See, here’s the thing. Here’s the motherfucking thing: Captain America is goddamned amazing. There’s no getting around that. We’re talking a sight to behold, real ‘you have to see it to believe it’ kind of shit. When Rumlow had first been assigned to Cap’s team, he’d been so sure that he was going to hate it. Seriously, the guy is like a hundred years old—literally—and a living, breathing example of all that a hero should aspire to be: brave, strong, noble, and goddamned beautiful. Rumlow had grown up in the dirty streets knowing all about Captain America and how Rumlow wasn’t ever going to be good enough to live up to that ideal. Spent his life utterly failing. Then he’d found Hydra and had learned all kinds of new and interesting things about America’s WWII icon, but it didn’t matter because the Captain was long gone, lost years ago in the ice.
Until he wasn’t. And Pierce had put Rumlow on his goddamned team.
So, yeah, Rumlow had gone in expecting to just loathe the guy. He’d met the man, took in the perfect face and the blue eyes and ‘yes, sir, anything you say’ attitude and thought that, yeah, Captain America was the prettiest son of a bitch Rumlow had ever seen and Rumlow definitely hated him.
And then the guy had jumped out of a plane without a parachute. Rumlow’s stomach had dropped onto the floor and he’d damned near pissed himself. Because, yeah, enemy of Hydra and all but, fuck, he’d just watched a man commit suicide in front of him—and a national icon at that. They really should have put Cap through a few more psych evals because that polar ice must have done a number on him and how was Rumlow going to explain this to the higher ups? That he’d just totally let their walking monument to American greatness off himself by jumping out of a plane? Hydra was going to be delighted. The rest of SHIELD, not so much.
He’d stared out at where Cap was plummeting, watched him disappear under the water—and then, impossibly, watched him start to swim. Rumlow had felt ready to piss himself again because, Jesus, he was supposed to one day fight that? The man was goddamned Captain America and he’d just given a giant middle finger to gravity.
Then he’d gotten down to where Rogers was to find out that Rogers had already taken out the advanced guard, leaving Rumlow and his crew just some light clean-up, and Rumlow’s pants were suddenly a little tight. He’d watched Rogers—muscle-bound, beautiful Greek god Rogers, dressed all in his tight, leave nothing to the imagination suit—toss that big heavy shield around like a Frisbee, drop kick a guy down the stairs, and shrug off four big guys like they were water droplets—and he’d thought “God damn, that’s hot.”
He’d felt a little blasphemous afterward, the little scrap of good left in him completely outraged by his reaction, but it was mostly drowned out by the throb of his cock because, fuck. Mortal men weren’t supposed to have an ass like that. Rogers had done the splits—fucking splits like he was some kind of Olympic gymnast—and taken out two guys at once before bouncing up and continuing on like it was as easy as walking forward.
How the hell was Rumlow supposed to hate that? He couldn’t. He respected the hell out of it. He only mouthed the Pledge of Allegiance these days, broke his vows to SHIELD on a weekly basis, but he’d salute Captain America’s fine ass any day of the week, proudly say “God bless America” while he did it. Hell, if the Captain had asked—not that he would because, yeah, Captain America—Rumlow would have dropped to his knees and started sucking down Rogers’s dick like a man dying of thirst trying to get a water from an empty canteen.
And that had only been after the first mission. Later on, Rumlow had seen Cap wipe out an entire squad on his own, survive a ten story fall without even missing a stride, shrug off a beating that would have killed lesser men, and take out a goddamned helicopter with a motorcycle. A fucking motorcycle. Like, he’d just picked it up and tossed it like a baseball. And right after that, he’d told a senator, in the nicest, politest, most Captain America way, to fuck off. If Rumlow were the type, he’d have been in love.
So, yeah, when Pierce had told him that he needed to go down and arrest Steve Rogers before he left the building, Rumlow had been having a little crisis of faith. He’s not going to lie, his knees had done a little knocking. Cripes. He was supposed to do what now? He was scared shitless because, God, Cap was going to break him—just get him between those two highly toned thighs and squeeze and that would be the end of one Brock Rumlow (but, oh, what a way to go). And, hell, some part of Rumlow wanted Cap to keep doing what he was doing, being Captain fucking America because hate him or love him, you had to respect his work. Rumlow was willing to bet that even Johann Schmidt would pop a stiffie watching Captain America in action.
There was a darker, deeper part that had been kind of looking forward to seeing Cap in the cuffs. Oh, fuck yeah. Rumlow had never wanted to see anyone tied up more than Steve Rogers, see those beautiful muscles flexing, trying to get free, while the man himself was just completely helpless—open and vulnerable—and forced to take whatever Rumlow wanted to give him. Forced to allow Rumlow to touch him however he fucking wanted.
Orders are orders, so Rumlow had gathered up every damn soldier that he could find and put them all in an elevator with the man of the hour. And they’d still almost failed. Fucking twenty against one and Steve Rogers had nearly taken them all down. If Rumlow hadn’t gotten in a lucky shot with the baton, then Rogers would have walked away. He’d taken a direct hit to the gut, twice, and Rumlow’s confused dick had strained the confines of his pants as he watched Rogers shake off enough electro to drop a rhino. A double blow direct to the skin, though, had made Cap at least stumble and that had been Rumlow’s shot, his one and only.
Rumlow had laughed when the final cuff had snapped on, near hysterical while he’d watched Rogers strain and fight, unable to give in even when he’s been well and truly caught (especially when he’s been caught). All around him, Rumlow’s guys were broken and bloody on the floor, but, fuck, they’d done it. They’d actually done it. He’d held a hand to his side to hold himself together, hissing when he felt the bruises that Rogers had left and had leaned back against the opposite wall to take in the writhing of Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. Hotter than a goddamned porno and ten times as satisfying. “God bless America,” he’d whispered.
Which leads him to now. See, even in the dark, dank dungeon that Hydra maintains under SHIELD Headquarters, hidden tunnels and rooms where they can disappear people, Steve Rogers still shines like a beacon of hope. It’s the hair, that golden halo of sunshine, and all of that pale, beautiful skin. Rumlow’s itching to mark it up even as he knows that anything he did would be healed within a matter of hours. Rogers is an angel sent from the Lord above to light up the world. It makes Rumlow wonder if he turned the lights off, if Rogers would glow.
Rogers is stripped naked, hands above his head like a sacrifice, and Rumlow can’t stop running his eyes up and down the entire expanse of Rogers’s supplicated, creamy white body. He follows the lines of Cap’s collarbones as they jut into his shoulders and the solid, rounded curves of his arms, drops down to the light thatch of hair that covers Rogers’s pits and scans the curves and lines of the solid muscle that makes up his torso. Cap’s got a nice set of tits on him, a hard curve that just begs for a man to get his hands on it, to thumb those pink nipples until they sit up nice and perky. Rumlow wants to suck on them, bite ‘em, pinch ‘em, anything until he finally gets Rogers begging.
Farther below are the powerful lines of Cap’s thighs, tapering into knees and calves and ankles and feet and Rumlow wants to jerk himself off all over those. He’s never had a thing for a man’s foot before, but he thinks that he might have something for Cap’s everything. Of course, too, there’s the soft cock that’s lying between Rogers’s legs, half-hidden by the gold patch of his pubes, and Rumlow wants to get a hand on it, a mouth, get it standing at attention like a good little soldier so that he can salute it right back. He’s never seen Captain America’s hard-on, but he bets that it’s as perfect as the rest of the man.
Rumlow wants to run his hands over Cap’s chest, pinch his nipples, pound his tits, lick down that fucking eight pack to that gorgeous cock and suck. He wants to part Rogers’s legs and see if he can find heaven in that tight ass. Hell, for Rogers, he’d fucking lick that ass, and Rumlow’s never felt a desire to do that before. He’d stick his tongue right in there, circle the rim and tongue fuck the hell out of him, because he wants to see if he can get Captain America all hot and bothered, get him squirming and begging for it, see if he can get the man to break. Get him dirty. Muss him, if only just a little. He wants to see Captain America when he drops the all high and mighty self-sacrificing act and becomes just a man like any other, desperate to come, to fuck, to breed.
