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Habeas Corpus

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“Harrison, you’re up.” Rumlow lifts his chin towards a Hydra goon at the opposite end of the room, standing with his rifle gripped tight in both hands, then looks down at Steve. “Go on, sweetheart.”

Working to keep what he hopes is an appropriately neutral Soldier expression on his face, Steve tries to push to his feet. A firm kick from Rumlow hits flat against his left shoulder, on the scar tissue where metal joins flesh, knocking Steve on his ass and sending pain sizzling out from the joint to places Steve hadn’t imagined were connected to the arm’s circuitry.

“Crawl,” Rumlow says. An ugly grin stretches his scarred face.

Steve shoves his tongue between his front teeth where he can bite it. Fine. More macho posturing. More trying to assert dominance over the asset, as if lording over a prisoner who won’t fight back is any sort of victory. Steve pushes up onto his hands and knees and points himself in the direction of the man Rumlow had indicated: Harrison.

As Steve moves, the hair rises on the back of his neck, and that unfamiliar lump in his stomach twists into something painful and urgent, as if there’s something about this position the body rejects. Like it knows turning his back on Rumlow is dangerous. Steve resists the urge to hunch his back defensively, and instead concentrates of the scrape of his metal fingers on the floor as he moves.

In front of Harrison, he settles onto his knees again and waits. There are only five more men in the room, not counting Rumlow. If they all want to perform some sort of ridiculous token humiliation to punish the Soldier, Steve can take it. Better this than beating or torturing him. This might be unpleasant, but it shouldn’t hamper Steve’s efficiency when the time comes to get what they came here for and blow this joint. He schools his face to blankness and looks up at Harrison to brace himself for the next hurdle.

When the man starts unzipping his pants, it takes Steve several seconds to understand what’s happening. At first, he thinks Harrison must be going for a weapon. Instead the man shoves aside the fabric and draws out his penis, already partially erect. “Here you go, boy.”

Steve’s eyes catch on the fat, fleshy tip of the man’s cock, inches in front of his face. It’s incongruous, here in a combat situation, when exposure like this is meant for intimate moments, for lazy mornings in bed with Bucky, for teasing looks and thinly-veiled roughhousing. It’s a sight that doesn’t belong in this situation.

A quick glance over his shoulder earns Steve a derisive chuckle from Rumlow. “Don’t act shy now, snowflake. After all the cock I’ve seen you take, there’s no pretending you don’t know what he wants. Go on.”

He turns back to the man holding his cock out, and this time the sight seems completely normal, like Steve should have been ready for this from the moment Rumlow put him on his knees. The moment the guards marched him into this room. The moment he saw the Winter Soldier's cold, blank eyes staring at him out of his dead best friend's face.

Steve’s mouth opens, and then the man is inside him, fucking his face before Steve has even registered what's meant to happen next. It’s automatic, like muscle memory.

There’s a buzzing in his ears that drowns out the next thing Rumlow says. Whatever it is makes Harrison laugh, pushing his belly against Steve’s face. He wants to move, but all his muscles and metal parts are locked tight, braced for impact.

This isn’t supposed to be part of the mission. Bucky never told him. That might be the worst thing. No, the worst thing is pushing down the urge to vomit as the man’s stale-tasting dick jabs into the back of Steve’s throat. Or perhaps it’s the clench of his fist—one flesh, one metal—at his sides as he stays on his knees, looking up at the man’s open-mouthed expression of pleasure and just lets him fuck into his throat.

Steve could stop this. He’s stronger than this man by far. He could bite down, incapacitate him, stand and break his neck. He could fight back. He’s always fought back. But that’s not what the Soldier does. That’s not what Bucky would do if he were here. What he'd been doing for seventy years, it seems. Compliance is what Rumlow and the others expect from the Soldier, so that’s what Steve is going to do. He will not give himself away.

“That’s it. That’s our boy. Taking it like a champ.” Rumlow steps close enough to slap Harrison’s shoulder, jolting him further down Steve’s throat. “See, I told you, get him back in his routine, and he’ll be fine.”

