Brock Rumlow is having a fantastic fucking day. It started in the elevator, with him and eight other guys against Steve Rogers. It hadn’t exactly gone to plan—who knew the guy would jump out the fucking window—but they’d managed to track him down and grab him only a few miles from the Triskelion. The subsequent struggle was intense and brutal, exactly the kind of shit Rumlow lives for. It had taken twenty guys total to bring him down, and even then they only won because Rumlow had gotten a lucky shot with the stun baton right on Rogers’s spine. The man had seized up for a moment, and from there, it had only been a matter of getting the cuffs on him. Rumlow’s now sporting a black eye and a couple other injuries, but he doesn’t fucking care. They took down Captain America. The biggest and baddest (good-est?) of them all, and his team took him down like he was nothing.
Well, not nothing. There were a lot of concussions. Multiple broken bones, too. Loder will never walk again, and Jensen is unlikely to wake up from his coma anytime soon. But that's all a small price to pay. Rogers is out of the picture, and the path forward is clear.
His phone buzzes, and he answers. “Rumlow.”
“We got that thing you wanted.”
“Sub-level. B25. You want him moved?”
“Nah. I’ll do it myself.”
“Yeah. What’s the condition?”
“A little bruised. Mad as hell. He wants to know where she is.”
“Don’t tell him.”
“I’m not stupid, Rumlow.”
Could’ve fooled me. “I’m on my way.” He hangs up and lengthens his stride, heading towards the same elevator they caught Cap in not so long ago. He’ll have to ditch his guns somewhere. The guy’s dangerous enough; the last thing Rumlow needs to do is bring in extra weapons.
His phone buzzes again. A text this time. Status update. Stark under control.
He texts back. The others?
Banner MIA. Thor off-world. Plan in place.
Keep me updated, he responds, then shoves the phone back in his pocket. He could go to the nerve center and help track Banner, but he doesn’t want to. His team did their part. Steve Rogers is down. The other teams can worry about their own shit for now.
He’s got a reward to claim.
Clint Barton is having an awful fucking day. It started with a call to keep an eye out for Cap, who was suddenly a SHIELD fugitive. He was in the room when Jasper Sitwell ordered them into a Level One search for the man. Everyone else had raised eyebrows at the command, but obeyed, pulling out computers and dropping ops and moving security cameras.
Clint wasn’t fooled. Something was up. So he’d left the room and gone to investigate, and almost immediately ran into a STRIKE team. A couple of scuffles later, he was handcuffed and kneeling on the floor of an empty room in SHIELD’s basement.
He glares at the guy standing in front of the door. He was the one who’d pistol-whipped Clint during the last fight, which allowed the other six enough time to wrestle him into some weirdly thick handcuffs. He’d still managed to kill one after that, but then they’d hit him again and things had gone fuzzy.
He has a headache and there’s something wrong with his right shoulder, but all the pain is being pushed aside by the anger pulsing through him. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off in his life, and he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Hydra or himself. Sure, they’re the ones that put him here, but he should have seen the signs long ago. Definitely should have at least suspected Sitwell, that slimy bastard.
Clint adjusts his stance. The guard won’t allow him to sit, so he’s been kneeling here for almost an hour. He won’t tell him where Natasha is, either. She had been on the other side of the room at the beginning. He’d lost her when he slipped out.
What worries him most is that he’s not dead. He’s an Avenger, a top SHIELD agent, and definitely a threat. Logic says he should have been shot immediately. Instead, they’d manhandled him down here and made him kneel on the floor. Which means that this is a power play for someone. Which means that there’s likely something nasty coming his way.
Something nasty arrives in the form of Brock Rumlow. He opens the door and grins when he sees Clint. “Don’t you look pretty,” he says.
“Speak for yourself,” Clint growls. “Who gave you the black eye? I want to shake his hand.”
“Cap did,” Rumlow says, touching the bruise gently. “He’s a good fighter. Took twenty of us to take him down.”
Clint’s blood goes cold at those words. If Cap is out, then this situation is worse than he thought it was. “Is he alive?”
Rumlow shrugs. “Probably. Hydra has some plans for him. Nothing you need to be concerned about. Not anymore.”
“Yeah? What should I be concerned about?”
“Me,” Rumlow says, and he grins.
