Captain America: The First Avenger, its characters and settings, do not belong to me and are being used here without permission but for no profit. This fic is rated M for ~Masturbation~

Grade A American Beef


Steve Rogers had never been vain - in fact he despised vanity, and all the ugly character traits that went with it. He had never enjoyed dwelling in front of mirrors, and convinced himself that those who did had improper priorities. But just this once, he would forgive himself.

He had been standing in front of the mirror in his hotel room for almost half an hour, staring. He spent full minutes totally still, only his eyes moving up and down his new frame, until he was convinced he was staring through a window instead of glass - this man wasn't him, couldn't have been him. Even when he moved, wiggling his fingers and making faces, the perfect pantomime of his reflected self didn't convince him. It was a dream or an illusion and at any moment he would wake up, in his bunk on the base, frail and nervous for the day ahead.

With a deep breath, Steve touched himself. He fingered his jaw, broader than it had once been. He traced it to his ears, pressed into them to hear the low rumble of his body pulsing with life. Stern tendons stood out along his neck - a neck thicker than his thigh had once been. Even his collar bones seemed longer, sturdier, a fitting foundation unlike the chicken bones he used to sport.

This is me. Steve poked at his now rippling pectorals. He stared, incredulous, as slow movements of his arms caused them to bulge and flex beneath the tight confines of his T-shirt. This is what I've always wanted. He thought of his childhood, the men who worked the roads on his route to school, the police officers and firemen and soldiers - always the soldiers - worn raw by the strain of their labors, the way he had admired and coveted their hard-forged physiques. He now had that and more.

He squeezed. Embarrassment colored his cheeks and a sheepish chuckle huffed out of him. Bucky would laugh at me, he thought, but he couldn't help himself - he stripped out of the shirt, laying bare his new torso. He kneaded into the dense muscles crossing his chest, marveling. Even his nipples seemed hardier somehow, though he was sure to glance into every corner of the room before touching them, just a gentle press with his thumbs. A shiver ran down his spine.

He remembered how Peggy had looked at him when he first exited the chamber. She had been so poised, so professional, but he distinctly remembered - or fantasized - that her eyes had traveled him much like his hands were doing. He followed the slopes of ribs down to his abdomen, and with a single fingertip swirled each perfect square. He wanted to pretend that it was Peggy's dainty fingers drawing down his skin, but his hands were like paws to him now, making it impossible.

So Steve explored for his own sake. He flexed his biceps, turned back and forth, probed the dimple that formed at his waist - muscles he didn't know he had let alone knew the names of. Everything about him had changed. If only he wasn't still so pale he would have been a god among men.

He had an ass. It wasn't a part of him he had ever given particular thought to, excepting those times it was a nuisance, but when he turned he couldn't help but be captivated by the sight of it. Again feeling foolish but unable to resist, he took hold with both hands. Unlike the half-empty seat cushion he had once worn, he had tone - had a perfect, round, hard handful of ass, straining against even his stretchy trousers. It was indecent.

Which brought Steve to possibly the most important part.

He took hold of his fly, and there paused for nearly another five minutes in motionless arrest. He didn't even dare let his eyes travel lower through the mirror. He already knew, of course, that the serum had affected every part of him; he could feel the uncommon weight between his legs, felt a stirring of anticipation that darkened his cheeks further. Still, he doubted. Even Dr. Erskine's almost magical science couldn't work miracles. He had to talk himself through it several times before gaining the courage to unzip his trousers.

Steve's underwear bulged through the opening. The sight of it shocked him, and he almost reeled - he glanced about in renewed paranoia. Reassured yet again that he was still alone, he looked back.

"This is me," Steve murmured, willing himself to believe it. Jaws clenched, he stretched his shaking fingers over the otherworldly girth. "This is me..." Slowly, he squeezed.

It was like a trap had been sprung - at last he recognized his flush for the heat it represented, and it spread like a fire under his skin. All at once sweat beaded on his upper lip and his pulse raced into his ears, but far more potent was the surge from below: the should-have-been-familiar sensation of his cock swelling eagerly into his palm.

