Out of Commission
“I’m sorry, Captain, if my mind is trying to find some kind of outlet. I can’t fucking train, I can’t fucking work, I can’t fucking get m-” I stopped myself. That wasn’t really any of Steve’s business, was it. “I can’t fucking do anything.”
Main character(s): Steve Rogers
Other character(s): Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Vision, Helen Cho
Posted: June 19. 2016
A bang reverberated around the room and brought a momentary silence. "Fucking hell!" I shouted as immense pain shot through my right arm. I wasn't sure if it had grazed me or shot right through me, but blood was gushing out.
Taking advantage of my shock, the HYDRA agent pulled me by the bleeding arm and twisted me around, crashing my back against him. I heard something break. Overpowered by another burst of pain, he pinned my other arm against my side, securing me with his arm around my stomach. His other hand took a forceful hold around my neck, squeezing. Putrid breath wafted over me, blending with the metallic sting of blood.
Gasping and spluttering, I struggled to draw breath. "Help," I croaked out, but the pressure on my throat was stealing my voice. My vision began to blur, and as he began chuckling in my ear, I felt lethargy take me.
I refused to die at the hands of this disgusting man, his laugh being the last I heard. I used my last bit of strength to stomp hard on his foot. He shouted out, and loosened his grip just enough for me to heave for breath and knock my head back hard, the sound of a breaking nose, then a loud groan. Spinning around, I kicked up between his legs and he doubled over, blood from his face spattering the floor.
Right arm dangling bloody and useless against my side, I scrambled for my gun with the other, but it wasn't in its holster. "Fuck," I hissed, and instead grabbed the knife strapped to my thigh. The broken-nosed piece of shit had recovered and ran towards me like a battering ram. I spun around, dodged him and kicked his ass, sending him headfirst onto the concrete. "Help! Anyone!" I shouted into the comm.
"Where are you?" I heard Natasha's voice.
The man came towards me again, and my left hand struck out with a lot less finesse than the right, and only grazed his shoulder. I dodged him, bumping my right side into a shelf of glass jars. "S-storage room," I stammered, voice breaking.
"I'm closest," Wanda said. I vaguely registered the sound of a grunt and then slamming doors in my earpiece. I didn't have time to wait for her, I had to try to take him down myself.
Gritting my teeth, I stood straight, pushing the blinding pain to the back of my mind. I looked over his face, saw how crooked I had made the nose, the blood pouring down from it, making it look like he had tried to eat someone. I locked my eyes on the dead black eyes, pouring all my hate into my glare.
"They won't make it in time," he taunted in a slurred voice. "Except to see you take your last breath, Avenger." There was so much venom in that last word I almost felt the burn.
Roaring out a battle cry, I charged, knife poised in my left hand. He rallied and ran as well, and in the middle of the room we crashed. One fist came hard into my stomach, knocking the breath out of me and making me double over. He kicked the knife out of my hand and did a round kick that connected with my shoulder and sent me tumbling across the floor, sliding into a shelf, jars flying and breaking around me. I looked frantically around for the knife, but as the man came at me, I didn't have a free moment to find the weapon. Desperate, I grabbed the largest shard of glass I could find, kicked his feet away under him and pushed the glass into his abdomen as he fell over me, the smell of copper and stale breath making me gag. He twitched and gurgled in death spasms, thick, warm liquid running down my neck and coating my hand.
"You seem to be doing fine on your own," came Wanda's voice both over the comm and from the other side of the room.
"Doesn't feel like it," I croaked. "Can you get him off of me? My hand is stuck in his death wound and he stinks."
A misty red light surrounded the dead body and it was unceremoniously tossed into a corner, glass crunching under him. I wiped my hands on my suit to little effect, before Wanda helped me up. "That doesn't look good," she commended, fingers ghosting over my wounded arm. "We need to get you to the jet."
"I think I've broken a rib or ten too." She hoisted my good arm up around her shoulder and we somehow made our way through the building, leaving a red trail behind us. "Sitrep?"
"Your attacker was the last one down. Steve got the intel off their database and Sam's taking out their communication systems right now."
"Steve got the intel off the database?" I chuckled, but the motion caused pain to shoot through my stomach.
