It's getting harder for the Winter Soldier to think, to focus, and for once it doesn't have anything to do with the chair's arcing electricity searing through his temples or cold IV drips or the needles digging into the crook of his elbow. Preliminary tests, he'd heard disembodied voices say, before trials proceed on the Captain. The Captain. The only other asset he's laid eyes on and somehow, deep in his bones, his gut, he still remembers him.
He thinks he'll remember this, too.
The Captain has his mouth on his cock, stubble tickling his naked thighs, and it feels weirdly right. That warmth encircling him. Lips wrapped around the heat of his stiffening shaft like they're made for each other. Physical pleasure is still an alien thing to the Winter Soldier and it shows from how at first he stiffens at the unfamiliar sensation, flinches at the hint of teeth, the exhausted lines of his features pinching at the bridge of his nose and at the corners of his eyes, how he sucks in a breath rattling through his parted lips when the other asset bodily drags him closer. His thighs throb where the Captain's powerful fingers dig into skin and muscle.
Don't take your eyes off the Captain. That's rule number one, a rule not officially taught by HYDRA, a rule he isn't sure he was supposed to come up with on his own without prior authorization from a handler, but it's a rule that, generally, seems just like common sense. Don't close your eyes, no matter how good this feels. Even as the Winter Soldier's head tilts back against the shelves, his mouth hanging wantonly open in a moan, he still has his eyes open - half-open - flinty blue-gray glittering through his dark lashes. The shape of the Captain, on his knees instead of towering over him on a training mat, his mouth full of cock, shimmers before him, foggy at the edges. Hypersaturated. Something in his head and along his neck pulses. Whatever that drug was, it's currently burning through his body, dismantling whatever shreds of control he still has left.
The Soldier's metal fingers tighten against the other man's scalp.
Something's missing. He can't remember if he's ever had someone - man, woman, whatever - with their mouth on him like this. If they did, he can't pull up the memory but somehow he has this vague idea that the Captain should be doing something more than he already is. Not just trying to swallow him whole, holding him heavy and hot in his waiting mouth. Frustration mounts. The Soldier's hips twist, thrusting up into the other asset's mouth, not caring if he gags or if he makes sounds of discomfort vibrating against his cock. He pushes away from the shelf to curl forward, right hand with the leash bracing against the floor, his titanium one gripping the Captain's short blond hair, the back of his head, and trying to pump him along his shaft and see if that'll fix what's missing.
"You need to do better," the Winter Soldier grunts. "I know you can do better, Captain."
He drags the other asset further along his almost fully hard shaft, watching how his lips are forced wider as it stiffens, how the Captain's body language and posture might change as he's forced to take more than he was prepared for. He pulls him closer, forces him to take him, all of him, to see when it almost seems like he's kissing his groin, his nose buried in dark hair. If it gets hard to breathe, so what? The Captain's probably had the same lung capacity training he did. He'll manage.
The Soldier might be keeping his eyes on the Captain, but the Captain is watching him right back. His eyes aren’t cast down or closed, either — piercing blue-green zeroes in on the Winter Soldier’s own blue-gray eyes, and doesn’t let them go. He doesn’t even flinch when those metal fingers dig into his hair — it’s not like he hasn’t had his hair pulled before, in combat. It’s not like he can’t withstand it.
Even if there’s something different about the way the sharp pain registers in the back of his mind, this time. Some strange sensation, strange little shock of pleasure racing along his nerves at the same time. That’s… new, he thinks. Can’t be sure, of course. But he thinks it is. Despite having only a hazy frame of reference for times before, something about this test, this situation, feels different. He thinks, carefully, deep down where even he can’t really focus too much on it, that he might like it.
Or he would, if the damn Soldier wasn’t being so goddamned demanding, pulling the Captain back and forth on his cock like he doesn’t know what he wants, only it must be something like this. Except… except that’s pleasing in its own way, too, isn’t it. He says You need to do better, but what the Captain hears is I need more. And that… that is a position the Captain likes having him in, even when it seems like the Captain himself is at a disadvantage. It doesn’t feel like it, even when his jaw has to drop a little more, his throat has to strain against the girth of the Soldier’s cock down it, and yet all the Captain can think is, I did that.
And also, I want more, too.
That’s what makes him give the first suck — the idea of more despite the fact that he’s not sure how to get it any more than the Soldier is. But sucking, swallowing, those seem only natural, and so that’s what he does, throat constricting around the sensitive head as his mouth stretches wide, lips pink and wet with saliva and precome, a little trail of it dribbling from the corner of his lips. His eyes narrow, gaze still locked on the Soldier’s, and he starts to pull back a little on his own, experimentally, as he hears the barely-there whine of servos in the Soldier’s prosthetic signal he's about to slide him back again by the hair — only to rock forward again suddenly, hard, with a wet slurping noise as he tries to inhale at the same time. Metal fingers tear at his short hair, but his own thighs tense and he’s got enough leverage to force himself back and forth on the Soldier’s cock, rather than being made to do it. He adds the sucking and swallowing again, and again, the noise of it filling his ears almost louder than the blood already roaring in them.
There’s no real rhythm to it at first, but the Captain is HYDRA’s premier asset. He is smart, he is intuitive, and he is a fast learner. He sets his own pace, using his sheer strength to resist when the Soldier tries to pull or push him sooner than he wants to be pulled or pushed. His lungs do start to burn, but he can take it. He can take anything the Soldier throws at him. And more.
One hand suddenly slides down between the Soldier’s legs, fumbling for his balls, squeezing firm but careful, rolling them in a big, rough, warm palm, then squeezing, then pressing, then rolling again. A thought flashes through his mind: I wonder what he tastes like there — and quick as a thought, he flings himself back and pulls off the Soldier’s hard shaft with a wet sound. But then he’s diving right back in, tilting his head to suck the Soldier’s balls into his mouth as the hand that had been squeezing them slides up along the Soldier’s spit-slick cock instead, twisting at the head before slipping back down again to squeeze hard at the thick base.
