Reclamation
Fandom: Captain America
Rating: Explicit, ish
Summary: Steve gets used to his new body, and that sounds way dirtier than it actually is.
There is a click as the door closes and Steve is finally, wonderfully, alone. This is the first time he has had a room to himself since joining the army; after being treated with the serum, after chasing down a Hydra spy, after hours of being poked, prodded, and bled, he has earned the right to some peace and quiet. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. It’s a technique he learned to cope with his asthma, and if he didn’t have chemically altered cells, he’s certain he would be having an attack right now.
The room is small and spare. A narrow bed, a table, a chair. A washroom with a toilet, sink, and shower, crowded close together. No windows. It reminds him of his apartment in Brooklyn. He can feel the dirt of the city on his skin, on his feet. The residue of the river in his hair. The dull ache where the serum had been injected through hundreds of tiny needles. He has never wanted a shower more than he does at this moment.
Steve bumps his shoulder painfully on the doorjamb on his way into the bathroom. Since the change, he has hit his shoulders on four doorjambs, hit his head on low beams twice, and broken enough glassware in the lab by overreaching and jostling benches and tables that they finally moved him far away from anything breakable. He reaches into the shower to turn on the hot water, and has to bend down to reach the knob. When he straightens up he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and turns to face it.
He is tall enough now that the top of his head is not visible in the mirror. It shows his face, his shoulders, his chest. Steve reaches a hand up to trace over his temples, his cheekbones, his jaw. The nose that was too big for his old face fits perfectly in his new one. His eyes are the same, and he grounds himself in that thought. The face in the mirror is almost his. From the neck down, it’s like he’s looking at a different person.
Steve grabs the hem of his shirt to pull it off and feels abruptly nervous, as if he’s undressing a stranger. He focuses on his eyes in the mirror and takes off his shirt. For a moment, he concentrates on folding his shirt and placing it carefully on the lid of the toilet. When he can’t avoid it any longer, he turns back to the mirror. There is a long scratch on the outside of his left arm, where he crashed through a glass display window. There is a bruise darkening on his knuckles where he punched through the submarine window. There is a trickle of blood still oozing from the edge of his ribs on his right side, where he narrowly avoided a direct bullet.
There is no scar on his right arm where he was hit with a broken beer bottle in an alley when he was 18. There is no scar on his stomach where he was stabbed with a swiss army knife when he was 14. There is no scar on his left shoulder where he was shoved into a pile of broken dishes when he was 10. There is no scar on his chest where he was burned with a cigarette butt when he tried to get in between Bucky and Bucky’s father when he was 8.
Steve stares into the mirror, trying to see something, anything of himself in the planes of his chest, the massive arms, the washboard stomach. He hugs his arms to his chest, and he can feel the bunch and stretch of muscle, the soft edges of veins under his fingertips. Turning, he looks over his shoulder at his unfamiliar back. The scars are gone there, too, smoothed away by the serum.
Taking a deep breath, Steve unbuckles his belt and sets it aside next to his shirt. Heat rises to his cheeks as he unbuttons his pants and pulls them off, along with his underwear. He doesn’t look at himself, not yet. Instead, he focuses on folding his clothes and setting them in a nice, even pile. He takes the towel off the rack and places it on the floor so he will be able to reach it from the shower, realizing belatedly that his new arms are long enough for that to be unnecessary.
Steam is starting to rise from the water in the shower, and Steve steps into it, drawing door shut and closing off his view of the mirror. The spray hits him square in the chest, and it takes him several moments to realize why that feels strange. Yesterday, the shower poured water straight into his face, but he is a foot taller now and has to bend down to get his hair wet. Even though he realizes this, even though he is thinking about it, he still hits his head on the shower head, and blows air out of his cheeks in frustration. When Steve was chasing the Hydra spy, he had felt the exhilaration of being able to make massive leaps, to jump over fences and onto cars, to keep running long after his asthma would have stopped him, before. Now, he wonders how long it is going to take to adapt to his new larger size without running into everything.