"I'll have you know, that I'm more than a cute ass, as you so eloquently put it," Steve spoke into my ear.
"Will you ever let that go!"
"No, I won't." The Captain himself appeared in front of us with a smirk, holding the door open, the lights of the Quinjet blinking in the distance. His entire posture changed as he looked at me and rushed over to help Wanda with me. "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"My right arm is dead, it hurts to breathe and I cut myself on some glass, other than that, I'm peachy. Just get me home so Helen can fix me."
Dr Helen Cho pulled off the plastic gloves, tossing them into a bin. "I'm taking you out of work for the next four to five weeks, depending on how quick you heal. Then you have to start therapy, get your arm working again, rebuild the muscle mass. You're looking at a total of nine to ten weeks before you can get back to work. That means no training, no missions and no overexertion for at least two months. That arm need to stay still and heal."
I gaped at her. "Two months? I can't go that long without any training! I'm gonna waste away!"
"You have no choice. There's only so much the Cradle can do." She glanced wisely at me, before tapping away at the tablet.
"But –" I began, but she interrupted me.
"Aside from the numerous cuts and bruises – I'm not even going to mention the gashes on your left hand." She shook her head, still working with the tablet, and seemed to almost punch in each ailment as she spoke them. "You have a gun-shot wound. You have broken your radius. You have dislocated your shoulder. All in the same arm. You're lucky you get to keep it. So, you're going to wear that cast and sling until I say otherwise." She looked at me at last, her glare reminding me a bit about my mother. "At the most, you can walk. Carefully. That's all the training I'm letting you do. As long as you don't break a sweat until the cast is off and the stitches are out."
"You're mean, Helen." I shot my bottom lip out. "I'm sure Bruce wouldn't be this mean."
"I can assure you, Dr Banner would quite agree with me. Now, get dressed."
"How do you expect me to get dressed with this on?" I gestured with my cast covered arm, then cursed like a drunken sailor at the pain.
Life with one useless arm and one hand full of healing cuts was challenging. Unable to dress properly, I wore only sweatpants and too big t-shirts. And certainly no bra – I could barely put on underwear as it was, let alone a fucking bra. I didn't shower as often as I would have liked, because that was a hassle I couldn't be bothered with unless I had to. The painkillers made me sleepy, and I tried to only limit them to right before bedtime.
Everyone tried to help me. During the first days there was always someone around. Offering to make me food, get me a blanket, turn up the A/C, do my laundry, anything. But I had always been independent and stubborn, and I'll be damned if this would be any different. Trying my hardest not so sound ungrateful, I declined every offer. Most respected that, especially when they saw that I started to learn tricks for doing things myself, but some seemed unable to not help.
Steve, being the chivalrous man of the forties that he was, tried to be one step ahead of me, offering to cut up my food, bring me tea, fluff the sofa cushions, even read to me. I admit, he has a nice voice, but there's a limit. Vision, always polite and proper and who had proved to be an able cook since his creation, made meals for me. Easy meals, that I could easily reheat or prepare with one hand, there was a new one with my name on it in the fridge every day. I declined everything Steve offered, and I made my own food, no matter how delicious Vision's smelled or looked. If by doing so hurt their feelings, I didn't care.
As the days went on and my cuts healed, I managed well, but when I did struggle, it had to happen when someone saw it. Like that one day I was trying to heat up a frozen dinner in the microwave, but couldn't for the life of me get the plastic off afterwards.
"Need help?" the amused voice of Natasha sounded from the doorway to the kitchen.
"No," I snapped, glaring at the offending food.
"Just asking." I could almost hear the shrug in her voice as she moved to get a water bottle from the fridge. "Cheers," she said and left.
It was times like these that I hated living communally with my friends and colleagues.
Several days later, there was a battle for volume in the common room. I had been binge watching a trashy soap opera all day, when most of the team wandered in with takeout dinner. They were being loud and boisterous, and in annoyance I turned up the volume on the TV. They talked louder. I turned the volume up. This went back and forth, until Sam snapped.
"Can you turn down the volume, punk?" he called out over the noise.
"I'm trying to watch this and I was here before you!"
"You got a TV in your room!"
I ignored him, and the battle of the volume continued, until it reached a ridiculous volume that could probably be heard all over New York.
