“You know, Rogers,” Tony said nonchalantly, “we’re a match made in heaven.”
Steve glowered at him and violently tugged at the handcuffs holding his arms up, but there was little else he could do. He was sitting on the bare floor, still in t-shirt and slacks from his run; his wrists were clasped in strong stainless steel manacles he couldn’t wrench apart. A thick Kevlar muzzle was strapped tight over his mouth, buckled behind his head and under his jaw.
Tony wasn’t even looking at him; he was watching several displays of Steve thrashing the bag in the gym, Steve doing push-ups one-handed, Steve sparring with Natasha, Steve running endlessly under the rising sun.
“You’re a miracle of science,” Tony went on, “and I’m a man of science. I’m supposed to question miracles, take them apart, see what makes them tick. Besides, my dear old daddy practically made you—you’re a family heirloom, and I made a living out of stretching the limits of his legacy.”
He finally looked at Steve, with a gleeful sparkle in his dark eyes. “What I’m saying, Cap, is that I’m meant to make you sweat.”
Steve snorted in a clearly doubtful tone. Tony raised his eyebrows, then walked across the room to crouch in front of him.
“If I take off the muzzle,” he said, “will you bite me?”
Steve’s glare could have pierced through solid concrete, but it only made Tony grin more brightly.
“Guess I’ll risk it.”
He extended his hand, but Steve was tucking his chin in to glower at him, making it impossible to reach the buckle under his jaw. Tony huffed a little, then snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s eyes. “Chin up, Rogers, I haven’t got all day.” He gave him little slaps on the cheek, annoyed. “Come on.”
Steve felt himself heat up at this treatment, but the damn manacles wouldn’t give, no matter how much his arms bulged as he pulled on the restraints; and there was nothing he wanted more than to speak up his mind. Still, when he lifted his chin up, it felt like he was giving up and Tony’s little smirk didn’t help.
“Never backs down, uh?” he murmured, unbuckling the chin strap first. “We’ll see about that.”
He unbuckled the strap behind Steve’s head and pulled the muzzle off. Steve worked his jaw for a second, mentally rehearsing everything he wanted to say, and apologizing to his late mother in advance.
“You don’t sweat,” Tony went on conversationally, like this was all perfectly normal. “You never do. It drives me fucking crazy. Erskine drove you to the peak of mankind but didn’t strip you of your humanity. There must be a limit and I live to find those.”
He gave a mocking, dirty smirk. “It’s not rocket science. Basically, Rogers, you need to be worked hard and put away wet.”
Steve’s gut did something strange when he heard those words, but he absolutely refused to acknowledge it as anything else than fury.
“If you think abducting me—”
“JARVIS abducted you, which was ridiculously easy, by the way.”
It was painfully true; sleeping gas in the elevator had been enough for Steve to go down like a brick. Not that he’d expected fucking Tony Stark to assault him in his own damn home.
“Stark, this is way over the line,” Steve barked, jerking against the restraints. “Let me go right now! I’m not your damn toy!”
“Debatable,” Tony said.
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Also debatable. And irrelevant,” Tony added. “What’s relevant right now is the scientific challenge we’re facing. Do you have limits? Can I find them? Can I push them? I want to find out.”
Steve tried to calm down.
“You’re not the first one to try,” he said sourly. “But I’m not gonna be your lab rat. Not today, not ever. I got my fill of this.”
“Obviously not,” Tony grinned.
Steve stopped breathing for a second, without fully understanding why. Tony’s dark eyes were planted into his.
“But let me fill you in before filling you up,” he said in a low voice.
He was still crouching in front of Steve, playing with the Kevlar muzzle. “I need you on an empty stomach for this, which is why I took you before breakfast,” he began. “This is actually a challenge, Rogers. I’m saying I can break you. You think I can’t. I’ll be damned if the forties win this round, but if they do,” he grinned, “we’ll switch.”
Steve hadn’t expected that. He stopped struggling for a second.
“Switch?” he repeated.