A part of him, that dirty, dusty forgotten piece of his soul that still believes in things like ideals, whispers that Rogers won’t ever break, that it’s part of being Captain America. That he’s actually some kind of demigod, maybe like the other big blond guy on the Avengers team, the one that flies around with the hammer and the lightning. Rumlow tells it to take a hike and stop ruining his fucking fantasies.
Rogers has got his game face on, staring up at the ceiling like he’s just taking a break or some shit, chilling before the next mission. Fucking peaceful. Nothing about that expression says that he’s been stripped naked and restrained, that he’s surrounded by a pack of guys that are just fucking slobbering over him like hungry wolves circling their prey.
The entire team is down here. Some of ‘em are just here to see Captain America brought low while others are here for about the same reason Rumlow is. He can see how the crotches of their pants are a little tented, their flies jutted out. Every now and then, one will reach down and give himself a little squeeze. Hell, one of them has his phone out, looking positively giddy as he zooms in on Cap’s gloriously beautiful skin. The video will be all the rage on the Hydra intranet tonight, Rumlow knows. He’ll probably watch it himself, download it and save three copies of it.
Rogers still has a mark from where Rumlow’d had to use the rod to put him down when he’d started fighting again. It’s mostly healed, but there’s still some lines that have yet to disappear, little shocks that look much better than they must have felt. The blow had knocked Rogers sideways, put along his naked skin close to his spine like that. He’d convulsed and gone down, letting the team of guys finish dragging him here. Rumlow lets his hand hover over it, not daring to touch yet, but liking the feel of warmth rising off of Rogers’s skin. He tuts. “Wasn’t personal, Cap,” he says.
“Sure felt that way,” Rogers tells him, the first time he’s acknowledged anything going on in this room. His eyes are still on the ceiling, but now Rumlow knows that his attention isn’t.
“Well, it wasn’t. Didn’t want to hurt you.” Rumlow finally lets his hand come down on the mark, a small brush of his fingers like he’s only checking it out and not trying to cop a feel. Rogers flinches then steels himself and holds dead still again. Rumlow lets his fingers wander a little, wondering if he can get another twitch for his troubles, another sign that Rogers is definitely feeling this. “You just didn’t leave me any choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” It’s such a Captain America thing to say that Rumlow grins. Good old Steve Rogers, still fighting the good fight.
“You broke Carrey’s leg in two places. Hodges has got a concussion.” That’s about as far as Rogers had gotten before Rumlow had managed to get the rod out and turn it on. He watches as Rogers’ throat works a little, though he doesn’t know if it’s in regret for the injuries or if it’s because he didn’t do enough. Probably both.
Rumlow flattens his full palm against Roger’s skin and carefully exhales. He’s all excited from just a little bit of touching. It’s like he’s a damn teenager again, ready to blow his load at just the thought of getting some, never mind the full act, hardly making it past a little bit of petting. He slips his hand up Rogers’s side, far past where the stun baton had inflicted its damage, no longer even bothering to pretend that’s what he’s after. Rogers closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, he seems like he’s put up yet another wall, erected another layer of steel between him and Rumlow.
“I had to put you down, Cap. Doesn’t mean that I enjoyed it.” That’s a lie. Rumlow had enjoyed the hell out watching Rogers shake out the electricity. He would have done it again in a heartbeat. Rogers probably already knows it, too. “I respect you, Cap. You know that, right?”
“How long have you been Hydra scum?” Rogers replies.
Rumlow smiles. Fair enough. “Since before you came out of the ice.” Rogers nods at the information, filing away the fact that he’s been working with Hydra all along. It’s got to be painful for him, probably more painful than the baton had been, but he’s not going to let Rumlow see that. Still, Rumlow’s hot just thinking about it.
Around them, the guys are chatting to themselves. They know better than to step up, know that Rumlow gets first shot, but there’s an air of anticipation. Rumlow feels it pulsing through his blood, getting him even more excited. He’s dares a little more and brings his hand up to where he’s wanted it since he first saw Cap in his too-tight shirt, cupping that beautiful breast with his whole hand. He rubs his thumb over Rogers’s nipple, watches the little bud flip back into place when he lets it go. Cap lets him do it without comment, so Rumlow does it again. “You’ve got pretty tits,” Rumlow says. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not that I can recall,” Rogers drawls, showing a little bit of the sarcastic asshole that lives inside of him. Rumlow’s seen that guy from time to time, but he’s rare. Rogers only lets him out to play if he trusts you—or, apparently, if you’ve got him tied up and at your mercy.
Rumlow’s smile grows. “Right.” He shifts his grip a little to get Rogers’s nipple between his thumb and index finger and pinches until he’s sure that it’s got to be hurting but Rogers doesn’t even blink. Rumlow’s dick gets even harder. He tugs a little on Rogers, pulling and watching the bud snap back into place. “I’m going to suck on your tit,” Rumlow states. “You go ahead and moan if you want to. I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I might do it some more.”
“Under—” Rogers voice hitches on the word as Rumlow bends and seals his mouth around that pink nipple. “Understood.” The muscle of Rogers’s chest twitches under Rumlow’s lips and Rumlow gives a little bit of suction to see if he can get the reaction again. He flicks his tongue against the soft furl of Rogers’s nipple, feels it harden and start to stand, and he grins around it. He squeezes with his right hand, getting more of Rogers’s pec into his mouth while his other strokes lightly across Rogers’s stomach. Rogers tastes like apple pie and dreams, Rumlow decides. If freedom had a taste, it would be the sweat of Steve Rogers.
Behind him, the men are cheering him on. “You like that, Cap?” one shouts.
“I think he’s getting hard.”
“Christ, I want to fuck him.”
“Are you getting this, Henderson?”
Rumlow’s aware of Henderson approaching from the side, can see him in the periphery as Henderson’s phone comes in close to where Rumlow’s lips are on Rogers’s chest. He hums around the nipple and pulls off, his hand still clenching and releasing like he’s milking it and lets Henderson zoom in on that while he leans over to try the other. Through it all, Rogers is dead silent, still staring at the ceiling, but his face is a little more strained. Rumlow chuckles and slides a hand down the gentle curve of Rogers’s stomach through the light arrow of fur and down to that golden thatch that covers Rogers’s crotch. His fingers slowly circle around the base of Rogers’s dick, not yet touching but close. He feels Rogers tense underneath of him, muscles bunching, then feels them release again—Rogers saying that Rumlow doesn’t bother him, that no matter what Rumlow does, it isn’t going to affect Captain America.
The fuck it won’t.
Rumlow grabs a hold of Rogers’s dick, wrapping it up in his fist and gives it a tight stroke. “How about I suck this, Cap? Would you like that?”
The peanut gallery erupts into cheers but Rogers doesn’t reply. Rumlow squeezes a little harder, looking for another reaction. He’s pissed as hell when he doesn’t get one. Captain America has put up his defenses and now Rumlow’s going to have a hell of a time pulling them back down. It’s a good thing that Rumlow’s got determination. He might not be a match for Cap’s stubborn side, but he’s got a few tricks that he can try first. “Get me some slick,” he shouts over his shoulder. The crowd laughs and shouts comments while a couple of guys run to carry out the order.
Rumlow kisses the top of Rogers’s stomach, then drags his tongue down his belly button to dip inside. He licks along the edge and grins when he feels the twitch of Cap’s dick in his hand, only noticing it because of his tight hold. Rogers’s facial expression hasn’t changed and he’s not struggling yet, but that little twinge gives Rumlow a renewed sense of purpose. He chuckles. “When we’re through with you, Cap, you ain’t going to have a hole that hasn’t been fucked. That’s a promise.” He thrusts his tongue into Rogers’s belly button as a preview of what he means to do to the man’s ass. Rogers ignores him.
