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.
Can’t escape. A flex of the powerful arm locked around his back – a warning that if he doesn’t take the right tactical approach that he could end up semi-conscious and drooling on the floor and not only will he lose the exercise and rack up more punishment, the Captain can just do what he wants regardless.
The Soldier’s as rigid as his cock weeping between them.
With the taste of his blood streaking across his lips and the press of the Captain's hungrily claiming his mouth, tongue surging, the Soldier has to fight off an ingrained reaction to submit trying to well up. The other asset's aggressive, domineering because of course he has to be, and his assault on his mouth is disorienting as the Captain groans with a demanding kind of need and his breath washes hot across his face when he pulls back to slop another kiss on, to bite at his lips until they're either bleeding or swollen and tinged pink, tender to the touch.
It's a distraction.
Before the Soldier can use that split second opening when the other man's thighs shift, he's suddenly repositioning his body and locking him down even further. He's still pinned, stretched out now, ankles hooked so he can't easily worm away and maybe it's an even worse position because the Captain has control of his feet and his cock's still gripped tight enough that he only has to squeeze hard to incapacitate any fight out of him. Disoriented, unused to physical pleasure warring with the need to fight back, to maybe not submit because the Captain's not a handler, but just another asset like him, the Winter Soldier bares his teeth in a snarl as soon as his mouth's freed. His teeth are tinged red with his own blood, lips stinging and plumped from the Captain's possessive bites and nips.
...But he's also speeding up those strokes with his hand pumping faster. Pleasure pulses in waves threatening to overwhelm his combat readiness. Despite himself, the Soldier wavers, the aphro he ingested orally and inhaled vibrating along his body taut with need and concentrating in his cock trapped in the other man's merciless hand.
Without thinking about it, maybe without realizing he's doing it, he finally concedes.
He matches the Captain's energy. If he strokes harder along his engorged shaft dribbling all over their stomachs and chest, then in return the Winter Soldier fondles the soft heat of his balls that much more. Rolling them. Palming them, sometimes teasing that line where it could be painful. He tries to meet the other asset's gaze, knowing he's staring up at him with his blue eyes glinting and assessing, but it's been a while - a long time, maybe - since he experienced pleasure. At all.
And the aphrodisiac he got dosed with only amplifies it.
His mouth hangs open as he gasps and grunts with each tug and twist of the Captain's hand. Hips jerk toward him, thrust, the shaft slick and throbbing in the other man's grasp. The Soldier's steadily losing the plot as he gives into the aphro burning him up from the inside, his face growing slack with sheer pleasure. A few times his eyes will start to roll up into his head with a flutter of dark lashes before he seems to catch himself and his face scrunches, confused, nose crinkling, his tongue slipping out to wet his mouth as he gives his head a little shake. Rallying, maybe, for a second wind...if the Captain gives him that opening.
There's something inside the Captain that feels a little like it's unraveling. Like the core of him is too hot, like he'll melt from the inside out, go up like a firebomb and all he knows is that he wants to take the Winter Soldier with him. Not because he wants to defeat him — although he certainly doesn't want to lose. Whatever losing looks like. He doesn't know. He doesn't know how this ends, or what winning or losing look like. What they're supposed to be doing, other than nothing that will kill or maim. What does victory look like — or defeat?
It feels like trying to think through mud, like the feeling crawling over him, starting at the center of his body where the Soldier's hand is touching him is wrapping up and around every limb and finger and toe and close-cropped hair on his head is stealing his ability to plan, to care, but that's not true. He still wants —
What does he want? He doesn't even fucking know, but he wants it all the same.
His eyes catch on the way the Soldier's expression is starting to slacken — and then the way it sharpens again, only to slacken before he shakes himself once more. Now the Captain grins, a sharp, feral thing, as he bucks his hips up hard into the Soldier's hand, the twinge of a second of too-tight, too-much in the Soldier's grip only adding to his pleasure instead of stifling it.
They're… heading for something, he thinks. Both of them, scrambling for whatever it is and he doesn't know how to get there first, and suddenly he isn't sure if he wants to. It's not that he wants to submit. It's not that he wants to lose. But he wants to see the Winter Soldier lose it, he wants those eyes to roll back into his head and — for whatever they're racing toward to happen. For him to hit the breaking point. The Captain wants to see that, suddenly, more than anything in the world.