Lathering the soap, Steve starts by washing his face. His face is so close to the way it used to be that it almost feels normal. He washes his hair next -- also the same, except that when he raises his arms in the small shower stall he barks his elbows against the tiled walls. He soaps his arms, his armpits. His chest, his back as best as he’s able. It feels good to wash away the dirt, the silt, the dried blood.
He can’t avoid it anymore. He has been avoiding looking below his waist, but as much as it feels like he is invading someone’s privacy, it is his body now. Steve lathers the soap again and starts washing his stomach and hips, eyes skipping hesitantly down below his navel. He almost laughs in relief when he sees that his dick looks exactly the same as it did before. His legs are massive, knees no longer sticking out like strange knobs. His feet are bigger, and he thinks it must be related to the height change.
He soaps down his legs, feeling the muscles tense, the brush of fine hairs. He soaps his feet, making sure to get between his toes. He soaps his ass, nerves returning when it feels so different than it did before. He feels sensitized, like the adrenaline running through him earlier left his skin tender. Steve rubs the bar of soap between his hands, and reaches between his legs. His balls are a little bigger than before, and the sensitivity continues there as he spreads the soap over his skin. He is half hard when his soapy hand closes around his dick, and he leans back against the wall, stroking once, twice.
It looks the same, but the reaction is different. Blood rushes to his erection so quickly that Steve is left lightheaded, feeling the rapid lengthening and hardening under his fingers. He takes a shaky breath and braces his left hand on the side wall of the shower, eyes fluttering closed. Three more strokes and his pulse is racing, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Steve lets his head hang down, bites his lip, and keeps going. He rubs his thumb over the slit on each stroke -- two more, three more, four, and then he is trembling, shaking, coming harder and faster than he ever has in his life.
He tips his head back against the wall and doesn’t move for a minute as he catches his breath. When his legs feel steady again, he pushes back from the wall and rinses off. When he shuts off the water, he is more relaxed than he has been in days. It will take Steve many months to find out all the capabilities and limits of his new body, but for better or worse, this body is his.
This entry was originally posted at http://marmolita.dreamwidth.org/795.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Rating: Explicit, ish
Summary: Steve gets used to his new body, and that sounds way dirtier than it actually is.
There is a click as the door closes and Steve is finally, wonderfully, alone. This is the first time he has had a room to himself since joining the army; after being treated with the serum, after chasing down a Hydra spy, after hours of being poked, prodded, and bled, he has earned the right to some peace and quiet. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. It’s a technique he learned to cope with his asthma, and if he didn’t have chemically altered cells, he’s certain he would be having an attack right now.
The room is small and spare. A narrow bed, a table, a chair. A washroom with a toilet, sink, and shower, crowded close together. No windows. It reminds him of his apartment in Brooklyn. He can feel the dirt of the city on his skin, on his feet. The residue of the river in his hair. The dull ache where the serum had been injected through hundreds of tiny needles. He has never wanted a shower more than he does at this moment.
Steve bumps his shoulder painfully on the doorjamb on his way into the bathroom. Since the change, he has hit his shoulders on four doorjambs, hit his head on low beams twice, and broken enough glassware in the lab by overreaching and jostling benches and tables that they finally moved him far away from anything breakable. He reaches into the shower to turn on the hot water, and has to bend down to reach the knob. When he straightens up he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and turns to face it.
He is tall enough now that the top of his head is not visible in the mirror. It shows his face, his shoulders, his chest. Steve reaches a hand up to trace over his temples, his cheekbones, his jaw. The nose that was too big for his old face fits perfectly in his new one. His eyes are the same, and he grounds himself in that thought. The face in the mirror is almost his. From the neck down, it’s like he’s looking at a different person.
Steve grabs the hem of his shirt to pull it off and feels abruptly nervous, as if he’s undressing a stranger. He focuses on his eyes in the mirror and takes off his shirt. For a moment, he concentrates on folding his shirt and placing it carefully on the lid of the toilet. When he can’t avoid it any longer, he turns back to the mirror. There is a long scratch on the outside of his left arm, where he crashed through a glass display window. There is a bruise darkening on his knuckles where he punched through the submarine window. There is a trickle of blood still oozing from the edge of his ribs on his right side, where he narrowly avoided a direct bullet.
