brandingproblem | open post

Control. Steve likes control. The tighter the grip he has on it, the better everything becomes.

A few months ago, this would be unheard of. Steven Grant Rogers who valued freedom and equal opportunities for others. Who would take down bullies and never take any harrassment laying down. Who would defend anyone from aforementioned bullies and fight until his knuckles were bleeding. That Steve Rogers, though? Lives in the past tense now. A memory for the people he held near and dear. A man who once was. A man they'd never forget.

Just like that fateful mission that went awry. Steve was adamant to save everyone. No one was to blame. It was an impossible task they got themselves trapped into, so in the end, Steve did what he does best and acted as bait for the rescue. He was too good in the role that he didn't think the alien parasite would linger long after the mission was over.

The thing is, it was gradual. After the celebrations and triumphant cheers, Steve noticed it as the days passed. He was quick to anger, quick to lose his patience during training sessions. Bruce scanned his brain, cleared him of anything. Didn't think it was a remnant of a mission they did a month ago. That was probably the most tragic part of it - Steve watched parts of himself slowly slip away, pouring out of his open hands like water. Nights were spent in frustration, trying to wrangle what's left of him. They tried to help, but the sand beneath his fingertips continued to cascade down along with every goodness that's in Steve Rogers. They tried to help. They didn't know what was wrong.

Then, it happened. One night with Clint. Followed by another. And another.

Tonight, it's going to happen again because Steve wants to feel that control once more. He slips in through the darkness dressed only in a pair of boxers. Slips into the room where his caged bird is, all pretty and ready for him. All his.

"Lovely as always, Clint."

It isn't that he doesn't trust a doc with a hundred PhDs to know what he's talking about, but Clint's gonna strangle Banner when he gets out of here. Nothing has been more clearly wrong with Steve.

Or with whatever the fuck is inside of Steve making him this way.

They all knew he was suffering. But with no real viable, actionable plan to work with, they just all had to do whatever they could for him and hope he could work it out himself. When Clint had shown up at Steve's with a case of beer in one hand and a couple pizzas in the other, he figured the worst that would happen would be an argument, maybe even storm out with some slightly singed feelings that would heal up by the next day.

Maybe the most damning part is that Clint hadn't minded, at first. Unexpected, sure, but he is not on principle opposed to casual sex with friends. It's not like he'd never thought about it with Steve before. But it was the way he went about it, it was some of the words uttered against his ear, everything reeking of not Steve, and pointing it out and trying to disentangle himself did not work in Clint's favor.

He doesn't raise his head at the sound of Steve approaching. There hasn't been anything viable to pick the shackles with, hasn't been able to see any immediate way out. But there's got to be an opening. He just has to be patient. He just has to endure and keep his wits about him. If nothing else, someone eventually is going to notice he's fallen off the map entirely. And then they can do something about their friend gone sour.

Somehow.

Nothing about this is Steve at all. So much of what’s inside him has taken over him in so many ways that matter. Like right now, as he slinks closer to Clint, not bothered that his friend didn’t even look at him when he greeted him. Clint will have plenty of opportunities later to greet him, to say his name, to scream it even.

It’s a good thing his place is soundproof, and inconspicuous enough that no one really tried looking into it. Inconspicuous because everyone still trusted Steve, even while he’s slowly acting out. He had his bouts of impatience and maybe some lashing out, but that doesn’t mean he has a friend chained inside his place, right?

Everyone else is busy on other long-term missions. Months and months of reconnaissance and operations. Steve has taken advantage of this after that fateful night over beer and pizzas.

As he gradually joins Clint on bed, Steve runs a finger along naked skin, making sure his presence is known and felt. He grabs a fistful of his friend’s hair, turning Clint to face him.

“I can’t get enough of you.” Murmured Steve before smashing his lips against the other’s own in a searing kiss, forcing his tongue inside, sweeping everything forcibly offered to him.