Shame made him grimace. Whatever his transformation, it was improper bordering on grotesque for him to take pleasure in the ego-fueled appreciation of his own body this way. Those thoughts didn't last long. Heedless of all dignity Steve dipped his hand deeper, capturing a proper handful of his newly improved endowments. Arousal seethed into his blood and he struggled against the hold of his pants.

He looked to the mirror, and a tiny, thoroughly vulgar moan seeped from his throat at the sight: his half-naked body, his hand between his legs, like some pin-up for daring ladies to blush at. The thought seduced him even more, and without further trepidations he shoved his pants and undergarments below the stern curve of his ass.

Exposed to full view, Steve's enhanced manhood was even more awe-inspiring. Even when limp it would have dwarfed his former fully erect: now, half-hard and growing quickly, he might as well have been a stallion. He wrapped his broad fingers around its straining shaft and grinned, boyish and light-headed, at the spectacle. This was not Steve Rogers, huddling in the bathroom with his mouth against his sleeve, wishing futility for even the most innocent of a woman's caress. This was a soldier, a hero, a monument of human perfection, and it was him. He was beautiful.

With a quiet gasp Steve began to stroke. He started slow, in long, explorative pulls from root to tip. Every wrinkle and vein he rediscovered with delighted reverence. Sparks and shivers raced through his body, curling pleasure like a brewing storm low in his abdomen and hips. And just when he thought he had reached the limits of his erection, when anything larger would be obscene, another keening murmur slipped past his lips, and the mere sound of it spurred him to greater length.

Steve's knees wobbled, so he shifted forward and braced his free hand against the mirror frame. His panting breath steamed the mirror as he worked his fist up and down, faster, his palm hot and sweat-slick. For the first time he was determined to watch: watch his flesh swell and shudder within his grip, watch the muscles along his abdomen tighten with every involuntary pump of his over-anxious hips. He couldn't take his eyes off himself, licking his lips in dizzy admiration as he experimentally thumbed his slit.

Every touch was an awakening. It took a great deal of willpower, but Steve let go of his cock and instead reached lower, brushing and then eagerly fondling his swollen ballsack. It was like juggling baseballs and his eyelids fluttered as pleasure simmered all through him. "Oh God," he breathed as he curled his fingers, teasing the tender skin beneath them. Normally he would have been too timid, but he was gorgeous, and he arched his back, rolling his hips forward so that he could better reach his delicate taint. He pressed in with two fingers and groaned, his lips forming Oh God, oh God, even if his voice was dribbling and useless. But it was when he dared to reach further, circling the tight clench of muscle beyond, that he was overwhelmed.

Steve had never felt desire like this. He thrust against his fingers, and even just the tip of one finger sinking inside him rippled thunder through his belly. He bucked involuntarily and was almost frightened - he wasn't in control of himself anymore. He wanted more than this. He wanted a body wrapped around him, wanted heat and sweat and kisses on his skin. He wanted to writhe and churn, to bury into a woman with the full power of his newfound masculinity - wanted, against all reason and experience, for someone to bury into him. His legs were weak and he didn't know what to do with himself - it was too much - he needed something, needed someone, needed release.

The head of his cock bumped up against the mirror, spreading an unexpected chill all through him. With teeth clenched he returned his grasping fingers to his cock and pumped urgently. The touch of cool made the rest of him feel feverish by comparison; he loved it, and he tried to press as much of his throbbing erection against the glass as he could without spoiling his frantic rhythm. He was so close. He leaned into the mirror, shivering with the cold kisses to his flushed nipples, smearing his prelude against his reflection. He was making love to himself, proud and powerful and confident in a way he had never been before.

Steve groaned, thrusting and gasping until he could feel his climax surging to the forefront. His joints locked and his muscles spasmed, leaving him drawn taut and teetering on the edge. Time slowed for him. With lips parted and breath held he savored his plateau, until it all came crashing in; until orgasm consumed him, shooting from him in an impossible torrent. He cried out, ragged, in ecstasy, as he came against his own image again and again. He had never felt anything so all-consuming, and he had to brace both palms to the wall to keep from collapsing beneath its weight.

"Oh God." Still huffing, Steve leaned back so he could see his own reflection. He touched his face again, willing himself to believe once and for all, This is me. "Please God," he panted, wiping sweat from his brow, "let this be permanent."