Rogers’s legs are secured by magnetic cuffs that wrap around his ankles and pin him to the heavy table that’s bolted to the floor. Rumlow releases some of the magnetic force to allow himself to shift Rogers’s legs up so that they’re bent at the knee and nicely spread. Rogers is stiff and uncooperative and Rumlow half expects to have to get out the baton again before Rogers manages to break his neck, but he gets Cap resituated with little fuss. He grins against Rogers’s knee and runs a hand down his leg to rest on his inner thigh. Rogers’s doesn’t react beyond letting his leg fall a little to the side, easily mistaken for getting more comfortable, but Rumlow knows that it’s most likely Cap subtly shifting away from Rumlow’s touch. Either way, it makes about the same difference to him. It’s not like Rogers is going much of anywhere bound as he is. “If you relax, Cap, this will feel good, I promise.” In reply, Rogers exhales and looks bored. “Yeah, well, let’s see you do that when you have a dick inside you.”
A tub of lube is presented to Rumlow with a couple of comments about the state of Cap’s ass and Rumlow smirks as he sets the open tub on Cap’s gorgeously sculpted chest. He scoops two fingers through the slick and presents it to the man that it’s about to go inside of. Guy’s body is a temple; he deserves to know what Rumlow wants to put in it.
Rogers keeps his eyes on the ceiling.
“It’s happening, Cap, so you best just accept it.” In Rumlow’s experience, once a guy’s tied up, there’s not a whole lot else that can be done. Best to just loosen yourself up and try to enjoy it if you can ‘cause otherwise it’s just a whole lot more pain.
Of course, this is Captain fucking America, a guy who’s made it his life mission to choose the hardest road possible, so when Rumlow tries to push his fingers in, there’s nearly zero give, Rogers clenching down so tight that Rumlow’s got to change the plan and only push in one at first. “Well, that’s just impressive,” he mutters as he wiggles his index finger inside the steel band that is Rogers’s asshole. “Mark me down for ‘impressed,’ Cap.” He kind of fears for his dick. It’s either going to feel real good or hurt like hell.
Rumlow forces in a second finger, made easier by the fact that he’s already got one in there, and pushes up against the inside, searching. Rogers shifts, just a little tilt of his hips, but it’s enough to make Rumlow crow. “There?” he says with a laugh. “That’s where you like it?” He rubs his fingers over the spot repeatedly, watching as Rogers firms his jaw.
The door opens but Rumlow’s too busy to look at whoever else has decided to join the party. He knows that word’s going around all of Hydra about their catch. There’s bound to be some latecomers just getting the word and scurrying on down to get a looksee. He’s got his fingers in Captain America’s ass, prepping him for a dick, and like hell is Rumlow looking away from a view like this. It’s not until he notices that Cap’s looking at the newcomer that he decides to look. Beside him, Henderson gasps and backs away, putting space between him and the main star of his amateur porno.
Rumlow can’t blame him. He kind of wants to step away, too. The goddamned Winter Soldier is standing there staring him down with those murder eyes and Rumlow has to stop a tremble that’s wanting to start in his limbs before it gets out of control. The Winter Soldier’s a bit like a rabid dog. If he senses fear, he’ll put you down, just because he can. The freak should be going back into the ice, his mission’s been accomplished, but the fact that he’s standing here, still thawed out and walking around says that he’s not going in for awhile. Pierce must want him for something else.
Rumlow pops his fingers out of Rogers’s ass, wipes them on Rogers’s bare thigh, and takes a step back, getting himself in a better position in case this turns ugly. He needs some room to maneuver if this goes bad. Of course, if the Soldier is here to kill him, Rumlow knows that he really doesn’t have a chance. The Soldier is Captain America with a heart of stone and the soul of a killer.
Right now, the Soldier’s only got eyes for Rogers, fixated on all that naked skin like it’s got its own gravitational field, but that doesn’t mean much. Rumlow’s seen this guy kill with just a casual flick of his hand, like it means nothing to him. It probably doesn’t. “Did you need something?” Rumlow asks when the Soldier continues to stare at Rogers, unmoving and unblinking like some psycho statue.
It’s a mistake to call attention to himself, because the Soldier turns his murderous glare on Rumlow and now Rumlow’s wondering if he’d be able to make it to the door before the guy would be on him. The Soldier takes a step forward and Rumlow takes a step back. He’s ceding ground, but it’s necessary, getting him to a little bit bigger area.
The Soldier, though, isn’t after Rumlow. As soon as Rumlow’s backed far enough away, the Soldier turns his attention back to Rogers, looking down at him while Rogers stares back up. With the mask and the combat paint, the Soldier looks like Death come to collect and Rumlow doesn’t know if he’d be able to have the same steady gaze that Rogers has or if he’d just give up and shit himself. Once again, Rumlow’s reminded of just how damn big Rogers balls are and how much Rumlow respects that.
The Soldier touches his hand, the flesh and blood one, to Rogers’s arm and traces a small trail down to his elbow. There’s a flinch that Rogers can’t quite contain and Rumlow has to shift to the side to deal with the stab of sheer desire piercing him. He can’t help it. He thinks that he’s hardwired this way, some kind of fucked up combination of genetics and bad parenting probably. The Soldier scans down Rogers’s body and abruptly stops when he reaches where Rogers’s spread legs join with his hips.
And Rumlow gets it. He doesn’t fucking understand it, because this isn’t normal behavior for the guy at all, but, then again, Captain America, ultimate enemy of Hydra, isn’t your normal kind of fuck, so, maybe. Besides, hell, if Rumlow and half of the STRIKE team can be down here panting for it, then why not the goddamned Winter Soldier, too? He’s got a cock. Rumlow’s seen it once or twice when they’ve hosed him down. If he’s decided to use it for once, more power to him. “You want some of that?” Rumlow asks, low and quiet. “A little piece of ass?” The chuckleheads standing around watching start to titter, giggly like little school girls about the idea of their assassin asset helping himself to a piece of Captain America.
The Soldier stares flatly at him again and Rumlow holds up his hands. They’re on the same team and he doesn’t want any trouble. He’s willing to let the Soldier have the first go. He’s fine with seconds provided he gets to watch. As scary as the Winter Soldier is, he’s still one fine piece of genetic engineering shaped by hard training. Rumlow is A-okay with watching the guy get his rocks off with Captain America. Hell, it’ll be hotter than most pornos, Rumlow figures. And it’s not like the Soldier doesn’t deserve a little R&R, everything he puts up with, everything that he does. He’s the one that finally took out Fury, after all. “You go right ahead,” Rumlow says, inviting the Soldier to take his former position between Rogers’s legs. “Be my guest. Ain’t nobody going to stop you.” In fact, Rumlow’s looking forward to this now that he thinks about it, seeing the epitome of Hydra, with his Russian branded arm, fucking the symbol of American pride. It’ll be like the Cold War with the right side winning this time.
The Soldier flattens his hand against Rogers’s skin and just stays there, like he’s not too sure what he’s supposed to be doing. Hey, Rumlow thinks, maybe he’s a little rusty. Got a little freezer burned or something. For all Rumlow knows, it’s been 70 years since the guy’s had sex. Maybe he needs a little help remembering how it goes. “Step right up, my man,” Rumlow says, gesturing towards Rogers’s crotch as he moves closer. “He’s nice and warm. Better than being on ice any day, right?” The Soldier keeps standing in place beside Rogers, though he’s moved his hand from Rogers’s arm to his stomach and his thumb is doing a little circle motion.