The drug vibrating its way through the Soldier, jacking up his sensitivity and lowering his self-control, is overwhelming whatever shreds of focus he's still clinging at with a loosening death grip. Everything feels like it's somehow more. It isn't helping when the Captain finally decides to put his mouth to good use, to experiment and innovate, sucking and swallowing and the surge of the Captain's tongue against his rock-hard shaft has the Winter Soldier's back arching, his legs jerking up only to get slammed back down by the other asset's bruising grip around his thighs. At first he tries clamping down on the sounds coming out of him; the breathy gasps, the needy noises he somehow knows are points against him and are marked down by the handlers who are watching on the camera feeds.
After awhile he can't bite them back.
The Soldier finds himself more vocal than he'd like, his sweat-slicked chest heaving with each throaty groan, breath hitching as he tries and fails to bite back on the strange sounds that take a needy, almost mewling quality that he's somehow sure he's never made before. Cheeks flushing, he tries to make up for it by digging his fingers into the Captain's scalp - an attempt, really, to regain control - but the man's got other ideas, the muscles along his neck and back flexing as he fights doing exactly what the Winter Soldier wants, pushing when he wants to pull, pulling when he wants to push.
With his cock stuffed in the other asset's mouth, warm and inviting, his saliva coating its straining length from base to weeping head, it's getting harder and harder to keep his eyes on the Captain at all times. Without meaning to, the Winter Soldier's eyes squeeze shut despite his better judgement, his mouth falling open in a moan each time the other man sucks on his shaft, each time his tongue swirls around it as he forces himself to take more even though the Soldier's fingers are digging into his scalp to pull him away. Even the feeling of the Captain's fingers fondling his balls - the perfect position to squeeze, to immediately translate pleasure to debilitating pain - isn't enough to drag him back. Each squeeze, each press of his callused fingers makes the Winter Soldier's hips twitch away only to return wanting more.
His eyes flare open when the Captain suddenly frees his mouth. The Winter Soldier's eyebrows furrow together as he jerks up with a scowl, his spine gone stiff with irritation and his cock bobbing in the sterile air with its shaft shining with saliva under the florescent lights, so hard it almost hurts.
"I didn't say you could - " is all he gets out before the Captain steals his words away with a two-pronged approach.
Mercilessly he mouths at his throbbing balls, nose tickling the underside of his thigh as his tongue flicks out and lathes against it, and the Winter Soldier's legs twitch obediently wider despite the black collar around the other asset's throat. The Captain's hand circles around his straining cock and strokes it at the same time, palm and fingers glistening, and the Winter Soldier groans, low and throaty and desperate even though he knows it's a sign of weakness in the body and the mind. His head spins and the room tilts as his eyes roll up toward the ceiling, lashes fluttering, and he spots the glint of a camera recessed into the corner of the cell's reinforced wall. His hips thrust into the Captain's touch once, twice, three times, his eyes rolling again and then it finally sinks in - the camera.
The chair. Whoever does worse in this exercise - nevermind he doesn't know exactly how it's graded - will spend longer in that goddamn chair.
Despite the collar wrapped around his neck, the Captain's somehow got him under control.
The Winter Soldier's eyes flare open and dart down, pupils contracting to black points in a sea of blue-gray. He almost caves when he spots the Captain's blond head buried between his legs with his nose nudging against the base of his erection, his tongue pressing wet and hot and pink against his balls. It takes whatever shreds of self-control he still has left to do something about it: the Winter Soldier suddenly scoots away, his back wedged against the shelf hard enough that they dig into his skin and hurt, and he'll manage to get his foot wedged up against the Captain's chest, bodily pushing away even as at the same time he tightens his grip on the leash and pulls to steal the other man's breath away.
"N...no," the Winter Soldier grunts through teeth bared in a snarl. "Enough!"
The Captain, likewise, doesn’t know how the assessment is being scored, or how to win. But he, too, knows in his bones that whatever the rubric, the winner will be the one who’s punished less.
And he knows, just as deep, that the sounds the Soldier is making sure make it feel like the Captain is winning.
Until, that is, the Soldier gives an unexpectedly hard yank on the leash and the Captain, admittedly feeling a little drunk (does he know what drunk feels like? This must be it) on the scent and taste of him, is caught off guard by it, and then by the foot in his chest. Every inch he’s shoved back makes it harder to breathe — he gasps as his throat strains against the collar and his arms start to lift, as if to reach out for the Soldier, to drag them back together.
But the Soldier has him at a disadvantage. Two, really, between the collar and his locked-out leg. Now the Captain is off-balance, crouched and panting as his chest heaves beneath the sole of the foot pressed against it, his mouth cherry-red and glistening, his eyes dark and blown. The soft pants he’s wearing do little to hide the way they’re distinctly tented at the front, a little damp. The Captain hadn’t noticed before, previously too intent on his task and then too concerned with pulling air into his lungs to pay much attention to the heat that’s been pooling, slow but steady, below his navel. But now the fabric shifts just so and the zing that shoots through him makes his eyes roll back a little and flutter.
He snaps them open a second later and glances down, almost like he’s got to see with his eyes what he can feel, suddenly and almost overwhelmingly, about his own body. His breath rasps harshly in his throat as his eyes flick back up to the Soldier — snagging first, admittedly, on the hard shaft bobbing in the harsh fluorescent light, thick and flushed. Then they finally crawl up to the other’s eyes.
The Soldier says he’s had enough. The Captain feels like he needs… something, now. Right now. Friction. Hard muscle against the aching parts of him. He’s never needed anything more. He does finally reach up now, grips the Soldier’s calf, straining to keep him at a distance. He doesn’t pull yet, though his muscles tense, ready to twist or yank. He waits to see if the Soldier is going to keep him here. If he needs to take the upper hand. The Captain is not usually patient. It feels like patience is the last thing he wants to exercise now. But it also feels like the only measure of control he has in this situation, and he clings to it, stubbornly, just like he clings to the other’s leg.
“Is that really enough?” he asks, voice hoarse and thin with the collar still constricting his throat. “I could do more.”
What, he’s not sure. But he wants to find out. And there’s no alarm blaring, no bell sounding, no one shouting at them to stand down. Why should they stop, until someone makes them? This test isn’t over yet.
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.
Edited (fixing the leg part so it's the calf) 2025-05-30 11:52 (UTC)
The Captain's throat will surely be bruised, where the skin isn't just plain scraped raw as he strains against the collar. His eyes are sharp, dark, as he watches the Soldier flush, chest heaving, leg straining —
Until the Soldier gives a sharp yank with the metal arm, squirming like a landed fish so that as the Captain's back bows, the bare foot slides down from his solar plexus past his abdominals, his waist, down to his groin.