Barton is everything he’s ever wanted. Eternally stubborn, perpetually pissed off, and sarcastic as hell. Absolutely perfect. Rumlow has to take a deep breath to get himself under control. Easy. He’s yours now. All the time in the world.
He turns to the guard. “Out.”
The guard leaves without a word. Barton looks worried for a moment, but he wipes it off his face quickly. Tough guy. Rumlow loves the tough guys.
“So what’s this about?” Barton asks. “You gonna rough me up a little? Give me some payback for whatever bullshit thing you’ve dreamed up?” He gets his feet under him and stands slowly, probably waiting to see if Rumlow will stop him. “Go ahead. Take a shot. Enjoy it, because as soon as these come off, you’re a dead man. Or maybe even before then. I’m not picky.”
He’s bouncing a little, just waiting for Rumlow to get close. But Rumlow’s not stupid enough to get close. He’s seen what Barton can do with his legs. Hell, he’s been on the receiving side of those kicks plenty of times in sparring sessions. No, he’ll stay here, thank you very much.
“Boring,” Rumlow says, waving a hand. “Why would I waste my time on that, when there’s so much more we could be doing?”
He sees the wheels turning in Barton’s mind, but the train doesn’t arrive at the right station. “If you think I’m going to do shit for Hydra, you’re sadly mistaken,” he says. “I’ll die first.”
The bravado is impressive, but Rumlow doubts it would really ever come to that. The man has an impressive survival instinct, and he rarely lets moral codes get in the way. If he was given a choice between killing someone or being killed, he’d fire the gun every time. It’s what Rumlow likes most about him.
“Wrong again,” he says. “I’m sure you noticed those handcuffs are a little different than regular ones.”
Rumlow pulls his phone out of his pocket. He keys in a passcode, presses a button, and watches as Barton suddenly grunts in pain. The muscles in his neck tense under the electric currents wracking him, and he falls back down to his knees.
“They do other things too,” Rumlow says, watching the writhing body. “But I figured we’d start there.” He takes his finger off.
Barton is breathing hard, but he manages a furious glare at Rumlow. “Fuck you,” he says clearly. Rumlow hits him again. Just a short burst. He doesn’t want him totally incapacitated.
“Now now. I’m being nice to you. You want to hang out with Cap? I’m sure he’s getting a lot worse.”
Barton snaps his head up at the mention of Rogers. “Where are they? The others?”
“You mean, where’s Romanoff?” He grins. “I know you don’t really give a flying fuck about the others.”
“Fine. Where is she?”
“Safe. For now. Her continued safety depends on a couple things.”
“You, for one.” Rumlow spreads his arms. “Play nice, and so will we.”
“I want to see her.”
“I bet you do.” He shrugs. “Can’t always get what you want. There’s a whole song about it.”
“Uh-huh.” Barton eyes him. “Let me guess. That only applies to me?”
Rumlow laughs. “You catch on quick.”
He’s loving the banter, but he’s itching for the main course. So he walks behind Barton and reaches down to separate the cuffs. Barton is stiff under his touch, probably waiting to be shocked again.
There’s a slight click from the cuffs. Rumlow moves back in front of him and tucks his phone away. “You can move your hands,” he says mildly.
Barton blinks. He shifts a little, then pulls his hands from behind his back. The cuffs stay around his wrists, but they’re no longer attached to each other. “Thanks,” he says, rubbing his right shoulder. “That was uncomfortable.”
Then he launches himself forward.
Rumlow is ready for it. He catches Barton and spins him around, using the momentum of the attack to slam him into the wall. There’s a muffled expletive when his face meets the wall but he recovers quick enough to throw an elbow back. Rumlow catches it in one hand. His other winds into the back of Barton’s shirt and he yanks backwards, then slams him forward into the wall again. He tries to measure his force a little—he doesn’t want to kill the guy, after all.
“Fuck,” Barton grinds out. He’s managed to get an arm up in between his head and the wall to cushion the blow.
“Later,” Rumlow promises.
Barton moves his free arm and whips it backwards with another elbow strike. Rumlow leans back, but the move catches him on the temple and he grunts in pain, loosening his grip slightly. But with Barton, slightly is as good as letting go and shouting “hit me.”
