[He settled down again with Rumlow's continual touching, finding it soothing and welcoming even as he slid his hands to slide his palms up and down his commander's ribs in reply. It was slow firm strokes, adding just enough pressure to be just shy of painful he knew. He leaned into Rumlow's hands, shivering with each contact just shy of the depths of his open wounds across his shoulders. There was always a tingle of excitement to mix with the pain of them, and Rumlow's touch always managed to straddle the balance between those two sensations.

The problem with his own personal conflict was that he was designed to perform and do exceedingly well at his occupation, but physical affection, emotional connection, and psychological well-being were not aspects included in his training. He found himself groping in the dark, finding bursts of inspiration and then more often time like this, where he knew best to serve only as a weapon. It created a discord between the duty to perform and the knowledge that he might fail.]

No, my last mission had nothing to do with seduction. This doesn't even ride like an intensive training session to learn new technology or skills. I don't want to disappoint you with my performance.

[He shifted sideways so that he could plaster himself up against Rumlow's side, his metal arm pinned under his own weight and his right spanning the width of his commander's waist.]

I suppose. Wouldn't it be easier for you to command me what with my limitations?