Rumlow’s wondering if maybe the constant mind-wipes and freezer storage has given the guy a bit more brain damage than previously thought, because it doesn’t look like anyone’s home in there at the moment. It’s like the Soldier doesn’t know what he wants, like he needs someone to help him figure out how to be human, to be a man, because all he knows anymore is the quickest way to kill somebody. That’s pretty fucking scary.
“Hey…” Rumlow sets his hand lightly on the Soldier’s metal arm, intending to use it to either guide the guy into place or out of it so that Rumlow can get this show on the road. The hand lashes out and latches onto Rumlow’s throat, metal gears whirling softly as they tighten, cutting off Rumlow’s air. “Fuck!” Rumlow’s feet leave the ground as he’s lifted up and Rumlow is thinking that this is it, that it’s lights out for him and, Jesus, of all the stupid ways to go, just seconds from a fuck because he’d stupidly approached a damned bear.
The ground slams into his back and he’s still choking, but suddenly he can breathe again. Rumlow grasps his throat and sucks in giant lungfulls, coughing as he tries to get oxygen back to his brain. Jacoby is in front of him, hand on his shoulder, asking him if he’s alright and half the room’s standing around looking down at him. The rest are staring towards Rogers. Rumlow stumbles to his feet, catching a hold of Bruin’s arm to do so.
The Soldier’s moved, having slipped between Rogers’s legs sometime after he’d tossed Rumlow aside like a bag of trash for daring to touch him. Both of his hands are on Rogers now, flesh and bone and metal, curving around Rogers’s thighs and gently digging in, remembering what it means to have somebody in front of him like this or possibly experiencing it for the first time.
“Are you okay, sir?” Trip asks. Rumlow waves him off.
“What are the odds,” he says, stopping for a moment to rub his sore throat, “what are the odds that that guy’s ever had sex, do you think?” The guys shrug. It’s anyone’s guess. “That’s what I thought.” It’s not like the Soldier is known for anything beyond murdering, really.
There’s about seven feet between Rumlow and the Soldier and it’s a pittance, but it’s enough to make Rumlow pull up some of his courage. “He feels good, doesn’t he?” he says to the Soldier’s back. “Got that soft skin over hard muscle. You ever feel anything so good? You ever had a piece like that?” The Soldier doesn’t answer, but he does change his grip, sliding his hands around to the tops of Rogers’s thighs and letting them skate down to his hips. He grabs, pulling Rogers upward. Rogers is staring straight at him, hands tugging on the cuffs as he tests them again. He’s hoping that he’ll be able to break free before anything happens, but Rumlow knows better. Rogers’s luck has run out. Cuffs like those, a man like the Winter Soldier, and there’s nothing that Rogers can do but take it. The Soldier rocks forward, pressing his pants against Rogers’s ass, testing just as surely as Rogers is testing the cuffs. Rumlow’s blood starts to thrum. Fuck, that’s hot. The Soldier, Rogers, they’re both fucking hot. “Yeah, like that,” Rumlow says encouragingly. “Stick your dick in him. Bet he wants it.” Rogers’s breath hitches and it’s sheer poetry. “He’s always struck me as a guy that wanted some dick. Bet you can make him pant for it.”
“Come on, big guy,” Bruin shouts. “Give it to him already.”
“Fuck him,” another chimes in.
“Make Hydra proud.”
“Maybe he doesn’t remember how pants work,” Trip tells the floor. Rumlow shrugs. That’s a fair point, too. He doesn’t think he’s ever even seen the Soldier take a piss. Normally the scientists just cath him and take care of it from there.
“Well, I’m not helping him figure it out, that’s for fucking sure,” Rumlow states. He’s not getting within reach of the guy again if he can help it. If a touch on the arm is enough to make the guy try to choke the life out of Rumlow, Rumlow would hate to see what an accidental touch on his dick might do.
A jingle proves Trip wrong as the Soldier loosens his belt, followed by the sound of a zipper before the pants sag. “Oh, fuck, yeah,” Rumlow mutters and scrubs a hand across his mouth. Now they’re getting somewhere good.
Horniness getting the better of common sense, Rumlow creeps forward. He keeps some distance between him and the two super soldiers—he’s not suicidal—but he wants to get a good look. Henderson is doing the same, but he’s being careful to keep Rumlow in between him and the Winter Soldier. Fucking coward.
The Soldier gets himself totally free, dick and balls hanging out for the world to see and Rumlow’s impressed. The guy’s big—thick and long—and Rumlow wants to see if Cap can manage to keep his game face on when that thing is shoved inside of him. It’s not the biggest that Rumlow’s ever seen—he works for Hydra for fuck’s sake, home of genetic experiments—but it’s plenty big. Rumlow wouldn’t want to try it without a copious amount of lube. It’s just too bad for Rogers that the Soldier doesn’t seem to be aware of niceties like that. Right now, the Soldier doesn’t seem to be aware of anything more than the length of Rogers’s body and how much he’d like to sink his cock into it. He’s back to staring, but this time his contest is with Rogers’s asshole as he presses the tip of his dick to it.
Rogers squirms, shifting upward like maybe he can escape the slow, steady pressure pushing into his ass and opening him up, but eventually he runs out of room. There’s just not too far for him to go, especially not with the Soldier holding onto his hips. The Soldier yanks Rogers back down and Rogers’s mouth opens on a gasp as the Soldier’s big dick finally penetrates him. The tub of slick falls off of Rogers’s chest, clattering to the table and then rolling to the ground.
Utterly shameless, Rumlow shoves a hand down his pants to deal with the sudden spike of desire inside of himself. He’s so hard now that it’s damn near painful. Henderson is whispering in his ear about how damn hot it is and Rumlow wants him to shut up but he whole-heartedly agrees. The rest of the men are calling out their encouragements, telling the Soldier to go deeper, harder, faster, fuck Rogers the way he needs to be.
It’s slow going because the Soldier doesn’t seem to be in any rush, watching as his dick sinks slowly into Rogers. His eyebrows are rising with each inch like the tight heat is overwhelming him and Rumlow gives his own dick a couple of solid jacks to soothe it because, fuck, he wants to be in there. Just a little bit, he tells himself. How long can a guy who hasn’t had sex in 70 years last, really?
Rumlow hopes that the orgasm is messy. He fucking loves watching when it is. He wants to see Rogers just covered in spunk, super soldier and otherwise, when this is done.
The Soldier settles against Rogers’s hips and takes a minute to breathe. Rogers has got his face screwed up, brow knitted, teeth biting into his bottom lip, because some time during that long, slow slide in he forgot about his pride and now he’s just trying to deal with the reality of his new situation. Judging by the way that his hands are twisting in the cuffs, Rumlow bets it feels like there’s a baseball bat going up his ass.
“How’s that Russian dick feeling, Cap?” Rumlow taunts. Rogers turns his head away and Rumlow laughs. “That good, huh? He’s going to pound you good, give you a hot load of Mother Russia.” The guys laugh.
The Soldier grunts as he leans forward, bracing a hand against Rogers’s stomach. As his hips buck, his eyes go wide and he does it again. “Oh,” Henderson groans behind Rumlow. “Yeah, give him your Hydra babies.”
Rumlow shoots a look over his shoulder. “Ya freak,” he says. Henderson shakes his head, not about to apologize.
Rogers gasps as the Soldier thrusts in deep, sending the room into another smattering of laughter and catcalls. Rogers works his jaw and clenches it again, no doubt determined not to utter another sound. Rumlow hopes that he fails. He hopes that the Soldier fucks Rogers so good that Rogers forgets that he’s Captain America.
