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"You seem a little defensive Rogers.

"It's been a long day."

How had Tony fallen for that bullshit? Steve knew, he knew. He thought Tony knew, for a few minutes. They'd both known. Conspired together to kill him if he'd found out. What in God's name had possessed him to trust someone outside Pepper, Happy and Rhodey?


Tony took a shaking gulp of air, and then another. He didn't fight the fast breaths this time. Some anxiety attacks weren't that bad if no one else was around.

He lay on the concrete floor in his useless armor panting, staring at his own white breath and the cracked ceiling above him for fuck knew how long. He wasn’t trapped, physically. He could move in the armor, but he couldn’t fight with it, and even Friday was gone, with the reactor smashed. Tony had tried to get up after Steve had left with his parents’ murderer, then gave up and collapsed back to the ground.

His head and stomach wouldn’t stop churning. The blood rush he felt almost any time he was excited or angry normally left about as quickly as it came, but not this time. Maybe because he had become stuck in his crushed can of a suit before he could even get half of his rage out. Or maybe it was because he watched his friend—who he’d finally, after years of effort, managed to forgive for stealing his father’s love—walk out with his parents’ murderer, and having the gall to hold the shield Howard made for him while doing it. When Tony had pointed that out, Steve had chucked it at him with a mere “fuck you” sort of attitude. Tony had a lifetime’s worth of self esteem issues, but being shown that both he and his dad mattered less to Steve than the living weapon that had smashed his dad’s head and his mom’s throat was a new kind of blow.

And that was after Steve had punched Tony in the head repeatedly, exactly the same way his war buddy had when killing Tony's father on the tape. Had Steve done that on purpose, or was that just how he and Bucky killed everyone?

The arc reactor on his suit was smashed. The other reactor, the one in his sternum, was feeling abnormally hot—a strange contrast to the rest of his increasingly chilled body. (The suit had provided some much needed heat in this Siberian bunker.) Tony had once considered having it removed, along with the shrapnel in his chest, only to find that no reputable doctor would ever attempt something so experimental no matter how much money they were offered. In another universe maybe he’d be reactor-free, but not this one.

Steve. What the fuck was going through his head? What was his excuse for his “friend’s” actions again?

“It wasn’t him, he was under mind control…”

Tony chest suddenly felt as icy as the rest of his body.

Fuck no. Bucky wasn’t “innocent,” Bucky was basically dead; that thing Steve was calling his “friend,” just a fucked-up lab experiment that had no business running lose. A weapon to be shut down, like the Stark Industries missiles he’d flamed down in Afghanistan—
His throat tightened.

It would be a good idea to get out of here now.

He was just beginning to push himself up with a boot slammed into his armor’s shattered reactor, and shoving him back into the floor.

Tony tried to push against the foot pressing on his chest, but this guy was at least as strong as Steve, despite not looking all that ripped. The man staring down at him impassively looked familiar, someone Tony had seen fairly recently.

“Stark.” His accent sounded Russian. “Your friends are long gone but feel free to call out to them. It would provide me some much needed amusement.” Tony pretended to ignore him, and struggled to twist his boot off his armored chest. “I’ve injected myself with a variant of the super-soldier serum. You won’t outmatch me in combat Stark.”

Tony kept his hands on the man’s boot and his emotions neatly bottled, and demanded flatly, “Who are you.”

“Helmut Zemo.”

Zemo. That doctor Steve had tried to warn him about. Another fuck-up by Tony. Rhodey’s back, Bucky, Bucky again, Zemo…

It apparently showed on his face, because Zemo looked suddenly satisfied.

“What do you want,” Tony demanded flatly.

“To make you pay for what you did to my home and family, in Sokovia.” Zemo’s lips flicked up in a quick smile. “I don’t mean ‘pay’ only in the ‘punishment’ sense. You’ll ‘pay for what you did’ in that you’ll make it up to me. You’ve helped me beautifully so far. I will also make you suffer for your crimes, though.”

“Suck my dick.”

This time Zemo’s smile stayed, and he showed teeth.

Tony dropped his hands away from the boot and put all his energy in an attempt to roll away, which failed. Zemo kicked him in the chin, so hard he sent Tony’s head cracking against the concrete floor. His skull throbbing, Tony lifted his head, just to see if he could, and Zemo stomped on his face, knocking him against the concrete again. Tony realized he was about to be killed exactly the same way as his father.

