. James lets out a silent breath as he stumbles forward. He’s still in his leather shorts. Salt’s dried on his skin in uneven halos from when he strained and sweated over the fire.

“Let’s clean you up first,” Steve says absentmindedly. Still leading James by his O-ring, he brings him to the little bathroom and pushes him into the shower, then opens the water.

James flinches under the sudden jet, but relaxes when it turns out to be warm. He backs up against the wall so his long hair won’t get wet, then flattens himself against the tile when Steve, still fully clothed, gets into the stall with him and closes the door.

James watches Steve’s tuxedo shirt darken with water.

“This your fetish?” he rasps eventually.

It’s a relief to hear him be human again, after he turned into an obedient machine under Pierce’s thumb. This is someone with whom Steve can talk. Maybe strike a deal.

“No, I’m assuming the room outside’s bugged to hell and back,” he says. “And I know for a fact it’s full of cameras. This here gives us a bit of privacy.”

For the first time, James meets his eyes for longer than a half-second. “Privacy for what?”

Steve takes a deep breath, then says bluntly, “I need Pierce to like me. Could use your advice there. Never quite took part in that kind of game before.”

He knows he’s playing a dangerous hand, being this straightforward. James is Pierce’s submissive, and it’s obviously a 24/7 thing. If Steve’s soft, if Steve’s reluctant, James will very probably report it. Steve’s expected to perform to satisfaction.

But he’s not good at undercover, and he does get the feeling that James is—antagonistic? Belligerent? Not quite devoted, is another way to phrase it. This is something Steve can use, maybe.

“Tell me, for example,” he asks. “What happens if I don’t fuck you tonight?”

James’ still staring at Steve.

“Then you’re a gentleman twice over,” he says eventually.

That’s exactly the kind of ambivalent answer Steve expected. Does he want to be a gentleman twice over? Pierce’s compliments about that did start to feel a bit sarcastic by the end. Steve’s supposed to be a weapons’ dealer, for fuck’s sake. He can’t blow his cover over manners.

“And Pierce’s out of entertainment,” Steve says. “Is that it?”

“You already knew he’d be watching.”

“And if he’s out of entertainment, you get punished,” Steve insists.

James is watching him warily now, like he’s the one wondering if this is a trap. He’s managing to keep his hair away from the water, but the jet is hitting his chest, catching in the leather straps digging into his skin, dripping in rivulets. Steve remembers his body twisting, sweating, clenching, not two hours ago. Christ. He’s got to focus.

“If people don’t fuck me, it’s ‘cause I haven’t won ‘em over,” James says at last, very slowly. Droplets of water are catching on his lips, too. “Haven’t been hot enough. Haven’t begged for it enough. So I’m to blame.”

“Meaning you’d rather I’d stop being a gentleman.”

“Sure,” James says tiredly, as if giving up on figuring out whether Steve’s playing him or not.

It’s not the level of enthusiasm or clarity of consent Steve usually favors in his partners, but it’s something. He’s going to have to make do.

“Wouldn’t wanna cause trouble for you,” Steve says, and presses forward, pinning James against the shower wall until the water’s beating down his own back. Then he does something he’s been wanting to do ever since he saw him sitting on that bar stool, and kisses him.

James’ mouth is soft where Steve half-expected cracked lips. It seems Pierce is taking good care of his body, only damaging it in intentional ways. When Steve slips his tongue into his mouth, James responds—of course he does—but it’s neither mechanical, nor overly pornographic like Steve expected. Instead he kisses almost clumsily, like he hadn’t expected that at all, and he quickly lets Steve take the lead.

Steve leads only too willingly, framing James’ face, sinking his fingers in his hair, pulling tight, going deep. James lets out a muffled moan, which prompts Steve to pull back and look at him. His eyes are closed, his mouth half-open, still. He’s grown hard against Steve’s thigh, he’s—wow, he’s rock hard.

“Well, that’s flattering,” Steve says.

James opens his eyes, too, but doesn’t say anything, expectant. His pupils are blown, unfocused.

Steve works his jaw. “You’re drugged.”

James’ eyes close again and he lets out a little laugh. “You’re the first one to guess that,” he rasps. "Everyone else thought I was just happy to see ‘em.”

Steve tries not to think about everyone else. “What did he give you?”

Exhaling through his nose, James rests the back of his head against the tile. He looks at Steve through his eyelashes. “Does it matter?”

“Just answer the question,” Steve demands, unwilling to engage in that kind of debate even at the best of times.

James closes his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Viagra,” Steve says. “What else, though?”

“Nothing.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. Christ.” James looks at him. “He wants me to be fully aware of what’s happening, believe me.”

Pierce seems to be a very accommodating man, at least as far as his guests are concerned. And James seems to be an accommodation. Steve pulls on his leather harness to bring him close, putting an arm around him to keep him there, and slips his other hand down the back of James’ leather shorts.

James holds very still, breathing uneven. Steve pushes his fingers between his ass cheeks—and finds that he’s plugged, a ring of silicone sticking out of him. A hot rush of arousal shoots down his stomach; he tries his hardest to tamp it down on reflex, and then remembers that no, actually, they’re doing this. They have to do this. He hooks his finger through the ring and tugs a few times. James makes a sound against his neck. He’s still so goddamn hard.

Steve kisses him again. Again, he can feel James’ surprise, melting into easy submission. Tiredness, probably, and relief that Steve’s not hurting him. Steve rubs his bound arms, his tense shoulders, the back of his neck. He wishes he had more time to make him feel good before they get this show on the road. James is willing, though—resigned, apathetic: willing. It’ll have to be enough.

He hisses with oversensitivity in Steve’s mouth when Steve tugs his hard cock out of his leather shorts. Steve shifts his hand to get a better grip, adjusts his fingers, and suddenly registers what he’s feeling in his hand.

“Wow,” he blurts out, coming out of the kiss.

“Yeah,” James rasps.

Steve rolls the hard steel nubs in his hand. “Is that a Prince Albert?”

“Reverse Prince Albert,” James says, breathless now, trying not to look at Steve’s hand on his cock. “Deep shaft piercing.” With a strange defiant tone, he adds, “I bled a lot.”

Steve looks up; there’s an overture he didn’t expect. Of course, it might be a trap to gauge his reaction—but he can’t second-guess every moment of this. He’s at his best when he’s moving on instinct. “Pierce do that to you, too?”

“Paid to have it done. Tied me down, watched.”

Steve lets go and brushes the burns on James’ inner thighs. James shudders and tenses. It would be so easy to make him scream and sob and beg again. Part of Steve wants to. He can get into that kind of thing, and it would be clearly beneficial to the mission. But he can’t. He doesn’t know for certain what James’ situation is. He’ll fuck him hard in front of a camera and hope it’s enough for Pierce.

Speaking of which, they can’t keep stalling for much longer. Steve shuts the water and pulls him out. Once they’re out of the shower, he takes the time to peel off his own wet tuxedo and boxers; then he pushes James out of the bathroom, frog-marches him across the room and unceremoniously bends him over the bed.

The red eye of a camera’s blinking in the corner, not even hidden.

James shivers when Steve tugs down his leather shorts, exposing the plug sticking out of his ass. It’s a fat pink silicone ring. A metal glint catches Steve’s eye, and his cock jerks in his pants despite himself. God—his balls are pierced too. Squeezing them, he feels a thin iron bar piercing them through, held in place with little nubs at both ends. James has grown tense again; Steve can’t imagine how invasive that kind of thing feels. He thinks again about what Pierce said, about teaching humility. Getting James to behave.

He pushes the thought away and rolls James’ balls in his hand, slowly. They’re drawn up and tight with James’ arousal, and he’s panting into the bed now, face down, able only to let Steve do what he wants to him. Hoping it won’t be torture.

Steve tugs at the plug a few more times, testing how big it is, then pulls it out slowly. It was lubed up; James is shiny and slick inside. Steve imagines Pierce pushing the toy up James’ ass before sending him to a stranger’s room to be fucked. It’s turning him on and it’s making him feel awful and that’s turning him off. He needs to be hard, because now is when he fucks James. The cameras are watching. He wonders if it’s a live feed.

There’s a small basket of condoms on the night stand; he grabs one, rips it open. James doesn’t move, ass bare, legs spread, waiting, listening to what he’s doing, knowing what’s about to happen. When he feels Steve come back and line up, he inhales sharply.

“Relax,” Steve says, and pushes into him, slow but without pause.

He knows he’s big; James huffs heavy breaths into the bedspread, straining uselessly against the leather straps binding his upper body. As he bottoms out, Steve lies completely on top of him, pinning him down. His cock is completely buried inside James, who moans, long and ragged.

If Steve moves now, he’s going to hurt him; instead, he makes James turn his head and kisses him once again, deep and demanding, to take his mind off the cock in his ass, to give him time to adjust. After a minute, James does begin to loosen up some more. A hell of a lot, actually. Steve personally enjoys bottoming when the opportunity presents itself, but James is melting into it, canting his hips, pressing back. Steve sobers up a bit when he remembers James has been fed pills, but his own focus is unsteady at best.

He waits, waits, waits, kissing him deep and sloppy, until James’ completely adjusted to the cock in his ass, muscles relaxing, all of him sinking boneless into the mattress. And even then Steve waits some more. James eventually starts to move his hips—helplessly, almost pleadingly, trying to get Steve going.

And that is when Steve gets going.

He could straighten up—plant his feet on the floor, grab onto James’ hips and pound into him; but instead he keeps weighing completely on top of James, sinking impossibly deeper into him, and starts rolling his hips in deep, powerful waves, with all of his body weight behind each thrust.