Gear bangs against the table as the Soldier climbs on top of it, the buckle of his belt dragging over the metal and the steel toe of his boots curling against the edge. The Soldier braces himself over Rogers using his metal limb, jamming it under Rogers’s arm as his thrusts start to rock Rogers back and forth, shoving him upward again and again. “Oh, that’s it, big guy,” Rumlow breathes. “Yeah, just like that.” Rogers’s thighs bunch as Rogers tries to stabilize himself and fails utterly before he just starts using them to grip the Soldier’s sides to minimize his movement. It doesn’t seem to bother the Soldier any—just the opposite. With a sharp whine, the Soldier drops his head on Rogers’s chest and goes harder, balls banging against Rogers’s ass as he jackhammers his dick inside Rogers’s tight hole. His flesh and blood hand slips between them and Rogers suddenly struggles, arms flexing as he tries to slip the cuffs again, his head tossing back and forth, and Rumlow can’t see exactly, but he’s guessing that the Soldier’s jerking Rogers off.
That’s just about perfect. Because if there’s anything that Rumlow wants to see more right now than Steve Rogers getting fucked good and hard, it’s Steve Rogers being forced to enjoy said fucking. Rogers bangs his head back against the table, nearly braining himself in his attempt to avoid the pleasure mounting inside of him. Rumlow licks his lips and gives himself another tight squeeze. Beside him, Henderson’s panting, one hand still holding the phone while the other’s deep in his BDUs, just going to town. Henderson’s too low down on the totem pole to get to have a go any time soon, so he’s evidently just given up on having a turn at all and taking his chance now. Rumlow can’t fault him for that. If he didn’t know that his turn’s next, he might be doing the same thing.
Rogers grunts, a harsh sound that ends with a whine as spots of white spurt along his chest. “Oh, fuck,” Henderson squeaks, coming right alongside Cap. The Soldier growls and starts moving even faster than he was, losing all sense of rhythm as he chases his orgasm. He comes silently, arching his back, eyes squeezing shut. He holds like that for a moment, hips moving in quick, little jerks as he empties himself inside of Rogers’s ass. The tension starts to ebb from his forehead, melting down his shoulders, until finally his entire body shudders and he falls forward onto Rogers. Rogers grunts and kicks a little, a shadow of his inner self shining through again, before he settles in, resigning himself to being underneath the Soldier’s heavy weight.
Rumlow’s practically shaking, he’s so damn excited. He can’t wait to get his dick inside of Rogers and he doesn’t even care that he’s going to be sliding through the Soldier’s leftovers. It’ll just add to the wetness.
Only the Soldier doesn’t seem too inclined to move. The whole room is holding its collective breath at the moment, but long seconds tick by with neither Rogers nor the Soldier moving a muscle. Minutes pass. Mutters start in the back row and make their way to the front. “Hey, come on,” Rumlow wheedles after about ten minutes have painfully gone by. “Let us get in a chance there, big guy, huh?” There’s no response so Rumlow hesitates, caught between the need to fuck and the need to stay alive. He doesn’t want to get close to the Soldier, just wants the guy to pull out and leave like a good team player.
He should have known better. The Winter Soldier usually works alone.
Rumlow inches forward, vaguely wondering if he can just nudge the guy off of Cap and have him take the hint, but he only makes it about a foot before the Soldier’s head snaps up and fixes him with a glare. Rumlow holds up his hands again. “Ain’t going to hurt you, big guy. Just want my turn. It’s only fair, you know.” Rumlow had let the Soldier go first on account of all that he’s done for Hydra through the years and the fact that Rumlow didn’t want to tangle with him, but Cap was Rumlow’s collar. Rumlow had nearly lost a kidney capturing him. He deserves a turn.
A low rumble starting in the Soldier’s throat alerts Rumlow to the fact that the Soldier disagrees with Rumlow’s assessment. It’s a deep, threatening growl that makes Rumlow’s bowels want to empty themselves. Rumlow swallows and takes a step back. “Oh, come on,” he tries again.
The Soldier pulls out and slides off the table to refasten his pants, buckle jingling, and Rumlow dares to feel a sliver of hope. It dies the moment that the Soldier looks at him again. There’s nothing friendly in his eyes as he regards Rumlow and then slides his gaze around to encompass the rest of the room. Some of the less hardy agents are already taking the coward’s way out, trying to melt out the door so that they can pretend that they were never here while others look ready to join. A few are muttering about getting a turn, not having figured it out yet.
Rumlow’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “You’re not sharing, are you?” he asks.
The Soldier gives a sharp shake of his head, the first time he’s ever responded to a question from Rumlow. “No,” he says simply and it states everything that he needs, conveying a threat and an intention all at once. If Rumlow wants a shot at Rogers’s ass, he’s going to have to go through the fucking Winter Soldier and doesn’t that just take the goddamned cake.
“Asshole,” Rumlow snarls, but it’s all bark and no bite, because he turns and walks out of the room. In a fight between him and the Winter Soldier, Rumlow’s under no illusions who would win and who would come out looking like ground-up hamburger.
“Seriously?” someone says as Rumlow stalks by. A hand grabs his arm. “You’re just going to let him do that?” Rollins stares at him in disbelief.
“Yes,” Rumlow says shortly. There’s no other options here. “You want to try taking him on, you go right ahead.” Rollins glances over at the Soldier and flattens his lips. “That’s what I thought. I’m going to Pierce.” If anyone’s going to be able to get the brain-damaged pitbull to release his jaws, it’s going to be Pierce. Rumlow’s not sure what he’s going to say yet. He’s sure that “The asset refused to let me have a turn at Captain America’s ass” isn’t going to fly, but he figures that he’ll think of something by the time Pierce grants him an audience. Hell, maybe Pierce will decide that his little assassin is malfunctioning and send him back to the mindfuck machine or even back to the ice.
“Interesting,” Pierce says. “You said that there’s video?”
“Yes, sir,” Rumlow replies, hands clasped behind his back. It’s been two hours since he left Rogers in the room. He hears that since he left, the Soldier has kicked everyone else out of the room and is refusing to let anyone enter.
“Good, good.” Pierce flips through a few folders on his desk, selecting a paper and pulling it out. “Keep me posted.”
“Sir?” Rumlow must have heard that wrong, because he didn’t hear anything in there about how to get the Soldier out of the damn room that he is holing up in.
Pierce scans his document. “Mmm, tell the asset that he can move Captain Rogers to his quarters. He’s now responsible for making sure that Captain Rogers doesn’t interfere with the plan.”
“Sir, with all due respect—” That’s a shitty plan and let me tell you the various reasons why starting with my goddamned blue balls.
“Dismissed, Agent Rumlow.”
Rumlow snaps his jaw shut with an audible click.
By the time that Rumlow gets back to the room, the majority of the team has given up and wandered off. Rollins is still there because he’s a goddamned pitbull, and Calvin. Henderson is, too, but he’s just trying to get more footage through the crack of the door, too chickenshit to actually enter. Rumlow pushes past all of them, knocking over Henderson on his way.
Rogers is still flat on his back, calmly regarding the Soldier as he busies himself between Rogers’s legs. Rumlow about ready to sigh and ask “Again?” when he realizes that the Soldier’s pants are still zipped and Rogers is looking a little more avid than he should because instead of getting fucked, he’s getting freed. The Soldier hits the lock on the ankle cuffs and then gently straightens each leg, resting them against the table. “Hey, hey, hey!” Rumlow protests, jogging the short distance between him and the scene. “Don’t free him!” Fuck, that would be a hell of a situation. Rumlow and twenty men had barely captured Rogers the first time. This time, it would probably take the entire base. And that’s depending on what side the Soldier’s going to be fighting on, because Rumlow’s not all too sure at this point.
The Soldier ignores him, concentrating instead on each of Rogers’s legs, massaging them out starting at the thigh and working down to the feet. For a killing machine, it’s almost…tender? Rogers groans as the Soldier digs into his inner thigh and the Soldier pauses, staring at Rogers face before he continues down to the knee. Rogers nods and groans again when the Soldier starts pressing against the soles of his feet. Rumlow’s seen just about enough. “What the hell are you doing?” He has to take a step back at the glower that the Soldier levels at him. It plainly says go away and Rumlow’s legs almost obey without him.