But Zemo wasn’t kicking him anymore. The Sokovian was now putting on some sort of contraption to his ears. Oh god no…

The Sokovian pulled a small device from his pocket that Tony recognized. The little buzzer Obadiah had once used to paralyze him. Tony struggled for a second, then quickly moved his hands to his ears, in the hopes of blocking out the noise. It didn’t work. It was more the vibrations from the device that did the paralyzing, and only the ear plugs Zemo had could protect one against it.

Tony felt his entire body from roughly the nosecone down go numb and slack; it had been Obadiah’s idea to leave the eyes unaffected, so the interrogator would have the satisfaction of knowing whether his prisoner was following what he was being told. Someone had once compared him to a trapped turtle on its back (Killian, that was who). Tony felt like a turtle on a dissection table, when Zemo leaned beside him and began to tinker with his suit. Somehow the Sokovian figured out how disassemble the entire thing. The cold flooded Tony’s body as his armor crumbled off him. Tony was now wearing only the corporate-casual attire he’d departed in. The bits of armor beneath his body hurt—he was basically lying on a pile of scrap metal.

“Back to scraps, eh Stark?” Zemo said softly, moving a hand under Tony’s limp back.

The European lifted Tony up as easily as if he were a rag doll and tossed him over his shoulder. Still paralyzed, Tony had to stare at his captor’s putrid ass as Zemo moved swiftly through the freezing concrete halls. Actually, it wasn’t really that putrid of an ass, it was quite nice. Fuck, it was an amazing ass. If anyone else was wearing that body and accent, Tony would’ve immediately invited him into a three-way with Bruce or Pepper or Steve. Well, not Steve.

Speaking of, Tony realized that Zemo was holding Steve’s shield in his other hand. Tony immediately began running through scenarios for getting ahold of the shield when the paralysis wore off, and getting the hell away from this freak.

Tony was still unable to move when Zemo brought him to what looked like a medical ward. Since his body already was already freezing and paralyzed, only his mind could freeze when he saw the operating tables in the dimly lit ward. Zemo set down the shield and moved Tony into both his arms, carrying him like a bride. Bride of Frankenstein, in this creepy lab, with this creepy foreigner. Tony briefly pictured himself in the wedding dress and Marge Simpson skunk-hair, and didn’t like it one bit. His goatee would certainly clash with Mrs. Frankenstein-Monster’s getup. Actually, Zemo reminded him of some evil scientist he’d seen in a movie recently, but Tony couldn’t put his finger on which one. Probably no one he’d want to sport the Bride of Frankenstine’s hair for though.

His grim humor vanished when he saw that the metal operating table Zemo was carrying him towards had cuffs attached for the wrists and ankles at the very least, with other straps dangling at the sides. Most of the “patients” in this butcher shop had probably been those poor Winter Soldiers. Like the one Tony had tried to murder—

The gentleness with which the Sokovian lowered Tony onto the table was somehow far more chilling than if he’d just abusively dumped him there. Tony put all his willpower into making just one part of his body move, but failed. Zemo locked Tony’s wrists into the cuffs, then his ankles. He fastened a strap over Tony’s chest and another over his legs.

“Now I’ve more things to fetch,” Zemo breathed in Tony’s ear. “The paralysis should wear off in minutes. When I come back I expect to see you struggling like the hero you think you are.”

From his intimate tone, Tony wasn’t convinced that it was really “revenge” Zemo wanted. But whatever he had in mind, Tony was having absolutely none of this. Unable to speak, he could only bore his eyes into the Sokovian’s threateningly, while his chest heaved against the restraints.

Zemo gave Tony’s chest a short pat. “Looks like you’re already getting your energy back. I won’t be long.”

Tony craned his head to watch the Sokovian leave the lab. Steve’s shield sat leaning against the wall, a ways away.

Tony quickly ran through any and every crazy idea he could come up with on the spot. He tried struggling. When Zemo returned, Tony was jerking against the straps, trying to summon his armor—any armor. The odds of one of his suits somehow flying halfway across the world to his rescue was unlikely, but he was shit out of ideas.

Zemo was carrying a crate of what looked like scrap metal. “You’re not trying to summon your useless armor are you?”