“Only fair,” Tony shrugged. “I’ll be your test subject. I’ll do it your way. I’ll stop pushing and I’ll never put up a fight again.”
Jesus, the man was insane. But—this was actually horribly tempting. There were many things Steve could appreciate about the twenty-first century, but Tony Stark’s arrogance and single-mindedness were not among them. He would just not listen and regularly threatened the safety of everyone in the field—and this little morning abduction went to show just how sketchy the Stark morals still were.
Steve didn’t doubt for a second that he’d stay true to his word, though—challenges were maybe the one thing they had in common. And maybe it was what made him pant, “For how long?”
Tony pondered. “A month?”
“A year,” Steve growled.
The dark eyes drilled into him for another minute. Then Tony grinned and said, “Deal.”
He got up and Steve found himself wondering what he’d just agreed to. He tried to remember what Tony had just ranted about.
Make me sweat.
He snorted again; he’d run miles and miles and bench-pressed ridiculous weights under the watchful eyes of scientists who’d all had to give up at some point. He did not get tired. He did not give up. He did not sweat.
Whatever Tony dished out at him, he’d take it like he’d taken everything else; and having him on a leash for a whole year would be largely worth his while.
Or so he told himself when he tugged at the manacles again. Steve was almost sure Stark would have released him if he’d refused the deal, but almost sure was definitely not enough in this situation. He had no idea what he actually planned to do.
Tony put the muzzle on a table and took something from a drawer—something long and thin and flexible, which he twirled in his hands as he came back.
It was a riding crop.
“JARVIS, spread him,” he said nonchalantly. “Configuration one.”
The manacles hummed and Steve realized he wasn’t chained to a wall, but to an entire robotic structure he couldn’t see. His wrists were separated, but still held tight and spread apart till his arms were wide open, then pulled up and up till he had to kneel up instead of sitting down on the floor. He stared down, swallowing.
The crop slightly tapped his cheek. “Eyes up, Captain.”
Steve glared up, but his gut was twisting again and this time, he couldn’t lie to himself about the nature of the heat pooling into his groin—it wasn’t just anger.
He held Stark’s gaze, refusing to look at the crop.
“You can’t hurt me enough,” he said. “Not in a hundred years.”
“This isn’t about pain, Cap,” Tony said a bit distantly. “I’m well aware people have tried that already. And, believe it or not, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh,” Steve deadpanned, feigning surprise. “But this, this is fine, right?” he added, raising an eyebrow at the structure holding his hands up.
“What,” Tony mocked, “do you want out?”
And Steve was stupid and stubborn, because he never backed down from a fight and this one was no exception. Hell, truth be told, he’d wanted to teach Tony Stark a lesson from day one; and now that the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn’t let it go, no matter how twisted. Better yet, he got to do it in the engineer’s own field, rather than beating him up on the mat where his victory wouldn’t mean much. Not to mention the year of obedience he’d been promised.
“Come on, then,” he urged. “Bring it on.”
Tony smiled wickedly and tapped his cheek again. “You’ve got a lot of anger, Rogers.”
“Keep doing that and you’ll find out just how much, pal,” Steve spat.
The hissing blow was so unexpected he didn’t even understand what had happened at first; but when the white-hot pain caught up with him, he realized that the crop had struck him hard across the face. He could feel a red welt blooming already on his cheek.
“Don’t sell me so short,” Tony said, voice suddenly hard and low. “You haven’t won yet.”
Steve caught his breath. The stinging pain was going, almost as suddenly as it had come, but the tightness in his groin wasn’t getting any better.
“Didn’t stay above pain for very long, huh?” he panted.
Tony snorted, darkly playful again. “This isn’t pain, Cap.”
Steve had been tortured, twice, during his raids with the Howling Commandos; and he knew Stark had been through something similar in Afghanistan. He was right; this wasn’t pain, not when they were getting beaten up by monsters and aliens on a regular basis.
But Tony Stark had still struck him in the face with a goddamn riding crop. And Steve was still kneeling on the floor with his arms above his head, and he hadn’t had any damn breakfast. Without thinking, he clenched his fists and tugged at the manacles again; Tony looked at the swell of his biceps with an appreciative eye.