"TURN DOWN THE VOLUME!" Steve screamed at last.
I faintly heard a fist connect with wood and then the scraping of a chair. Sighing, I pressed a finger hard onto the standby button, tossed the remote onto the table so hard it slid off and under the TV. Then I stormed out, my footsteps loud in the sudden silence.
"I don't want to be disturbed, FRIDAY," I said once I had entered my rooms.
"Duly noted, Agent."
I laid down on my bed, growling. I fully realised I was being completely unreasonable, but I was utterly miserable, had a bad case of cabin fever, and didn't know what to do with it. It just leaked out.
What I really needed was a good workout. A good round with the punching bag, a handful of laps around the track, or more reps than I could handle on the machines. Preferably, all of the above.
I screamed out in frustration.
What I also needed was a good orgasm. I had thought that since I couldn't train, I could at least get myself off to take the edge off everything. How fucking wrong I was. That left hand was just as unskilled at satisfying myself as it was at handling a knife in a fight. I was in my fourth week of sexual frustrations, and as someone who usually helped herself quite often, it was adding a tremendous strain to my mood.
These days, I was walking around with an almost constant lady-boner, and everything was turning me on. The sound of a phone vibrating. The reverberating bass from Tony's lab. The way Natasha drank beer. The boys handling the cues playing pool. Everything that might even remotely resemble something phallic.
Deciding I at least couldn't make things worse, I let my left hand dive underneath the loose waistband of my sweatpants, past under my panties, and into the moistness already there.
I gasped at the touch, I was so ready for this. My hips lifted slightly off the bed as I flicked the bud, it was so sensitive and swollen. Adding another finger, I massaged my clit between them, alternating hard and soft. I didn't even fantasize about anything, I just focused on the feeling slowly building in my core.
Wanting to speed things along, I slid my fingers down for more lubrication. Teasing my entrance. Circling it. Almost dipping in, once, twice. Just before I stuffed myself full, I moved back up, rolling my clit between slippery fingers.
But by goddammit, I just wasn't getting anywhere. I knew how I wanted and needed my fingers to move, but they just couldn't. Desperately, I shoved two fingers inside, taking even myself by surprise. The sensation made me hiss, and I began thrusting roughly. That was what I needed, hard friction, desperate moves, a quick release. It did push me closer to the edge, but not off it.
I tensed my body, arching towards the ceiling. I moaned with purpose, pushed hard breaths from my lungs. Pretended I was close. But nothing. With a whimper, I wrenched my hand away and glared murder at it.
I tried really hard to reign in my aggression and frustrations. I plastered on a fake smile, and spoke as little as possible. The thing was, the more I repressed it, the worse it became, and it sort of seeped out without my knowing it. This I realised one Saturday evening.
We were all gathered around in the common room after a nice dinner, no one having somewhere more important to be for once. I had barely spoken at all that evening. In fact, I hadn't volunteered any words unless spoken to, and even then I said as few syllables as I could, feeling it was safest. I was pretty sure I was behaving quite well.
But for some reason, Steve sent me these sideway glances, more and more often as the evening wore on. The furrow between his brows deepened with each stare, his lips grew thinner and thinner, the muscles of his jaw working harder and harder.
Then, suddenly, there was a loud bang as he slammed his fist into the table, making everyone jump, including the glasses, bottles and bowls on the table, conversation stopped immediately. "I've had it!" Steve growled. Then he stood up, took two long strides towards me and I shrank back into the chair, staring at the finger pointing at me. "Get up."
"Get." The finger jabbed in my direction, then to the floor. "Up." Annunciating each word carefully, the p snapping at the end.
I glared at him, but did as I was told, struggling up off the soft, fluffy chair. The second I was up, he pushed my shoulder, moving me ahead of him and I trotted ahead as fast as I could.
As soon as we were out in the hall, the doors slid shut behind us, and he urged me on, out of earshot from everyone else. Then he spun me around, one hand on my good shoulder, the other slamming against the wall to cage me in.
"What the hell is your problem?" Steve hissed loudly, and I blinked at the spit and harsh breath hitting my face. "We know you're frustrated from being pulled out of work, but that's no reason to let everyone else suffer!"