He rolls them again, body twisting and arching as one elbow flies out to push the corner of the shelving out of the way. The Soldier goes over onto his back and the Captain suddenly rears away, pulls back — only for two firm hands to appear at the Soldier's hips, holding him down with a grip that will not be broken. The Captain puts his knees on the Soldier's thighs, pinning them to the cold concrete of the floor in the same immovable way. He arches up, cock thick and red and dribbling, slick and standing proud as it juts up against his belly.
And then the Captain's blue eyes, gone dark with pupils blown wide, catch the Soldier's gaze. He waits until it's clear the Soldier is looking him in the eyes — and then quick as lightning he bends over, takes the Soldier's cock in his mouth, all the way to the hilt, and gives him no mercy. No quarter. His teeth scrape lightly along the slick, salty skin, the flat of his tongue floods up the underside, his nostrils flare as he lets out a breath against the thatch of dark hair between the Soldier's legs — and then he sucks. Hard, and steady, and unrelenting.
He will make the Soldier's eyes roll back in his head. He will make the Soldier come undone, and it will be fucking amazing because he can think of nothing else he wants more, right now, and that must mean it will be a victory.
The Winter Soldier's already lost the exercise even though he's still conscious, even though he doesn't have any broken bones or incapacitating injuries to his limbs or organs and therefore, according to HYDRA, that means he should still be combat ready and he should still be doing whatever he can to fight back. He could squeeze that engorged heat in his hand. He could bite. Crack his head into the other asset's brow, shining with a sheen of sweat. But all that training, all those man hours to break Bucky Barnes and remold him into a useful tool instead of just another pitiful mouth to feed - all that goes out the window when he's hopped up on aphro.
The Captain catches him by surprise as he rolls them as one. It's brutally fast, brutally efficient. Always is with this man. Almost no room to get his bearings. The Soldier's hand gets knocked away from the other asset's erection and the next thing he knows he's slammed flat on his back with his ragged breath rushing out of his lungs, spine arching in a futile attempt to either escape or thrust his rigid dick up only to find the hand wrapped around it is gone. A frustrated whine edges out. Powerful hands clamp down on his thighs, spread them further, then a heavier weight settles and suddenly the Captain has him pinned to the floor with his throbbing shaft jutting upward, feeling exposed and somehow incomplete.
A confused whimper morphs into a growl of frustration, low, bordering on pissed. He makes eye contact with the other asset.
The Winter Soldier's dimly aware of trying to fight back. His palm slaps against his opponent's brow hard enough to bruise, slips and slides against the sweat beading against his forehead so his fingers tangle in his blond hair instead of bodily shoving him away. Before he can stop him, the other man's got his mouth wrapped around his cock. He's merciless, taking him in all at once. The mere sight of it's so intoxicating that the Soldier doesn't register the fact the end of the black leash is lying half on his chest where he could've grabbed it...if his coordination hadn't turned to shit.
His hips buck and jerk up against the Captain, jogging his bent head, and - and he can't get free. Isn't sure he wants to. Can't even if he did.
The Soldier struggles on the floor, the powerful muscles of thighs and calves flexing and trying to twist himself free from underneath the bigger asset. His naked chest heaves with each ragged breath, wheezing. He makes the mistake of looking right at what the Captain's doing, gets a good look at that - the man's mouth wrapped around his shaft to the base, nose pressed into the dark hair there, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and the whole time he's gazing up at him through his lashes with those too-blue eyes of his.
Overstimulated and desperate for more, the Soldier writhes. His own mouth hangs open more often than not, panting for air as if he can't get enough. Breath hitches; the Captain can find that he can control the sound and pitch depending on how his tongue plays across the cock trapped in his mouth, if he pumps his head or drags his teeth a little harder along the heat of the Soldier's arousal weeping across his surging tongue.
The Soldier doesn't seem to know what to do. Sometimes his exhausted face tightens in a grimace, teeth bared in a snarl as he struggles to get an elbow under him. Maybe his grip tightens on the other man's short hair hard enough to make his scalp protest. A good pump of the Captain's head can make the Soldier's elbow slip out from under him before he can lever himself up into a sitting position. A particularly hard, vicious suck of his tortured shaft can coax him back into that vulnerable state the Captain had taken such a liking to. Alertness fades in and out as the tide of mindless pleasure threatens to overwhelm him. The fingers scraping against his blond hair loosen, palm gliding against his scalp instead of fingers digging
"Nggh..." The Soldier's head falls back, lashes fluttering. A glimpse of the whites of his eyes before he blinks furiously, his slack mouth working dumbly like he's trying to make sense of how he got here. Trying to stave off the inevitable. "N-no - "
And that's about as coherent as he'll get. His hips buck into the Captain's ruthlessly thorough mouth with a weaker insistence then before, the hands trying to push the other man away turning more listless, more uncoordinated by the second, each obscene suck and slurp from the Captain leeching away whatever shreds of resistance still remain.