“Dad had an eye for the good stuff, gotta give him that,” he said.
Steve hated the way he looked at him, like he was a fancy car. Or a piece of meat.
“You’re fucking perfect, Rogers. No wonder so many people want to deface your flag.”
He put the riding crop on the table, next to the muzzle, then picked up something shiny and metallic in a tray; Steve tensed but didn’t look away when Tony stepped closer and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Oh, JARVIS,” he said absentmindedly, “do me a favor and restrain the Captain’s ankles as well, will you?”
Steve felt hands of steel closing around his calves and fought them instinctively. Tony only grinned, as if to say he expected nothing less; then he casually slipped the scalpel—it was a scalpel—under Steve’s shirt and shredded it in one go, easily cutting through the tensed cloth.
Steve held in his breath of anger. He’d expected something like this, but he’d thought, stupidly, that Tony would stop there. But he sliced up his pants with the brisk, efficient movements of a surgeon, cutting across the belt and along the seams of the legs, then tugging the cloth away. In less than ten seconds, Steve was in his boxers, and he suddenly felt more vulnerable than he’d felt in a while.
Shit, he thought suddenly, eyes flicking down to himself.
Although there was no chance Tony wouldn’t have noticed, Steve’s blood still ran cold when he looked up and saw him with dilated pupils.
“I knew it,” he breathed.
Without any other warning, he grabbed Steve’s crotch in a rough, squeezing grip; Steve’s hitching breath was stifled by the mouth crashing hard over his, Tony’s other hand fisting his hair to jerk his head back.
Steve moaned in protest, tugged against the hand holding his hair, then forcefully pulled back.
“What the fuck?” he barked—feeling hot, too hot.
“Oh yeah,” Tony said, with a breathless grin. “Here we go.”
He still had him in hand and squeezed hard, making his eyes flutter close against his will.
“You don’t swear, Steve, don’t think I never noticed that ridiculous boyscout habit of yours. But—” he almost crushed him and Steve gritted his teeth not to make a sound—“just gotta get you riled up, and look at what happens.”
He looked Steve in the eye, his dark eyes darker still with arousal.
“You a virgin, Rogers?”
Steve didn’t say anything, breathless and entirely unsure whether he was enjoying this—which was just wrong since he was pretty sure he shouldn’t have, and shouldn’t have even questioned it.
Tony crushed him harder, twisted and tugged until he made him wince. “Answer the question.”
“None of your damn business,” Steve gasped.
“I beg to differ,” Tony murmured hoarsely.
Steve let his head hang back, panting. Shit, shit, he was breathless. This was too much. If this was how Tony played this—it might actually be too much.
To be fair, none of the other people who’d experimented on him had been this goddamn crazy.
“Exerting yourself in the gym is stupid,” Tony said, “of course that won’t work. But I can break you from the inside—literally—I can make you consume your own energy. I can turn you into your own worst enemy.” He grinned. “Backing out yet?”
Steve didn’t even think. “You wish.”
Tony’s flashing grin was his only answer—that and the scalpel which made quick work of Steve’s boxers until they were practically ripped off him. Steve couldn’t help it—he tried to bring his legs together, but his ankles were locked apart.
“Oh, come on,” Tony mocked. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
He dragged his nails across Steve’s perfect torso, leaving red trails that healed up almost instantly. Steve was breathing hard, harder than he’d ever breathed on the mat or after two hundred laps in DC. His eyes were watering, and he closed them, swallowing it back down.
“I was thinking you might like this,” Tony said in his ear. “You’re a living icon, Rogers. You’re just dying for someone to take you down from your pedestal and drag you in the dust a little.”
He grabbed one of Steve’s ass cheeks, digging his fingers in. Steve tried to ignore the touch, but it was more brutally intimate than anything he’d ever felt, and his eyes snapped at Tony when his fingers slipped inside his crack.
Tony was looking at him, inches away from his face.
“Virgin, then?” he breathed.
“Go to hell,” Steve panted.