His free hand immediately pinches a nipple, letting Clint know who he belongs to.

He just has to keep his cool. He just has to get through it. He just has to endure and make it out the other side. It's the basics of withstanding torture 101. Just because it's sexual torment wearing the form of a friend doesn't make the rules different. He has to detach himself while keeping himself aware of openings and opportunities.

So: ignore the finger trailing up him, and ignore the small shiver it makes his body give. Ignore the grip in his hair no matter the pain/pleasure of it. Ignore the invasive kiss like Steve's about to try and eat him from the inside out. Let his gaze go to the middle distance and simply breathe through his nose. Don't react. Don't react. Even if he breathes a little harder at the attention to a nipple.

Ignore and endure. If he doesn't give Steve what he wants, what happens then? Or, what would happen if he's given everything freely? Is it the force, the power, that gets the thing inside Steve high on his own supply? Powertripping with rape? Clint still aches in places from the last time. He holds himself steady. Not limp like a dead weight, but disengaged from the goings-on. No matter how revolted he feels.

When Steve pulls away, his lips curl up into an all-knowing, if not amused, smirk. He’s an expert in reading people through their subtle body movements. He can tell Clint reacted quite well to the small things he did to Clint’s body. To the body Steve knows intimately well by now.

Licking Clint’s bottom lip slowly, he peppers those lips with some more kisses, as if he’s coming back for seconds. “I miss you moaning my name. Remember when we first did this?” The hand that twisted that nipple moves further south, finding that ass to be a lovely spot to explore.

“You were practically begging.” Steve can’t help the chuckle that leaves his throat. He also can’t help the deft fingers testing a puckered hole, one of which immediately pushing inside unceremoniously. “Still pretty loose from our last time, I see.” Kisses those lips again, a tent inside his boxers now visible.

The first time. The first time had started out well until it became clear Steve was no longer Steve. And then the night had spun rapidly out of control. Don't react, don't react, don't fucking do it.

Except a finger presses inside him easy as anything, and Clint sucks in a sharp breath, body tightening about the intrusion, the reminder that it hasn't really been all that long since last time, not enough to fully recover. The thing inside Steve is practically insatiable. And Steve's body is blessed with super serum, which apparently makes him real enviable in the bedroom. He refuses to wonder if it's just manipulating what might've already been inside Steve to begin with. Because he'd never be like this.

There's something snarky working up his throat, but he clamps down his teeth and lips around it. Don't give him anything to work with. Don't give him a damn thing.

The way Clint draws in a breath - the only reaction Steve elicits from him - is enough for now. He knows well by now that the other man’s trying to rein in every single reaction he can possibly receive, as if that’s going to get him anywhere. As if it’s ever going to stop Steve from coming back and doing this over and over again.

His finger curls inside Clint’s passage, still slick from Steve’s own cum. He can practically feel it inside the other, wet and his, like the entirety of this body he’s now playing with. It doesn’t take long for Steve to try and probe deeper, as if in pursuit of something that will earn him a much larger reaction. Maybe a moan or two.

“Gonna fill you in again. Gonna make you mine.” Steve pecks Clint’s lips. “You’re already mine, right?” As if on cue, Steve pulls Clint’s head by his hair, forcing him to nod.

“Good bird.” Steve’s smirk just broadens. “Maybe I should loosen you up,” Steve adds two more fingers inside without so much of a warning. With three now widening Clint’s hole, he continues, “And not just down here. Make you more compliant.”

Whatever that looks like for Steve, and more importantly for Clint, is something they’d have to see for themselves.

Clint breathes through the probing, harsh but even for it. Grimaces through the pantomime, because there's no force on earth that will get Clint to keep Steve from doing whatever he wants physically, not by strength or fight alone.