Tony heaved on the table. Zemo came over and cupped the back of his head. Tony let out a short cry; the back of his skull still hurt.

“Concussion, at the very least,” Zemo said softly, and moved his hand to Tony’s hairline in a way that was way too intimate for Tony’s tastes.

Tony yanked his head away.

Zemo’s undid the strap across Tony’s chest, and Tony took the opportunity to try head-butting him. Their noggins never even made contact; Zemo stopped Tony with a hand on his chest—right over his arc reactor—and shoved him back down to the table so hard Tony thought his skull might’ve cracked. God he hated superhumans. Tony tried to sit up again, and Zemo stopped him with a hand on his throat. “You’re one of my tools now, Stark. You’ll soon learn that.”

With his other hand, Zemo ripped Tony’s vest and shirt opened like they were tissue paper. He then pulled one of the table’s straps back up, and fastened it over the bottom of Tony’s ribcage, leaving his arc reactor and abdomen completely exposed. Both were heaving again, partially just from the cold.

His mouth finally working again, Tony mumbled, “Don’t have heat in this place?”

Zemo ignored him, caressing and studying his arc reactor.

“You’re,” Tony joked lamely, “You’re supposed to take me out to dinner before all this aren’t you?”

“You’ll get fed,” Zemo said distantly, his eyes still on the reactor, “if you behave.” His hand moved to Tony’s belly, and kneaded a chunk of his jellyrolls so hard it hurt. “Looks like you’re used to good eating, Stark. I’d have thought a hero of your stature would be in better shape than this, but I suppose that suit does most of the work for you.”

“An amount of body fat is healthy and natural,” Tony retorted flatly.

“That it is. Something we Sokovians saw very little of in our third-world hellhole. You’ll know what it is to starve, among other things.”

His hand was still treating Tony’s tummy like Play-Dough. Tony swallowed and said, “Well if, if I’m skin and bones you’ll have nothing to play wi—”

He cried out as the superhuman pinched his protruding navel and twisted it like a nob. Zemo muttered seemingly to himself, “The Iron Man is an outtie, who knew.”

Tony took the opportunity to work up a ball of spit and send it into Zemo’s ear. It would be worth whatever punishment the psycho had in mind. The Sokovian released his hold on Tony’s navel to wipe his ear.

“Well,” Zemo said quietly, “This wouldn’t be interesting if you didn’t have such fight in you.”

He ripped Tony’s pants opened.

Tony immediately struggled against his restraints, trying to scramble away. Zemo paused in the middle of yanking Tony’s pants down to pull off his shoes and socks, then finished tearing the rest of Tony’s slacks and boxers, without even touching the strap across his legs. Once Tony was nude Zemo began rummaging through his crate of tools. Tony was unable to tear his eyes off his own exposed body. Zemo could rip his reactor out of his chest right now, with his bare hands. Never mind what he was planning to do with whatever he had in that box. Rework the reactor to explode in his chest, maybe. Slice his whole belly opened and gut him like venison. Hack his dick off, slash his throat…

“Now the question you should be asking yourself,” Zemo set some nasty looking tools on a tray next to the operating table, “Is not who can save you, but who would have reason to?”

Tony closed his eyes a moment, cringing at the cold and being so exposed. “Anyone who doesn’t want your sick little head on the loose.”

“The only people who know about me are all outlaws now, thanks to you. Will Rogers risk putting his friend in jeopardy again to save the lunatic who tried to murder him?” Tony stared fiercely at the ceiling. Zemo went on, “Why did you try to kill Barnes again? Because Hydra used his hands to kill your parents?” Zemo’s lip curled in a silent giggle. “You just tried to murder a young man in cold blood, for the crime of being Hydra’s meat-puppet—you’ll soon have a taste of what that’s like. And you wonder why Rogers left you. Oh! I wonder what your mother thinks of you now,” Zemo cocked an eyebrow mockingly upwards. “Or your father. Which side of the Avengers’ war would Howard Stark have chosen? His son’s, or his favorite hero’s? There’s a conundrum.”

Determined to keep his eyes dry and his voice flat, Tony addressed something Zemo had said earlier, about making him a meat-puppet. “You’re gonna Winter-Soldier-fy me?” Despite his best efforts his voice wavered, and his eyes were moistening. Shit.