The strangled, desperate sound the Captain makes is not one any of the handlers watching have heard. They've heard grunts of desperation and anger, growls of frustration, even scoffs of victory. This is something else entirely, a low, grinding, animal sound as the Captain's eyes roll back for just a fraction of a second as pleasure-pain-pleasure courses through him like he's been struck by lightning. It's not like the electricity of the chair, that he knows so well. It's like something else entirely. Hot and sharp and crackling and wild.
It's driving him wild, that feeling, and now his own body twists, the collar digging angry, bloody welts into his skin and he can barely breathe but it doesn't matter because in another instant, the Captain throws himself forward, the Soldier's foot sliding away from his crotch but that's okay because he's wedged the Soldier's other leg between his own, wrapped that offending, bruised foot and leg around his waist, and he's thrown himself up at the Soldier, chest to chest, trapping the other asset's hard, red, wet erection between their stomachs. It's trapped between bare skin, the Captain's shirt half-torn, half-hitched up, the Soldier's in shreds. The Captain's face comes at the Soldier's and knocks it into the side of the shelving, but the move is clumsy and where he could bite or even headbutt, he doesn't. Instead he follows, mashing his sweaty cheek up against the Soldier's flushed temple and arches, rocking his own hardness hard into the muscular thigh between his legs, again and again.
Outside the room, a twitter goes through the handlers. There are snorts and crude jokes and derisive remarks — there have already been plenty, when the Captain's head had buried itself in the Soldier's lap — but now the tide has turned and there are more, as the Captain tries to climb the Soldier like a tree and pin him like a wrestler and hump him like a dog, restless and desperate and not at all sure what he's doing, only he's going to do what feels good, and this feels good. The Soldier between his legs, pressed up against his stomach, breathing hard against his chest, under him, feels good.
Against the Soldier's ear, his breath stutters and pants, still constricted by the collar although it's better now, with less space between them, more slack on the leash. "Put your hand down my pants," he says, an edge to it like a command. He has the upper hand now. And he knows where he wants the Soldier's free one. "Your flesh one."
He doesn't even care if the Soldier won't release the leash. He doesn't need to breathe. He's got the Soldier's thigh pressed up against him but he needs the Soldier's hand on his cock, now.
The Captain moves...but not in the way he planned.
It happens fast - the man surges forward all of a sudden to catch the Winter Soldier off-guard even though he'd been half-expecting it, quick enough that even as he instinctively jerks back on the leash the Captain follows it forward instead of fighting it. Before he can pitch himself to the side the Soldier finds himself bodily pinned. One leg's wrenched painfully around in a position where he can't get any leverage, can't kick; can't do much more than writhe against the Captain with his weeping cock pinned painfully between them, streaking against their sweat-slicked skin. He spits out a pissed-off sound between his bared teeth, saliva smearing against their cheeks as his head's forced to the side, the Captain dragging a trail of it up against his profile almost to his hairline.
The Soldier's struggling only seems to egg on the other asset. He twists and writhes and his aching balls sliding against the floor with each futile buck, his breath coming in wet, shaking pants, overwhelmed by the double assault of the aphro burning inside him and the Captain rubbing all over him like he wants to claim him. The bulge straining against the crotch of the Captain's pants already started to soak through and soon his thigh's damp where he grinds and grinds and grinds. The Captain's shifted high enough that the Soldier's gets a faceful of his tattered shirt, the other man's stiff nipples seeming to be everywhere - his flushed cheek, sweeping against his nose, teasing against his parted lips - the shirt hiking up even further so that his head's pinned against the shelf by the firm press of his pectoral.
For a second he doesn't obey. Blood rushes in his skull, a roaring sound that almost drowns out the Captain's voice tickling against his ear, his breath hot and demanding; the brush of his swollen lips sends a shudder wracking down the Winter Soldier's spine as he jerks uselessly against the other asset and just ends up with a stiff nipple poking the corner of his mouth for all his trouble. Quivering against the Captain, trapped, the Soldier's breaths come in ragged, needy gasps. Something that's remembering it's anger wars with a yawning, animal need, with the sudden, inexplicable urge to tilt his head to the side so that the Captain's nipple could pop into his mouth. His cock twitches against the Captain's stomach, the straining shaft hot and engorged against flexing muscle.
The Soldier relents.
With a snarl that almost sounds pissed, he gropes his way down the other man's taut stomach. Fingers slide through the glistening trails of his own precum until he can slip them past the waistband. When he encounters the Captain's cock, he won't exactly be gentle as he grabs its trapped shaft in his callused fingers. At the same time the Winter Soldier's dark head shifts to allow that nipple digging into the corner of his mouth to finally slip inside, his tongue sweeping and suckling around the rosy bud. Teeth graze against skin. It feels marginally better to have something in his mouth - though maybe it's too small - but he can't seem to keep it in because the Captain keeps moving; one second his pectoral's bumping against his mouth, hard enough to drive his nose into firm muscle, only to pull away the next so that the Soldier has to hungrily seek it with his mouth, open and questing, tongue slipping out as he manages to recapture his nipple.
The hand shoved past the Captain's waistband is exploring, stroking, squeezing, hot palm to hot length. It's random, without an idea of where best to touch, his knuckles outlined against the soaked fabric of his pants as rough fingers curl and pull against the underside of his trapped cock. (But even high on aphro, The Winter Soldier knows better than to squeeze with all his might, to sink his teeth into the nipple stiffening against his surging tongue)
The Soldier may sound pissed, but he does what the Captain wants, and for a just a minute, that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter if he’s not trying to be gentle or skilled — what matters is the double assault of gun- and knife-calloused fingers around his cock and the wet heat of a mouth on one aching nipple, a feeling he’d barely noticed until the press of a hot tongue against it brings something that’s both relief and something that feels like the opposite. It’s that hot, crackling, wild energy arcing through him, like his chest and his crotch are the anode and cathode, and the Soldier’s touch is electrifying him in a way the chair never could. This is kind of torture, the Captain thinks, that he would be willing to endure forever.