When it's suddenly three fingers forcing their way inside, his body seizes up, wrists pulling at the shackles, legs flexing like he can curl himself up into a ball and simply roll away from the surprise and pain. He might still be loose and somewhat slick, but with some recovery time, not that loose or slick. He grits his teeth, clamped tight to try and keep anything but what sounds like a bare grunt locked up tight.

The idea that he could be made compliant is something that stokes some embers of fear in him. Because with all the shit they've run into before, it's hardly an idle threat. Steve might want control as part of some sick game or whatever need is forcing him, but Clint needs control, needs to be able to stay himself, as much as possible.

The fingers curl, and probe, and poke like they’re marking their territory inside Clint’s ass. When they push in even deeper, Steve begins to scissor within, as if in an attempt to try and fit in even more things up Clint’s hole. Whatever twisted fantasy is clouding Steve’s judgment right now, he intends to fulfill it.

Or maybe he’s just trying to get Clint to say something. For some reason, when it comes to this, he has all the patience in the world.

“Last chance, Clint, before I turn you into something you won’t recognize.” Steve teases, kissing that delicious jaw, lips traveling down that supple neck Steve has marked repeatedly so he can do more.

“Moan for me, or else that’s all you’ll ever do.” Which, to be fair, isn’t a bad prospect. And Steve might still take himself up on that. But he also wants Clint to give in while he still has his wits on him. While the man’s still fighting every possible urge. There’s something so tantalizing about breaking Clint into pieces without added aid. Just him and, well, a fourth finger.

Clint's hands reach to wrap around the chains of the shackles, letting metal bite into skin when he holds on tight. It's something to hold that isn't just himself, something to keep him from digging his own nails into himself. He can't just give, refuses to, even as his body shakes at the widening of his hole and half of Steve's hand jammed on in there. Yes, he can feel the pleasure that shoots through him when he's touched just right, but there's just as much he doesn't fucking like. He won't. He can't. (Giving him exactly what he wants is a viable option, too, if obstinate and stubborn refusal doesn't do the job. The bag of tricks is hardly empty.)

Part of him wants to close his eyes. Pretend it all away. It'd be easier to stand in some ways if he doesn't have to see Steve or the darkness behind his eyes. But god knows he's not going to like any surprises he doesn't see coming. He'd love to say something snappy and sassy, fuck me or don't already, but that goes against what he's trying to do. Don't give it any attention. Be as solid as a rock, as he can possibly be.

For some reason, Steve likes the cat and mouse chase. The thrill of it is almost intoxicating for someone who craves power. And, right now, overwhelmed by an entity that has engulfed any possible good thing about Steve Rogers, he likes nothing more. He knows that facade will cave. He has seen it during other nights. Has seen it when his hips rolled against Clint's, slamming into him with the ferocity of someone intent in milking every ounce of dignity from the man. Has seen it when his hands roam through chest, abs, nicely built arms. Those memories keep Steve from losing his patience, knowing full well they'd become realities again.

So while he continues to probe and push, his free hand leaves Clint's hair, pulling something tiny from his boxer's pocket. Like a little dart of some sort. Fingers inside Clint's ass thrust even deeper, hoping to distract the man from seeing what it actually is: a heavy dose of aphrodisiac.

"Well, can't say I didn't warn you." And that's all the warning Clint will receive before Steve jams the dart into Clint's neck, purposefully aiming for a vein. The dose isn't large, but it's strong enough, the very reason why Steve carried it in a small, inconspicuous vessel.

The drug should be quick to spread, and Steve tries to test its efficacy by curling a finger just right inside Clint's hole. Maybe he'll receive a moan now. Maybe he'll see that pretty face contorted in pleasure again.

Clint concentrates on trying to give no indication of anything, anything at all, save for an occasional grunt of air pushed out of him through the mix of pain and pleasure that, normally, would be fairly effective. Now he only tries to categorize it all as physiological reactions to outside stimuli. None of it means anything; none of it has to mean anything to him. Pride has never been something he puts much stock in.