James is sinking into pleasure like a stone into lava, actively rolling his hips now, pushing himself back onto Steve’s cock and dragging his own erection against the bed—after a while, Steve lets him set the pace, which nearly makes James sob; he loses his mind completely then, just makes himself climb to orgasm, Steve obligingly giving it to him until James shakes apart underneath him, muffling his stuttering moans into the bedspread.

Steve doesn’t last long after that—a few good thrusts and he goes still, pulsing into the tight heat of James’ ass. For all his doubts and tension, it’s so fucking good he blacks out for a second or so. God, he needed the release.

When he’s done, he stays inside him, covering him. James can’t move at all under his weight, Steve’s cock pinning him there like a butterfly. He makes an incoherent noise when Steve finally straightens up and slips out of him; then he just lies there in a daze, legs apart, slack and loose.

Steve gets rid of the condom, then he pulls off the covers and gets into bed, manhandling James on top of him. It’s a king size, so there’s all the room they need and then some. They catch their breath for a little while. James isn't moving, completely fucked out. When Steve starts working on the harness buckles, he finally twitches.

“You’re,” he slurs. “Not s’posed to.”

“What? Untie you?” Steve frowns. “You can’t stay like that all night. You’ll get nerve damage.”

“Not that,” James says, wincing as the straps begin to come loose and blood circulates again in his arms. “Keep me in bed.”

Steve had completely forgotten Pierce specifically requested that James be made to sleep on the floor like a dog. The reality of the mission’s coming back all at once. This was a trap, and no matter how focused he was, he momentarily forgot the game he was playing. This is dangerous.

But the way James is at the moment—it’s hard to imagine he’s actively plotting anything. Steve finishes tugging the straps open, then liberates James from his whole harness. James hisses, then moans as his arms stiffly unlock from their forced posture. Steve lets him take his time; he knows his shoulders must be killing him.

James throws him a wary glance when he’s done rearranging his limbs. Fuck, he still hasn’t quite caught his breath from Steve fucking the daylights out of him, and it just makes Steve want to go again, see just how breathless he can make him. His sweat smells so good; if it was just the two of them, Steve would go down on him for a bit, see how those piercings feel in his mouth.

“I’m keeping you here for a while,” Steve decides, then shuts off the light and pulls him close.

“Shouldn’t,” James rasps against his chest, but it’s too weak to count as a real objection.

Steve lies there, watching the ceiling, wondering if the cameras are infrared. They probably are. James is loose and motionless in his arms, still heavy with the afterglow. His breathing gradually smoothes down to silence.

Then, slowly, he starts crying.

It’s choked-off so the bugs won’t hear it, so the cameras won’t pick it up, but Steve can feel the wetness against his side, can feel James’ entire body clenching up with his sobs. Steve says nothing, does nothing. James is doing his best to hide what’s happening; Steve won’t betray him by reacting to it, by asking what’s happening, what’s wrong.

James shakes and shakes for long minutes. Eventually, the wracking tears stop; the gasping turns to sniffling.

“Done?” Steve asks when all’s quiet again.

James nods against him.

Steve turns on the light again, then slips out of bed. He picks up the toy on the floor, goes to the bathroom to wash it, then comes back to James and makes him spread his legs.

He pushes the toy back in; the lube’s all gone from it, so it doesn’t go in easy, and James’ nearly crying again by the time he’s done. When it’s back in, Steve takes James’ arm and drags him out of bed. There’s a carpet—it’s all he can do for him.

“This is your spot,” he says out loud, for the cameras. “Got it?”

James curls up on himself, settling however he can on the hard floor. Steve goes back to the bed and turns off the light again, though he knows he won’t sleep.

*

In the morning, the blank-faced servant comes back to clip the leash onto James’ collar. He leads him away walking on all fours. Steve briefly wonders what he’s gotten himself into, but it’s too late to back off now.

A fresh new tuxedo’s waiting for him on the doorstep, pressed and ironed. The bowtie and the pocket square are blood red.

*

“Mr. Grant,” Pierce salutes him at breakfast. He’s got his own table, of course, in a private corner. “Come and have a seat.”

Steve does, managing a smile.

“I trust you had a good time last night?” Pierce asks.

“Very good,” Steve says. “Though I’m sure you knew that already.”

Pierce only tilts his head in acknowledgement that he watched them on camera, then pours some coffee.

“Where’s James?” Steve asks. “Thought he’d be by your side.”

“Oh, he’s being punished.”

Steve’s fingers clench around his cup; he drinks coffee to hide his shock. “I didn’t have any complaints.”

“I know, I know. We actually had a little wager, he and I.” Pierce smiles. “Something we do a lot. He bet me you wouldn’t make him come.”

“Right,” Steve says, experiencing a whole lot of different emotions, none of them pleasant. “What do you… wager?”

“Suffering and relief.” Pierce gives him his phone. “See for yourself.”

Steve tugs the screen to him in morbid fascination.

It’s surveillance feed. James’ severely gagged, a cherry-red ball forcing his jaws apart. His arms are bound in a strappado position to a hook in the ceiling, and he’s—God. He’s riding a wooden horse. Nothing more than a square bar over trestles. His feet aren’t touching the ground; his ankles are loosely bound together. The full weight of his body’s resting on his crotch.

He knew this would happen to him when Steve made him climb to orgasm last night. Did he try to resist? Did he try not to come? Did Steve not notice? He was so preoccupied with making sure James felt good. He was so convinced James was leaning into it, was taking part in it. Did he make it all up? He remembers the crying spell, and his breath dries in his throat.

“This could seriously injure him,” Steve notes, hearing himself as though the words had been spoken by someone else.

“You’re a careful man,” Pierce says—and this time there definitely is a bit of disdain in his tone. “I noticed that you took off his harness yesterday, though you’re a few years too late—he’s already lost all feeling in his left arm, I’m afraid. Rope bondage can be so tricky.”

Steve gives him the phone back, silent.

“For what it’s worth, he can relieve himself of his own weight if it gets dangerous,” Pierce says. “All he has to do is squeeze the bar between his thighs.”

His severely burned thighs, Steve recalls. Pierce is a strategist, if nothing else.

“And you’re confident he’ll do it?” This is talking shop. It’s good. He’s not breaking his cover. “Exhaustion makes people careless.”

“James cares for himself,” Pierce says dryly. “We have an agreement—I’ll kill him when he asks. So far, he hasn’t done anything to precipitate that end.”

Steve realizes that until then, despite last night’s sobbing spell, despite James’ obvious resignation, exhaustion and wariness, he’d still been clinging to the fantasy that James was somehow here willingly—more or less willingly, earning something in exchange for his own suffering. Choosing to be there, like one chooses to work retail until something better comes along. But now he can’t delude himself anymore. James isn’t earning anything except the right to keep breathing.

Steve never imagined he’d find good-hearted people coming here. But he had, perhaps naively, expected their evil to remain far away, not where their peers could see. He thanks his own training for how steady he sounds next. “You said he’s been with you for a few years?”

“Three years,” Pierce said. “I had never trained someone from scratch before. It’s been a very rewarding journey for us both. He challenges me, and I challenge him. I like to believe he’s come to enjoy this, in his own way.”

With an immense effort, Steve remembers he’s supposed to be doing business with this man. He can’t stab him with his butter knife, much as he’d like to. And—and—it’s possible he’s lying. Pretending James’ unwilling, making those ridiculous claims about damaging and killing him, just to see how Steve will react, just to try and expose him as a vaguely moral person. It’s possible.

But Steve doesn’t really believe it.

“I’m sorry—I keep focusing on the logistics,” he says. This isn’t a good topic, he’s going to blow his cover, he should have steered the conversation away from it a while ago, but he can’t, he just can’t. “For instance, where did he come from? He must have a family, people looking for him…”

“Not him,” Pierce says with finality. “You’re right, though—even the homeless aren’t so easily snatched as people think. But I had an opportunity to buy him, just as I decided to create this little business venture, and it felt like a sign. Something to busy myself with on cold days.”

“What kind of opportunity?” Steve insists. “Was he homeless?” The thought poisons him—James, destitute and vulnerable, dragged off the streets without ceremony to be forcefully groomed into a sex object. Someone like Pierce might call that added value.

“Now, now, Mr. Grant. Leave an old man some of his secrets.” Pierce smiles. “I’ll tell you later, maybe. If you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”

Steve definitely went too far. He smiles, nods, and sits there after Pierce leaves.

He should be planning his next move, trying to think about how to get Pierce to discuss weapons with him again. But he can’t stop thinking about James suffering somewhere in the bowels of the bunker, all because he bet Steve would hurt him and Steve tried to be as kind as possible instead.

What a goddamn fool he is. He should have brutalized James or not touched him at all. Instead he's been compromising, negotiating, obvious. There is no way he can make this mission work out. He’s already lost.

Chapter Text

So things aren’t going well. But Sarah Rogers didn’t raise a quitter, and even if the threat of a massive weapons sale weren’t enough for Steve to persevere, he would keep going for James. Steve’s seen warzones and post-hurricane towns; he’s seen people go through immense grief, people who’d lost everything, but even in the midst of catastrophe, those people were together. James has no one. No one. Except, now, for Steve, but he doesn’t even know it.

Of course, Steve knows he can’t help him. And he shouldn’t, besides. Tree, meet forest: if he doesn’t try to help James, if the mission goes smoothly, Pierce’s entire operation will collapse. And then Steve will know to look for James in the rubble. He can help him later. Later. The best course of action is to leave this place unharmed with the knowledge that James exists. There’s nothing he can do now. That’s not why he’s here. That’s not what he’s trying to do.