Firming himself, Rumlow meets that glare head on, but gives up on everything else. “Pierce says to secure him in your quarters,” Rumlow growls, because as much as it galls him to say it, he doesn’t want to find out what Pierce would do to him if he doesn’t. “You’re to make sure that he doesn’t escape.”
The Soldier’s glare lessens and he nods in understanding before turning back to Rogers and finishing the rub down, Rogers’s face plainly saying that he doesn’t mind this kind of torture. Rumlow can’t blame him. He wishes that all of his torture sessions had been so nice. Given a massage by a hot guy—albeit a hot guy in a scary black mask and a death glare—is something that Rumlow wouldn’t mind on the daily. Hell, he’d even put up with the fucking beforehand.
As soon as the cuffs on Rogers’s wrists release their grip on the metal above Rogers’s head, though, the nice times are over. Rogers explodes into action, bashing his still joined hands against the Soldier’s face and knocking him sideways. Rogers slithers off the table and squares up as best he’s able, while Rumlow puts a few feet between him and Cap and reaches for the baton. The Soldier straightens himself back out, his mask dropping to the floor.
A nasty fight is brewing and Rumlow’s already said a quick prayer in case he meets the asshole on the other side, but as soon as the Soldier turns to Rogers, it all just fizzles. Rogers lowers his fists and loosens his stance as he stares at the Soldier’s face, apparently too preoccupied to land another blow. And, yeah, okay, sans mask the Soldier is kind of attractive with those pouty lips and that jaw line, but Rumlow doesn’t really think it deserves that kind of scrutiny. He sure as hell hadn’t thought that a pretty face would be able to stop Captain America from kicking Hydra ass. “Bucky?” Rogers asks, his voice lost and small.
Rumlow and the Solider ask the same damn question. “Who the hell is Bucky?” Fucked if Rumlow knows.
Cap just keeps staring, dumfounded. “Bucky, we’ve got to…” He trails off as the Soldier approaches him, much more gently than he would a target, stopping only momentarily to scoop up a discarded container on the floor.
Shushing him, the Soldier mutters, “котенок,” and hands Rogers the container. Inexplicably, Rogers blushes. Rumlow’s lost. He’s so totally lost. When the hell did he get to fucking Wonderland? He’s pretty sure that the Winter Soldier just called Captain America ‘kitten’ in Russia and, cripes, how is this real life? And that was the lube that the Soldier just handed Cap, wasn’t it?
The Soldier loops Rogers’s arms around his own neck like he’s got some kind of raging desire to end up strangled by the fine biceps of Captain America, but Cap’s still just staring at him, as harmless as the kitten that the Soldier’s labeled him as. Then the Soldier leans down and picks Rogers up bridal style and walks out of the room. Cap lets him do it.
Rumlow tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. “What the fuck just happened?” Rollins demands, pushing his head into the room. “Did the goddamned Winter Soldier just walk out of here carrying Captain America like he’s a new bride?” Rumlow doesn’t answer because he’s wondering just how on point Rollins’s comment is and that’s the kind of shit that he just can’t voice. It might mean that it’s real.
“I don’t believe this shit,” Rollins grumbles as they stand outside the door to the Winter Soldier’s temporary living quarters, peering through the grate. He’s not the only one. Rumlow’s simultaneously turned on and pissed off because the cuffs that he worked so hard to slap onto Cap’s wrists are laying discarded in the middle of the room along with the entirety of the Winter Soldier’s clothes, weapons and all. Cap’s now free as a damn bird, minus the thick cell walls and doors and half of Hydra between him and the exit. Still. And what’s Cap doing with his new found freedom? Why, he’s guiding the Winter Soldier’s cock into his ass like it’s something that he does every night.
Penetrated, Cap sighs sweetly and lets his head fall back. The Soldier mutters something in Russian, follows it with English, and then leans down for a kiss that Cap readily allows. There’s no biting, no back talk, no steadfast ‘get on with it’ attitude, just a beautiful surrender that has Rumlow hard in his BDUs. “What the hell,” he growls.
With the Soldier inside of him, Cap moves his hand up to tangle in the Soldier’s long messy hair, the other sliding over the Soldier’s naked back, grazing metal and skin alike. Just like Rumlow thought, with the lights off, Rogers still seems to glow. Though maybe the beam that is reflecting off the Soldier’s metal arm has something to do with that.
“Orders are orders,” Rumlow mutters back, ignoring the fact that he would be ignoring those orders if he thought that he could get away with it and live. Unfortunately, he knows what happened to the poor soul that had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting between the Soldier and he and his new found bride’s destination. One thing had led to another, with a dearth of communication on either side, and the unlucky bastard had ended up in the infirmary nearly short a hand because he’d dared to touch Rogers. Rumlow likes his limbs attached, thank you very much. “Pierce fucking sanctioned it. Seems positively tickled at the thought of the Winter Soldier fucking Captain America.”
Rumlow had tried one more time to explain that it was a bad idea. Pierce had just told him to have Henderson record more videos, thus the security feed set up inside the cell. Henderson and a quarter of the base are now going to be getting off nightly to videos of the Winter Soldier giving it to Captain America. Rumlow wouldn’t put it past Pierce to be doing the same. And, yeah, okay, so Rumlow’s not exactly going to avoid the videos either, but still. This is goddamned ridiculous. “Giving Cap to the Winter Soldier like a fucking sex toy.”
“Bride,” Rollins corrects and Rumlow snorts.
It’s what Rumlow’s been secretly thinking of Cap as, but he can’t let that pass without a comment. “What are you, some kind of fucking sap?”
“Nobody blows their sex toy. Nor do they get down on their knees for a half hour to rim it, either.” Okay, that’s a fair point. A hot as hell one, but fair. Rumlow had nearly jizzed in his pants watching that little show, the Winter Soldier just going after Captain America’s ass like it’s going to be his last act on Earth, fingers spreading the cheeks and tongue pushing in between while Cap pants and writhes and acts like it’s the best damn thing he’s ever felt. At one point, Rogers had licked his lips and Rumlow had had to take his hand out of his pants and think some very boring thoughts to try and get a hold of himself again. He’s going to be watching that one later on tonight.
At least he has the videos, he thinks. He gets pissed when he thinks of what he could have had if he’d only been a little quicker or the Soldier a little slower—or, hell, if the Soldier had been willing to fucking share. If nothing else, though, Rumlow gets to watch. That’s something.
Now, if only Cap would act like he cared about being fucked by a Hydra assassin. Rumlow doesn’t need any screaming or crying—that wouldn’t be Cap—but would it kill the guy to be a bit more defiant and fight a little? Cripes, it’s like all of his fantasies are dying today. He’s getting new kinks while they do—seriously, that little head tilt of Cap’s is a goddamned masterpiece, same with the way that the Soldier flips his hair to a side when he wants it out of his face—but Rumlow’s going to lament their death just the same.
“Oh, hell,” Rollins mutters as the Soldier starts picking up speed, banging against Cap’s ass hard enough that they can hear the steady slap, slap, slap and Rumlow’s got to agree. It’s going to be a long, sad walk back to his quarters, especially if his pants are wet.
It’s all going to end badly, Rumlow can feel it in his bones. And that’s not just his dick talking.
That’s Captain fucking America in there. The man could inspire a stone to fly. A brainwashed assassin that needs regular mindfucks just to be cooperative isn’t going to stand a damn chance. There are things that have already started showing up in the cell, things that shouldn’t be there because they weren’t there before and the Soldier’s never cared up to now. There’s blankets and candy bars and a goddamned comb.
