Most of the HYDRA agents who have discovered that the Winter Soldier's obedience can be turned to sexual ends pay no attention to his enjoyment, except to deny him release--a form of discipline that does not trouble him, accustomed as he is to indifference towards his own body--or demand that he put on an exaggerated show for them. But a long time ago, back in the Soviet days, there was a woman attached to the scientific team who had taken an almost academic interest in how to wring the maximum amount of pleasure from her subject's body, with or without his cooperation. Time passes both quicker and slower for the Winter Soldier than it does for the rest of the world, and he cannot remember the woman's face. But his sense-memories are sufficiently intact that he knows what techniques to employ to fulfil the final part of Pierce's orders. Make him enjoy it.
It's not easy. The men who went before him have inflicted enough injury that even the insertion of one finger clearly causes pain. And the captive is tensed up against him and resisting every step of the way. Still, the difficulty only increases the Winter Soldier's satisfaction when he locates the correct place to probe with his finger to elicit a choked-off gasp and a twitch of the man's flaccid penis. He repeats the gesture more firmly, with his thumb jammed up against the tender spot behind the subject's testicles, and is rewarded with a quickly-stifled sob as the man's body betrays him.
The Winter Soldier's body is a tool that does not belong to him; even the idea that sexual use could be wielded as a form of cruelty hadn't occurred to him until Pierce had mentioned it, so the idea of pleasure as a weapon, of compounding the target's distress by making them enjoy their own violation, hadn't even been comprehensible to him when he began to carry out the order. Now, though, he can appreciate his superior's genius. It is devastatingly effective. The sob was a one-time loss of control and doesn't happen again, but the more erect the captive gets, the more frantically he fidgets and darts his glance around the room, seeking an escape route. He is an animal trapped in his own skin.
The Winter Soldier shifts off the cot to kneel straddling the man's legs, partly to control the fitful, anxious kicking, partly for a more convenient range of motion. He begins to slide his finger in and out and finds that it glides easily—unsurprising, given how many men have probably ejaculated inside him already. The captive turns his head to stare at the Winter Soldier with something very much like hatred in his eyes. It's not the first time one of his victims has looked at him like that, but it is the first time it's made him feel the need to drop his own gaze and concentrate on his work. He wraps his flesh hand around the man's erection and gives it a few loose pulls, which earns him a muffled curse and a deep shudder that wracks the man's whole body.
In retrospect, both avoiding the captive's eyes and letting go of the knife to jerk him off were enormous blunders. He has underestimated this man yet again; he must have been waiting for his chance the whole time. With an almighty effort and a roar of pain, he wrenches his hands free of the bedframe and swings them at the Winter Soldier's face. The Winter Soldier sees the blade of his own knife coming towards him, emerging from through the man's palm, and looks up just in time for the knife to slam harmlessly against his face mask and clatter to the floor instead of stabbing him through the eye. But now the man's grabbing him by the face. The Winter Soldier lets go of the man's erection and darts his right hand up to subdue him, but it's too late.
The mask goes skittering across the floor to the opposite corner of the cell.
The captive stares over his shoulder at the Winter Soldier, all the hatred on his face replaced by open, wide-eyed shock. He stops struggling and collapses limply to the floor. “Bucky?” he whispers.
The Winter Soldier's got no idea who that is or why the apparent sight of him has sapped this man's will to fight. He drives his finger in deeper. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he growls.
Elevator take 2, SEQUEL 4/?
It's not easy. The men who went before him have inflicted enough injury that even the insertion of one finger clearly causes pain. And the captive is tensed up against him and resisting every step of the way. Still, the difficulty only increases the Winter Soldier's satisfaction when he locates the correct place to probe with his finger to elicit a choked-off gasp and a twitch of the man's flaccid penis. He repeats the gesture more firmly, with his thumb jammed up against the tender spot behind the subject's testicles, and is rewarded with a quickly-stifled sob as the man's body betrays him.
The Winter Soldier's body is a tool that does not belong to him; even the idea that sexual use could be wielded as a form of cruelty hadn't occurred to him until Pierce had mentioned it, so the idea of pleasure as a weapon, of compounding the target's distress by making them enjoy their own violation, hadn't even been comprehensible to him when he began to carry out the order. Now, though, he can appreciate his superior's genius. It is devastatingly effective. The sob was a one-time loss of control and doesn't happen again, but the more erect the captive gets, the more frantically he fidgets and darts his glance around the room, seeking an escape route. He is an animal trapped in his own skin.
The Winter Soldier shifts off the cot to kneel straddling the man's legs, partly to control the fitful, anxious kicking, partly for a more convenient range of motion. He begins to slide his finger in and out and finds that it glides easily—unsurprising, given how many men have probably ejaculated inside him already. The captive turns his head to stare at the Winter Soldier with something very much like hatred in his eyes. It's not the first time one of his victims has looked at him like that, but it is the first time it's made him feel the need to drop his own gaze and concentrate on his work. He wraps his flesh hand around the man's erection and gives it a few loose pulls, which earns him a muffled curse and a deep shudder that wracks the man's whole body.
In retrospect, both avoiding the captive's eyes and letting go of the knife to jerk him off were enormous blunders. He has underestimated this man yet again; he must have been waiting for his chance the whole time. With an almighty effort and a roar of pain, he wrenches his hands free of the bedframe and swings them at the Winter Soldier's face. The Winter Soldier sees the blade of his own knife coming towards him, emerging from through the man's palm, and looks up just in time for the knife to slam harmlessly against his face mask and clatter to the floor instead of stabbing him through the eye. But now the man's grabbing him by the face. The Winter Soldier lets go of the man's erection and darts his right hand up to subdue him, but it's too late.
The mask goes skittering across the floor to the opposite corner of the cell.
The captive stares over his shoulder at the Winter Soldier, all the hatred on his face replaced by open, wide-eyed shock. He stops struggling and collapses limply to the floor. “Bucky?” he whispers.
The Winter Soldier's got no idea who that is or why the apparent sight of him has sapped this man's will to fight. He drives his finger in deeper. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he growls.