He lets out a sound that’s half-grunt, half-groan, body arching toward the Soldier’s as he continues to rock, to press. There’s a new war going on in his brain, where deep down he knows he needs to keep the upper hand, stay on top, dominate the Winter Soldier. But at the same time, some blind, untraceable urge is telling him he wants to be under the Soldier. He wants to be on the floor or against the wall and he wants the Soldier to be the one pinning him, because as much as the Captain is enjoying the position he’s in, there’s just something about it that’s not quite right.
This time, when he moves, it’s to snake arms around the Soldier and pull them even tighter chest to chest, heat blooming between them as any sliver of air that might have separated them disappears. It crushes the other asset’s hand against his cock, which is certainly nothing to scoff at, either — the shaft now feels as hard and straining as his nipples, like there’s sparks dancing under his skin, like he’s going to explode like ordnance and he won’t even care. He wants it.
Once the Soldier is firmly in his grip, the Captain rolls them like wrestlers, legs wrapping around the other’s waist as the slide to the side and the hard flood comes up and knocks the air out of him just as the dark shadow of the Soldier’s head, too-long lanky hair hanging down, comes up to blot out the too-bright overhead lights. All the Captain can see are the blue-gray eyes, whittled down to thin rings of color with the pupils blown wide, as he arches his hips up eagerly into the Soldier’s grip, encouraging.
Of course, even as one arms stays tight around the other’s torso, the other snakes down to find the hot, hard length of the Soldier’s cock pressed between them. A large, hot hand takes it up in a firm grip, sliding up and down almost maddeningly slow and steady. The Captain feels like he might fly apart, but this motion is nonetheless utterly calm and controlled. He might have put the Soldier on top, but the Soldier is not in control. This is still where the Captain wants him. And he gets only what the Captain wants to give him. “Keep touching me,” he demands, as if the other could even stop, pinned now with the Captain wrapped around him like he is.
The Soldier goes stiff as soon as he feels those strong arms loop around his body. This happened before, the Captain trapping him, powerful arms wrapping around his torso and squeezing - but it seems like this time there's something different planned, because the other asset doesn't crush the resistance out of him. Instead he's suddenly bodily jerked away from where he'd been pinned against the shelves. The Captain spins them together as one onto the floor, the Soldier surprised to find himself actually on top of the other man instead of pinned below, where he usually is when he's been made to submit.
The sheer shock of it is enough to prevent him from rolling off, lunging back to the shelf so he can get another tool - a weapon - to arm himself with.
Unable to roll off, the Soldier can't help but groan when the Captain ensures he can't escape easily by grabbing his cock jutting between them. A hand circles around it tight and while he doesn't squeeze to incapacitate, that could change at any time. Maybe he should get it over with, the Soldier's husky gasps taking on a frustrated edge at the slow - too damn slow - pace of the strokes, his grip just firm enough that he can't easily force the issue by pistoning his engorged shaft against his palm, its head weeping from its slit to glisten along the Captain's fingers.
Doesn't mean he doesn't try, his hip pushing forward.
Pinned like this, his torso and his cock trapped between their bodies, and the Soldier has no choice. His breath rushes hot against the other asset's face, disheveled hair hanging down, casting his worn face in shadow even as his wide eyes glitter. He needs more. He needs - wants? - the Captain to speed up instead of torturing him with these always slow, always even, always the same leisurely pumps of his hand circled around his throbbing cock.
Still gazing down at the Captain, his hand shifts position. Whether it's frustration at how trapped he is, the aphro warming his body and lighting each nerve on fire, or just a general kind of impatience - the Soldier decides the pants and underwear are in the way and have to go. Now. The fatigues are thin, not the thicker types for field work, and gripping the fabric in his titanium hand, he tears them with a sideways jerk that will draw angry red marks where the waistband dug into the Captain's sweat-slicked side.
His standard-issue underwear gets the same treatment from the Winter Soldier, the thinner fabric tearing much more easily than his pants. Now he can fondle the Captain free, his straining member hot and pulsing, his fingers pressing down against the softness of his sac, rubbing, exploring, not sure what to do but figuring that he will know from the Captain's breathing, if he flinches or he moans.
If he moans - without thinking, the Soldier leans down, hair tickling the Captain's face, and he'll capture his lips with his, tongue invading his mouth, the kiss rough, hard enough to crack the other asset's head against the floor all over again. At the same time he attempts to thrust his cock into the Captain's hand, maybe hoping to catch the other asset by surprise. To force him to do something - squeeze, pick up the pace - instead of keeping him in that awful limbo.
The Soldier can’t escape, but he can take advantage of his new position to push his hips against the Captain’s grip, clearly unhappy with the pace. The Captain doesn’t laugh — doesn’t even remember how, barely knows it’s a sound he can make, though the handlers certainly do — but there’s a quirk of his lips and a flash in his eyes that only the Soldier can see, so close, hidden from the cameras and the viewing window by the angle of their heads and the fall of the Soldier’s hair. It’s just as well, really. Any expression past determination on either asset’s face would certainly warrant punishment.
He doesn’t have long to enjoy his victory, though, before the Soldier is moving; not struggling to get away, but grabbing at the Captain’s pants with a sharp tearing sound that almost — but not entirely — masks the harsh, hitched gasp the Captain sucks in as the relatively cooler air of the room hits his heated cock, as the Soldier’s rough hand, just the right size, slides back over and down and around his dick and balls, unhindered now by the annoying fabric any longer. It may not be a moan, exactly, but there’s something on the tail end of the sound that must be close enough, because the next thing he knows, there’s chapped lips pressed against his and his head hits the floor with an explosion of sparks behind his eyes — and he likes it. It’s jarring and painful and there’s an almost angry hitch of the Soldier’s hips against his, as the other fights for what he wants and the Captain refuses to give up the upper hand. As the Captain doesn’t laugh again, but radiates a kind of satisfied smugness even as his lips, for just the briefest instant, yield out of something close to surprise.
But not for long. He bites at the Soldier’s lips in retaliation, tearing at the soft flesh and tasting a sharp little burst of copper on his tongue. It won’t bleed much or long, but it’s enough to smear both their lips with blood as the Captain growls into the Soldier’s mouth, writhing under him but never breaking his hold, never moving away far enough to ever risk losing the Soldier’s hand on his cock. He kisses and bites and sucks like he wants to swallow the Soldier whole and never come up for air. He kisses like it’s a contest — everything between them is — but also like it’s a lifeline and he never wants to let go.