“You should be so lucky. I’ve used the last of that serum on myself. You, I’ll have to train the old fashioned way. Which is more fun anyhow. Behave, and you just might get promoted from toy to pet. Oh,” Tony felt Zemo caress his hair; he didn’t see anything because his eyes were now tightly shut, trying to keep the tears in. “Look at you, trying so hard not to cry. This isn’t Steve’s old world you know, a man’s allowed to cry for his dead parents now.”

Tony was not going to cry for this fuck.

Zemo’s hand went back to Tony’s reactor. “God Stark,” his fingers traced its curved metal edge where it met the skin. “You have no idea,” Zemo seemed to literally tremble with excitement. “You see a power source like this is…” Tony’s eyes were still shut, but he got the sense the lunatic was ogling his reactor silently for a few moments. “…how is it you Americans say… ‘no spoilers.’ But for that power source to come wrapped up in a bipolar egomaniacal orphan with daddy-sorrows, who happens to be one leader of the Avengers, whose parents were murdered by the friend the other leader is desperate to protect at all costs…” he was now dragging the heel of his hand across Tony’s chest, quite painfully. “To say this is like Christmas morning would be the understatement of the eon.”

Tony was squeezing his eyes shut, putting all his energy into keeping the tears behind his lids. “Were you this sadistic before I supposedly ruined your life?”

“Hrm,” Zemo replied, in a “so-so” sort of tone.

Tony lay shuddering with his eyes tightly shut, his whole body tensed in an effort not to show any emotion. Zemo’s hand suddenly cupped his face again, and Tony’s eyes instinctively shot opened. The Sokovian clearly saw the tears now rolling down Tony’s cheeks, but didn’t mock him right away for it.

“Justice will be served,” Zemo said gently, causally wiping one of Tony’s tears across his cheek and then sucking his finger (seriously?). “Barnes and Rogers will both die, as you wanted. I may even allow you to watch. And you’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be my tool like what’s-his-nickname, Bucky? So it all evens out.”

Tony stared at the ceiling. “I’ll die long before you get anything useful from me.”

“You won’t be dying for a long, long time Stark.” His hand left Tony’s reactor and slid down his bare torso.

“Fuck you.”

That toothy grin again. “Quite the contrary.”

Tony’s blood froze then, because Zemo had just confirmed what Tony had been fearing since the sick fuck had arrived.

Zemo once again caressed his reactor. “I want to learn a little bit about this.”

“Burn in hell,” Tony said quietly.

“What was that? You said something about burning something? That’s a good idea. I’ll add that to the list.”

Tony felt the jarring click of his reactor being pulled from his chest. Freezing air rushed into the cylindrical cavity. Tony was aware of his own wet eyes bulging and his body painfully freezing up. The hole in his chest screamed to be plugged back up, but the Sokovian just pulled the device clean out and set it down on his chest besides the chrome cavity. The chord was still attached, and Zemo left it that way.

Tony was going to die right now—and that was good, right? The sooner all this horse shit ended the better. Tony’s wrists strained against the cuffs locking them to the table. If he could just grab the reactor, he could yank it out and kill himself, shove it into Zemo’s chest or face and kill him too maybe…

Zemo pulled some long thin tool from his box—a gold radio antenna?—Christ, no, that was a part from his fucking suit. Tony suddenly recognized parts of the suit in the scrap bin. “Now what happens when I—” He hit a sensitive spot, sending a searing pain through Tony’s chest along with a loud warning buzz that almost drowned out his short cry of pain.

Against his better judgment, Tony watched Zemo rummage through the bin again. This time his hand went past the red and gold scrap of his suit, and instead pulled out what looked like a silver finger--Christ, Barnes' robotic arm was crunched up in that bin too. Zemo took the "finger" into the reactor cavity with the ripped tiny wiring aimed and the spot where the reactor's plug met its cavity.

He kept it in long after Tony started begging him to stop. And that turned out to be just the warmup.