No matter how brutally hard the man fucks his mouth, Steve doesn’t gag. This body knows how to take it, to breathe in through the nose whenever possible, to move with the hand guiding his head, to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his eyes fixed on the man taking him, even when reflexive tears blur his vision.

When Rumlow had said, “punishment,” Steve had braced himself for something unpleasant: something like the beatings and torture he knew Hydra had employed to train the Soldier. But of all the things Bucky had told him about Hydra, he’d never breathed a word of this. Not a syllable. When he was lying sweating and fucked out holding Steve against his chest, he’d never even hinted. Bucky had woken up this morning and put on his Winter Soldier uniform and gotten in the Quinjet and he’d known and he’d agreed to the mission anyway.

Harrison finishes with a shouted curse, and Steve swallows what he’s been given easily, barely tasting it. He has to stop himself from striking reflexively when the man tugs him off by the hair—too long: not his own crew-cut, but Bucky’s soft brown locks. Steve regains his balance and settles back onto his knees, and he doesn’t lash out.

“Thank you, sir,” he says. The words spill out automatically, and he bites back the string of defiant threats that wants to follow. Harrison grins down at him and pats him on the cheek before zipping up his pants.

Steve knows what he’s looking at: he’s seen Bucky like this—lips swollen and red from kissing and sucking, eyes fixed on Steve as he takes him deep, and how--how had he never said anything about this? There’s an ache in Steve’s throat that doesn’t exactly hurt—not the way a bullet wound hurts—but that he knows he will remember it as long as he lives. The lump in Steve’s stomach has coalesced into a heavy thrum that pulses through him, ominous as a loud heartbeat in a silent room. Steve makes himself keep breathing. Bucky had volunteered for this mission, knowing what was in store. Being unprepared for it isn't any worse than that, surely. It’s probably easier, actually, since he didn’t have to spend all day knowing this was in store.

Steve has to keep going. Giving up isn't an option. After all, he'd never ask anyone under his command to do something he isn't willing to do himself.

“That’s it. Getting back into the routine feels good, doesn’t it?” Rumlow tussles Steve’s hair before giving him a shove too hard to be playful. “Keep going. You know how this works. You let the team down, you gotta make it up to all of them.”

The men in the room all smile: a whole pack of grinning vultures with their hands loose and easy on their guns. The nearest one slings his rifle over his shoulder long enough to unzip his pants.

Four more men. Fine. Steve can do this. Just a small number of obstacles in his way, and then he’ll be done with this. They’ll have had their fun, and Steve will be able to move on with the mission. He’d known there would be a price for getting this information, and now that he knows what it is, he just has to pay it.

As Steve crawls to the next man, he places his hands down carefully, feeling the cold concrete under his flesh hand and only the vague sense of firm pressure against the metal hand. He concentrates on the strangeness of that sensation so he can ignore the leaden tightness in his gut, the thick, salty taste at the back of his throat, the buzz of adrenaline urging him to fight. Despite Steve’s spinning thoughts, the body stays loose and easy, pliant in the face of orders.

The next guard loses patience and snatches a handful of Steve’s hair to drag him closer. He gets his mouth open even before the man presses a thumb against his jaw to make him open up. From there, it’s not difficult. In fact, the motions come as if by instinct. Open his mouth. Look up at the man using him. Ignore the drool leaking from the ring of his lips.

Steve tries to count the guns. Rumlow, watching from the side, has two—no, three—and the man in the back corner has a weapon slung over his shoulder that Steve can’t see from this angle. Probably a Colt M4A1, but he’d need a closer look to know for sure. There’s enough hardware in the room to fire hundreds of rounds per second.

Another guard grabs Steve’s hand and pulls it up, momentarily throwing off his balance. He manhandles Steve’s fingers to wrap around his half-hard cock. Without waiting for Steve to get with the program, he folds his own hand over Steve’s and strokes himself. The rhythm is distracting, asynchronous with the man thrusting into his mouth, and Steve loses count of the weapons.