But there's movement, and a sting, and he knows he's been injected with something, and that gets him to gasp out a fighting sound.

In a way, doesn't that make it easier? If he dies, if he's knocked out, if his self is altered, then how much does he have to care? He'll still be raped, his body manipulated as the thing-inside-Steve sees fit, with no good immediate escape. (Steve keeps things on him, then. That might be useful. If he can get his hands on--)

He feels it start to work. A warmth rapidly spreading through his body, an uptick in his pulse, the way his muscles feel a little looser. Everything about him looser, everything feeling better, physically. Feels the way his cock starts to come to some attention. Especially when Steve presses fingers just right, exactly where he'd found before was a deliciously sensitive spot. His mouth drops open, but his throat feels like it's welded shut for the wave of everything that rushes over him. And when he can't take that anymore, a low groan punches out of him, body curling.

“Finally.” The way the word leaves Steve’s lips feels surreal, much like everything else about him now. It’s soft, barely there. Might not even have come from Steve’s own lips. In Clint’s present state, he might as well have imagined it.

What he doesn’t imagine for certain, though, is the way Steve leans in to resume marking Clint, sliding his fingers out, and using his weight to force Clint on his back. Always such a sight to behold, isn’t it? Clint Barton laying down on his bed all for the taking. Again. And again.

He watches as marks from before join with the ones he just made tonight. Loves the muscles rippling through a thin layer of sweat. Every curve. Every inch. All his.

Steve almost fights back the urge to whistle when he sees that now erect cock. He already felt it a second ago, but to see his handiwork is truly something else.

Two hands begin to descend on Clint’s thighs, snaking up closer to his erection. Hungry eyes watch what he’s doing, never missing a detail of Clint’s statuesque body. Every patch of skin. Every coarse hair.

He briefly glances up, hands coaxing Clint’s legs to spread further apart. “Tell me you like this.”

The hands are good. It's good in a way he wishes it wasn't. Knows it isn't on some level, the logical one, but Steve pushes him back, thighs parting with minimal effort, and there's an emptiness in him that's throbbing after all that time getting fingered like his life depended on it. To go along with the little throbs of bruises that start to blossom over his body. The older ones mostly just ache annoyingly, but these are fresh and tender and pure.

Fuck. Steve's watching him. Intently devouring him visually, and maybe if Steve was still Steve, that would be even hotter. But it's not. It's something else behind those eyes, something that's eroded Steve away, locked him up somewhere.

Pretty sure nobody else is locked up in here. So he has to wonder: is it just him? Was it just a matter of coincidence, opportunity? Or something about Clint in particular? Maybe he doesn't actually want to know the answer to that.

He's asked a question. It's tempting to respond. He does not say 'go to hell', even if it's something that wants to come tumbling out. Does not say no, does not say yes, does not use his words at all. His body can't ignore Steve, but the rest of him still might be able to, if he can just keep hold of some part of himself.

This is definitely better than not receiving any reaction from Clint before because Steve knows he'd get there soon enough. If he played his cards right, soon Clint would be singing his praises like the bird he is. Steve's only laying down the foundation of a very eventful, and very fun, night later on. One where he knows he'd be able to elicit the full extent of Clint's sounds.

Once he's satisfied of how wide he wants Clint's legs to be, Steve stops for a second to admire Clint again. He's such a catch, lips curving up in pride at the thought that he's able to cage such a lovely specimen. In contrast to Steve taking his time admiring and devouring, he's quick to latch on to a nipple this time, suddenly sucking and playing with the perked nub between his teeth. He pulls and bites gingerly then sucks as if he's anticipating something to come out of it if he does it hard enough. Swirls his tongue around it, giving the other the same attention, before a hand grabs Clint and begins stroking, pumping.