Doing his tie, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror, he finds himself repeating these arguments to himself a lot.

*

When Steve comes down into the lounge that morning, James is there, wearing nothing but black boxer shorts, kneeling at Pierce’s feet in a booth. Seeing him sends a stab of ice through Steve’s gut; he can’t help looking him up and down to find marks—but of course there aren’t any. Strappado doesn’t leave marks, nor do wooden horses. It’s as if nothing had happened. If Steve hadn’t seen the feed the day before, he would have no idea.

He wonders about all the other things he has no idea about.

Steeling himself, he crosses the room with a nonchalant confidence he doesn’t really feel. Pierce doesn’t pay attention to him at all, chatting animatedly with a dark-haired, hawkish man sitting next to him. Steve looks at him and just knows that’s his competition. At their feet, James is the picture of obedience. Well-trained, over three years—three years of captivity. He looks so impossibly untouched, though. Obviously, Pierce makes him stay in shape, stay healthy. He won’t allow James to wither and die, not unless he asks for it. That’s the ultimate surrender, the only thing James can still withhold.  

God, but Steve wishes he weren’t still so vulnerable to James’ handsomeness. Those long lashes, curved lips, square jaw. Did Pierce kidnap him just because he was pretty? Did he tell him so as he raped him for the first time? You shouldn’t have been so pretty. This is your own fault.

“Ah, Mr. Grant,” Pierce says lightly, seeing Steve come forward. “Do sit down. Meet Mr. Rumlow.”

Steve shakes hands with Pierce’s acquaintance and sits down inside the booth, opposite them both. There is no table, just a narrow shelf running against the wall to set down their drinks, so he can see James quite clearly. James, of course, keeps his eyes on the ground.

“I was just telling Rumlow about your interest for Sokovia,” Pierce says. “Do you know, he’s fascinated by it as well?”

Great. Just great. Rumlow’s after the exact same deal Steve is. Of course, Steve had already sensed Rumlow would be in the way, but—it would’ve been so nice to be wrong.

“I guess we all have a vested interest in your business, Mr. Pierce,” Steve says neutrally.

“Of course. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” While he’s talking, Pierce pulls out a spider gag and fits it inside James’ mouth, taking care not to pin his tongue down. James lets him, perfectly obedient, only closing his eyes a bit hard when the steel ring digs into the roof of his mouth.

“Do you need that thing?” Rumlow asks brashly. “Just train him better.”

Steve’s antagonistic instincts suddenly light up. He may not be good at undercover work, but he’s good at competition. He knows he can’t let Rumlow outpace him. “Train him all you want,” he says, “you can’t ever predict when a dog will bite.”

“Well said,” Pierce answers, buckling the gag’s strap.

Steve meets Rumlow’s eyes, trying to keep his face neutral. Rumlow glares back, then reaches for James—who flinches—and grabs his hair to pull him close, making him shuffle forward hurriedly on his knees. Steve watches him pull his cock out and force it through the ring into James’ mouth.

All around the lounge, people don’t exactly watch them. They don’t pointedly ignore them, either. Pierce is a king in his kingdom; he can do as he pleases. Everyone knows what James is for. No one cares. No one’s even looking at him.

“You’ll get your turn next,” Rumlow tells Steve with a grin, his fingers buried in James’ dark hair.

“Thank you, but I’m not sure I’d fit through that ring,” Steve answers blankly.

It’s a very crude blow but he likes to imagine Sam’s reaction. Except Sam wouldn’t have any sort of reaction but horror at the wet sounds coming from James. He’s not in a harness today, hands simply bound behind his back with a piece of black ribbon. It’s somehow worse; a symbolic restraint to remind him he can’t fight back. There’s nowhere for him to run but the Arctic ocean off a thirty feet drop.

Pierce laughs, patting Rumlow’s thigh. “Play nice. This is neutral territory.”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t about to start a fight. Can’t stay mad with James’ mouth on ya,” Rumlow groans.

Pierce chuckles. “I’m sure he missed you too.”

Steve keeps his hands relaxed with an effort. He cannot afford to be tense. James doesn’t react to what’s being said or done to him; past his first moment of panic, he seems to have retreated into himself. His eyes are glassy. Rumlow didn’t put on a condom, and Steve can’t help but imagine the taste, the musky smell.

Pierce smiles his affable smile. “Grant’s very new, but I’ve taken an instant liking to him. It’s not often I get so many interesting people together. We could do a wager, the four of us.”

Another bet. That sounds like a terrible, terrible idea. “I’m all ears,” Steve says.

“How about pool?”

Rumlow lights up. “I do love it when James plays pool.”

This sounds sinister and Steve wishes he didn’t have to find out why. He also wishes he didn’t have such a good view on James, who’s beginning to drool around Rumlow’s cock.

Pierce just smiles even more. “I know. And he’s quite good, isn’t he?”

“Do you all play?” Steve asks. He’s actually pretty good at pool, so maybe—

“Only James will, Mr. Grant. We’ll make him play against a proxy. We just bet on the outcome,” Pierce says. “If he wins, he’ll join one of you for the night. If he loses, he’ll join… the other one.”

“Interesting,” Rumlow grins, still fucking into James’ mouth. “And who’s who?”

“That’s for him to choose,” Pierce smiles.

“Ah—fuck, hold on—” Rumlow pulls out, then comes all over James’ face. The last of the thick white ropes splatter across his chin, dribbling to the ground. When he’s done, he sits back, grinning. “You know the drill. Clean up your mess.”

James bends over, pulling his tongue out to lick the drops. Rumlow’s shoe casually comes down onto his neck, forcing him face-down against the floor so that the gag’s spikes dig painfully into his face.

“This never gets old.” Rumlow’s eyes flick up to Pierce. “You’re not killing him any time soon, are you?”

“He hasn’t asked me yet. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Wonder what the hell he’s waiting for, at this point, yeah.” Rumlow shifts his foot to let James lick the come off his shoes. “Look at him. Soldiering on.”

Pierce says mildly, “Maybe he’s come to like this life after all.”

“See, me, I’d rather die before I got myself into any of that shit. But hey,” Rumlow shrugs, “guess some people just don’t value dignity as much as we do.”

Steve wants to kill them both. He wants to tell Rumlow that it’s easy to talk, that if it really were him in that position, then he’d see—but it’s idiotic. This isn’t a playground. This isn’t even a rational debate. This is just part of James’ debasement; casually discussing the ways he’s brought this situation on himself, over his head as if he were not there, while he’s licking up Rumlow’s come off his shoes.

“Hope you get another few good years out of him.” Rumlow gets his foot away, then shoves James in the chest, making him topple backwards against Steve’s legs. “Here, Grant, since you’re so kind-hearted, you can take his gag out. Sorry if it’s a little sticky.”

Steve does, without a word. He wishes he could soothe James in some way—make him know he’s on his side, he’s only pretending—but he’s careful to keep his movements efficient and neutral, unbuckling the gag and slipping it out of his mouth. He’s got to keep moving forward and sort out his values later. Pierce is already clearly onto him. If Steve allows his morality to hinder him one more time, he’s doomed.

“Mr. Pierce tells me you’re a bit on the soft side,” Rumlow goes on, sneering. “Got all vanilla on him. Pretty boring tape; won’t make the top five.”

“I think you and I have very different conceptions of training,” Steve says absentmindedly. He puts a hand on the back of James’ neck. “Pleasure can break a man better than pain. People get addicted to it every day.”

“Very astute,” Pierce comments, looking quite entertained by the whole back-and-forth. “I personally vouch for a mixture of both. Getting James to enjoy his training is half the fun, really.” He gives James a light kick in the ribs with the point of his shoe. “How many orgasms have you had this month, dear?”

“Nineteen, sir,” James mumbles, eyes down as always when he talks to Pierce.

Rumlow barks laughter. “Well, no wonder he’s not bailing out.”

Steve’s hand tightens imperceptibly on the back of James’ neck; then he lets go. This is bait. He has to let go.

“So,” Pierce says. “James. I trust you were able to follow our conversation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So? If you win at pool, who do you want to spend the night with?”

Pierce is a goddamn mastermind, Steve thinks with reluctant appreciation. By picking one of them, James will reveal not only a weakness of his, but also a weakness of Steve or Rumlow; whoever he likes best will be the one Pierce likes least.

James works his jaw, then rasps, “Rumlow.”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. Is it a bluff? Is it a double-bluff? James has been playing this game for a very long time.

“Very well,” Pierce says, then looks over his shoulder and calls, “Rollins, my boy! You’re quite good at billiards, aren’t you?”

*

Cue in hand, James proves indeed excellent at pool. He’s focused, with a grim expression, and he always shoots with perfect accuracy. When he manages to shoot.

The problem is that he often digs his cue into the felt, because his left hand—the one he orients the cue with—isn’t steady. Steve remembers what Pierce said; James has nerve damage from staying too long in restraints.

He clenches his right fist on his knees, but says nothing and keeps watching, his other hand masking the bottom half of his face, as if in thought. Really, he’d rather hide his expression as much as he can, because he’s never been excellent at controlling his face. James, meanwhile, is the picture of neutrality. He is ostensibly not looking at anyone, eyes burning and focused on his goal. He doesn’t crow or gloat whenever he sinks a ball; just moves off the table and waits for Rollins to take his shot. Steve can’t even comprehend how anyone could still be this determined—this sane—after three years of captivity and constant rape.

James fails another shot; the cue digs into the green felt and nearly rips it.