The Soldier’s hips smack against his again, clear wanting in them and the Captain tightens his arm around the other asset’s back, a warning. And yet, kissing like this, with the Soldier’s free hand all over him and making him see sparks long after his head should have cleared from that hit, is making him feel… something. It couldn’t exactly be called generosity. Maybe more like curiosity, as the Captain’s eyes open, too close to the Soldier’s, everything out of focus even as everything in his body feels like it is focused, right now, on the aching, straining place between his legs. On what’s building there. On the way he wants the Soldier to feel it too, to react, to give himself over the Captain without pausing in the way he’s giving the Captain what he wants, too.
His legs slide down now from the Soldier’s waist, the Captain stretching out without giving ground, legs sliding along the Soldier’s inner thighs until he’s got the other asset pinned over him by the ankles, grip still as hard as iron. With both of the laid out, the Captain has the advantage again, bucking and arching off the floor while the Soldier should find it harder to keep up that thrusting. At the same time, though, the Captain’s strokes finally, finally speed up along the Soldier’s cock, fingers gliding easily, slick now with all the precome that’s been drooling over them, coating his hand and his belly. He tilts his head enough, shifts just enough for their lips to part and the kiss dissolve into harsh, panting breaths, that his eyes can focus fully on the Soldier’s, now. His gaze bores into them with a focused attention that demands to know if this reward will be appreciated, or if it will be fought. If he ought to keep going, speeding up ever so slightly with every stroke, starting to aim his hand so that their knuckles bump together every few pulls, cocks inches apart, or if he’s going to have to take away this gift again. If the Soldier will fight him on it. Because whatever this is… the Captain has still got to win.
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He thinks he'll remember this, too.
The Captain has his mouth on his cock, stubble tickling his naked thighs, and it feels weirdly right. That warmth encircling him. Lips wrapped around the heat of his stiffening shaft like they're made for each other. Physical pleasure is still an alien thing to the Winter Soldier and it shows from how at first he stiffens at the unfamiliar sensation, flinches at the hint of teeth, the exhausted lines of his features pinching at the bridge of his nose and at the corners of his eyes, how he sucks in a breath rattling through his parted lips when the other asset bodily drags him closer. His thighs throb where the Captain's powerful fingers dig into skin and muscle.
Don't take your eyes off the Captain. That's rule number one, a rule not officially taught by HYDRA, a rule he isn't sure he was supposed to come up with on his own without prior authorization from a handler, but it's a rule that, generally, seems just like common sense. Don't close your eyes, no matter how good this feels. Even as the Winter Soldier's head tilts back against the shelves, his mouth hanging wantonly open in a moan, he still has his eyes open - half-open - flinty blue-gray glittering through his dark lashes. The shape of the Captain, on his knees instead of towering over him on a training mat, his mouth full of cock, shimmers before him, foggy at the edges. Hypersaturated. Something in his head and along his neck pulses. Whatever that drug was, it's currently burning through his body, dismantling whatever shreds of control he still has left.
The Soldier's metal fingers tighten against the other man's scalp.
Something's missing. He can't remember if he's ever had someone - man, woman, whatever - with their mouth on him like this. If they did, he can't pull up the memory but somehow he has this vague idea that the Captain should be doing something more than he already is. Not just trying to swallow him whole, holding him heavy and hot in his waiting mouth. Frustration mounts. The Soldier's hips twist, thrusting up into the other asset's mouth, not caring if he gags or if he makes sounds of discomfort vibrating against his cock. He pushes away from the shelf to curl forward, right hand with the leash bracing against the floor, his titanium one gripping the Captain's short blond hair, the back of his head, and trying to pump him along his shaft and see if that'll fix what's missing.
"You need to do better," the Winter Soldier grunts. "I know you can do better, Captain."
He drags the other asset further along his almost fully hard shaft, watching how his lips are forced wider as it stiffens, how the Captain's body language and posture might change as he's forced to take more than he was prepared for. He pulls him closer, forces him to take him, all of him, to see when it almost seems like he's kissing his groin, his nose buried in dark hair. If it gets hard to breathe, so what? The Captain's probably had the same lung capacity training he did. He'll manage.
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Even if there’s something different about the way the sharp pain registers in the back of his mind, this time. Some strange sensation, strange little shock of pleasure racing along his nerves at the same time. That’s… new, he thinks. Can’t be sure, of course. But he thinks it is. Despite having only a hazy frame of reference for times before, something about this test, this situation, feels different. He thinks, carefully, deep down where even he can’t really focus too much on it, that he might like it.
Or he would, if the damn Soldier wasn’t being so goddamned demanding, pulling the Captain back and forth on his cock like he doesn’t know what he wants, only it must be something like this. Except… except that’s pleasing in its own way, too, isn’t it. He says You need to do better, but what the Captain hears is I need more. And that… that is a position the Captain likes having him in, even when it seems like the Captain himself is at a disadvantage. It doesn’t feel like it, even when his jaw has to drop a little more, his throat has to strain against the girth of the Soldier’s cock down it, and yet all the Captain can think is, I did that.
And also, I want more, too.
That’s what makes him give the first suck — the idea of more despite the fact that he’s not sure how to get it any more than the Soldier is. But sucking, swallowing, those seem only natural, and so that’s what he does, throat constricting around the sensitive head as his mouth stretches wide, lips pink and wet with saliva and precome, a little trail of it dribbling from the corner of his lips. His eyes narrow, gaze still locked on the Soldier’s, and he starts to pull back a little on his own, experimentally, as he hears the barely-there whine of servos in the Soldier’s prosthetic signal he's about to slide him back again by the hair — only to rock forward again suddenly, hard, with a wet slurping noise as he tries to inhale at the same time. Metal fingers tear at his short hair, but his own thighs tense and he’s got enough leverage to force himself back and forth on the Soldier’s cock, rather than being made to do it. He adds the sucking and swallowing again, and again, the noise of it filling his ears almost louder than the blood already roaring in them.
There’s no real rhythm to it at first, but the Captain is HYDRA’s premier asset. He is smart, he is intuitive, and he is a fast learner. He sets his own pace, using his sheer strength to resist when the Soldier tries to pull or push him sooner than he wants to be pulled or pushed. His lungs do start to burn, but he can take it. He can take anything the Soldier throws at him. And more.