Barton pushes against the wall and shoves himself backwards. Then he whips around and aims a kick at Rumlow’s knee, which Rumlow dodges. Undeterred, Barton comes forward for an overhead strike, bearing down on him like a bulldozer. Rumlow catches the left arm, ducks the right, and delivers his own swift punch right to the solar plexus. Barton stumbles a little, and he presses the advantage hard. He punches a second time, pushing them back into the wall again. Barton’s head contacts the concrete with a solid thunk and his eyes go hazy for a moment. “Sorry about this,” Rumlow mutters, and he hikes his knee right up into Barton’s groin.
Barton wheezes and drops like a stone. Rumlow can sympathize. He’s been dick-punched before; it’s probably the worst feeling in the world. In the sparring ring, he never would have considered a move like that. But now, he just steps back and delivers another kick to the other man’s ribs to send him sprawling. Then he’s on top of him, flipping him onto his stomach and connecting the cuffs back together at the small of his back.
There’s no struggle beneath him. They’re both a little winded. He takes a moment to enjoy the view, running his hands over Barton’s back and feeling the muscles twitch under his touch.
“Dick move,” Barton finally says when he gets his breath back and stops making retching noises. “Literally.”
“Oh, like you would have done differently.” Rumlow presses a little harder as he runs his hand down Barton’s spine. “You fight just as dirty as I do.”
“Uh-huh. So what’s next? You planning on giving me a massage? Because if you’d said that we could’ve skipped the theatrics.”
“I’m sure you know what comes next,” Rumlow whispers in his ear, grinding his erection against Barton’s ass.
Barton is suddenly very still underneath him. Like prey that senses danger, and is waiting for the predator to leave. Too bad for you, baby. I’m not going anywhere.
“A guy’s got his needs,” Rumlow says. “And I’ve been wanting you for a long time. Ever since South Africa. Your fault, really. You look so pretty when you suffer.”
He remembers how Barton’s back had tensed and moved under the sting of the whip, and how he’d refused to make a sound no matter how hard their captors hit him. His dick hardens even more, and he has to think about something else in order to not ruin the moment.
“I saved your life in South Africa,” Barton growls. “Twice.”
“And now we’re here. Funny world, isn’t it?”
There’s a shift underneath him. Like he’s getting ready to burst up. Rumlow calmly reaches forward and shoves his head down into the ground. “Nope. Not today.”
“Fuck,” Barton mutters again.
“That’s the plan.”
“What the hell, Rumlow? I thought we were friends.”
“We were. That’s why I’m going to give you a choice.”
“If you get on your hands and knees for me,” Rumlow says, rubbing himself over his pants, “then I’ll use lube. If I have to put you there, I won’t. I’m not the biggest guy in the world, but I don’t think going in dry is going to feel very good for you.”
“Or for you,” Barton snaps.
“I’ll live. I mean, so will you, but it’ll be a lot worse.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “And probably worse for Romanoff, too.”
Barton cranes his head around, trying to make eye contact. “What?”
Rumlow grins. “Well, she’s not technically my responsibility. But I know the team watching her right now. Maybe we’ll all have a chat later. Maybe I’ll mention your behavior. I can’t control how they react, you know. They might not care. Or maybe they’ll be offended on my behalf and take it out on her. Hard to say.”
Barton struggles again underneath him. Not really trying to get away, more of an instinctive reaction to the words. When Rumlow doesn’t budge, he groans quietly and lays his head back down on the concrete. “Don’t do that, man. You like Nat. You’ve worked with her.”
“I do like her,” Rumlow admits. “But she gives me the creeps, too, you know? It would be nice to see her put in her place. Just a little bit.”
“Don’t,” Barton says again, and this time a little desperation leaks into his voice. Rumlow is pretty sure that if he gets any harder, his dick’s going to burst out of his pants.
“It’s up to you. Behave yourself, and I won’t have to do anything. I want our first time to be nice, Barton. Be a good boy for me, and I won’t have to hurt either of you.”
Rumlow can see him weighing out the situation. He waits patiently—he’s got all the time he needs—and after a moment, Barton’s shoulders slump a little. “Fine.”
Rumlow grins to himself. Survival, every time. It’s beautiful.
“You need to get off,” Barton says.
“Oh, I intend to.”
“Jesus fucking—get off me, asshole. Move.”
He laughs and obeys, shifting to kneel at Barton’s side. “I’m going to unlock the cuffs,” he says. “Are you planning on doing anything stupid?”
Fucking hell, he wants to remember that expression forever. Fury and anger mixed with fear and a little bit of self-loathing. It’s gorgeous.
“No,” Barton spits.