Once Tony’s voice had grown hoarse, and his reactor cavity began to spark, Zemo finally stopped. The Sokovian watched under half-closed eyes while Tony shook and whimpered, then shoved the reactor back in far too roughly, and a spiderweb of pain burned through Tony’s chest. He jerked and cringed involuntarily, slamming painfully into the restraints his restraints while Zemo continued to watch impassively. Then the Sokovian undid the straps, and then the cuffs, leaving Tony shaking loosely on the table. Tony brought his arms up defensively, and hugged his chest for several moments while agony cursed through his ribcage.

Zemo moved around behind Tony’s head. The Sokovian gripped the edge of the table and leaned over Tony’s face, upside-down. “What are you waiting for Stark?”

Tony just stared at him, still hugging himself. He eventually managed, “W-what’re you waiting for?”

“You to fight me.”

Tony’s eyes instantly went to the scrap box, for a potential weapon.

Misreading the gesture, Zemo taunted, “Your metal suit is crap.” The way he rolled that last “r” with his accent was almost funny. “I’d love to see how you fare against someone with Steven Rogers’ abilities against only your own, no cheating.”

“You’re pathetic,” Tony’s voice was shaking with the rest of his body.

“Prove it.”

Forming a half-baked escape plan, Tony played along, and shaking, pushed himself up from the table. Or tried to. It hurt just to move. He was halfway pushed up on his side, cringing in pain, when Zemo round-kicked him right off the table. While Tony’s skull was still recovering from the crack into the concrete floor, Zemo kicked him again. Tony used the momentum from the kick to roll across the floor to a counter on the opposite wall. He had enough pent up rage by now to fuel him, despite his exhaustion and injuries. Hands on the counter, Tony pulled himself to a shaking stance.

Zemo slowly approached him with clenched fists, his brown eyes hard and unblinking.

Swallowing blood, Tony, raised his fists in a pathetic imitation of Captain America’s oldschool fighting stance, then dove past Zemo to the Cap’s shield, propped by the door. Then he was in the massive gray hall, ass naked and bleeding everywhere, with the Cap’s scratched shield in one hand. His legs weren’t working as well as usual. This place was so cold—it was like being outside in January, with nothing on except a freezing metal shield.

Tony stumbled to a corner, and stopped when he saw a dead human face staring almost directly at him. It was a Winter Soldier, one of countless in their tanks, all dead. There seemed to be some more hallways beyond the tanks, but it was blocked by a row of jailhouse-like bars. Tony had only wasted a full second or two taking all of this in, but that was enough time for Zemo to deliver a surprise attack from around the corner. The Sokovian delivered a roundhouse kick to the shield, knocking Tony to the concrete floor. Before he could get up, Zemo pinned Tony’s head and arm under the shield with his foot.

“Captain America can move that shield in his arm,” Zemo said, crushing down on Tony. “You really think a superhuman couldn’t also move it with his foot?” He ripped the shield from Tony’s arms and hurled it behind him like a Frisbee. The shield clattered against the barred wall before hitting the floor. Before Tony could sit up Zemo’s boot was on his throat. The Sokovian’s voice was threateningly low and rough, almost sounding possessed. “Your father didn’t make that for you, you know. He made it for the hero who protects the people, not murders in cold blood…” Zemo was heaving, as if with rage, his wide eyes locked on Tony’s. For a moment, Tony believed Zemo sincerely wanted revenge for his “murdered” family.

Then heaving Sokovian began to undo his shirt.

Tony’s thrashing resumed, but he couldn’t budge Zemo’s boot. It eventually came off, and Tony crawled away as fast as he could, gasping loudly for breath.

An iron arm caught him around the waist, and Zemo leaned over him, pinning him in place. His hot breath engulfed Tony’s ear. The body pressing into Tony felt as naked as his own. From the corner of his eye, Tony could see Zemo’s pants discarded on the floor.
The Sokovian panted in his ear, “Stark...”

Tony tried jabbing an elbow into the superhuman’s chest, and got nothing but a shock of pain in his elbow. Zemo moved his other arm around Tony’s waist, and forced him, thrashing, onto his back, then mounted him. The sick fuck’s dick was touching Tony’s dick. And holy fuck, this European needed to shave. Everywhere. And although he hardly had the strength to move one muscle, and his own voice was hoarse almost beyond recognition, Tony decided to say so.

“You need to shave.”

That was supposed to be the one-liner before throwing his would-be rapist off—not that Tony fully believed that was possible. (It wasn’t.) Zemo wrestled Tony’s arms above his head and pinned both his wrists to the floor with one superhuman hand. The other grabbed Tony’s jaw (again).