Rumlow’s smiling. “Fucker’s still pretty good.”

“Which means you’ll get him for the night,” Steve makes himself say.

“Nah, won’t last. But it’s okay, I’m still jet-lagged anyway.” He leans back into his seat. “Next night will do just fine.”

Steve frowns. “Why are you so certain he’ll lose?”

“He strikes true ‘cause he’s a goddamn sniper, but Rollins’s good too and never hits the felt. Statistically, he can’t lose.” Rumlow grins. “But poor James knows he’d be the best, if not for his fucked-up arm, so he can’t help trying. That’s hubris for you.”

“It’s why I must constantly remind him of his limitations,” Pierce says, coming back with a drink to sit with them. “It’s like I said yesterday, Grant. You have to teach him his place over and over again.”

“Rumlow tells me he’s a sniper?” Steve asks.

Rumlow blanches when Pierce glances at him. Oh, he wasn’t supposed to say that. Point to Steve.

Pierce stares for what feels like a very long time, then looks away. “He was, yes.”

“How could you hold an American sniper captive and not have anyone notice?” Steve asks in what he hopes is a mildly impressed voice.

“He’s listed as KIA,” Pierce admits reluctantly. “Nobody’s looking for him.”

Steve’s mind’s running full time. James, James, an American sniper named James. Listed as KIA. A horrible taste rises in the back of his throat. He can’t quite put his finger on it just yet, but he feels like—he feels like maybe—

A laugh snaps him out of his thoughts. It’s Rollins. While they were talking, James’ missed another shot—that’s three total; he’s four numbers behind. Rollins only has to shoot the 8-ball and he’s won the game.

It’s not an easy shot. They all watch. James’ rigid, holding white-knuckled onto his cue. Rollins takes his sweet time, lining up, shifting his position exaggeratedly, moving his cue back-and-forth. Then he shoots—and sinks it.

James whips around and, without hesitation, slams his cue across Rollins’ face so hard he breaks it in half.

Rollins squawks and falls over; Pierce doesn’t move. Rumlow’s already up, swearing.

“Mr. Grant, better go give him a hand,” Pierce says coolly, sipping his drink.

Rumlow’s already reached James; Steve springs to his feet with commendable speed—only he has to force himself to restrain James instead of shoving Rumlow away from him. They grab his arms and pull them in his back, then bend him over the pool table. James isn’t even really struggling: he tries a few times, then stops, breathing hard. He clearly didn’t expect to achieve anything. He just wanted to get back at Rollins.

“Fucker nearly broke my nose,” Rollins moans, getting back up with Rumlow’s help. “M’gonna fucking kill him…”

“You see, Rumlow, Grant had a point about dogs lashing out,” Pierce says genially.

Steve wishes he hadn’t said that. He’s got his hand on the back of James’ neck, pinning him against the green felt. His dark hair has swept over his face; it’s moving in time with his quick breaths.

“Time to make my own point about training, then,” Rumlow growls.

James stops breathing. He lifts his head, hair moving away from his face, wide frightened eyes going to Pierce in a silent plea.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pierce says paternally. “You knew there’d be consequences.”

Rollins is already bringing some rope, strapping James’ ankles to the pool table legs. James struggles once again for dignity’s sake, but Steve has him pinned. Rumlow flicks a knife open and cuts James’ underwear off him.

“So you like broken cues, huh?” Rollins says, coming close to him.

James glares, despite his obvious fear; it’s all he can do.

“See, I’m being nice,” Rollins says, holding up the bottom half of the cue. “Opening you up.”

He forces the cue into James’ ass—not the broken end, thank God, but the wide base, which isn’t much better. James muffles a cry of pain: he turns his face into the green felt to hide his scowl. Steve can feel his twitches of pain, his shoulders tensing. He presses down harder so he won’t just let him go.

“All right, all right, enough already,” Rumlow says after a minute of rough thrusting, grabbing the cue out of Rollins’ hand to pull it out. “This isn’t the point. Give me a ball.”

Rollins does, grinning.

Oh God, Steve thinks, faintly.

“It won’t ever go in,” he says, out loud.

“You’d be surprised,” says Pierce, who appears to be having a wonderful time.

“There’s five balls left,” Rumlow calls to Pierce. “If we’re counting the white one.”

“Oh, we absolutely are,” Pierce says, settling in comfortably.

The ball’s pressed to James’ hole. Steve can almost feel it, himself—hard and heavy, round and cold. And smooth. And big, so fucking big. Despite himself, he presses him down harder, because he’s so tense, because he wants to express how much he isn’t part of this, except he is, he is, he’s the one holding him down.

James resists, tears of anger and humiliation rolling down his cheeks. Rumlow just presses the ball harder against his rim. James fights it some more, clenches up, but one thing’s got to give and it won’t be the pool ball. Eventually, James’ rim stretches, wider, wider, until it finally absorbs the round smooth object inside him. He makes a choked-up noise.

“That’s one,” Rumlow says. “Wonder if you’ll still be able to count to five by the time we’re done.”

“Brace him down, Grant,” Rollins says, and uses the cue to push the ball further inside James, tearing out ragged moans out of him. He’s now too busy trying to process his torture to actively try and move away, which is a good thing because Steve would fucking let him.

They start working on another one. Somehow, it looks even bigger, literally forcing him apart. James goes rigid with pain as the ball stretches him, then limp again after it’s gone in. His ass can’t close all the way anymore. Rumlow slips his hand under his stomach to massage it.

“Fuck, you can feel them in there. Almost hear ‘em clacking.”

James lets out a sob.

“Stop fucking whining,” Rumlow says as he works the third ball in, despite James’ gasps of pain. “You’re reaping what you sowed.”

“I mean, they’re big,” Rollins says, all good humor returned, passing him the fourth one. “What, two and a half inches wide? Can you imagine that stacking up inside you?”

Steve distantly thinks he should be thankful he’s turning his back to Pierce, because if the man could see his face right now, he would know. At first Steve thinks the fourth ball can’t ever go in. James struggles again, ankles tugging against the ropes, and jerks against Steve’s hands pinning him down. Steve just thought he’d let him go if he started struggling again, but now he finds himself pressing down harder, even breathing, “Stay still. Stay still.”

When the ball’s finally forced into him, James can’t seem to breathe for a while. He lies there, eyes wide, haphazard sounds coming out of his mouth. He breaks when the fifth one—the white one—approaches.

“No,” he says, “no more, no more, please.”

“Bit too late for that, huh?” Rollins comments.

“I can’t, I can’t—please—” He’s looking at Pierce, “Please, I mean it, I—I’m going to burst—”

“It’s just one more,” Rumlow says, and starts pushing it in.

Steve strains and thinks, at least you’re not the one doing it to him, at least you’re keeping him from fighting back, from getting into bigger trouble, at least—he’s going to give him bruises, he’s holding him down so hard. For the longest time, it looks like the ball just cannot physically go in. James arches, grits his teeth, and screams when it finally pops in; then he goes limp, tears sliding down his face.

“Hey,” Rumlow says, pinching his burned inner thighs, making him yell again. “You don’t get to pass out.”

Pierce gets up and walks over to the pool table. Steve hurriedly lets go and steps away, giving him room. That way Pierce can’t see his face. He can still feel James’ warmth on his hands.

“What do you say, James?” Pierce asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” James breathes faintly, eyes wide and unseeing. “Please. Please.”

“I ought to make you take all of them,” Pierce says.

James doesn’t beg at that. He knows—they all know—it would kill him. Pierce sighs as if to acknowledge he doesn’t want to do that yet. “I guess five is an appropriate punishment this time.”

“Please,” James manages again, slurred.

“Almost done,” Pierce says coldly, and turns away.

Rumlow grins wider. “My favorite part.”

Rollins unties his ankles. Rumlow twists James’ arms behind his back and binds his hands again. Nobody asks Steve to step in again; James is limp, unresisting. Then Rumlow takes a hold of his hair and pulls him up to his feet.

“Come give us a show,” he says, and drags him to the middle of the lounge.

Some more of Pierce’s clients had come around to observe James’ punishment; even more are paying attention, now, seated there with their drinks and snacks, watching with a smile. Some have moved away with visible scowls—not everyone likes that kind of thing. But the worst they’ll do is leave the room. Pierce likes what he likes.

“Crouch,” Rumlow says.

James crouches; with his arms bound, it’s hard for him to keep his balance, even with Rumlow’s painful grip on his hair. His cock and ball piercings are gleaming under the light.

 “Go on, push ‘em out. We’re all watching.”

James starts straining.

Steve reaches behind himself and finds the pool table to lean on. It’s somehow worse to watch than when the balls went in. They had a hard time going in; James is having an even harder time pushing them out. Gravity’s on his side, though; eventually the white ball appears, smooth and shining like an egg. His audience chuckles, someone wolf-whistles. James lets out a broken noise of effort and pushes it out fully. It bounces off the floor and rolls away.

He pants in relief, winces when Rumlow jerks his head straight again.

“Next,” Rumlow says. “Don’t lose your fucking balance. That’s it—good dog.”

Tears of effort—or maybe humiliation—stream down James’ face. He expels a second ball, which seems to exhaust him. The third one takes much longer to come out; his audience starts encouraging him, calling out Go on! and You can do it! Rumlow’s constantly pestering him to keep his posture. His piercings are weighing his cock down.

The third ball eventually falls out; the fourth one is surprisingly close behind, James managing with a rush of intense effort.

“Last one will take ages,” Pierce comments, and he’s right.