Rumlow reaches out and touches the cuffs. They hum to life under his hand and he unlocks the magnetic mechanism again. The cuffs click and release.
Barton moves slowly. First he brings his hands up by his chest, hissing in pain as they rotate, then he presses down. Inch by inch, he rises off the floor until he’s kneeling like Rumlow is. He rubs at his right shoulder again and lets out a long breath.
“That bothering you?” Rumlow asks, pointing to the shoulder.
Barton looks at it, then drops his hand with an irritated expression, like he’s just revealed a weakness to the enemy. “No,” he says again.
“What happened? Did you twist it?”
“Do you really fucking care?”
Rumlow holds up his hands. “Whoa. I’m just trying to be nice.”
“Spare me,” Barton says. He looks at Rumlow, then down at the cuffs, then at the floor between them. Weighing the situation again. Wondering if it’s worth potentially losing the fight. Rumlow waits, and the odds come up in favor of survival.
Still moving like a glacier, Barton leans forward again, bracing himself on his hands and knees, and holy fuck is it a beautiful sight. Rumlow wishes he had a camera, but honestly there’s no fucking way he’s going to ever forget this. “Perfect,” he says, running a hand over Barton’s back. “Fuck. Absolutely perfect.”
“Are you going to talk the whole time?” Barton asks, his voice bored.
Rumlow grins. “You can act tough. Won’t bother me.” He reaches around and undoes Barton’s pants, then slides them out the way to reveal perfect, smooth skin. “You have something against underwear? Not that I’m complaining.”
“Ruins the lines,” Barton says. He still sounds bored, but he’s insanely tense. Rumlow gently rubs a hand over his ass. Then he smacks it, hard enough to leave a red handprint.
“That looks nice,” he muses, soothing the irritated skin. He makes a matching mark on the other side. “That looks even better.” He could do that all day.
Barton’s fists are clenched. Rumlow rubs a soothing hand on his back and digs the lube out of his pocket. “You gotta relax, sweetheart. This is going to be worse if you don’t.” He chuckles softly. "Come on. Not like this is the first time we've done this, you and I." He chuckles again, thinking about that day in the forest, and the way Barton had begged him for it. "We had a good time then, didn't we? Could be like that again."
“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.”
“Alright. We’ll move on.” He leans forward and drags his tongue right over Barton’s hole.
Barton actually jumps at this. Like almost completely jolts forward, away from the invasive touch. It’s such a massive loss of control that Rumlow actually stops and leans over him. “That was different,” he murmurs. “Did I startle you?”
“Christ,” Barton breathes out. One of his fingers is tapping like a metronome on the floor. Counting? Or using the repetition to ground himself? Either way, Rumlow is pleased with the slip. Means he’s wiggling in underneath that cold exterior. He wants to explore the reaction further, but he’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t get off soon, his dick is going to explode. So he lets it go. Lubes up a finger, then starts working it inside.
Despite the tenseness of earlier, it’s surprisingly easy. He has to add a little more lube, and go slow, but he’s able to get a finger in, then two, then three. “Been doing this a lot recently?” he guesses, twisting them, coaxing the hole to open a little more. Barton doesn’t say anything. “Got a boyfriend or something? Come on, you can tell me.”
“No you’re not telling ? Or no, you're not with anybody?”
“Both.” The tapping finger is gone, and the fists are tightly clenched again. Rumlow stifles a laugh and pulls his own fingers out.
“That’s alright. We can talk about it later.” He has other things to do now.
He wipes his lubed fingers off on Barton’s back, then undoes his own pants and shoves them down. He wastes no time in popping the lube and pouring a generous amount on his own dick. “I didn’t bring any condoms,” he informs Barton. “Hope you don’t mind or anything.”
“And yet you brought lube,” the man mutters.
Rumlow snickers. “Lube is a necessity. Condoms are just annoying.”
Barton takes a breath like he’s going to respond, but he just shakes his head instead. Rumlow finishes slicking himself up and adjusts his position. “You ready, sweetheart?”
“Either do it or—“ he cuts off with a low groan as Rumlow slides home, the tight heat gripping around his cock like it was always meant to. It’s fucking amazing, even better than he remembers, and he has to stop so he doesn’t nut like a virgin teen on his first night out. Once he has a handle on himself, he slides back slowly, then forward again.