One hand suddenly slides down between the Soldier’s legs, fumbling for his balls, squeezing firm but careful, rolling them in a big, rough, warm palm, then squeezing, then pressing, then rolling again. A thought flashes through his mind: I wonder what he tastes like there — and quick as a thought, he flings himself back and pulls off the Soldier’s hard shaft with a wet sound. But then he’s diving right back in, tilting his head to suck the Soldier’s balls into his mouth as the hand that had been squeezing them slides up along the Soldier’s spit-slick cock instead, twisting at the head before slipping back down again to squeeze hard at the thick base.
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After awhile he can't bite them back.
The Soldier finds himself more vocal than he'd like, his sweat-slicked chest heaving with each throaty groan, breath hitching as he tries and fails to bite back on the strange sounds that take a needy, almost mewling quality that he's somehow sure he's never made before. Cheeks flushing, he tries to make up for it by digging his fingers into the Captain's scalp - an attempt, really, to regain control - but the man's got other ideas, the muscles along his neck and back flexing as he fights doing exactly what the Winter Soldier wants, pushing when he wants to pull, pulling when he wants to push.
With his cock stuffed in the other asset's mouth, warm and inviting, his saliva coating its straining length from base to weeping head, it's getting harder and harder to keep his eyes on the Captain at all times. Without meaning to, the Winter Soldier's eyes squeeze shut despite his better judgement, his mouth falling open in a moan each time the other man sucks on his shaft, each time his tongue swirls around it as he forces himself to take more even though the Soldier's fingers are digging into his scalp to pull him away. Even the feeling of the Captain's fingers fondling his balls - the perfect position to squeeze, to immediately translate pleasure to debilitating pain - isn't enough to drag him back. Each squeeze, each press of his callused fingers makes the Winter Soldier's hips twitch away only to return wanting more.
His eyes flare open when the Captain suddenly frees his mouth. The Winter Soldier's eyebrows furrow together as he jerks up with a scowl, his spine gone stiff with irritation and his cock bobbing in the sterile air with its shaft shining with saliva under the florescent lights, so hard it almost hurts.
"I didn't say you could - " is all he gets out before the Captain steals his words away with a two-pronged approach.
Mercilessly he mouths at his throbbing balls, nose tickling the underside of his thigh as his tongue flicks out and lathes against it, and the Winter Soldier's legs twitch obediently wider despite the black collar around the other asset's throat. The Captain's hand circles around his straining cock and strokes it at the same time, palm and fingers glistening, and the Winter Soldier groans, low and throaty and desperate even though he knows it's a sign of weakness in the body and the mind. His head spins and the room tilts as his eyes roll up toward the ceiling, lashes fluttering, and he spots the glint of a camera recessed into the corner of the cell's reinforced wall. His hips thrust into the Captain's touch once, twice, three times, his eyes rolling again and then it finally sinks in - the camera.
The chair. Whoever does worse in this exercise - nevermind he doesn't know exactly how it's graded - will spend longer in that goddamn chair.
Despite the collar wrapped around his neck, the Captain's somehow got him under control.
The Winter Soldier's eyes flare open and dart down, pupils contracting to black points in a sea of blue-gray. He almost caves when he spots the Captain's blond head buried between his legs with his nose nudging against the base of his erection, his tongue pressing wet and hot and pink against his balls. It takes whatever shreds of self-control he still has left to do something about it: the Winter Soldier suddenly scoots away, his back wedged against the shelf hard enough that they dig into his skin and hurt, and he'll manage to get his foot wedged up against the Captain's chest, bodily pushing away even as at the same time he tightens his grip on the leash and pulls to steal the other man's breath away.
"N...no," the Winter Soldier grunts through teeth bared in a snarl. "Enough!"
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And he knows, just as deep, that the sounds the Soldier is making sure make it feel like the Captain is winning.
Until, that is, the Soldier gives an unexpectedly hard yank on the leash and the Captain, admittedly feeling a little drunk (does he know what drunk feels like? This must be it) on the scent and taste of him, is caught off guard by it, and then by the foot in his chest. Every inch he’s shoved back makes it harder to breathe — he gasps as his throat strains against the collar and his arms start to lift, as if to reach out for the Soldier, to drag them back together.
But the Soldier has him at a disadvantage. Two, really, between the collar and his locked-out leg. Now the Captain is off-balance, crouched and panting as his chest heaves beneath the sole of the foot pressed against it, his mouth cherry-red and glistening, his eyes dark and blown. The soft pants he’s wearing do little to hide the way they’re distinctly tented at the front, a little damp. The Captain hadn’t noticed before, previously too intent on his task and then too concerned with pulling air into his lungs to pay much attention to the heat that’s been pooling, slow but steady, below his navel. But now the fabric shifts just so and the zing that shoots through him makes his eyes roll back a little and flutter.
He snaps them open a second later and glances down, almost like he’s got to see with his eyes what he can feel, suddenly and almost overwhelmingly, about his own body. His breath rasps harshly in his throat as his eyes flick back up to the Soldier — snagging first, admittedly, on the hard shaft bobbing in the harsh fluorescent light, thick and flushed. Then they finally crawl up to the other’s eyes.
The Soldier says he’s had enough. The Captain feels like he needs… something, now. Right now. Friction. Hard muscle against the aching parts of him. He’s never needed anything more. He does finally reach up now, grips the Soldier’s calf, straining to keep him at a distance. He doesn’t pull yet, though his muscles tense, ready to twist or yank. He waits to see if the Soldier is going to keep him here. If he needs to take the upper hand. The Captain is not usually patient. It feels like patience is the last thing he wants to exercise now. But it also feels like the only measure of control he has in this situation, and he clings to it, stubbornly, just like he clings to the other’s leg.
“Is that really enough?” he asks, voice hoarse and thin with the collar still constricting his throat. “I could do more.”
What, he’s not sure. But he wants to find out. And there’s no alarm blaring, no bell sounding, no one shouting at them to stand down. Why should they stop, until someone makes them? This test isn’t over yet.
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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.
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Until the Soldier gives a sharp yank with the metal arm, squirming like a landed fish so that as the Captain's back bows, the bare foot slides down from his solar plexus past his abdominals, his waist, down to his groin.