Tony smiled, then let go and straightened up. “You and me both.”
Steve was fully, painfully hard, leaking a little and dripping on the pristine floor. He was flushed with anger and shame, and not a small amount of arousal—which only added to the humiliation. The worst part was to know that Tony Stark was getting a kick out of this—was positively relishing the defacing of this flag, as he’d put it himself.
The worst part of that worst part was that he was somewhat right. There were many things Steve could appreciate about the twenty-first century, but people worshipping him was not one of them.
This—God—this felt good. No—not good—but right, in an awful, sick, twisted way; like it was balancing out all the stalwart and wholesome things people usually expected of him. He’d never felt so intimately dirty.
“There’s really no point in beating you up,” Tony said regretfully, “but maybe our next session can be devoted to finding a flogger that’ll actually leave marks. For today, we’ll stay simple.”
He looked up. “JARVIS, bring out the blocks. Configuration three.”
There was another whirr of machinery behind Steve; suddenly, the manacles around his wrists tugged up and forced him to get on his feet, stumbling, the ankle cuffs following suit. Something slid under his body and sort of scooped him up, whirring up to a low diagonal while the cuffs made him lie down.
At first, he thought it was just a steel table; the cuffs held his limbs splayed out, ankles and wrists pinned at the corners. But when he raised his head off the cool surface, he saw something between his spread legs that looked a little like a piston—all gleaming, impeccable chrome, just like the rest of it.
The intended use was obvious.
Steve let his head fall back down against the table, but immediately regretted it when the Kevlar muzzle was wrenched over his mouth again and threaded into the table to keep him from moving his head. He let out a sound of surprise and indignation, then glared at Tony as much as he could. He was surprised to realize he was trembling.
“I prefer muffled screams,” Tony informed him with a grin.
Steve closed his eyes and tried to pretend this wasn’t making him even harder. He was shaking, and panting, but the fear itself, the dread of imminent violation was precisely what was driving him mad with lust. Tony was crazy enough to do it—crazy enough to grab Steve and rape him before breakfast like this was nothing but another experiment, and Steve was stubborn enough to treat the whole thing like this was nothing but another fight.
The machinery whirred again and he reopened his eyes, looking around, then moaning in protest when he felt his erection being stuffed into some kind of—was it a plastic tube? It swallowed him whole, uncomfortably tight, and emptied itself of air with a sudden suction noise, pulling hard. Steve jerked and fought the manacles, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He struggled to control his breath, panting through his nose.
“Private recording, JARVIS,” Tony said absently.
The humiliation of being filmed made Steve tear up again with burning, hot tears of rage. He was vibrating with it, perversely dying for it to start so he could show him—show him that he wouldn’t—not so easily—
The crop made a sudden reappearance—hissed down to land a stinging blow on his balls; Steve arched and couldn’t hold back a muffled shout. It granted him another blow, harder than the first—this time, he managed not to scream, screwing his eyes shut.
But the finger that entered him without warning made him jerk bodily and gape at the ceiling, panting. It was cold with lube and he instinctively clenched against the invasion. It felt odd—inside him, God, he couldn’t rationalize this into anything else than a violation, and he couldn’t rationalize either the arousal that just wouldn’t leave him alone.
Tony didn’t stretch him, simply checked him—checked him, outlining him from the inside, pushing as far as he could—and pulled his finger out.
Next was a blunt, cold pressure that made Steve arch again, eyes wide, alarms going off everywhere inside of him because God, God, this was happening. This was it, this was—it pushed into him, forced him open, relentless and huge, it felt huge, making him take every last damn inch until it was forcefully seated inside.
Steve was shaking like mad, tears rolling down his cheeks, erection straining in its case of plastic. The sleek, gleaming toy inside him was big and heavy and cold, absolutely foreign, intruding in every possible way.
Which Tony promptly confirmed. “It’s filled with sensors—you’re adapting to the stretch remarkably fast, by the way,” he said. “Heart rate’s impressive, too.”