He was so close to my face I could see the different shades of blue in his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about," I hissed back, quite truthfully.
His eyes narrowed and he breathed through his nose. "I've had enough with your attitude towards the team! You roll your eyes, you mutter under your breath, your entire demeanour is rude and insulting to everyone! We tried to make this a nice evening for us all, but everyone's been walking on eggshells because of you!"
"I'm sorry, Captain, if my mind is trying to find some kind of outlet. I can't fucking train, I can't fucking work, I can't fucking get m-" I stopped myself. That wasn't really any of Steve's business, was it. "I can't fucking do anything."
But he seemed to have caught something of what I hadn't said from the look he was suddenly giving me. His eyes searching mine. His aggressive behaviour had turned me on, it took literally nothing these days, and maybe he had caught on to that.
"You can't get yourself off?" he suggested still hissing angrily, but raising a suggestive eyebrow.
I ground my teeth together, then stared defiantly into his eyes and stood a little taller. "Yes," I answered firmly, going for it. "I haven't gotten off in over a fucking month. I'm so fucking horny I could hump air if I thought it'd help."
Still his eyes searched mine. They darted from one to the other, then to my lips for the briefest of seconds, before they found my eyes again. I tried to gauge his thoughts, his reaction to my confession. But nothing.
Instead, the hand that had leaned against the wall dropped suddenly down to my crotch, cupping me through my sweatpants, pressing his fingers against the centre of my misery. I barely managed to keep standing in my surprise, my eyes fluttering close and my breath hitching in my throat. It was only his hard grip on my left arm that really kept my legs from buckling under me.
"I see." He sounded like he was presented with a new case, a new mission. And without any further ado, he dragged me by my arm down the hall and into his room.
"What are you doing?" I had to admit I was a little bit wary. Would he actually punish me for my behaviour?
Without replying, he pulled me with him into the bedroom, and I couldn't help but look around. I had never been inside his bedroom, and it was just as I expected. Tidy, and vintage, and –
"Oh!" He spun me around and backed me up until my legs hit the edge of the bed, then he laid a hand on my lower back to keep me close as he towered over me, something dark in his eyes.
"I have offered to help you every day since your injury, but you're just too damn stubborn. And since you haven't been able to get yourself off, I offer my help one last time. Something has to be done with your behaviour." He once again cupped my core, pressing his finger into it, rubbing up and down, and causing my brain to fry again. "If you don't want my help, then say so, and I won't offer it ever again."
I couldn't speak. I had never expected this from Steve freaking Rogers. Never expected this forceful and forward personality from the nation's hero. Never expected to find myself with his hand against my pussy, him asking if he could get me off.
"Well?" he urged me on. "Do you want me to continue? Do you want my help?"
I could only nod.
While staring into my eyes, Steve moved his hands to lift my t-shirt just enough to give him access to the waistband on my trousers. His fingers slowly hooked around it, and pulled the grey material down. I felt his fingers against my skin as he pulled, and goose bumps erupted all over. Still he looked into my eyes, as he moved lower and lower, until he was kneeling in front of me, the fabric around my feet.
In a fleeting thought, I was grateful that I had chosen today to shower, and even though my sweatpants and t-shirt wasn't clean, my very not sexy underwear was.
Steve gazed at the white, sensible cotton panties. I felt a bit self-conscious, but he pushed my t-shirt further up, signalling for me to hold it there, and took the waistband in his teeth, pulling them down. I was seeing it, but I wasn't believing it.
Once I was naked from the waist down, I stepped out of the pool of and he shoved them away.
"Sit down on the bed," Steve ordered. "Don't want you falling over."
With shaking legs – he hadn't even begun, and I was already a melting mess – I sat down. Putting warm hands on my hips, he positioned me to his liking, then pushed gently on my stomach, signalling for me to lie down. The anticipation was high, and I tensed and spread my legs for him, awaiting his touch or his tongue, I wanted this more than I realised. But the hot breath that suddenly blew against my moist centre, had my own breath leaving me.
"A month you say?" Steve asked as a response to my reaction. His hands glided down my thighs, then up, so slowly opening me further. "What have you tried? This?" One finger pressed against my button, and the little breath I had left, went out with a squeak.