It’s so far up into James’ body it takes nearly ten minutes of abdominal clenching, with frequent pauses and bouts of tears. His audience’s heckling him constantly, jeers and insults now. He’s working with all he has, can’t stop for a minute or he obviously loses his progress. His body’s gleaming with sweat, his abs in stark relief, his thighs and ass clenched taut. Steve wishes he could stop looking.

By the time it starts to push out of him, he’s drenched and shaking with muscular exhaustion. When it finally falls out, the small crowd explodes in applause, whistles and cheers.

Rumlow lets go of his hair and James crumples to the ground.

“Why offer him wagers at all?” Steve asks. He doesn’t even feel horrified, really. He doesn’t feel much of anything right now. Maybe that’s a mercy. “Why find specific reasons to hurt him?”

“Mr. Grant, you ask all the right questions.” Pierce smiles at him, pulling him back to their booth. “The wagers give him hope. Constant little stabs of hope to keep his spirit up. They keep him going, they allow him to lie to himself—pretend he’s got some amount of control over his situation. I do try to keep him sane. He will last longer that way.”

They sit down together. On the other side of the room, James has gotten a hold of himself; he painfully crawls over to Pierce despite his bound wrists. Pierce just watches him come. When he’s there, James rests his face against Pierce’s thigh and doesn’t move, kneeling between his legs, like he was before this all started.

“Another trick I taught him that stuck,” Pierce says. “Always come back to your master. Oh, James...” He pets his hair. “You do understand why this is necessary, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” James mumbles blankly.

“You see, Mr. Grant,” Pierce says without looking up, “we don’t always realize how hard it is to enslave a man like James. He wasn’t born in this life. He had a career. He was going to get discharged eventually, find a good woman to marry, maybe have children. Now he’s got to accept that all of that is gone. He’s owned. No one ever warned him about that possibility; nothing’s ever prepared him for it. It’s such a stretch for the mind. Even now, still, at times. Right, James?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s so weak and slurred Steve can barely make out the words.

“There are days he simply can’t quite believe that’s all there is anymore. Oh, he gets desperate. He gets stupid. But obedience can always be beaten back into him. And every time it sinks in a bit further.”

Steve says nothing. James doesn’t look desperate right now; he looks utterly defeated.

“I know it’s hard for him,” Pierce says, still petting him. “I try to be understanding. Which is I give him reminders of his status, as much as I can. Say—do you still have that gag?”

Steve blinks, then says, “Yes.”

“Please put it on him.”

Steve takes out the spider-gag he’d automatically pocketed and leans forward to get James to straighten up. His jaw is slack; tears silently roll down his face while he accepts the gag. Pierce pulls his cock out, then says, “Open.”

James pulls his tongue out. Pierce makes him wait like a dog for a treat, then says, “Very good,” and lets James take his cock into his mouth. It’s soft, so he has to work his tongue to take it wholly in.

“I can’t quite achieve an erection anymore,” Pierce says, “which is why I like good people such as you to give James a bit of a workout. But there are things I still enjoy.”

James’ kneeling there, motionless. He’s not even expected to suck Pierce’s cock. He’s only there to keep it warm.

“Have a drink with me, Mr. Grant,” Pierce says.

And Steve does. What else can he do?

*

Maybe Steve’s mission could be going worse, but at this point it’s hard to imagine how, he thinks bitterly that night. The pool game cemented what he feared: James has become the object of Steve’s and Rumlow’s competition for Pierce’s favor.

By putting him through such creative, humiliating torture, Rumlow’s marked a lot of points. But he revealed James’ past to Steve, and Pierce didn’t appreciate that one bit, which means Steve’s still in the race, but—he’s losing. Just holding down James wasn’t enough; only the bare minimum. And he’s going to keep losing, because he’s queasy at the mere thought of touching James again. He knows he can’t ever bring himself to hurt him, even to save millions of lives from a fiery death.

Yet he’s won another night with him. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He dreads the knock on the door. It seems obvious, in retrospect, that deep down James knew he’d lose; at least he made it so he wouldn’t have to spend the night with Rumlow. But dreading it does nothing to keep it from happening.

When Steve opens the door—this time still wearing his suit—James is there, leashed and on all fours, plugged up again—a much bigger plug, because he got so widely stretched earlier. The usual servant clips off the leash, then walks away.

Steve closes the door, then gets James to stand up and takes him to the bathroom again. This time, he undresses first before getting into the stall with him. He closes the stall, opens the water, then looks at James. Really looks at him.

The memory bubbles up to the surface of his mind like it was just waiting to be called on.

“Barnes?” he tries.

It takes several seconds for James to hear him. Slowly, he looks up. Slowly, he turns very pale.

“What,” he manages at last.

“You were a sniper in the 107^th,” Steve says, reeling with the force of his own memory. “Right? The commandos.”

James’s staring at him like he’s seen a ghost. “Who… How…”

They weren’t in the same unit, but Steve knew of him. Everyone liked James Barnes. He was cocky and funny and charming. But there was also a rumor that he was going to quit the black-ops because he couldn’t stand his job anymore. Only, the 107^th left on one last mission—to bust a slavery ring, Steve remembers with an icy feeling. And they never came back.

It took him such a long time to recognize him. You don’t ever expect to meet a dead man again; certainly not a haunted, ragged version of him with shadows in his eyes.

“Are the others…?” Steve asks. “Your squad…”

“Dead, they’re—they’re all dead.” James looks like he’s going to throw up. “Are you… Is this…”

“I’m undercover,” Steve says. “I’m here on a mission.”

He’s just signed his own death warrant if James decides to turn him over for a few easier days in his wretched life. But Steve can’t let this man believe he’s going to torture him any further today. This is where he draws the line, and it’s such a relief to finally make a stand.

James’ knees suddenly give out; it’s all Steve can do to catch him, prop him up. James breathes hard against his shoulder, like he’s going to start sobbing again, but he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you—there were no good choices to make, I—”

“You gotta—” James swallows convulsively, stumbling over his own shock in his hurry to warn him, “you gotta get out of here. If they find you out—you’re done. You’ll never see the sun again. You’ll be turned into—like me. You don’t know—they have training centers—”

“Can’t do that,” Steve answers. “I gotta try.”

James looks up at him, eyes wide. “Try,” he says. “Try what?”

“I’m with SHIELD,” Steve says. “I’m here to take them all down. If I can just get Pierce to sell to me, he’s finished. That’s a guarantee.”

James stares at him for a long minute, then abruptly says: “But you’re losing. Against Rumlow. You’re losing.”

“I know.”

“You know what you have to do—”

“Yes, Pierce made it clear. But I won’t.” Steve shakes his head. “Not for the world.”

It’s the first time he’s said that and meant it literally.

James’ gaze changes, becomes somehow more desperate. There’s a crazed flame in his eyes now: after a moment of confusion, Steve suddenly recognizes it as hope.

“But you have to,” James says. “You have to. Don’t you see? I’m going to die here anyway. Don’t,” he says when Steve opens his mouth. “There’s nothing you can say. I’ve known it for a while now. But if you keep hesitating—” He’s begging now. “Then I’ll die for nothing.”

Chapter Text

Steve opens his mouth to say something—he doesn’t know what; probably something terminally idiotic, like promising James that he’s not actually going to die here, that Steve will pull him out, that this nightmare will end. That he will see the sun again, if only just once.

As if in answer, the lights go out.

Steve looks up on instinct. The bulbs’ dying light stay printed on his retina for a few moment, then they’re in total darkness.

“What…”

“Fuck,” James says. “We have to get out of the shower right now.”

Steve shuts the water, then helps James out. “What’s going on?”

“The island’s powered by water turbines,” James explains. Steve hears him lean against the tile wall. “When there’s a storm outside they sometimes stop working. You don’t want to be in the shower when Arctic water’s not heated anymore.”

Steve wonders how he knows—but then he remembers the look on James’s face the first time Steve pushed him into the shower, his flinch. Anything here can be used to torture him.

He opens the door to the bedroom, which isn’t entirely dark; there are fluorescent bands along the ceiling, diffusing a pale white light. But the red blinking eyes of the cameras are dead. When Steve realizes he won’t have to choose between James and his mission right away—when he realizes he won’t have to perform for Pierce a second time—his relief nearly makes him collapse.

From behind him, James presumably sees the line of his shoulders slump, because he says tiredly, “That’s not gonna last.”

As if summoned by his words, someone knocks on the door. Steve’s head snaps up. “Who is it?”

He has a pretty clear idea already, though—and of course it’s Pierce who opens the door, lighting his way with a massive flashlight. “Just wanted to bring you one,” he says genially, handing one over to Steve.

“Oh. Thank you.” It’s a heavy-duty thing; Steve feels the weight of it in his hand. He could bash in Pierce’s head right now, make sure at least James will never be hurt again on his orders, whatever else happens to him.

In the dark, Pierce’s eyes look small and black like a rat’s. “I’m very sorry for this incident. At least it happened at night. When everybody’s sleeping.”

“Right,” Steve says. He wasn’t supposed to be sleeping; he was supposed to provide entertainment, and they’re both keenly aware of it.

“Everything all right with James?” Pierce asks. “This situation might be a bit unsafe for you. Do you want me to take him back for the night?”

Steve shakes his head. “I can get him to behave.”

Pierce looks at him for a moment.

“You’ll understand that I’m hoping for a little more than that,” he says eventually.

