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Kiss With a Fist

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Steve slumps against the wall of Sam's shower and lets himself relax for the first time in what feels like days.

The water beats down on him, just this side of too hot, and the warmth seeping into his sore muscles is a straightforward pleasure that's almost as gratifying as the soreness itself. He palms idly at his growing erection. They've finally got some downtime; does he have enough time for this too? It's been nagging at him, just waiting for a chance. And it's easier than thinking about... everything.

Steve can't even remember the last time he was this sore. It feels amazing. It's a little taste of what he's been chasing after, more and more, these days: something his body can't shrug off, an opponent he doesn't know with dull certainty he could take with one hand tied behind his back. All those fights he threw while he was sparring with STRIKE commandos, just to feel a fist connecting with his face from a guy who could throw a solid punch. Strong arms pinning him down, strong enough to maintain the illusion that he couldn't shake them off. Rumlow had been his go-to for those fights. Rumlow knew exactly what Steve was doing and wasn't insulted by it, just fought a little dirtier, made his blows a little more vicious. Rumlow understood pain.

Rumlow made the same comments about fairies and freaks that Steve knew all too well in the '40s, and Steve had to stop sparring with him after a close call where Rumlow's knee jammed into the small of his back got him hard and straining in his sweatpants, facedown on the mat.

Also, as it turns out, Rumlow's HYDRA.

Steve tugs at his cock and halfheartedly tries to concoct a scenario where he'd been face-up instead, where Rumlow had noticed and beaten the shit out of him and maybe held him down and forced him, "shut up and take it, Cap, it's what you wanted, right?" It's kind of hard to take it seriously when Rumlow attacked him for real and Steve broke his face on an elevator ceiling without breaking a sweat.

He's sore all right, and it feels great, but he can't jerk off to fantasies about fifteen-story drops through glass ceilings and concrete bunkers crashing down on top of him.

He plays with a few other thoughts. Batroc's heel crashing to the deck between his legs, the explosion of pain if it had landed a few inches farther forward and he hadn't been in body armor. A magnetic handcuff hitting the elevator wall with a clang.

No, a different clang: his shield hurtling neatly into a metal hand. The hand flinging it back so hard that Steve could swear he knew, for a single visceral second, what it felt like to be on the other end of his own signature move.

Oh. Yeah.

An arm that could throw his shield like that, what could it do to Steve? Fling him across the room, break his face if the assassin landed a punch, throttle him and leave bruises on his throat that might last long enough for someone else to see them and wonder.

Throw him down. Keep him down.

He'd have to face the guy in an actual fight to be sure, but there's a chance, just a chance, that the Winter Soldier could take him.

And then... oh, God. The Winter Soldier could take him.

Steve's breathing picks up as he strokes himself. He... he's the assassin's next target. Yeah, that works. The Winter Soldier's got him on the ropes, got his back against the wall. Steve's already taken damage, a knife still buried deep in his shoulder, a bullet lodged in his thigh. His ribs are in agony with each breath. He fights as hard as he can, but the assassin is faster than he is, stronger than he is.

That metal arm is locked around his throat and choking the life out of him. And this is it, he's gonna die and no amount of fighting will do a damn thing to stop it... but the Winter Soldier doesn't kill him. The Winter Soldier slams him up against the wall and forces a thigh between his legs.

And no amount of fighting will do a damn thing to stop this, either.

Steve gets hard instantly against the man's leg. And the assassin doesn't react. Doesn't mock him, doesn't recoil, doesn't press his advantage either. He doesn't care what Steve wants. It doesn't matter what Steve wants. The Winter Soldier is relentless, and he's going to fuck Steve up against the wall as brutally and impersonally as he would've killed him.

No. Not against the wall. The metal hand constricts around his windpipe, and he has a confused impression of being flung down and skidding ten feet along the ground before he hits his head and passes out. When he comes to, his pants are tangled around his knees and his arms are bound behind his back with his own belt, and the assassin's holding him facedown by the hair with one hand while...

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Steve has to let go of his cock and take a couple of deep breaths to keep from coming then and there. He cups his balls in his hand and leans back against the shower wall as he replays it in his head. Waking up restrained and pinned down--with two cold metal fingers already shoved up his ass.

Or... what if they're not cold anymore? What if they've warmed up to body heat, and that's the only clue Steve gets about how long the Winter Soldier has been finger-fucking his unconscious body?

That's about as far as the fantasy gets. It's just as well, because a dick is a dick and after that it would be kind of anticlimactic to think about the assassin putting one in him. Even if he forced it in dry and made Steve scream with a pain he'd be feeling for days afterward, even if he was enhanced there too and fucked Steve over and over for hours without a break. That's nothing--nothing--next to the thought of the metal fingers jammed up into him, probing clinically or spreading him open so wide he feels like he'll split at the seams. All that deadly power and grace, whirring and clicking inside him. Pistoning in and out. Unyielding, inflexible, even more inexorable than the Winter Soldier himself.

Steve replays it over and over in his head. Wallows in it. Waking from unconsciousness to find three mechanical fingers violating him--no, four--fucking mercilessly in and out. God, he'd clench up in shock and it would hurt even more, leave little streaks of blood on the chrome, but why should that be his body's limit? He's a super-soldier, the damage will heal, even if the Winter Soldier forces his whole hand up--

Steve comes so hard his knees almost give out.