Slowly, he circled around my clit. So softly, and so gently. I tried to push my hips towards him, I was desperate to get that sweet release I had chased for weeks, I needed him to just get me there.
"Answer me. Have you tried this?"
"Yes," I breathed.
Steve slid his finger down to my opening. "God, you're wet. And this?" His free hand moved from my thigh, to hold me open for him, and the tip of his finger easily circled the hole.
I nodded, my hips arching slightly off the bed.
"Answer me," he said again.
"Yes, I have tried that too. Dammit, Steve!" I snapped, raising my head to look at him.
He completely ignored my rudeness and dipped his thumb in quickly, I gasped, then he put it straight on my clit, rubbing the moistness around. My head fell back again, and my left hand grabbed my t-shirt, intending to lift it up to reach my breasts, but Steve's increasing pressure on my nub, had my fist clench around the material instead, and I tried hard not to move my other arm. I was so close already.
"What else have you tried? Do you have a toy?"
"Toys," I managed to correct him. "Plural."
His movements faltered for a short moment, and I couldn't help but wonder what he thought about that.
"And you have tried them?"
I made an agreeing sound.
He pressed harder onto my throbbing clit, but he somehow knew how hard to press to keep me just on the precipice, and not push me over.
"I want you to answer my questions. Have you tried them?"
He glided his thumb down, teasing my entrance again, then up to glide hard over the bud.
"All of them?"
I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn't find my voice.
"Answer, and I'll let you come."
Damn Steve Rogers, I thought he was supposed to help me! I raised my head again, and saw him look at me with dark blue eyes.
Fuck this, I needed to come so badly. I swallowed hard. "Yes, I have tried them all and they haven't worked. I have tried everything."
Happy with my compliance, Steve rubbed hard and fast, right there on the most sensitive part. Once, twice, and I erupted in front of him. Weeks of pent up sexual frustrations unleashed itself, and I heaved for breath with every wave of pleasure. He continued to tease me through it, prolonging it, but letting me settle.
"You're beautiful when you come," he said. "Did it feel good?"
I nodded weakly and hummed.
"How long is this going to last you? A few days? A week? I need you to last until you can start work again."
And with that, he spread me open with his fingers, his elbows pressing my thighs apart, and without warning ran his tongue from bottom to top. I was so sensitive that I almost recoiled from the warm, soft feel of him, and made a sound I didn't know I could make. My hand flew to my mouth. "Oh, fuck," I gasped, voice muffled against the fist I was biting on.
"You like that?" Steve asked. He lapped at my clit, moving his tongue just like his fingers had done not a minute earlier. I hummed again, but he stopped and pulled back. "Get that fist out of your mouth, I wanna hear you. Now, do you like that?"
He dove right back in, his wet, warm, talented muscle exploring every crevice.
"Yeah. Fuck fuck fuck," I chanted in time with his tongue. I didn't know what to do with myself, I was trying hard not to buck off the bed, my left hand having grabbed the sheets, clenching hard on them to make up for the inactivity of the right.
"You taste so good." His husky voice vibrated against my core, and felt a lot better than my rabbit.
"You're so good," I praised him.
While feasting, his hands began to move. One of them snuck around my thigh, grabbed hard around the flesh, sure the leave a bruise. The other replaced his tongue on my clit, as his face moved lower. "Touch your breasts," he ordered, his lips moving against my lips.
It was difficult to obey, when he was doing me so good and I was absolute jelly in front of him. But I inched my t-shirt up, grabbed firmly onto one mound, and just then, his tongue pushed inside me. I squeezed my breast hard, mewling and arching off the bed in response.
I was getting close again, the fire burning in my stomach, I felt my tunnel starting to tighten. Steve's tongue twisted inside me once more, and was then replaced by two fingers.
My head snapped back and my eyes rolled, my thumb and forefinger pulling at my nipple. I moaned and breathed and twitched. He sucked my clit into his mouth, and began fucking me relentlessly with his fingers. My thighs tightened around him, but his elbows forced me stay open.
"Oh my god, I'm coming." I was arching off the bed, pushing my chest into my own hand, and my hips towards his face, chasing the high.
He was curling his fingers inside me, hitting that one spot that made me see stars, and I tumbled over the edge. I screamed to the ceiling, coming harder than I had in a long, long time. Grabbing the sheets, because I was hurting myself holding on to my chest.