“This part doesn’t have to hurt.” Zemo panted. “At least not all of it.” He crushing Tony’s chin, forcing his lips apart, Zemo forced is tongue on Tony’s in the most unpleasant smooch the playboy had ever experienced. “You’ve helped me immensely so far. You deserve a reward.”

Next he planted a huge wet kiss just under Tony’s ear, making Tony reflexively gasp and arch his back. Zemo let out a short airy giggle. Tony continued to struggle. Zemo moved both his hands to Tony’s wrists and pinned them near his sides, allowing himself to move further down Tony’s torso while leaving a trail of wet kisses over his heaving body. Tony was sweating, while also freezing. The warmth from Zemo’s mouth was cruelly tantalizing. Tony wanted a blanket, or a warm bath. Maybe if he closed his eyes hard enough he’d wake back up on that floor the Cap had left him on, find out this was all just a fucked up anxiety dream.

It didn’t work. He wasn’t waking up.

Zemo spent a long time on Tony’s belly. Of course he did, everyone Tony slept with had to show appreciation for his “cushion” at least once. But Zemo was a lot less gentle than most. He sucked Tony’s naval to the point of gnawing, and only got more aggressive when Tony reflexively cried out. After god knew how long, Zemo remembered there was something else to suck.

The Sokovian moved around so he was kneeling at Tony’s side. He brought Tony’s wrists up to his throat and pinned them there with one arm, pressing him against the freezing floor. The other hand wrapped around Tony’s length.

“Y—” Tony struggled for an insult, as Zemo’s fingers went to work. Tony’s voice shook as he struggled to hold the illusion of confidence. “You don’t get out much do you.”

“Even your wit is crumbling,” Zemo said, continuing to caress Tony’s member.
Tony was now putting all his mental effort into not getting an erection for his putrid fuck. But then Zemo’s tongue gently traced a circle around the tip, and that was that.

“Mmmm Tony Stark, Marchant of Death. Taking pleasure from the bomber who killed his friend T’Challa’s father.” Zemo paused to suck the tip and Tony couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped his lips. “Kills innocent pawns because he needs to take his anger out on someone and Bucky has the same face as the tool that killed his mommy in the video, so why not use him to let off your steam? Starts a war, invents a deadly AI...” the last word trailed off as Zemo’s entire mouth engulfed Tony’s manhood.

The warmth was so tantalizing in this freezing hallway that Tony instinctively pushed inward at first, before recollecting himself and struggling to resist again. But he was rock hard now, and the puke-inducing wackadoof sucking him off was really fucking good at it. He really was enjoying this carnal thing, from the murderer of Black Panther’s dad and fuck knew how many other innocent people. Iron Man, a superhero, yeah right. The only thing that felt like iron was his dick, which was so hard it literally hurt. Or maybe that was more just the Sokovian being a little too rough. Blow jobs didn’t normally involve teeth, right? You were supposed to treat your man like a popsicle, not a corndog, weren’t you? Oh yeah, Zemo was a psycho. The sick Sokovian sucked on until Tony’s spent dick flopped down limply, contrary to his chest and belly which tremblingly rose and fell like… well, like a playboy who’d just had an incredibly violent blow job forced on him.

When Zemo finally pulled away Tony remained heaving, hot silent tears rolling down his face. A warm mass suddenly covered Tony, and he realized Zemo was now completely on top of him. He wasn’t bothering to hold Tony’s arms anymore. Tony weakly threw a punch at Zemo’s bicep, knowing already it was useless. Tony didn’t have any more energy to fight.

“Mmm Howard,” Zemo groaned, running his hands through Tony’s hair. “God I owe you Howard. You gave Hydra the super soldier serum so I could steal it from them; the leverage to kill the Avengers; and this sweet, beautiful little toy.” He forced another kiss on Tony, who found the strength to bite down on the loon’s tongue as hard as he could.

Zemo grabbed his throat and crushed his windpipe for a moment. Then he released his hold as quickly as he’d taken it, and caressed Tony’s face. “Oh Tony, you wouldn’t be much fun if you didn’t have so much fight in you would you.”