The strangled, desperate sound the Captain makes is not one any of the handlers watching have heard. They've heard grunts of desperation and anger, growls of frustration, even scoffs of victory. This is something else entirely, a low, grinding, animal sound as the Captain's eyes roll back for just a fraction of a second as pleasure-pain-pleasure courses through him like he's been struck by lightning. It's not like the electricity of the chair, that he knows so well. It's like something else entirely. Hot and sharp and crackling and wild.
It's driving him wild, that feeling, and now his own body twists, the collar digging angry, bloody welts into his skin and he can barely breathe but it doesn't matter because in another instant, the Captain throws himself forward, the Soldier's foot sliding away from his crotch but that's okay because he's wedged the Soldier's other leg between his own, wrapped that offending, bruised foot and leg around his waist, and he's thrown himself up at the Soldier, chest to chest, trapping the other asset's hard, red, wet erection between their stomachs. It's trapped between bare skin, the Captain's shirt half-torn, half-hitched up, the Soldier's in shreds. The Captain's face comes at the Soldier's and knocks it into the side of the shelving, but the move is clumsy and where he could bite or even headbutt, he doesn't. Instead he follows, mashing his sweaty cheek up against the Soldier's flushed temple and arches, rocking his own hardness hard into the muscular thigh between his legs, again and again.
Outside the room, a twitter goes through the handlers. There are snorts and crude jokes and derisive remarks — there have already been plenty, when the Captain's head had buried itself in the Soldier's lap — but now the tide has turned and there are more, as the Captain tries to climb the Soldier like a tree and pin him like a wrestler and hump him like a dog, restless and desperate and not at all sure what he's doing, only he's going to do what feels good, and this feels good. The Soldier between his legs, pressed up against his stomach, breathing hard against his chest, under him, feels good.
Against the Soldier's ear, his breath stutters and pants, still constricted by the collar although it's better now, with less space between them, more slack on the leash. "Put your hand down my pants," he says, an edge to it like a command. He has the upper hand now. And he knows where he wants the Soldier's free one. "Your flesh one."
He doesn't even care if the Soldier won't release the leash. He doesn't need to breathe. He's got the Soldier's thigh pressed up against him but he needs the Soldier's hand on his cock, now.
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It happens fast - the man surges forward all of a sudden to catch the Winter Soldier off-guard even though he'd been half-expecting it, quick enough that even as he instinctively jerks back on the leash the Captain follows it forward instead of fighting it. Before he can pitch himself to the side the Soldier finds himself bodily pinned. One leg's wrenched painfully around in a position where he can't get any leverage, can't kick; can't do much more than writhe against the Captain with his weeping cock pinned painfully between them, streaking against their sweat-slicked skin. He spits out a pissed-off sound between his bared teeth, saliva smearing against their cheeks as his head's forced to the side, the Captain dragging a trail of it up against his profile almost to his hairline.
The Soldier's struggling only seems to egg on the other asset. He twists and writhes and his aching balls sliding against the floor with each futile buck, his breath coming in wet, shaking pants, overwhelmed by the double assault of the aphro burning inside him and the Captain rubbing all over him like he wants to claim him. The bulge straining against the crotch of the Captain's pants already started to soak through and soon his thigh's damp where he grinds and grinds and grinds. The Captain's shifted high enough that the Soldier's gets a faceful of his tattered shirt, the other man's stiff nipples seeming to be everywhere - his flushed cheek, sweeping against his nose, teasing against his parted lips - the shirt hiking up even further so that his head's pinned against the shelf by the firm press of his pectoral.
For a second he doesn't obey. Blood rushes in his skull, a roaring sound that almost drowns out the Captain's voice tickling against his ear, his breath hot and demanding; the brush of his swollen lips sends a shudder wracking down the Winter Soldier's spine as he jerks uselessly against the other asset and just ends up with a stiff nipple poking the corner of his mouth for all his trouble. Quivering against the Captain, trapped, the Soldier's breaths come in ragged, needy gasps. Something that's remembering it's anger wars with a yawning, animal need, with the sudden, inexplicable urge to tilt his head to the side so that the Captain's nipple could pop into his mouth. His cock twitches against the Captain's stomach, the straining shaft hot and engorged against flexing muscle.
The Soldier relents.
With a snarl that almost sounds pissed, he gropes his way down the other man's taut stomach. Fingers slide through the glistening trails of his own precum until he can slip them past the waistband. When he encounters the Captain's cock, he won't exactly be gentle as he grabs its trapped shaft in his callused fingers. At the same time the Winter Soldier's dark head shifts to allow that nipple digging into the corner of his mouth to finally slip inside, his tongue sweeping and suckling around the rosy bud. Teeth graze against skin. It feels marginally better to have something in his mouth - though maybe it's too small - but he can't seem to keep it in because the Captain keeps moving; one second his pectoral's bumping against his mouth, hard enough to drive his nose into firm muscle, only to pull away the next so that the Soldier has to hungrily seek it with his mouth, open and questing, tongue slipping out as he manages to recapture his nipple.
The hand shoved past the Captain's waistband is exploring, stroking, squeezing, hot palm to hot length. It's random, without an idea of where best to touch, his knuckles outlined against the soaked fabric of his pants as rough fingers curl and pull against the underside of his trapped cock. (But even high on aphro, The Winter Soldier knows better than to squeeze with all his might, to sink his teeth into the nipple stiffening against his surging tongue)
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He lets out a sound that’s half-grunt, half-groan, body arching toward the Soldier’s as he continues to rock, to press. There’s a new war going on in his brain, where deep down he knows he needs to keep the upper hand, stay on top, dominate the Winter Soldier. But at the same time, some blind, untraceable urge is telling him he wants to be under the Soldier. He wants to be on the floor or against the wall and he wants the Soldier to be the one pinning him, because as much as the Captain is enjoying the position he’s in, there’s just something about it that’s not quite right.
This time, when he moves, it’s to snake arms around the Soldier and pull them even tighter chest to chest, heat blooming between them as any sliver of air that might have separated them disappears. It crushes the other asset’s hand against his cock, which is certainly nothing to scoff at, either — the shaft now feels as hard and straining as his nipples, like there’s sparks dancing under his skin, like he’s going to explode like ordnance and he won’t even care. He wants it.