He sets up a steady rhythm. He’s not planning on fucking Barton into the ground today. He just wants to enjoy his prize. Live his moment. The hard stuff can come later. For now, he just wants to relish this.
Barton doesn’t participate, not that Rumlow expects anything different. But he can’t stop the little noises from spilling out, no matter how much he grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. Especially not when Rumlow changes angles slightly, and starts bumping his prostate on every thrust. “You like that?” he asks, starting to get a little breathless. “Huh?”
No answer. He goes a little faster, and reaches around to feel Barton’s cock, which is slowly but surely getting hard. “Yeah. You like it.”
“It’s just biology,” Barton says, every word sharp with hate. “Doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”
Rumlow doesn’t stop, just keeps up the steady pace until he feels the edge of his orgasm approaching. Then he goes a little harder, moves a little quicker, and before he knows it, electricity is arcing through him and lighting up everything from his brain to his toes; he’s shuddering in pure ecstasy as every fantasy he’s ever had about this moment pays off. The choking noise that Barton makes underneath him just sweetens it even further.
He stays deep in Barton’s ass while he catches his breath, then slowly pulls himself out. Barton goes to move, but Rumlow slaps him. “Stay,” he orders, still a little out of breath. He watches as a thin line of cum slowly slides out of the still-flexing hole, trickling down to disappear into fabric. “Fuck. That’s so fucking hot, goddamn.” He traces the line back up and pushes his thumb in. It makes an obscene sound and he fucking loves it. “See? No condoms. This is too good a view to pass up.”
He stands up and stretches, then pulls his pants back up and readjusts things, wiping as much lube off himself as he can. It’ll be a little uncomfortable, but considering what he just got to do, a little discomfort is worth it. “Besides, I plan on seeing this quite a bit from now on.”
Barton shifts a little. He doesn’t move, exactly, but he turns enough that Rumlow can see his face. “Come again?”
“Definitely plan to. On every part of you.”
Barton rolls his eyes. “You’re such a—that’s not—if you think this is going to happen again, you’re delusional, you’re—” He starts to push up to his knees.
Rumlow kicks him. Catches him right in the ribs and sends him crashing to the ground again. “Stay,” he says, imbuing the word with command and Barton does.
Rumlow kneels beside him. “Here’s how things are,” he says. “Hydra owns SHIELD. We always have, honestly, but now it’s official. Cap is in our custody. They’re probably going to turn him into the Winter Soldier 2.0. Your girlfriend is being held way the fuck away from here with some real nasty assholes. Stark is under control and locked in his tower like a fucking princess. Your blond buddy is off-world currently with no plans to return. And the green guy is being located as we speak.” He reaches out and grabs Barton’s hair in a painful twist. “You’re mine, because I asked for you and they said yes. But if you become too much work, I’ll put a bullet in your head and find myself something to fuck that’s not so much trouble.”
He’s bluffing a little bit there. He has no intentions of killing Barton, no matter how much the guy bucks the status quo. In fact, he’s hoping for quite a bit of bucking. The stubborn ones are always the most fun.
Barton glares up at him. He still looks intimidating as hell, even with his pants around his knees and cum leaking from his ass. They hold each other’s gaze, each waiting for the other to give. Danger and tension is practically tangible in the air, and in his fatigues, Rumlow is already growing hard with the anticipation of another fight.
But after a moment, Barton’s eyes flicker down to the ground. Submission. Survival, every time. Even at the expense of pride. Rumlow wonders how far he can push that, wonder if there’s a point he can hit that will make Barton crack with desperation. He wants to find it.
He grins and leans down to clap him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Make yourself presentable.”
Barton reaches down and pulls up his pants. His movements are slow and there’s a slight shake to his hands. Leftover adrenaline, maybe, or even a little bit of shock. He winces as he works them over his ass, then buttons them up. He looks up at Rumlow and waits.
“Hands behind your back,” Rumlow says, and he seals the cuffs back together. He doesn’t miss the brief flash of pain. “I’ll look at the shoulder when we get home, I promise.”
Barton’s head turns as Rumlow helps him up. “Home?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. Home.” He laughs. “What, did you think I was going to keep you here? My knees can’t take a concrete floor for every fuck. Next time, we’re doing it in a bed.”
“Sounds lovely,” Barton says, but his face screams there will be no next time.
Which is fine. Rumlow’s always loved a challenge.
He grabs Barton’s arm and hauls him towards the door.