He grabbed Steve’s thigh and squeezed, nails digging in. “But you are looking a bit flustered,” he grinned.
Steve took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down, but of course Tony wouldn’t leave him any time to gather himself together. The toy started moving, and even though it was slick with lube, Steve felt like it was fucking him dry, like it was chafing him on the way out and splitting him open on the way back in.
He choked, arched as much as he could and let his eyes roll back. The pleasure was building up way too fast, coiling tightly in the pit of his stomach, and just like the toy, it was enormous and intrusive and it would tear him apart, he could just tell, it wouldn’t—he couldn’t—it was—
“I think we’re ready for that first one,” Tony said with dark pleasure. “JARVIS.”
The milking machine came to life, pulsing up and down Steve’s length in tight rings of pressure; he began to let out frantic noises, pulling desperately at his restraints—and his orgasm wrenched him apart with unprecedented violence, so chaotic and so savage Steve could hardly believe the stringently steadfast rhythm of the fucking machine had pushed that out of him.
The milking machine stopped as well and Steve slumped back down, breathing hard. A hand grabbed his face and made him turn his head, as much as the muzzle would allow. Tony grinned down at him.
“That’s one, Rogers,” he said. “But you’re not sweating yet.”
Steve could barely focus; he was still shaking with the aftermath. But already, he felt his strength slowly swelling again, just like his erection which had never really flagged. When the fucking machine came to life again, Steve knew the second one wouldn’t be taken from him so easily; and he vaguely felt some kind of nasty glee as he remembered that this was all a challenge to begin with. He rolled his hips, closed his eyes. I can do this all day.
Tony started dishing out numbers Steve didn’t understand; but he realized they were directly connected to him when he felt the fucking machine switch angles, orienting itself inside of him even as it continued its relentless thrusting.
It rubbed long and hard against something inside of him and Steve’s hips jerked so hard he nearly arched off the table.
“Got it,” Tony smirked. “JARVIS, another ten degrees further down.”
The toy reoriented itself again; instead of rubbing against Steve’s prostate, it hit it directly, pummeling into it and sending bursts of something that was too intense to be called pleasure, shooting raw pangs of stimulation up his spine. Steve let out a muffled protest, which turned into pleas when the thrusting only got harder. He struggled, eyes wide, and felt Tony’s hand lie flat on his abs to feel them cramping, felt him cup his pulsing balls, grip his quivering thighs, claw at his heaving chest. Steve had never felt so exposed—so naked in his whole life.
“Fuck,” Tony said. “Look at you. Desperate suits you well.”
He got closer and said in his ear, “Feeling dirty yet?”
Steve pressed into the table, his whole body jerking like an electrocuted frog with each punishing thrust. He was sweating—sweating?—he was sweating, too slightly yet for Tony to notice, but sweating and trembling and blinking tears out of his eyes, moaning haphazardly into the muzzle and jerking uncontrollably, God it was too much—it was too much—it was too—too—m—
This time, his climax took him completely by surprise—his brain wasn’t registering the sensations as pleasure, but the stimulation was too severe to be ignored and his traitorous body obediently shot up into the plastic sleeve again, which buzzed to life only to collect his orgasm. He shouted, tugged at the cuffs hard—so hard—but they didn’t give and he let himself fall back down when it finally came to an end.
Which was only temporary. Steve caught his breath and steeled himself against his despair when the fucking machine started up again. He was loose and stretched now, and it fucked right into him without any resistance, Good Lord, he’s filming this and he was beginning to have trouble breathing, trouble thinking.
“I expect the third to take a while,” Tony said, coming closer again. He grabbed Steve’s face like last time, but his grip felt gentler and Steve leaned into it, desperate for human contact after so much iron coldness. Tony brushed the strands of hair off his forehead, then kissed it; it made Steve tear up yet again, because he was pinned down and stretched wide and this tenderness was nothing but a cruel mockery of itself.
“I have a few projects running late anyway,” Tony said. “Have fun, Stevie.”
And he just walked away.