Once the Soldier is firmly in his grip, the Captain rolls them like wrestlers, legs wrapping around the other’s waist as the slide to the side and the hard flood comes up and knocks the air out of him just as the dark shadow of the Soldier’s head, too-long lanky hair hanging down, comes up to blot out the too-bright overhead lights. All the Captain can see are the blue-gray eyes, whittled down to thin rings of color with the pupils blown wide, as he arches his hips up eagerly into the Soldier’s grip, encouraging.
Of course, even as one arms stays tight around the other’s torso, the other snakes down to find the hot, hard length of the Soldier’s cock pressed between them. A large, hot hand takes it up in a firm grip, sliding up and down almost maddeningly slow and steady. The Captain feels like he might fly apart, but this motion is nonetheless utterly calm and controlled. He might have put the Soldier on top, but the Soldier is not in control. This is still where the Captain wants him. And he gets only what the Captain wants to give him. “Keep touching me,” he demands, as if the other could even stop, pinned now with the Captain wrapped around him like he is.
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The sheer shock of it is enough to prevent him from rolling off, lunging back to the shelf so he can get another tool - a weapon - to arm himself with.
Unable to roll off, the Soldier can't help but groan when the Captain ensures he can't escape easily by grabbing his cock jutting between them. A hand circles around it tight and while he doesn't squeeze to incapacitate, that could change at any time. Maybe he should get it over with, the Soldier's husky gasps taking on a frustrated edge at the slow - too damn slow - pace of the strokes, his grip just firm enough that he can't easily force the issue by pistoning his engorged shaft against his palm, its head weeping from its slit to glisten along the Captain's fingers.
Doesn't mean he doesn't try, his hip pushing forward.
Pinned like this, his torso and his cock trapped between their bodies, and the Soldier has no choice. His breath rushes hot against the other asset's face, disheveled hair hanging down, casting his worn face in shadow even as his wide eyes glitter. He needs more. He needs - wants? - the Captain to speed up instead of torturing him with these always slow, always even, always the same leisurely pumps of his hand circled around his throbbing cock.
Still gazing down at the Captain, his hand shifts position. Whether it's frustration at how trapped he is, the aphro warming his body and lighting each nerve on fire, or just a general kind of impatience - the Soldier decides the pants and underwear are in the way and have to go. Now. The fatigues are thin, not the thicker types for field work, and gripping the fabric in his titanium hand, he tears them with a sideways jerk that will draw angry red marks where the waistband dug into the Captain's sweat-slicked side.
His standard-issue underwear gets the same treatment from the Winter Soldier, the thinner fabric tearing much more easily than his pants. Now he can fondle the Captain free, his straining member hot and pulsing, his fingers pressing down against the softness of his sac, rubbing, exploring, not sure what to do but figuring that he will know from the Captain's breathing, if he flinches or he moans.
If he moans - without thinking, the Soldier leans down, hair tickling the Captain's face, and he'll capture his lips with his, tongue invading his mouth, the kiss rough, hard enough to crack the other asset's head against the floor all over again. At the same time he attempts to thrust his cock into the Captain's hand, maybe hoping to catch the other asset by surprise. To force him to do something - squeeze, pick up the pace - instead of keeping him in that awful limbo.
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He doesn’t have long to enjoy his victory, though, before the Soldier is moving; not struggling to get away, but grabbing at the Captain’s pants with a sharp tearing sound that almost — but not entirely — masks the harsh, hitched gasp the Captain sucks in as the relatively cooler air of the room hits his heated cock, as the Soldier’s rough hand, just the right size, slides back over and down and around his dick and balls, unhindered now by the annoying fabric any longer. It may not be a moan, exactly, but there’s something on the tail end of the sound that must be close enough, because the next thing he knows, there’s chapped lips pressed against his and his head hits the floor with an explosion of sparks behind his eyes — and he likes it. It’s jarring and painful and there’s an almost angry hitch of the Soldier’s hips against his, as the other fights for what he wants and the Captain refuses to give up the upper hand. As the Captain doesn’t laugh again, but radiates a kind of satisfied smugness even as his lips, for just the briefest instant, yield out of something close to surprise.
But not for long. He bites at the Soldier’s lips in retaliation, tearing at the soft flesh and tasting a sharp little burst of copper on his tongue. It won’t bleed much or long, but it’s enough to smear both their lips with blood as the Captain growls into the Soldier’s mouth, writhing under him but never breaking his hold, never moving away far enough to ever risk losing the Soldier’s hand on his cock. He kisses and bites and sucks like he wants to swallow the Soldier whole and never come up for air. He kisses like it’s a contest — everything between them is — but also like it’s a lifeline and he never wants to let go.
The Soldier’s hips smack against his again, clear wanting in them and the Captain tightens his arm around the other asset’s back, a warning. And yet, kissing like this, with the Soldier’s free hand all over him and making him see sparks long after his head should have cleared from that hit, is making him feel… something. It couldn’t exactly be called generosity. Maybe more like curiosity, as the Captain’s eyes open, too close to the Soldier’s, everything out of focus even as everything in his body feels like it is focused, right now, on the aching, straining place between his legs. On what’s building there. On the way he wants the Soldier to feel it too, to react, to give himself over the Captain without pausing in the way he’s giving the Captain what he wants, too.
His legs slide down now from the Soldier’s waist, the Captain stretching out without giving ground, legs sliding along the Soldier’s inner thighs until he’s got the other asset pinned over him by the ankles, grip still as hard as iron. With both of the laid out, the Captain has the advantage again, bucking and arching off the floor while the Soldier should find it harder to keep up that thrusting. At the same time, though, the Captain’s strokes finally, finally speed up along the Soldier’s cock, fingers gliding easily, slick now with all the precome that’s been drooling over them, coating his hand and his belly. He tilts his head enough, shifts just enough for their lips to part and the kiss dissolve into harsh, panting breaths, that his eyes can focus fully on the Soldier’s, now. His gaze bores into them with a focused attention that demands to know if this reward will be appreciated, or if it will be fought. If he ought to keep going, speeding up ever so slightly with every stroke, starting to aim his hand so that their knuckles bump together every few pulls, cocks inches apart, or if he’s going to have to take away this gift again. If the Soldier will fight him on it. Because whatever this is… the Captain has still got to win.