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
The Soldier’s as rigid as his cock weeping between them.
With the taste of his blood streaking across his lips and the press of the Captain's hungrily claiming his mouth, tongue surging, the Soldier has to fight off an ingrained reaction to submit trying to well up. The other asset's aggressive, domineering because of course he has to be, and his assault on his mouth is disorienting as the Captain groans with a demanding kind of need and his breath washes hot across his face when he pulls back to slop another kiss on, to bite at his lips until they're either bleeding or swollen and tinged pink, tender to the touch.
It's a distraction.
Before the Soldier can use that split second opening when the other man's thighs shift, he's suddenly repositioning his body and locking him down even further. He's still pinned, stretched out now, ankles hooked so he can't easily worm away and maybe it's an even worse position because the Captain has control of his feet and his cock's still gripped tight enough that he only has to squeeze hard to incapacitate any fight out of him. Disoriented, unused to physical pleasure warring with the need to fight back, to maybe not submit because the Captain's not a handler, but just another asset like him, the Winter Soldier bares his teeth in a snarl as soon as his mouth's freed. His teeth are tinged red with his own blood, lips stinging and plumped from the Captain's possessive bites and nips.
...But he's also speeding up those strokes with his hand pumping faster. Pleasure pulses in waves threatening to overwhelm his combat readiness. Despite himself, the Soldier wavers, the aphro he ingested orally and inhaled vibrating along his body taut with need and concentrating in his cock trapped in the other man's merciless hand.
Without thinking about it, maybe without realizing he's doing it, he finally concedes.
He matches the Captain's energy. If he strokes harder along his engorged shaft dribbling all over their stomachs and chest, then in return the Winter Soldier fondles the soft heat of his balls that much more. Rolling them. Palming them, sometimes teasing that line where it could be painful. He tries to meet the other asset's gaze, knowing he's staring up at him with his blue eyes glinting and assessing, but it's been a while - a long time, maybe - since he experienced pleasure. At all.
And the aphrodisiac he got dosed with only amplifies it.
His mouth hangs open as he gasps and grunts with each tug and twist of the Captain's hand. Hips jerk toward him, thrust, the shaft slick and throbbing in the other man's grasp. The Soldier's steadily losing the plot as he gives into the aphro burning him up from the inside, his face growing slack with sheer pleasure. A few times his eyes will start to roll up into his head with a flutter of dark lashes before he seems to catch himself and his face scrunches, confused, nose crinkling, his tongue slipping out to wet his mouth as he gives his head a little shake. Rallying, maybe, for a second wind...if the Captain gives him that opening.
no subject
It feels like trying to think through mud, like the feeling crawling over him, starting at the center of his body where the Soldier's hand is touching him is wrapping up and around every limb and finger and toe and close-cropped hair on his head is stealing his ability to plan, to care, but that's not true. He still wants —
What does he want? He doesn't even fucking know, but he wants it all the same.
His eyes catch on the way the Soldier's expression is starting to slacken — and then the way it sharpens again, only to slacken before he shakes himself once more. Now the Captain grins, a sharp, feral thing, as he bucks his hips up hard into the Soldier's hand, the twinge of a second of too-tight, too-much in the Soldier's grip only adding to his pleasure instead of stifling it.
They're… heading for something, he thinks. Both of them, scrambling for whatever it is and he doesn't know how to get there first, and suddenly he isn't sure if he wants to. It's not that he wants to submit. It's not that he wants to lose. But he wants to see the Winter Soldier lose it, he wants those eyes to roll back into his head and — for whatever they're racing toward to happen. For him to hit the breaking point. The Captain wants to see that, suddenly, more than anything in the world.
He rolls them again, body twisting and arching as one elbow flies out to push the corner of the shelving out of the way. The Soldier goes over onto his back and the Captain suddenly rears away, pulls back — only for two firm hands to appear at the Soldier's hips, holding him down with a grip that will not be broken. The Captain puts his knees on the Soldier's thighs, pinning them to the cold concrete of the floor in the same immovable way. He arches up, cock thick and red and dribbling, slick and standing proud as it juts up against his belly.