Steve didn’t even find it in him to protest—it would only have made the bastard happier, but being ignored—being left alone to be fucked open while Tony goddamn Stark worked on something else—he closed his eyes, breathless, feeling the muzzle cut under his chin and behind his head, and was suddenly overwhelmed with the full extent of his helplessness.
It felt like he was left there for ages, the machine steadily ramming into him, the manacles mercilessly holding him down. The milking sleeve hummed into action at random intervals, tormenting him too briefly before it stopped again. Eventually, he felt it building, painstakingly but inevitably, not crashing down like the first one and not out of the blue like the second one, but slow and deep and surging like a tidal wave. It peaked for a terrible, white-hot second, then washed his body whole with overwhelming pleasure. He arched, for what felt like the hundredth time, emptying himself—it was all he could do, eyes rolling back again, shuddering as his lustful bliss rippled through him.
It was gone too soon—the fucking went on, and Steve’s eyes couldn’t even focus now. He was entirely lost inside himself, open wider, always wider, glistening—dripping with sweat, shaking with exhaustion, drained with humiliation, hips stuttering as he shot up a fourth, a fifth and a sixth time into the milking machine which milked him indeed, conscientiously sucking him dry and then sucking him some more until he felt like he couldn’t take anymore, not another second of this, until he started to feel like he would physically be torn apart with the next thrust.
He almost sobbed in relief when the machine pulled out of him for good. Tony’s hands were there again. The milking machine released its suction with a wet noise, then went away as well. Steve lay there, utterly drained, unable to react as Tony’s hands settled on his hips and dug bruises into it—unable to react as he settled between his legs, and lined up.
Steve could only let out a weak, shaky noise. This would have been dangerous for Stark a few hours ago—Steve could have clenched down and trapped him inside, could have seriously injured him with his formidable core strength. But he was limp and open and laid bare for the taking, unable to put up any more of a fight.
“Think you got a last one in store, Rogers?” Tony smirked down as he pushed into him.
Steve wanted to shake his head, to beg for a rest, but the sheer warmth of Tony was intoxicating after so many hours—it had to be hours—in the hold of the machines—it made Steve’s tears roll down when he thought he didn’t have any left, and he stared at Tony with glassy, heady-lidded eyes, trembling uncontrollably when he bottomed out. Tony licked a long stripe up Steve’s sweaty neck.
“Got you wet,” he said hoarsely.
He unbuckled the muzzle and, seconds later, his burning hot lips crushed Steve’s, tongue forcing the way in. Steve hazily let him, dazed with the heat of it all, vaguely remembering he’d fought the last kiss but incapable to recall why exactly. The helplessness was too much. The sensations were too much. He had nothing left.
Tony was kissing him, and fucking him slow and deep, and his hands were holding Steve’s wrists in addition to the manacles, and Steve was so completely at his mercy, so utterly, utterly defeated, that he came again, one last time, a lazy, drawn-out orgasm that left him completely boneless, completely warm—and Tony bit his neck bloody and emptied himself deep inside of him.
“So, looks like I won,” Tony said, smile playing on his lips.
Steve looked at the promised breakfast—never mind that it was the middle of the afternoon. Stark Tower was desert and silent, save for the two men eating together. Toasts, jam. Orange juice. Black coffee.
“You did,” he conceded.
He looked up, unable to muster the anger he should have felt. He was drained in an absolute, fulfilling way he’d never felt in years—never felt before at all, actually. Like he’d sweated all the fight out.
“So what now?” he asked.
“I—well, nothing.” Tony was surprised but quickly caught himself, and shrugged. “We’re done—I got what I wanted. I’m not gonna use that to blackmail you into anything else.”
“Yes, that would be immoral,” Steve said, absolutely deadpan.
A smile tugged up Tony’s lips; he drank a bit of coffee, then concluded, “You hadn’t wagered anything, so you’re off the hook.” His smile grew a bit more insufferable. “You did lose the enticing prospect of one whole year of obedience from me.”
Steve stared into space for a second. Then he said casually, “Rematch.”
He waited for Tony’s wide-eyed reaction to add, calmly:
“Double or nothing.”