It's not careful. None of this is. Just pure unadulterated hunger and desire, like Steve's planning on breaking Clint multiple times in one go. He swipes his thumb a couple of times on that velvety head, glancing up to watch Clint's face with a nipple still parked between his teeth. With each response Steve doesn't like, he makes sure to take his attention a notch higher. Those nipples aren't safe from getting bitten off.

Normally, it'd probably feel pretty good as is. His nipples are not overly sensitive, but it's a good and pleasant sensation to have them played with overall. With every part of him hyped up with medically-induced anticipation, though, the pleasure only increases. The attention gets a stuttery exhale, shackle chains digging into his palms for how tight he's holding them.

And that, he'd be able to withstand just that, ride on that for a while without breaking. But Steve starts to touch him, stroke him, exactly where his body needs it. He can't help a sharp bark of pleasure about it, a sound that betrays how the sensations overwhelm him. His heels dig into the mattress where his legs are pressed open, an awkward angle to try and get any leverage, and simply doesn't have anywhere to go.

Clint bites his own lip, struggling to keep anything else inside, but the way moans shudder out of him anyway, whining huffs from his nose, reverberating in the back of his throat, makes it a fruitless gesture.

Excellent. Moans like that coming from Clint are like music to Steve's ears. It's one of the (many) things he's been trying to elicit from his caged bird and he's been successful so far. And so satisfied, in fact, that Steve pulls on the nipple between his teeth until the damn thing's bright red in his mouth. No taste of metal, though, because he's not going to reward his bird with something like that. At least for now.

Instead, he hastens his pace, torturously slow at first and then fucking breakneck, squeezing and stroking and almost pulling. This erratic pace continues like Clint's in the hands of a madman. Which isn't far off the mark, admittedly, with everything that's wrong with this Steve and how he's relishing every second of this.

It goes without saying that Steve's getting off of this display, but maybe the point isn't to get off once. Or twice. After all, he doesn't have a refractory period. Maybe if tonight's the night he tests just how much Clint can take in one go.

This version of Steve loves to mix pain into the pleasure. And a part of Clint likes that in theory. It's enjoyable, scratching skin, biting too hard, a smack, a choke. These things belong in sex, he thinks, to a point.

But when Steve hurts him, he takes it to the very far edge. His nipple doesn't get bitten off, but damn if it doesn't feel like it's about to come right off, and he tries to pull himself away with nowhere to go.

His brain starts to short circuit when Steve's hand picks up the pace to such an extreme that it ends up more pain than pleasure. It's rough and hot and hard and too hard and too rough and overwhelming, no time to enjoy the sensations, just getting his dick pulled around to a point where he might come in an instant or might never come at all. All the signals are confused. But the huffs of pleasure are mixed with grunts of pain, and all he can think of is that this is torture. It's good torture but torture all the same. "Stop," he begs before he even realizes any words formed at all much less left his mouth. One hand has left the chains and clings to Steve's shoulder, pushing fruitlessly against him, digging his fingers in.

He does particularly like it when they beg.

With a smirk, Steve doesn't stop. Instead, he actually quickens his pace even more, the friction almost burning. His bird looks so good begging like this, digging fingers into his shoulder. Steve can feel how much this is excruciating for Clint if those fingers are any indication. He likes dishing out the pain, but he also likes receiving it, especially from someone who's so desperate like his pretty bird over here.

But, you know, what good is a bird if they're missing body parts, right? So Steve relents, slows down his pace after a while, gradually receding into a gentle stroke. He stops just before he can ruin his plaything, just enough to elicit the kind of reactions he wanted from his new toy. At one point, he lets go of Clint's nipple, hand still holding his cock but not stroking anymore.

Leaning back, Steve gazes at how he's slowly unraveling Clint. What a picture perfect image. With a gentle touch this time, one finger snakes down to Clint's perineum, slowly stroking it. Feeding it. Gone is the touch of a madman. Now Steve's touches are that of a careful lover. Because, at the end of the day, what's better than his bird begging him to stop, but for him to beg for more?

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ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀᴜ

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