"I… can do this all day…"
Steve's voice came out hoarse and broken as he tried to push himself up from the crater. His body trembled under the strain, every muscle screaming in protest as he forced himself to move. Even now, even in this state, he refused to stay down.
But it didn't matter.
Peter pressed his foot down harder, pinning him firmly against the ground. The pressure forced the air out of Steve's lungs, and before he could even react, chunks of shattered concrete were shoved into his mouth, grinding against his teeth and cutting his lips.
There was no dignity left in the moment.
No heroism.
Only humiliation.
And Peter enjoyed every second of it.
A thought suddenly crossed his mind, and his grin widened. "Oh… this is perfect," he muttered, his tone dripping with excitement. He turned slightly and gestured toward Venom. "Hey, grab the camera. The one I use for photos."
Venom tilted its head, then obeyed without hesitation.
"Good," Peter continued, his eyes gleaming. "Now film this. Don't miss a single second."
The idea was simple.
And devastating.
Steve Rogers wasn't just a man—he was a symbol. For decades, his name had stood for justice, freedom, and unwavering resolve. In the eyes of the public, he wasn't just a hero. He was something closer to a saint, a legend passed down through generations.
And now—
That legend was lying in the dirt, beaten, restrained, and helpless.
If this footage got out…
The impact would be enormous.
Public morale would shatter.
Faith would collapse.
And Spider-Man—no, Peter—could use that chaos to rebuild his own image.
The thought alone made him laugh.
"Captain," Peter said mockingly, patting Steve's swollen cheek like he was congratulating him. "Thanks for this. Really."
Steve's eyes burned with rage.
Even through the pain, even through the haze creeping into his mind, he understood exactly what Peter was doing. He knew what this meant—not just for himself, but for everything he represented.
This wasn't just about beating him.
It was about breaking something much bigger.
"I… can… fight… you… all… day!"
He forced the words out, slamming his fists against the ground as he struggled to lift himself again. His head rose halfway, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Peter with defiance that refused to die.
"Smack."
Peter didn't hesitate.
He drove him back down effortlessly.
Like pressing down on something that had already lost all resistance.
Like a fish on a chopping block.
At that moment, Steve felt it clearly.
Powerlessness.
"I don't want to lose…" he muttered, his voice trembling with frustration and fury. Blood spilled from his mouth as his strength finally began to give out.
In the distance, he heard Peter shouting excitedly.
"Come on, Venom! Hit the shutter! Don't miss this shot!"
The world around him dimmed.
His vision blurred.
And then—
Everything went black.
——
"Captain… Captain, wake up!"
Voices echoed through the darkness, pulling him back.
Steve's eyes opened slowly, his vision unfocused at first. The world came back in fragments—light, sound, pain. His head felt like it was splitting apart, each pulse sending waves of agony through his skull.
"I… I think I passed out…" he murmured.
His gaze shifted, landing on a familiar face.
Clint Barton.
"How's Fury?" Steve asked immediately, his voice still weak. "Is he—"
Clint didn't answer right away.
Instead, his expression twisted into something strange, almost awkward. He pointed behind Steve with a hesitant motion.
"…You should probably see for yourself."
Steve frowned.
Then looked down.
And froze.
His suit was gone.
Fury's clothes were gone.
The two of them—fully grown men—were bound tightly together with thick strands of spider silk, stuck in an absurdly humiliating position that made the entire situation even worse.
For a moment, Steve's brain simply stopped.
Then—
His face turned bright red.
Not from pain.
From sheer, overwhelming embarrassment.
"What… is this…" he whispered, his voice trembling.
Clint coughed lightly, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "I just wanted to check if you were okay…"
Steve turned his head slowly, staring at him with a look so full of resentment it could practically kill.
"…Are you satisfied now?" he asked through clenched teeth.
Clint nodded awkwardly. "Medical team's on the way. Should be here in two minutes."
"…What?"
Steve's expression changed instantly.
If they saw him like this—
No.
Absolutely not.
He struggled violently against the restraints, trying to break free from the spider silk. His muscles strained, veins bulging as he put every ounce of strength into it.
Nothing.
It didn't budge.
Footsteps echoed from outside.
Closer.
Closer.
Steve's face drained of color.
"Knock me out," he said suddenly, turning toward Clint with desperate urgency. "Now. I'm serious. I don't want them seeing me like this."
Clint shook his head firmly. "You're injured. I'm not hitting you."
"Then I'll do it myself!"
Steve's expression hardened. Without hesitation, he arched his body and slammed his head against the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Blood immediately began to drip down his forehead.
But instead of knocking him out—
It made him more conscious.
More aware.
More painfully awake.
Steve's face twisted in frustration, while Clint looked away, unable to watch.
The door burst open.
A group of medical personnel rushed in, carrying equipment as they prepared for emergency treatment.
Then they saw it.
Captain America.
Nick Fury.
Tied together.
Completely exposed.
Even the trained professionals froze for a split second.
Then—
Their expressions cracked.
Clint gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay composed, but it was obvious the scene was pushing everyone to their limits.
Steve closed his eyes tightly, pretending to be unconscious.
But it didn't help.
He could feel it.
The stares.
The suppressed laughter.
The whispers.
Even the occasional hand brushing against him during the "treatment."
As the former leader of the Howling Commandos… as the symbol of an entire nation… he had never experienced humiliation like this.
Not even close.
"…Wait," one of the medics whispered. "I think the captain's awake."
Steve immediately shut his eyes tighter.
He wasn't opening them again.
Not now.
Not ever.
"Quick, bring the defibrillator," another voice called out.
A large piece of equipment was wheeled in.
Clint's expression twitched.
"…Maybe we don't need to go that far," he suggested carefully. "He's a super soldier. His body can handle a lot."
"You're a field agent," the attending doctor replied bluntly. "Leave the medical decisions to us."
Clint fell silent.
All he could do was step back and silently pray.
"Good luck, Captain…"
"Bzzzt—"
The machine powered up.
Electric current surged to maximum.
"Begin treatment."
And in that moment—
Steve's nightmare had only just begun.
.....
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