Steve realizes with abrupt clarity that he must not be the first to seem reluctant to take part in Pierce’s games. How could he be, really? Not everybody will engage in casual rape even among arms dealers. Some have probably tried before, against their tastes—needing Pierce’s favor—only to back off in the end, faced with too much depravity even by their skewed standards. Hell, Pierce told Steve outright he was glad to have new blood. He pointedly commented on Rumlow having enjoyed James before; even the pool torture was regarded as old news. Maybe Steve isn’t so far behind in the race as he thought.

But Pierce just made it clear that it’s double or nothing now. Steve—who’s always been pretty responsive to that kind of challenge, regardless of circumstances—finds it suddenly easy to commit to his character; a man who wrinkles his nose at the violence James endures, not because he reproves it, but because it’s—“Commonplace,” he says.

Pierce looks authentically surprised. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed wholly enthusiastic so far. I did enjoy your candle contraption. But Rumlow’s pool stunt just felt overly complicated for very common results.”

“Really,” Pierce says. “And you could be more creative?”

The genuine interest in his voice makes Steve’s skin crawl. This, he thinks, is the worst kind of evil: the one that’s bored. He thanks the obscurity in the room for making it easier to hide his expression, and shrugs. “I wouldn’t want to go too far, Mr. Pierce. This is your property.”

“I think we’ve established that you can’t possibly go too far. James is already damaged, and I don’t expect him to last forever.” Pierce smiles. “So I’ll take you at your word. The storm’s not too big; the guests arriving in the afternoon radioed in to say they wouldn’t even need to disrupt their flight plan. Meaning the lights should be back on in the morning.”

“Oh, good.”

“So tomorrow will be a nice time to make a decision.”

“A decision,” Steve repeats.

“You have registered your banking coordinates into the server on arrival, I believe, yes? So on my end, decisions are easy as pressing a button.”

Yes. Pierce is bored. And Pierce will give anything to get things moving—including sealing the weapons deal much, much faster than Steve expected. And after all, why wouldn’t he? This is routine for him. He’s got more guests coming in every two days. The money obviously doesn’t even register anymore. What he truly craves is the possibility of entertainment.

Steve nods. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.”

Pierce arches a playful eyebrow. “Can’t wait, Mr. Grant.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Steve counts thirty seconds, then opens it again to make sure there’s no one in the hallway; his flashlight swipes over the walls, the plush carpet. He closes the door again and goes back to James, who’s stayed in the bathroom.

“Did you hear?” Steve asks.

James nods.

“So. Looks we’re go for tomorrow.”

James looks at him briefly, then away. In the lamplight, his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Yes,” Steve answers—because, regrettably, he didn’t lie to Pierce. One of the thoughts that stuck after watching Rumlow’s pool stunt was that there were much easier ways to give one’s sub a hard time without risking an internal injury. “Yes. I think so.” He swallows. “But I…”

James just looks at him. Steve’s words wither and die.

“I… I’ll do it,” he finishes.

In answer, James graces him with the faintest smile. “Don’t feel bad. You’re the one who has to do it. I’ve got the easy job.”

Steve wants to laugh, or maybe cry. He wants to understand how James can make jokes about this. About anything at all anymore, really. “Well, for tonight, how do you feel about sleeping in an actual bed for once?”

“You know,” James says softly. “That does sound like heaven.”

*

They do try to sleep. Or at least they pretend. Steve keeps thinking about the storm outside; it’s big enough to disrupt generators and yet they can hardly hear a thing. It makes him wonder just how thick the walls really are. How impregnable the fort. He doesn’t think he’s going to sleep at all.

After nearly an hour, Steve feels James move. Looking up, he sees his faint silhouette in the obscurity edging out of the bed. Thinking he’s going to the bathroom, he asks, “Do you want the flashlight?”

James jumps so violently he almost falls off, then exhales. “Fuck. I was hoping you really were asleep.”

Steve sits up, already frowning. “What is it?”

“I—” James says nothing for a while. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m going to sleep on the floor.”

“Is it because I’m in bed with you? I can take the chair—”

“It’s not…” He lets out a sad little laugh. “It’s because of the bed. I’m not allowed. It makes me feel like—”

He trails off, but Steve got it. He remembers the trouble he had, unlearning some of his army behaviors. And those hadn’t been enforced through torture.

“Can I get down there with you?” Steve asks.

James stares at him, just a shadow in the dark. “What?”

Steve clicks on the flashlight again. “We can take the blankets and the pillows. Put them on the floor. Here, look.”

Minutes later, he’s rearranged a bedding on the carpet at the foot of the bed. It’s significantly less comfortable, but they should be warm enough, and he’s certainly slept on worse. James, still sitting on the side of the bed, looks bemused.

“C’mon,” Steve says, sitting down. “It works.”

Slowly, James get up, then slips under the covers again. He does look more relaxed all of a sudden; Steve can see his body go limp with fatigue. He turns off the flashlight and asks, “Good?”

“Yeah,” James rasps.

“I can still go sleep on the chair if you’d rather I—”

“No.” He swallows audibly. “Just lie down.”

Steve does. They stay silent for a little while.

“Were you in black-ops too?” James asks.

His voice is slower, quieter. Absurdly, Steve thinks of a sleepover. He actually can hear the ocean in the silence, now that he’s paying attention; the less mundane equivalent of a fridge in an empty apartment. A deep distant murmur on the other side of thick cold stone.

Steve exhales. “Yeah. I was. In, uh, Wilson’s unit.”

“I remember him. Riley’s husband.”

“Yeah.” Steve remembers Riley, too. There weren’t a lot of queer guys out in black-ops. They tended to—if not band together—gravitate at a steady distance from each other. “You were in Riley’s squad, right? I remember. The guys called you Bucky.”

A shaky laugh. “Yeah. Don’t think anybody ever called me James before I got here.”

It’s such a freak coincidence for he and James to meet again here, at the end of the world. Except it’s not a coincidence at all, really. At the time, their teams were on the field fighting people Pierce had armed. In the end they both found their way to him, through wildly different paths.

“How are they doing?” James sounds starved all of a sudden. “Tell me—if you can, I mean, I wouldn’t wanna dredge up bad—”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “Riley’s dead.”

James absorbs it. “And Sam?”

“Mourned for a long while. Don’t think he’ll ever stop. But he’s okay now, really. Retired from service, got a good life. We’re still friends.” Steve shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help himself. “How did you end up—?”

“They blew up our jeeps,” James says. He actually sounds desperate to tell the story; maybe he was never able to tell it before. “Only I got ejected from mine first, didn’t burn up like the others.” He swallows. “They auction off KIA soldiers. You know? In slave rings. Because no one’s looking for dead guys.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He knows now.

“It wasn’t just me. They grabbed a few other guys from other units—French, Iraqi, German, Moroccan... We were transported to a bank vault and they locked us down there for a month and they—” James stops. Takes a few shuddery breaths. “I’m not sure anyone else came out alive.”

Steve says nothing. He keeps thinking about the commemorating plaque in the lobby of SHIELD’s building. He can see it clearly now; even on that one James was marked down as Bucky Barnes. That’s probably why he didn’t make the connection right away.

“They kept telling me it was—preliminary training. And then they brought me to Pierce. I think he really liked the thought of—of having—someone who’d been opposing him. The first few weeks he just punished me for that. He called it penitence.”

“How did you survive that?” Steve can’t help but ask. “If you’d already been through a month of—of…”

“Oh, he didn’t hurt me more,” James says tiredly. “Sort of. Put me in a little concrete room. No windows, so small I couldn’t sit up or lie down. And he just left me there for… I don’t actually know how long. I think it was longer than a month this time. But for all I know, maybe it was just—two weeks. One week. Fuck.” He exhales. “I went insane. I mean really insane. I guess that was the point. I would have done anything to get out of there. Anything. When he finally pulled me out I was so—” A bitter little laugh. “So ready to learn.”

Another silence.

“They broke me,” James says.

“You survived, Bucky,” Steve answers quietly.

The nickname makes his face twitch; the emotion’s gone quick, too quick to be recognized. “I tell myself that it’s spite. That I need to strike back first. Just once. Just one time.” He sounds so exhausted. “But I think I’m just still scared to die.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, but maybe just listening’s enough.

“I’m glad you’re here,” James says suddenly, voice shaking. “I’m glad you knew me. Do what you have to do tomorrow. I need you to get out of here. I need you to carry at least my name out of this place. At least my name.”

Steve doesn’t want to talk about tomorrow, and he wants to talk about leaving James behind even less. “Didn’t anybody else recognize you in three years? So many people come here…”

“Senator Stern did,” James says. “I’d met him between my tours. Even decorated me once. He had me for the night and told Pierce he’d recognized me in the morning.”

“Oh,” Steve says. Stern notoriously and spectacularly died in a helicopter accident coming back from Iceland. It’s actually how Steve’s team started to seriously investigate the fortress of Hydra. “I see.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence.

“Hey, um,” James asks. For the first time since they’ve started telling the truth to each other, he sounds hesitant, wary. “What’s… what’s your name?”

“Sorry. It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” James mumbles. His voice shakes again when he says, “Thanks. For listening.”

Steve’s throat dries. “Tomorrow…” he begins.

“You have to do it.”

“I know. I will. I promise.” Steve hesitates. “Do you want to know what I’m going to—”

James jerkily shakes his head. “No. Makes it worse. Don’t tell me.”

“It won’t injure you.”

James rolls to the side and presses his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me,” he repeats.

Surprised, Steve doesn’t dare to move at first; then he puts his arm around James. The tentative embrace slowly turns tighter, tighter, until Steve’s holding him as tight as he can, wishing he could heal him that way, just give him enough to erase everything that’s been done to him.