“That feels better, doesn’t it?” Rumlow says. “Bet you missed this.”

Steve doesn’t look at Rumlow. If he looks at Rumlow, he won’t be able to keep from attacking him. He tries to make his face go blank, to be the perfectly obedient soldier they expect. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the hard floor beneath his knees, the heavy weight of his metal arm, the invasive bulk of a man's cock filling his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Someone steps up behind Steve, and he braces for a kick or a punch, but instead one of the other guards sinks down to kneel behind him. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, holding him tight, the way Bucky had last week, both of them standing in the elevator, dead on their feet after a marathon training session. Bucky had rested his chin on Steve's shoulder and breathed against his neck, and somehow when the elevator had arrived at their floor they'd found the energy to tumble into bed together.

"Is that true?" The hand around Steve's waist rubs over the front of Steve’s pants—Bucky’s leather combat gear—and pushes against the outline of Steve’s dick. “You enjoying yourself?” The man pulls the metal arm up behind Steve's back and holds it there while he keeps rubbing Steve through his pants. Tucked up close behind him, the guard leaves Steve nowhere to move as one man fucks his face and another jerks himself off with Steve’s hand.

Steve looks past the man thrusting into his mouth to examine the room. There’s one exit: the metal door they came through. It’s hard to breathe, pinned in place with a cock jammed down his throat. No, two doors. There’s one on the opposite wall, with a security pad next to it. The slick slide of flesh through his hand is not under his control; it may as well be happening to someone else. He can feel the man's fingers tangled with his. The wall next to the security pad is probably a two-way mirror. Are they watching this? Recording? He could smash the glass. The metal arm is more than strong enough for that. The man behind him is rocking his hips against Steve’s ass, and he can feel the hard outline of the man’s erection even through their clothes. His hand on Steve’s cock is relentless. There’s an air vent in the floor. Six screws holding it in. Gray and a little rusty. He could texture it with pencil, if he had to draw it.

“Fuck!” The man Steve’s sucking thrusts in brutally hard, slapping his balls against Steve’s chin, and then pulls out slowly, spewing globs of come onto Steve’s tongue, then against his lips. The guard behind him humps against Steve, jolting him forward so that he chokes on the last of the man’s come, sputtering and gasping for breath as he spits.

In an instant, Rumlow is charging towards him. “Hey! Bad dog!” The other guards pull away as Rumlow grabs Steve by the neck and shoves his face down to the floor. “You know the rules. Vasquez was nice enough to give you a treat, you swallow it all.”

Steve lands with his hands flat on the gritty floor and his ass in the air. He can see light from the hallway underneath the door. He can still remember the route they took to get him here from the entrance. He can get out anytime.

“I’m talking to you.” Rumlow’s boot lands on the back of Steve’s neck, smashing his cheek against the ground. “Use your tongue, idiot.”

Drops of semen litter the floor in front of Steve’s face. The mission is moving along as planned. This is just another tactical necessity. Steve pushes out his tongue to scrape against the floor, tasting salt and dirt.

Above him, Rumlow chuckles. “Good boy.”

Steve keeps going until he can’t see anymore white, and his tongue feels fuzzy and raw. When Rumlow takes his boot off Steve’s neck, Steve pushes back onto his knees. Vasquez has zipped his pants back up, but the rest of the men are still eyeing Steve hungrily.

“Hey.” Rumlow snaps his fingers to get Steve’s attention. “Strip. Bend over the table. Park, give me that.” He turns away to one of the men who’s still fully clothed.

Steve looks at the table: waist high, bolted to the floor, leather restraints fixed at intervals along the side. If they try to tie him down, he can break out. He can still run. But he won’t. He’s come this far already, and the mission hasn’t changed.

“Since when are you so slow? Your brain need a fresh jolt?” Rumlow pats him on the cheek, too lightly to be a proper slap. “Get moving, soldier.”