Rogers had sat the Soldier down and spent an hour combing out that rat’s nest, carefully separating it piece by piece until it started looking like it belongs more on a shampoo commercial than a Hydra soldier. The Soldier had sat between Rogers’s knees and allowed it like a little puppy dog, his upper lip curling a few times, wincing now and then, but not raising a damn hand either way. It’s the most domestic damn thing that Rumlow’s ever seen and it happened in a fucking prison cell between two super soldiers. It’s also running neck and neck with the porn on the intranet for most views, which is kind of sad and says something about the sorry state of the majority of Hydra’s personal lives. If nothing else, Henderson’s likely got a lucrative career ahead of him.
Pierce’s only response, though, to all of this, was to make sure that the assassin and his new bride didn’t leave their cell and posting a guard. Wouldn’t even listen to Rumlow’s suggestions (put the assassin back on ice and give Rumlow a chance at Rogers’s ass).
When it all goes south, Rumlow’s going to tell Pierce that he told him so. It’s probably going to get him shot, but it’ll be worth it.
Two days later, the Winter Soldier’s cell comes up empty, the guards tied up, and three helicarriers crash into the Potomac. Rumlow wants to tell Pierce “I told you so” but, one, the dead don’t listen too well, and, two, Captain fucking America dropped a goddamned building on him.
A goddamned building. The man never did do things by halves.
Rumlow’s got mad respect for it.
Chapter 2: Hydra Intranet Video - CA and WS #3
Rumlow watches one of the videos.
(an accompanying timestamp set before the end of the fic, set approximately two days after Bucky took off with Steve)
It’s one of the early ones, that’s pretty obvious. After the first few days, Henderson got all types of creative, adding different camera angles and—briefly—sound, but this one’s from the first webcam he managed to get above the door of the Winter Soldier’s cell.
It’s still damn good. At least it’s in color. Rumlow can’t complain too much, ‘cause right now the Soldier’s standing beside the bed, staring down at Cap, his long hair brushing his bare shoulders because his shirt’s a distant memory, discarded in the corner. As for Rogers, well, Rogers doesn’t get clothes unless he borrows some of the Soldier’s. Makes for a hell of a view.
Rumlow appreciates that.
The Soldier reaches out and touches the side of Rogers’s face, fingers trailing along his cheek. There’s a slight difference in skin tone that Rumlow hadn’t noticed before, the Soldier’s tan against Rogers’s Aryan Dream. It’s funny the shit that you can notice when you have the ability to go for the replay. Like how Cap’s looking up at the Soldier, his eyes soft as he leans into the Soldier’s touch. Rogers’s lips are moving like he’s talking but Henderson only managed to get sound after this video—and for only half a day before it mysteriously ‘stopped working’. It doesn’t matter. Rumlow doesn’t care as much about what Rogers is saying as he does the shape that Rogers’s mouth makes when he’s saying it, all those vowels making his lips form those pretty little pink circles.
Besides, knowing Rogers, it’s probably some bullshit about truth and justice and Rumlow knows from experience how much of a buzzkill that can be. He’d popped a stiffie once, watching Rogers work off his excess energy in the SHIELD gym. They were both just passing the time and Rumlow’d had no problem just sitting back and enjoying the way that Rogers’s ass bounced with each slam of his fist against that punching bag. A piece of art, Rogers’s ass. Fucking masterpiece. Rumlow would love to just grab two big handfuls and squeeze. Rogers perfect ass had made for a damn fine view and a great time was being had by all until some snot-nosed, barely out of diapers rookie had come up all starry-eyed and Rogers had spent the next twenty minutes talking to the kid about the meaning of honor. Rumlow’s boner had instantly disappeared, just like magic. Rumlow had told himself that it had died of boredom, but he knew it was more likely the prickle of guilt creeping along the last vestiges of his soul.
Which is why Rumlow most definitely doesn’t need to hear what Rogers’s is saying. He doesn’t need that kind of grief in his life. Sometimes, a man just wants to jerk off and he doesn’t need shit like guilt getting in the way. Fucking useless emotion.
The Soldier seems to be hanging on Cap’s every word, though. Maybe that’s what gets him going. Rumlow remembers Pierce whipping out the ‘honor’ speech once when the Soldier was going all haywire. Calmed him right down. And now that he thinks about it, it’s a damn good thing that the guy didn’t react to Pierce the way that he is to Rogers because that would have been awkward, standing in a room full of Strike guys and a couple of suits while the Soldier just up and tries to mount the man in front of him.
The Soldier has moved to the bed to straddle Rogers, knees digging in on either side of Rogers’s thighs as he stares down, mesmerized by Rogers’s pretty face and his prettier words. Rogers’s hand is stroking along the Soldier’s hair, fingers catching in the tangles as he cups the back of the Soldier’s head, and the Soldier’s shoulders start to shake.
Rumlow’s feeling a bit out of place, like maybe he’s queued up the wrong kind of video because this is looking less and less like a porno and more like one of those cheesy romance movies that you take a girl to in the hopes that she’ll be in the mood to put out later—the kind of ones that make it so you don’t have to work so hard because she’s already ready to go from all of the sappy, lovey dovey shit. He’d seen this one with a chick once, a Katie, Kathy, Kenzie something or other, where the main stud was all water-drenched and standing over his lady love while the camera went all soft and fuzzy. “I love you,” the man had said and K-whatever her name was had just fucking swooned. If it wasn’t for Rogers unmistakable face and the fact that the Soldier is much more stacked than the skinny twink in that movie, Rumlow would think that he’d accidentally downloaded that movie off the Hydra intranet and not the hardcore porn that he’d been promised. Cripes.
“Come on,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair. “Get to it already.” This video is the third highest ranked of Henderson’s amateur porn collection but it’s five minutes in and nothing’s happened besides a little bit of petting a whole lot of staring and right now it looks like the Soldier’s about to have a fucking breakdown rather than get to the good stuff. Between this and the damn hair brushing video breaking all kinds of records to shoot to the stop of the most downloaded list, Rumlow’s really starting to question the mental stability of his fellow members of Hydra.
The Soldier just keeps staring at Rogers like Rogers holds the answers to the universe and Rogers keeps looking back like the Soldier is all that matters in life. It’s making Rumlow’s stone cold heart want to do a little swooning of its own—while his skin prickles with something a little bit akin to guilt and, again, he does not need that shit.
He’s about to close out the video and go to the next one down when Rogers pulls the Soldier in for a kiss. It starts slow and gentle, a barely there brush of their lips that lasts for approximately an eternity. Then the Soldier’s shoulders firm up and he bends to shove his tongue down Rogers’s throat, pressing his advantage and taking it all the way past Rogers’s front line. “Finally!” Rumlow shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “Christ.” He’s going to have to have a talk with Henderson about his goddamned pacing.
Having finally gotten started, the Soldier and Rogers waste little time getting right down to it. The Soldier either pushes Rogers back or Rogers pulls him, it’s hard to tell, and it kind of looks like both, but it ends with Rogers on his back against the Soldier’s thin mattress and the Soldier sliding on top. Rogers frickin’ undulates, his entire body lifting in a wave to press against the Soldier’s body and Rumlow groans. Yeah. Yeah, he bets that that had felt real nice. Real goddamned nice.
Rumlow unsnaps his pants and pushes down the zipper to free his cock and get a hand around it. It’s fucking sad that he’s been reduced to experiencing this on the other side of a computer screen and not in real life, but, Christ, it’s still good. It’s still so fucking good.
The Soldier flips his hair to the side with a quick toss of his head so that it’s not in his way as he kisses across Cap’s creamy white skin. The bonus, though, is that it bares his face to the full view of the camera. Rumlow bites his lip. The Soldier’s kind of pretty when he’s not looking at you like he’s contemplating murdering you. In fact, he’s friggin’ gorgeous and, cripes, it’s like watching the two prettiest people in the world fuck. Right now, the Soldier’s looking a little like he’s having a religious experience just being able to touch Rogers and Rumlow’s never been exactly devote but he thinks that he can understand. Rumlow would worship at the Church of Captain America’s Body any day of the week. Especially if the priests were all built like the Soldier.