James looks up. Steve can feel his breath on his lips when he says, “Can I,” and then he just kisses him, short and clumsy. “Sorry. It’s just—can we pretend—”

It doesn’t take more for Steve to roll him in the covers and kiss back. This, he can do. A rehearsal without the sharpness of an audience. Just the two of them encased in the muffled rumbling of the ocean. He kisses James even deeper, even gentler than he did the night before; James surrenders completely to him, and it feels, in every line of his body against Steve, like the deepest relief of all.

“I want to suck you off,” Steve says in his ear. “Bucky. Tell me I can suck you off.”

“Even with the piercings?”

The piercings drive Steve fucking crazy, but he’d actually rather die than admit it to James. He’s walked the tightrope of his own morality much too often in the past forty-eight hours. He just wants something uncomplicated. He just wants to do something for James, instead of something to James. He wants—well, it’s like James said. He wants to pretend.

“Fuck,” James exhales between kisses, as Steve kisses him again and again. “Yes. Okay. Yes...”

This time around, he obviously hasn’t been fed Viagra; maybe because Pierce was disappointed in Steve’s performance the night before. Steve doesn’t mind at all. He loves working for it. He takes all the time they need, slowly but surely bringing James to full mast in his mouth. When he tongues the ring jutting out of James’ cockhead, he hears a moan that goes straight to his own cock. But he doesn’t really want to come. He needs to be pent-up for what he’s going to do tomorrow. He tries not to think about it, but of course in the end it’s all he thinks about.

When James comes down his throat, Steve swallows it all, thinking despite himself I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

*

The next morning, the blank-faced servant comes in with the leash and leads James away, plugged again, on all fours again. It’s more difficult than Steve ever imagined to let him go. He can’t even imagine what James is feeling, going back to Pierce after fleetingly getting to feel like a person again. Remembering that the nightmare never ended. Maybe they shouldn’t have slept together. Maybe it just made the morning harder on them both.  

An hour later, the lights come back on and find Steve in his proper place—in bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want the cameras to capture their little blanket fort.

He slowly grows calmer and calmer. Like the last few moments before going on the battlefield. Not being able to communicate with Natasha and Sam is actually a relief now. He knows they’d tell him to focus on the mission and forget about James. In a way, that’s what he’s doing. Except it’s also the entire opposite of what he’s doing.

Before leaving his room, he grabs a condom from the bowl and slips it in his suit’s back pocket.

*

“So,” Pierce says. “I believe you owe me a little demonstration.”

He’s sitting in his usual booth, looking positively cheerful, while Rumlow sits grimly across from him. James isn’t there yet. If Steve fails to satisfy Pierce today, it will be Rumlow’s turn to seize his chance, and Steve doesn’t even want to imagine what he might do to James—how he might try to outperform Steve. That, if nothing else, is a good reason not to hold back.

“I do,” Steve says. “Where’s James?”

“He’ll be there in a bit. He’s getting his morning enema.”

“Of course,” Steve says. “Well—since we’re waiting, I’m going to make myself a cocktail first, if you don’t mind.”

Rumlow glowers. Pierce smiles. “Of course. The bar is all yours.”

And it’s true; even the staff’s gone. The entire lounge has been cleared for the unspoken final step of their competition. Among other things, the cocktail is a great excuse not to stand around chatting with Pierce and Rumlow.

As Steve walks behind the bar, James is led into the room. He’s leashed and on all fours again, just like he was when he was taken away from Steve that morning, but there’s moisture darkening his underwear. Some of it is dripping down his thigh. He has been given an enema, maybe several. He looks drawn and miserable.

Steve looks away again, just focuses on making his cocktail. It’s a really fancy bar. There’s an entire rainbow of liquor bottles, of course, but also fresh produce—limes, cucumbers, coconuts, hot peppers, tomatoes. Along with little cocktail umbrellas, ribbons and glitter sugar. It’s so absurd he might laugh, except he’s not sure he could laugh to save his life right now. He was a bartender in another life—junior year, more precisely—and while he was never very good at it, it’s easy enough mixing what he needs.

“What should we do with James?” Pierce asks, obviously amused by Steve’s pointed aloofness.

“Nothing, I got it,” Steve answers over his shoulder. “I told you, it’s not very elaborate. Just get him nude.”

He doesn’t look to see who takes James’ underwear off. He finishes mixing his cocktail, pours it into a glass and wraps a length of ribbon around the stem. Coming back towards Pierce and Rumlow, he snags James’ collar as he walks past him, forcing him to his feet. His cock piercings glint in the warm light.

“There,” he says, pushing him in front of a table. “On your back, spread your legs.”

James obeys, climbing onto the table without looking at anyone. Steve is half-hard; his mind is empty. He’s just focusing on what he has to do next.

“You’re gonna drink all the while?” Rumlow asks sullenly.

“It’s a Bloody Mary.” He sets it down, then pulls off the ribbon. After which he grabs James’ cock and knots the ribbon around his cockhead ring.

That gets Pierce’s attention so suddenly the back of Steve’s neck prickles; in the corner of his eye, he can see him sit up. Rumlow’s crossed his arms, glaring more than ever. Steve brings the end of the ribbon into James’ mouth; he cut more than what he needed in terms of length, so he has no problem pushing the other end down his throat, behind his molars.

“You bite down hard,” he says. “And you don’t let go.”

James meets his eye for a fraction of a second, then nods—which makes him wince; he just pulled painfully at his piercings.

“Don’t you need a gag?” Rumlow snorts. “Since you’re so big on that.”

Steve allows himself to sigh. “No, Brock, that’s not really the idea here.” He takes off his jacket. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s no need to verbally expose one’s theory on slave training. No offense, Mr. Pierce.”

“None taken,” Pierce graciously answers.

“What you want,” Steve says, picking up his glass and taking a short sip, “is to reach the subconscious.” He walks around the table; James follows him with anxious eyes. His fear looks absolutely genuine—and why wouldn’t it be? “Now, if James starts struggling, he’ll hurt himself bad. If he can’t stay still, he’ll hurt himself bad. That’s on him.” He glances at Pierce. “You said you wanted him to enjoy his training, Mr. Pierce. Me, I want him to train himself. That way is guaranteed to stick.”

“That’s conditioning Pavlov would applaud,” Pierce concedes. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But right now staying still doesn’t look too difficult for him.”

“Which is why we’ll make it so.” Steve dips two fingers into his Bloody Mary, then locks eyes with James. “Remember not to move.”

James’ eyes are wide; his body is straining into immobility. Steve isn’t thinking anymore about what he’s doing. He’s just doing.

He hears Pierce make a faint noise of interest as Steve pushes his fingers up James’ ass. The next second, Rumlow snorts. “What, is that it?”

“Do you know what’s in a Bloody Mary?” Steve asks calmly, working more of it into James’ ass.

“Yeah. Fucking tomato juice.”

“Actually, for this one, I’ve used just enough tomato juice for color.” A third dip of his fingers. James twitches; his eyes screw shut. “Mostly, it’s…”

“Vodka,” Pierce says.

“That,” Steve agrees. “Plus lots of lime juice, lots of salt...”

James' eyes open again, too wide, looking around as if for an escape. He pushes back against the table on instinct, stops dead when he pulls at his piercings.

“And a lot of hot sauce,” Steve finishes, pushing his fingers up his ass one last time. The glass is still almost full, but that’s more than enough. “It’s slow-acting. I do like that.”

James is beginning to sweat, his naked body glistening under the lights. He’s clenching up, too—it seems every muscle in his body is clenching up; he obviously wants to arch, or struggle, or move, except every twitch is a stark reminder to stay still—Steve can almost feel it himself, the sharp pain in the head of his cock. He remembers the weight of that piercing on his tongue the night before, remembers coaxing James’ orgasm through it.

Steve risks a glance over his shoulder; Pierce is leaning forward, looking fascinated. James jerks suddenly, groping across the table like he wishes he could hold on to something. His stomach is heaving; he’s beginning to make noises, helpless panicked gasps.

“You really should tie him down,” Rumlow says, uncertain. “We don’t—that’s a safety rule. We always restrain him.”

“No,” Steve answers. “I told you. That’s his job.”

James’ strangled cries turn into choked-off screams; and then he’s just screaming, teeth clenched on the edge of the ribbon, feet scrabbling on the table; he keeps trying to close his legs. He’s pulling at his piercings and stopping, pulling and stopping. Tears start streaming down his face.

“I’d bet he’d like an enema now,” Rumlow sneers.

James starts speaking though gritted teeth. “Please. Please, please—”

Steve glances at Pierce. “Is that a ceasefire? I know you have an agreement.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Pierce says, sounding mildly offended. “Begging not three minutes in? He deserves to go all the way.”

James’ sobbing, shaking. It’s strange watching him twist and arch—like someone invisible’s torturing him. His spasms grow sparser over time; eventually his body goes slack, limp, wracked only by his huge, gasping sobs. His hole is red and swollen, twitching.

“And there’s surrender,” Steve says. He steps forward and spreads James’ legs again.

James lets out a trembling noise of pure terror.

“You’re gonna fuck him like this?” Rumlow asks, sounding entranced despite himself.

“Well, Mr. Pierce wanted torture. That’s the worst torture I can think of.” Steve unbuckles his belt.

He can do this, because in the end, he can do anything. He’s killed people. He will throw up later. For now he’s removed, a tactical observer calmly directing his own body on the battlefield.

James is lying still, petrified, shaking, staring at the ceiling with huge eyes. He’s trying so hard to stay still; his cockhead is an angry red, too, after he’s pulled so much at his piercings.