Steve was not holding up. He added a third finger, fucking me hard and deep. Lips sucking on my swollen nub, his tongue flicking over it at the same time.
"Holy fuck," I whined loudly, feeling my world darken. The words coming out of my mouth was unrecognisable. The orgasm kept rolling, and Steve's fingers felt unbelievably big inside my contracting tunnel. I was starting to feel faint. With a weak hand, I tried to push his head away, and he got the message.
Slowing his thrusts, easing off one finger at a time. The emptiness made me feel cold, but I couldn't take anymore. Gently, he began cleaning me with his tongue. Lapping it all up, the slight tremors and aftershocks making me twitch. My legs rested on his shoulders, my hand carelessly flung to the side, I struggled to catch my breath.
One last long lick, and he moved away, lifting my legs off him, laying them carefully down. "That should keep you sated for a while." He spoke as if it was the conclusion of a mission, and to him, it probably was.
"Thank you." My voice was spent, and it came out as a whisper. I started to sit up, so I could go back to my rooms, but Steve stood up quickly and held me down.
"You need to rest. Come on, move up." He helped me scramble up the bed, reaching the pillows. He righted my t-shirt, and pulled the covers over me. "I'll be right back." He moved in to the adjoining bathroom, and that was the last thing I remembered.
A bright, warm light woke me up. I opened my eyes, saw the sunlight streaming through the window, and screwed my eyes shut. Why hadn't the windows dimmed like they used to? And why was I so exhausted? It felt like I had run a marathon.
The sound of a deep sight came from next to me and it was followed by warm breath fanning across my cheek. My eyes opened wide in the stinging light, and I slowly turned my head and got a face full of Steve, fully asleep and so close I could count his eyelashes. One arm was folded under his head, and the other – I just realised – was slung across my stomach.
The events of the evening before came back to me, and my entire body heated up in a blush. And to my horror, my core started pulsing again, the memories turning me on. I needed to leave, quickly.
Carefully, I inched towards the edge of the bed, his warm arm sliding off me. Without too much noise and movement, I managed to get up, Steve hadn't even batted an eyelash. Looking around, I saw my clothes lying under his dresser. I wasn't even going to attempt to retrieve them, so I tiptoed as fast as I could out and into the hallway. Seeing no one, I ran, thanking the gods for the length of my t-shirt.
Safely inside my rooms, I leaned against the door and let out a breath I didn't realise I had held. "How the hell did this happen?" I tried not to remember too much, forcing the throbbing to still. Instead I started giggling. It turned into laughter that had me clutching my stomach, tears running down my cheeks.
The growl of hunger was what made me come to my senses. I hurried into the shower to rinse off sweat from two glorious orgasms and a night in my friend's arms, got dressed and trotted over to the kitchen. Most of team was already seated.
"Good morning," I greeted them. Sam, Natasha and Wanda looked up from their coffees and cereal bowls, gaping at me.
"Good morning," Wanda replied hurriedly, the other two mumbling a morning that sounded more like a question.
The rest of the team trickled in one by one as I was doing my best to make breakfast. They all seemed surprised to see me up, and I could understand that, seeing as I hadn't been up this early on a Sunday morning since we left for that stupid mission.
Sam couldn't hold in his curiosity. "I don't wanna risk another beheading, but what happened to that raincloud over your head?"
I struggled to keep my blush under control and barely kept from glancing at Steve. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're up early," he explained.
"You're not dressed as a hobo," Natasha continued.
"And you're polite and smiling," Vision finished.
I looked down at myself, and noticed that I had put on a pair of black leggings and an Iron Man tank top, instead of sweatpants that could probably walk on their own and a t-shirt with enough room for three of me in them. Steve Rogers obviously worked wonders with his tongue. I shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"Did you kill her last night, Rogers?" Sam asked, and I felt a moment of blinding fear that they all knew what had happened. I hadn't been quiet. "Replaced her with a bot?"
At this, I allowed myself to look at Steve, and saw that he thankfully kept his cool. "I taught her that sometimes it's okay to accept help. And if she ever need to relearn that lesson," he looked at me, his eyes narrowed, "I would gladly help."