Rogers mouth drops open as the Soldier moves down his body and, see, now this is the part that Rumlow wishes that he had sound for. He remembers the precious few sounds that Rogers had let slip back when the Soldier had first fucked him with Rumlow and half of Hydra watching, can add in some of the sounds that he’s personally managed to pull out of Rogers, but Rumlow would still like to hear what Rogers sounds like when he’s not trying to be all high and mighty—what he sounds like when he’s not Captain America, but just a man getting fucked. Rumlow spares half a second to wonder if any of the footage from the half a day Henderson managed to get sound has something like this before dismissing the possibility. If that footage existed, it probably would be sitting within the first few results. Rumlow knows that he probably would have listened to it on repeat, make it the goddamned soundtrack of his life for awhile.
Rumlow groans, the sound echoing through his empty room, and he bites down on the next one. The Soldier moves between Rogers’s legs, broad shoulders muscling those thick thighs to the side as the Soldier gets his mouth around Rogers’s cock. Christ, Rumlow wishes it was his—his cock, his mouth, he doesn’t really care. He’s already imagining the wet, sucking noises that the Soldier must be making, pairing it with a soundtrack for the shape of Cap’s mouth and he has to fight not to come, the fingers of his left hand curling against the desk. There’s still fifteen minutes of this. Rumlow doesn’t want to blow his load too early.
Rogers tosses his head to the side, his back arching upward as the Soldier keeps right on sucking, taking Rogers right on down to the root and staying there like he breathes sweat rather than air. Rogers hands are fisting in the sheets, his legs bending into a tight band, his goddamned toes curling. “That fucking good, huh, Cap?” Rumlow asks the screen. Rogers twists his head away, hiding his face from the camera. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
The Soldier starts to thrust against the edge of the bed, giving himself a little bit of friction while he blows Rogers and Rumlow’s blood pounds in time with each little roll of the Soldier’s hips. “Good thing you finally remember how to fuck, big guy,” Rumlow mutters, watching the play of muscle along the Soldier’s back and how his pants hint at the movement of his ass. “How about you get naked too?
It’s a little thrilling when it seems as if the Soldier’s listening to him. “That’s fucking right,” Rumlow mutters as the Soldier’s combat pants slide to the floor. The camera angle’s a little off but Rumlow can still see how the Soldier pushes his flesh and blood hand down between his legs, can see the jerks of his elbow and Rumlow’s own dick twitches like it’s the one the Soldier’s got a hold of.
Rogers pulls on the Soldier’s hair, getting his attention and saying something or other that gets the Soldier climbing back on top of Rogers. They press together, rutting against each other’s stomachs and the hand that Rogers wraps around them both. Rogers leans up to mouth along the Soldier’s neck and the Soldier does his little hair flip again. “Fuck.” Rumlow’s really starting to develop a bit of a thing for that. He looks at the pleasing lines of the Soldier’s face, the openness of his mouth, and moves down to what little he can see of Roger’s face, buried as it is under the Soldier’s jaw, slides over two sets of powerful shoulders and two heaving, heavily muscled chests to where Rogers keeps them joined. They both look fucking gone. “Oh, fuck,” Rumlow breathes, his hand speeding up.
The bed in the Soldier’s quarters rocks as the Soldier parts his thighs and surges up, using the new leverage to thrust into Roger’s hand and against his cock. Rogers braces by placing an arm around the Soldier’s neck and letting himself shift with each powerful thrust of the Soldier’s hips. Together they move, sweating and grinding and Christ, Rumlow wishes that he was back in the room he’d first taken Cap to watching this live all over again. Fuck, but that had been good. Not as good as getting his dick wet, but damn sure better than sitting here jerking it days later.
With their super soldier stamina, Rumlow doesn’t doubt that Rogers and his soldier could go for hours. Rumlow’s going to be lucky if he makes it to the end of this video. The flex and play of the combined set of muscles, the way that the Soldier’s just going to town and Rogers is just fucking letting him is heating up Rumlow’s blood like it’s a chemical accelerant. The Soldier flips his hair back again and stretches up to take possession of Rogers mouth, aggressive and demanding as Rogers gently responds.
Rumlow bangs his fist against the desk and his eyes close as his orgasm washes over him, streaking down to his toes and back again. He makes a mess out of his hand and, shit, there’s the other thing about jerking yourself off—dealing with the goddamned clean-up. Rumlow would much rather smear it over Rogers’s skin or, fuck, make him swallow it, and yet here he is holding his dick and a handful of jizz. Great.
He brings his palm up to his mouth and licks it clean while he watches the Soldier thrust and pant on top of Rogers, watches Rogers squirm and respond. The Soldier tosses his head back, hair flying one last time as he gives a few hard, short jerks of his hips and then collapses on top of Rogers. Rogers’s elbow moves a few more times, then he’s arching up, powerful legs pushing both him and the Soldier up off the bed before he comes crashing back down. Rogers drops his head back against the pillow, panting at the ceiling.
On top of him, the Soldier stirs, pressing soft kisses and licks to Rogers skin while Rogers starts to smile. The grin lights up the whole damn room, just like always. Swear to Christ above, Rogers’s smile could outshine the sun if he was so inclined.
The Soldier leans up for another kiss, this one soft and lingering, and when he pulls away, he’s caught Rogers’s smile, the sunny expression cracking over his face and lighting him up too. Fuck, Rumlow thinks. Fuck. “Quite the goddamned pair,” he mutters.
The Soldier rolls off of Rogers to lie beside him, his head resting on Rogers’s chest while Rogers gently pets his hair and it’s so damn sweet Rumlow’s going to need to visit the damn dentist if he watches for too long. He puts up with it for over a minute before he skips ahead to find the last two minutes to be more of the same and, yeah, he’s really starting to be concerned about the overall mental health of the rest of Hydra. Bunch of fucking saps.
It’s like watching newlyweds. Rumlow frowns as Rollins’s comment about the Winter Soldier taking Captain America as a bride floats through his mind again. That would be one hell of honeymoon, being stuck deep in a Hydra fortress. Rumlow shoves the thought away. He’s being fucking ridiculous. It’s the got to be the goddamned disappointment of how close Rumlow had been to being able to have the chance of a lifetime and fuck the walking wet dream that is Steve Rogers in all of his chemically perfected glory.
Rumlow would be down in that cell in heartbeat if he didn’t know that the Soldier would break his arm and possibly his neck just for stepping foot inside. Ever since bringing Rogers to his cell, the Soldier’s been a little…territorial. It’s been more than a bit concerning for Rumlow but Pierce doesn’t seem to mind and Rumlow just can’t wrap his head around it. The man’s been muttering to himself about having two super soldiers for the price of one but Rumlow’s thinks that the man must not know Steve Rogers very well if that’s what his math’s coming up with. Rogers is hardly the type to just bow down for Hydra. Rumlow knows that he shouldn’t find that as admirable as he does but fuck it’s hard not to respect the Rogers’s iron will.
Even if the Soldier didn’t kill him for daring to cross the threshold of his little makeshift honeymoon suite, Rumlow thinks it might take another twenty guys to get the cuffs back on Rogers. Though now that he thinks about it, Rumlow might actually want to see that—he’ll skip the possible busted ribs, thanks, but he wouldn’t mind watching Cap fend off that many guys with nothing but his naked body and a whole lot of attitude.
Christ. Maybe they can arrange that sometime after Pierce’s whole master plan gets underway. They’d have to do something about the Soldier because with him in the mix fighting for Rogers, the possibility of broken necks would slide straight into ‘definite’ but the thought gets Rumlow hot.
Hell, he’d settle for a few more ‘live’ demonstrations of the Soldier doing Cap. Or Cap doing the Solider. Rumlow’s not picky.
He closes out the video and scans down the list, looking for the next one he wants to watch. He might even put up with some of the sappy shit.