“A condom is mandatory for this part, of course,” Steve says. “You don’t want to find out how that feels on your end.”

“No,” James whispers. “No. Please.”

“Mr. Pierce, should I stop?” Steve asks again. He know fully well what the answer will be, but he has to ask.

“Do proceed,” Pierce says avidly. Rumlow’s leaning forward too; he’s visibly hard.

James lets out another moan of fear when Steve lines up. But he doesn’t even try to struggle, just lies there for the taking. Steve should be moving. But he’s not moving.

“Mr. Grant?” Pierce asks.

Steve blinks, then looks at him. “We were having a contest, I think.”

“Consider it won,” Pierce says immediately.

Rumlow makes an indignant noise, but doesn’t actually say anything. He’s so visibly worked up he’s sweated through his shirt. Steve is still looking at Pierce. “Won?” he repeats. “I’m a business man, Mr. Pierce. Would you mind confirming the transaction?”

Pierce snorts. “You know how to control your audience, Mr. Grant. I’ll give you that.” He picks up a sleek tablet, touches it no more than three times. “There. It’s done. See?”

He holds it up. Steve can’t believe it, but it’s there in plain characters. The money transfer has been approved. Just like that. Steve exhales shakily. He’s done it. No matter what else happens—no matter if he dies here—he’s done it.

“Now.” Pierce’s eyes are glistening. “I’m watching.”

“Kill me,” James says.

Everyone freezes.

He’s breathing heavily, gleaming with sweat, eyes screwed shut. Steve can see his hole twitching in agony. He’s let go of the ribbon. He repeats, clearly: “Kill me.”

“No,” Steve breathes. “No, Bucky, what are you doing?”

James opens his eyes. “One time. Just once.” His voice is just a wisp of breath. “Got back at them.” His eyes close. “Thanks.”

He’s spoken too low for them to hear. But—Steve realizes as he sees shadows move on the floor—he didn’t.

He grabs his heavy chiseled glass and whips around to crash it into the side of Rumlow’s face—the rest of the cocktail explodes all over them, splatters red and angry over James’ naked body—but not quickly enough, though, to avoid the syringe Rumlow was wielding, which stabs into his biceps.

“’Bucky’?” Pierce repeats idly, while Steve staggers back, catches himself onto the table. “I had my doubts about you, Mr. Grant, but I didn’t imagine it was that bad.”

Steve swats the syringe off his arm; it depressed only half-way through, but that’s—that’s more than enough. James is looking at him with impossibly wide, frightened eyes. Rumlow staggers away, dizzy, blood running down his temple. Steve’s legs give out and he falls to his knees. His vision’s blurring.

Pierce gets up, with the tablet under his arm, and walks calmly over to them. “I’m a man of my word,” he tells James. “So you’ll be dead by sunup, dear. Though I’m afraid it’s going to be a drawn-out affair. That’s what you get for not telling me you knew him.”

He sips his drink.

“But first Rumlow is going to rape you. If you’re up for it, Brock?”

Rumlow shakes his head, snarls like a dog. “Am I ever.”

“Good. We don’t want to waste Grant’s excellent work.” Pierce grabs Steve’s chin to tilt his face up. “And then, well. I suppose he’ll make a wonderful replacement.”

“No,” James manages. He’s in so much pain he’s about to pass out, he can barely beg, “No, no—”

“Honestly, dear, why did you think I had a syringe ready? I was hoping this would happen.” Pierce smiles at Steve. “And you didn’t disappoint, Grant. If that’s your name.” His thumb rubs down Steve’s cheekbone, across his lower lip. “You’re going to be an interesting one.”

Steve is trying his damnedest not to collapse entirely. “It doesn’t matter,” he slurs. “Whatever you do. It doesn’t matter. You’ve paid up. Now we’ll come for you.”

“What, this?” Pierce says, waving the tablet. “Satellite doesn’t come through, Mr. Grant. I thought you knew that. The transfer won’t take effect while this tablet remains down here.” He smiles, coldly. “Can’t ever be too careful.”

Rumlow’s moved between James’ legs, opened his pants. He’s putting on a condom. “Oh, yeah. You’re going to fucking hate this, Jamie boy.”

Pierce’s hand grabs Steve’s hair, harder than Steve would have thought possible from a man his age, forces him to look up. “Watch, Grant. This is your handiwork. And since you had the honor of breaking him, you can watch while we kill him, too.”

Steve’s thankful his vision is so blurry; that way he can’t see Rumlow actually penetrate James—but he hears him scream and sob, he sees their silhouettes come together until Rumlow’s almost lying down over James, buried into him.

“Fuck, his spasms,” he breathes out. “Fuck, he’s so fucking hot and tight. He’s twitching—fuck, that’s so good.” He puts a hand around James’ throat, squeezes, cutting off his gasping sobs. “Hey, what’s wrong? It’s your last ride, buddy. Better enjoy it.”

James pushes his hand against Rumlow’s face as if to shove him off, but Steve knows he can’t—it won’t—

It takes Steve much too long to realize what’s happened.

He blinks and tears stream down his face, clearing up his vision. His glass exploded all over James when he slammed it against the side of Rumlow’s head. He thought the red liquid trickling all over James’ body was his Bloody Mary. But some of it was actual blood—streaming from James’ left fist, the one he was squeezing around a huge piece of broken glass—squeezing, but not hurting, because of his nerve damage. He was waiting for Rumlow to rape him. He was waiting for him to lean down over him, to come close.

And now that piece of glass just got buried into Rumlow’s eye right down to the brain.

Steve can see it stick out, the bloodied, broken glass glittering like ruby, incongruously beautiful. At first Rumlow doesn’t move; then, slowly, he collapses backwards, crumpling to the ground with dark blood streaming down the side of his face, mixing in with the blood from the cut on his temple.

James gets up on shaky legs, facing Pierce. His eyes are so wide; he’s breathing in uneven gasps. He grabs another piece of glass and starts walking towards him.

Pierce watches him come closer, without moving. Then, at the last second, he slaps him so hard across the face his head jerks to the side.

“Stand down,” he barks.

And James’ knees buckle down.

He bows his head, eyes on the ground—he looks stunned, terrified of having even tried.

“See,” Pierce says, a bit breathless. “You can be taught.”

With an immense effort, Steve gets up and stumbles into Pierce. James startles and looks at him with wide eyes, like he’d forgotten Steve was even there. Pierce doesn’t even step back, just pushes him backwards, which is enough to make him fall down again. “Honestly, Grant. Wait your turn.”

“Fuck you,” Steve mumbles, catching himself however he can on the table.

Pierce snorts. “Now, now. Is that all you could think of?”

“Can’t blame me. Whatever you dosed me with—it’s the good stuff.” Steve jerks his chin at him. “You’ll find out.”

Pierce looks at the syringe, now fully empty, sticking out of his side. And then, finally, finally, he falls to the ground, too.

His glass rolls over the floor, spilling priceless wine, and bumps delicately against James’ knees.

*

“You say he just collapsed?” the pilot yells over the wind.

“Yes, there’s no time,” Steve shouts. It’s a cold night, with the storm still in the air; it’s waking him up. “The doctor was very clear. We have to get him to the mainland as soon as possible.” He starts lifting Pierce’s gurney into the helicopter, then turns to his companion. “Give me a hand.”

“Hold on—who are you?” the pilot asks.

“That’s Brock Rumlow,” Steve answers. “He was there when it happened. You can check on the listing. He arrived last week just like me.”

Pierce’s new guests stand awkwardly to the side, eyes wide. The pilot looks down at his vetting tablet, scrolls up the list perfunctorily, sees the blurry picture they took on Rumlow’s arrival, sharp face, dark hair.

“All right, fine,” he yells. “Mr. Grant, Mr. Rumlow, are you both getting in? Then hurry up. Gentlemen,” he shouts at the assembled guests, “I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, please proceed inside the building and someone will come take care of you shortly! Please move along, clear the way!”

*

It’s a fancy long-distance chopper; there’s actually a pressurized cabin where they can speak without headphones, without yelling. The pilot isn’t looking back at them, focused on getting across the ocean, saving the man who cuts his paychecks. Iceland isn’t very far. The night is a dull grey, already paling, without any clouds. The tablet Steve’s dropped in a corner has full satellite access.

Steve’s still woozy from the drug; he found more syringes in one of Pierce’s little caches, stabbed him three more times for good measure. Keeping him alive for interrogation is probably better, but if he overdoses, well, that’s fine too. After checking again the gurney straps and making sure he’s secure, Steve crosses over to James and sits down next to him, a bit heavily. His head’s ringing.

When he gently takes James’ left hand in his lap, James doesn’t appear to notice. He’s watching the horizon through the thick, narrow window, fixedly like he’s not sure the sun is actually going to rise. His eyes are too wide. “This isn’t real.”

“It’s gonna start feeling real after a while,” Steve says. James stole Rumlow’s gloves off his body, along with the rest of his clothes. Steve starts tugging off the left one. “Just give it time.”

“I stopped when he told me. Just because he told me. I’m not—I’m a—” He swallows hard. “If you’d left me there to die it would have been simpler.”

“Whatever happens next,” Steve says, finally peeling the glove off, “I’ll help you through it. I’ll be by your side every step of the way. I promise. I swear to you.”

James finally looks away from the window, looks at what Steve’s doing.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Steve explains. “Can I take a look at your hand?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Can I take a look anyway,” Steve asks, and tears well up in James’ eyes, roll down his cheeks, keep coming like they’ll never stop, and when dawn comes a few minutes later, the sun catches onto them and turns them into streams of fire.