Was this reverse psychology to get Tony to cooperate? Tony decided he didn’t care, and wasn’t going to submit either way.

Zemo took ahold of Tony’s wrists again, and moved further up, bringing his own dick, predictably, to Tony’s mouth. Zemo moved Tony’s wrists behind his own back, forcing a painful embrace that stretched Tony’s arms almost out of their sockets. But Tony barely cared, because now was his chance to literally bite this freak’s dick off. Or at least part of it. That, he knew for certain, would make Howard Stark beam from whatever afterlife he watched his son from.

But Zemo’s fingers entered Tony’s mouth first, prying it opened and holding his jaws far apart, super-soldier fingers alone harder to budge than any iron. He was holding Tony’s jaw opened with one hand, and pinning both of Tony’s wrists behind himself with the other. Was that even possible?

“I won’t order you to suck,” Zemo said. “But I’ll tell you it will be over the sooner you do.”

Tony didn’t suck.

He spent god knew how long struggling against Zemo’s grip to clamp his jaws down on the putrid dick pumping in and out of his mouth. He didn’t bother fighting off tears because who other than the psycho was watching anyway?

It went on so long that Tony temporarily lost the will to fight, and instead tried mentally to escape into his own mind. Tried to think of something, anything but the sadist’s cock coming in his mouth.

"What do you think Merchant of Death," Zemo panted, plunging in and out. "Mom and Dad proud of you yet?"

What would Mom say?

His mom had always been the loving one, contrast to his cold father. Maria Stark would have squeezed one of the hands pinned around Zemo’s back, tell Tony how proud she was of her hero son, how it wasn’t his fault he lost control back there with Steve and Bucky, this serial killer raping him was just a big bully, Dad really does secretly love him, it’ll all be over soon, or some other cliched trite. Howard would probably be averting his eyes in shame.

Tony didn’t even realize Zemo’s cock had exited his mouth until he felt it slam into the other end. The Sakovian’s hips thrust at an increasing pace over Tony’s. Tony felt his asshole tearing, Zemo’s dick drawing blood with every thrust. He wasn’t sure if he was calling for his mom out loud or just in his head, but Zemo was laughing either way.

Zemo finally finished and collapsed over Tony’s limp body, heaving. His throat was close enough to Tony’s teeth. Tony was sure he could tear a chunk of this sick fuck’s esophagus out right here, with only his canines and adrenaline to help him. He lunged against for Zemo’s neck, but the super-soldier’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, and forced his head back to the floor.

Zemo finally rolled off him and lifted Tony up in both arms. Tony was too weak to fight at all now. He was too tired to question where he was being taken, why Zemo was moving him into a standing position in front of him (holding him up, as he was too weak to stand on his own), too weak to question anything until he noticed the small television screen in front of him. Then he found the strength to try scrambling away again, but Zemo pressed him tightly against his own body with one arm. With his other hand, he squeezed Tony's chin (again?) and forced his head towards the screen. Tony shut his eyes, but they flew back opened when something burned into his side. Zemo was using a cigarette lighter on him now.

"You'll watch," the Sokovian threatened, "Or I rape you again. Spend the next five minutes with me or your parents, your choice."

Tony's eyes watered again, as he watched his parents' car smash into the tree, and the Winter Soldier cruise over on his motorcycle.

"Does it hurt you to see?" Zemo whispered, still crushing Tony's face and chest in his grip.

When the Winter Soldier placed Howard Stark's corpse in the car (to stage the "accident") and moved on to kill Maria, Zemo pointed out, "So the last thing Mom saw was Dad's corpse sitting next to her."

Tony's eyes shut this time on instinct, but another burn from the lighter had them back opened.

There had to be a trillion and one things Tony could say to this sick son of a bitch, but he couldn't think of any of them at the moment. Just the trillion and one expressions that might've been on his parents' faces in their final moments, that the camera couldn't catch from this distance. All he could see was Bucky Barnes' cold, indifferent face, as he strangled the familiar shape of Tony's mother. He didn't hear the rest of Zemo's taunts, and was barely aware of his captor carrying him back to the medical ward.

Locking him back into his restraints, the lunatic said mildly, “If you want a blanket, food, need to piss, want me to tend any of your wounds, you need only beg.”

Tony was still struggling to come up with a decent retort when Zemo left the room.