The leash with the opposing pressure of his foot and locked knee should've - would've - strangled the fight out of anyone.
But the Captain isn't just anyone. And as usual, he doesn't go easily.
The Soldier's aware of his increasingly shaky positioning. He's still the one on the floor, pinned with limited avenues of escape with the shelves digging into his spine and shoulder blades, and now his weight's shifted in a bad way with one leg up and fresh pain jolting through his quivering calf as the other asset digs fingers punishingly deep into the muscle, bruising flesh to fibula, coaxing out five red beads of blood around his nails. A normal man might dislodge his leg from this position. The Captain could easily dislocate his leg, if not outright break it.
Yeah, he could definitely do more.
Everything swims. Static pops in his vision, but he can't tell if it's from the drug overheating his body or from the pain of the Captain's fingers digging so deep into his calf it's like he plans to peel back the scarred skin there. His face is hot with a flush navigating its way across his cheeks. If he jerks back on the leash, the Captain responds by digging in his fingers into his flesh even harder, applies a little pressure to the side that sends lightning jolting up from his hip socket like warning shots. The Soldier's breath hitches into wet gasps that only quicken when the Captain squeezes again and his eyes somehow dart from the look in his too bright eyes to...his pants. To the crotch. To what's protruding the fabric there. Just the sight it makes his own achingly hard cock, the shaft slick and glistening with drying saliva, twitch with need.
For a second he almost lets go of the leash, lets it slither between metal fingers. He...could submit. HYDRA has been teaching him how to submit in a timely, orderly fashion and while he can't remember the specific lessons, he can feel the urge, the rightness of it simmering away in his blood and settling in his bones.
But he'd never been taught to submit to the Captain. The Captain's not a superior; not a handler, a highly ranked officer. He's an equal in that they're both just lowly assets and he's had to have realized they're fighting over the same thing, like two starving men clawing each other over one ration.
Instead of releasing the leash tethering the Captain to him, reddening the man's throat in the shape of the black collar locked around it, the Soldier suddenly jerks with all his might, metal hand curled into a chrome fist. In the same motion he kicks against the other asset's powerful chest, feeling the arch of his foot slipping against his undershirt because even his soles are sweating. Using his foot shoved against the Captain as leverage, he takes a risk then to drive his other heel toward the erection tenting the Captain's pants; in an ideal combat scenario, choking the Captain out and hitting him there at the same time would have plenty enough stopping power.
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But the Captain isn't just anyone. And as usual, he doesn't go easily.
The Soldier's aware of his increasingly shaky positioning. He's still the one on the floor, pinned with limited avenues of escape with the shelves digging into his spine and shoulder blades, and now his weight's shifted in a bad way with one leg up and fresh pain jolting through his quivering calf as the other asset digs fingers punishingly deep into the muscle, bruising flesh to fibula, coaxing out five red beads of blood around his nails. A normal man might dislodge his leg from this position. The Captain could easily dislocate his leg, if not outright break it.
Yeah, he could definitely do more.
Everything swims. Static pops in his vision, but he can't tell if it's from the drug overheating his body or from the pain of the Captain's fingers digging so deep into his calf it's like he plans to peel back the scarred skin there. His face is hot with a flush navigating its way across his cheeks. If he jerks back on the leash, the Captain responds by digging in his fingers into his flesh even harder, applies a little pressure to the side that sends lightning jolting up from his hip socket like warning shots. The Soldier's breath hitches into wet gasps that only quicken when the Captain squeezes again and his eyes somehow dart from the look in his too bright eyes to...his pants. To the crotch. To what's protruding the fabric there. Just the sight it makes his own achingly hard cock, the shaft slick and glistening with drying saliva, twitch with need.
For a second he almost lets go of the leash, lets it slither between metal fingers. He...could submit. HYDRA has been teaching him how to submit in a timely, orderly fashion and while he can't remember the specific lessons, he can feel the urge, the rightness of it simmering away in his blood and settling in his bones.
But he'd never been taught to submit to the Captain. The Captain's not a superior; not a handler, a highly ranked officer. He's an equal in that they're both just lowly assets and he's had to have realized they're fighting over the same thing, like two starving men clawing each other over one ration.
Instead of releasing the leash tethering the Captain to him, reddening the man's throat in the shape of the black collar locked around it, the Soldier suddenly jerks with all his might, metal hand curled into a chrome fist. In the same motion he kicks against the other asset's powerful chest, feeling the arch of his foot slipping against his undershirt because even his soles are sweating. Using his foot shoved against the Captain as leverage, he takes a risk then to drive his other heel toward the erection tenting the Captain's pants; in an ideal combat scenario, choking the Captain out and hitting him there at the same time would have plenty enough stopping power.