And then the Captain's blue eyes, gone dark with pupils blown wide, catch the Soldier's gaze. He waits until it's clear the Soldier is looking him in the eyes — and then quick as lightning he bends over, takes the Soldier's cock in his mouth, all the way to the hilt, and gives him no mercy. No quarter. His teeth scrape lightly along the slick, salty skin, the flat of his tongue floods up the underside, his nostrils flare as he lets out a breath against the thatch of dark hair between the Soldier's legs — and then he sucks. Hard, and steady, and unrelenting.
He will make the Soldier's eyes roll back in his head. He will make the Soldier come undone, and it will be fucking amazing because he can think of nothing else he wants more, right now, and that must mean it will be a victory.
no subject
The Winter Soldier's already lost the exercise even though he's still conscious, even though he doesn't have any broken bones or incapacitating injuries to his limbs or organs and therefore, according to HYDRA, that means he should still be combat ready and he should still be doing whatever he can to fight back. He could squeeze that engorged heat in his hand. He could bite. Crack his head into the other asset's brow, shining with a sheen of sweat. But all that training, all those man hours to break Bucky Barnes and remold him into a useful tool instead of just another pitiful mouth to feed - all that goes out the window when he's hopped up on aphro.
The Captain catches him by surprise as he rolls them as one. It's brutally fast, brutally efficient. Always is with this man. Almost no room to get his bearings. The Soldier's hand gets knocked away from the other asset's erection and the next thing he knows he's slammed flat on his back with his ragged breath rushing out of his lungs, spine arching in a futile attempt to either escape or thrust his rigid dick up only to find the hand wrapped around it is gone. A frustrated whine edges out. Powerful hands clamp down on his thighs, spread them further, then a heavier weight settles and suddenly the Captain has him pinned to the floor with his throbbing shaft jutting upward, feeling exposed and somehow incomplete.
A confused whimper morphs into a growl of frustration, low, bordering on pissed. He makes eye contact with the other asset.
The Winter Soldier's dimly aware of trying to fight back. His palm slaps against his opponent's brow hard enough to bruise, slips and slides against the sweat beading against his forehead so his fingers tangle in his blond hair instead of bodily shoving him away. Before he can stop him, the other man's got his mouth wrapped around his cock. He's merciless, taking him in all at once. The mere sight of it's so intoxicating that the Soldier doesn't register the fact the end of the black leash is lying half on his chest where he could've grabbed it...if his coordination hadn't turned to shit.
His hips buck and jerk up against the Captain, jogging his bent head, and - and he can't get free. Isn't sure he wants to. Can't even if he did.
The Soldier struggles on the floor, the powerful muscles of thighs and calves flexing and trying to twist himself free from underneath the bigger asset. His naked chest heaves with each ragged breath, wheezing. He makes the mistake of looking right at what the Captain's doing, gets a good look at that - the man's mouth wrapped around his shaft to the base, nose pressed into the dark hair there, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and the whole time he's gazing up at him through his lashes with those too-blue eyes of his.
Overstimulated and desperate for more, the Soldier writhes. His own mouth hangs open more often than not, panting for air as if he can't get enough. Breath hitches; the Captain can find that he can control the sound and pitch depending on how his tongue plays across the cock trapped in his mouth, if he pumps his head or drags his teeth a little harder along the heat of the Soldier's arousal weeping across his surging tongue.
The Soldier doesn't seem to know what to do. Sometimes his exhausted face tightens in a grimace, teeth bared in a snarl as he struggles to get an elbow under him. Maybe his grip tightens on the other man's short hair hard enough to make his scalp protest. A good pump of the Captain's head can make the Soldier's elbow slip out from under him before he can lever himself up into a sitting position. A particularly hard, vicious suck of his tortured shaft can coax him back into that vulnerable state the Captain had taken such a liking to. Alertness fades in and out as the tide of mindless pleasure threatens to overwhelm him. The fingers scraping against his blond hair loosen, palm gliding against his scalp instead of fingers digging
"Nggh..." The Soldier's head falls back, lashes fluttering. A glimpse of the whites of his eyes before he blinks furiously, his slack mouth working dumbly like he's trying to make sense of how he got here. Trying to stave off the inevitable. "N-no - "
And that's about as coherent as he'll get. His hips buck into the Captain's ruthlessly thorough mouth with a weaker insistence then before, the hands trying to push the other man away turning more listless, more uncoordinated by the second, each obscene suck and slurp from the Captain leeching away whatever shreds of resistance still remain.