There is no scar on his right arm where he was hit with a broken beer bottle in an alley when he was 18. There is no scar on his stomach where he was stabbed with a swiss army knife when he was 14. There is no scar on his left shoulder where he was shoved into a pile of broken dishes when he was 10. There is no scar on his chest where he was burned with a cigarette butt when he tried to get in between Bucky and Bucky’s father when he was 8.
Steve stares into the mirror, trying to see something, anything of himself in the planes of his chest, the massive arms, the washboard stomach. He hugs his arms to his chest, and he can feel the bunch and stretch of muscle, the soft edges of veins under his fingertips. Turning, he looks over his shoulder at his unfamiliar back. The scars are gone there, too, smoothed away by the serum.
Taking a deep breath, Steve unbuckles his belt and sets it aside next to his shirt. Heat rises to his cheeks as he unbuttons his pants and pulls them off, along with his underwear. He doesn’t look at himself, not yet. Instead, he focuses on folding his clothes and setting them in a nice, even pile. He takes the towel off the rack and places it on the floor so he will be able to reach it from the shower, realizing belatedly that his new arms are long enough for that to be unnecessary.
Steam is starting to rise from the water in the shower, and Steve steps into it, drawing door shut and closing off his view of the mirror. The spray hits him square in the chest, and it takes him several moments to realize why that feels strange. Yesterday, the shower poured water straight into his face, but he is a foot taller now and has to bend down to get his hair wet. Even though he realizes this, even though he is thinking about it, he still hits his head on the shower head, and blows air out of his cheeks in frustration. When Steve was chasing the Hydra spy, he had felt the exhilaration of being able to make massive leaps, to jump over fences and onto cars, to keep running long after his asthma would have stopped him, before. Now, he wonders how long it is going to take to adapt to his new larger size without running into everything.
Lathering the soap, Steve starts by washing his face. His face is so close to the way it used to be that it almost feels normal. He washes his hair next -- also the same, except that when he raises his arms in the small shower stall he barks his elbows against the tiled walls. He soaps his arms, his armpits. His chest, his back as best as he’s able. It feels good to wash away the dirt, the silt, the dried blood.
He can’t avoid it anymore. He has been avoiding looking below his waist, but as much as it feels like he is invading someone’s privacy, it is his body now. Steve lathers the soap again and starts washing his stomach and hips, eyes skipping hesitantly down below his navel. He almost laughs in relief when he sees that his dick looks exactly the same as it did before. His legs are massive, knees no longer sticking out like strange knobs. His feet are bigger, and he thinks it must be related to the height change.
He soaps down his legs, feeling the muscles tense, the brush of fine hairs. He soaps his feet, making sure to get between his toes. He soaps his ass, nerves returning when it feels so different than it did before. He feels sensitized, like the adrenaline running through him earlier left his skin tender. Steve rubs the bar of soap between his hands, and reaches between his legs. His balls are a little bigger than before, and the sensitivity continues there as he spreads the soap over his skin. He is half hard when his soapy hand closes around his dick, and he leans back against the wall, stroking once, twice.
It looks the same, but the reaction is different. Blood rushes to his erection so quickly that Steve is left lightheaded, feeling the rapid lengthening and hardening under his fingers. He takes a shaky breath and braces his left hand on the side wall of the shower, eyes fluttering closed. Three more strokes and his pulse is racing, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Steve lets his head hang down, bites his lip, and keeps going. He rubs his thumb over the slit on each stroke -- two more, three more, four, and then he is trembling, shaking, coming harder and faster than he ever has in his life.
He tips his head back against the wall and doesn’t move for a minute as he catches his breath. When his legs feel steady again, he pushes back from the wall and rinses off. When he shuts off the water, he is more relaxed than he has been in days. It will take Steve many months to find out all the capabilities and limits of his new body, but for better or worse, this body is his.
This entry was originally posted at http://marmolita.dreamwidth.org/795.html. Please comment there using OpenID.