The secretary doesn't meet his eyes.
She keeps her gaze lowered, focusing somewhere on Rumlow's chest when he introduces himself, and Rumlow smirks. He could get used to this.
Her top is sheer enough that Rumlow can see the shape of her bra through it as she taps away at her computer. She's got nice round tits, big enough for a good handful. Pretty face, too. Rumlow can see why Pierce keeps her around, especially if some of the rumors he's heard about HYDRA brass are true.
He imagines bending her over the desk, fucking her right into that pile of paperwork, and grins. He's got all those perks to look forward to. Everyone knows Pierce's favorites get on the fast track to the top.
"You can take a seat across the room," the girl mumbles into her keyboard.
"Nah, I'm good right here." The secretary's shoulders hunch up a little higher and yeah. That's the kind of respect Rumlow likes to see.
He leers at her openly, lets his fantasies play out in more detail – wonders how tight she'd be, whether she'd be wet at first or if he'd just have to fuck her till she got there – and almost laughs out loud when he sees the flush creeping into her cheeks. Not such a pure-minded little innocent, then. Yeah, she's definitely the kind of secretary Rumlow would keep around if he had a fancy-ass corner office.
There's a crackle from the intercom, followed by a man's voice. "Okay Cindy, I'm ready for Agent Rumlow."
The secretary swallows, presses a button. "Yes sir, I'll send him in."
"See you later," Rumlow says with a wink, pushing back from her desk. Time to get his head in the game. He's only got one first impression, and he's not gonna fuck it up.
- - -
Pierce's office is pretty much what Rumlow expected. Big windows along the back wall, big wooden desk, big fancy sofa in the middle of a room big enough for at least a dozen bunk beds. The man himself is sitting behind his desk in a big fancy office chair, but stands up when he sees Rumlow.
"Brock Rumlow. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person. Please, come in." Pierce steps around his desk, holds out his hand. He's wearing a perfectly fitted three-piece suit, and has that rich old guy look that women throw themselves all over. Rumlow keeps his expression carefully respectful as they shake.
The guy’s got a good grip for a pencil-pusher. He gives Rumlow a warm smile, keeping hold of his hand. "Even more impressive in the flesh. And pre-selected for the S.H.I.E.L.D. Strike team at – what are you, 24?"
"Very impressive." Pierce gives his hand a squeeze, then walks back to his desk, beckoning Rumlow to follow. Rumlow stands at a loose parade rest while Pierce sits back down, gathering up a few papers to clear the desk in front of him and dropping them into a drawer.
"So." Pierce leans back in his chair, clasps his hands in his lap. "Why HYDRA?"
Rumlow raises his chin, looks Pierce in the eye. "Because the world needs order, and HYDRA knows how to make that happen. Because I'm good at what I do, and HYDRA knows it." The words roll off his tongue as easily as they did in the mirror.
Pierce's lips curve up in a small smile. "And you're completely dedicated to the cause? Willing to do whatever it takes?"
"Yes sir. I've risked my life for HYDRA and I'll do it again."
Pierce chuckles. "Oh, I won't be requiring anything quite like that today. But that's good to know." He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking over Rumlow’s body.
"Take off your clothes," he says, just as genially. And Rumlow –
Pierce's smile turns cold so fast he can practically feel the temperature drop. "Do you have a problem with that order, Agent?"
"No." Rumlow straightens. "No sir." He lets his gaze drift to the middle distance above Pierce's head, and starts unfastening the side of his tac vest. Only one first impression. It doesn't matter why Pierce is asking.
Pierce leans back in his chair and puts one foot, then the other, up on his desk. Legs crossed at the ankles, he folds his arms over his chest, and even without looking directly Rumlow can feel the man's eyes on him as he starts to tug his armor off.
He bends down to untie his boots, frowning. He’s passed every medical test with flying colors, and he’s pretty sure Pierce is no doctor. Is this just a prank? See if the new guy’s dumb enough to play along? Or is it some kind of test?
Pierce gives a soft hmm when Rumlow pulls his t-shirt over his head. He ignores it and gets started on his belt.
He almost hesitates again when he gets to his underwear. Almost. He tugs his briefs down, steps out of one leg and then the other, then drops them on the rest of the gear piled up beside him.
He forces himself to stand tall, to look Pierce in the eye. Squares his shoulders. He's not ashamed of his body, and he's willing to do whatever HYDRA asks. Even if that means showing off his junk to a guy who could be his grandfather – and anyone in DC who happens to point a pair of binoculars in the wrong direction.
Pierce's eyes track all the way down Rumlow's body, then all the way back up, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Hail HYDRA." Rumlow snaps to attention on instinct.
Pierce reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small key. "Tell me, Brock," he says as he leans down to unlock one of the drawers under his desk. "Have you ever heard of a practice called prima nocta?"
"No sir.” Spanish class was never his thing.
"Well. It's apocryphal anyway, propaganda invented to paint the dark ages as a more barbaric time. The Latin’s not even grammatically correct." Pierce rummages around in the drawer, places a small, unlabeled bottle on his desk. "But I must say I always found the idea had a certain allure."
Pierce locks the drawer and puts the key back in his pocket. He stands up, leaving the bottle where it is and walking around to stand next to Rumlow. Rumlow focuses his attention straight ahead. He's a professional, and he's not going to be thrown by whatever Pierce's little game is.
He catches Pierce's hand move in his peripheral vision and braces himself not to flinch – but Pierce just lays a hand on his shoulder.
"Prima nocta," Pierce begins, "is supposedly a right that kings once had over their subjects." Pierce's thumb strokes over Rumlow's skin, and Rumlow swallows. "Legend has it that whenever two of his subjects married, the king had the right to claim prima nocta – the 'first night' – with the virgin wife."
Rumlow tenses, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed he is. Of Pierce's hand on his skin.
"Are you a virgin, Brock?"
Rumlow blinks, opens his mouth – closes it again. Pierce's hand tightens on his shoulder.
"No sir. Not since I was 15."
"Ah." Pierce slides his hand down over Rumlow's shoulder blade, fingertips running down Rumlow's spine until his palm is resting on the small of Rumlow's back. Rumlow feels a shiver of goosebumps follow in its wake. "I can't say I'm surprised. But have you ever been fucked?"
Rumlow clenches his fists, resists the urge to punch the guy out for even – "No. I'm not – no sir."
Pierce steps a little closer to Rumlow's side, right up in his personal space. They're the same height, or near enough, but Pierce is too far out of his field of vision for Rumlow to make out his expression.
"Excellent," Pierce whispers, close enough for Rumlow to feel the puff of air on his cheek. Rumlow relaxes a little: right answer.
Then Pierce slides his hand lower.
It takes everything Rumlow has to hold still. He tightens his fists, bracing the balls of his feet against the carpet, but when Pierce slides a fingertip down past his tailbone and between his ass cheeks he instinctively snaps don't –
Pierce stops, fingertip just above Rumlow's asshole. "Did you say something, Agent?" His voice is soft as silk over steel, and Rumlow swallows again.
He takes a deep breath, and when he's sure his voice will be steady he says, "No sir."
Pierce presses down until he's stroking right over Rumlow's asshole. Rumlow closes his eyes.
"Good," Pierce says, and then suddenly steps away.
Rumlow lets his shoulders slump, blinks open his eyes. Wants to kick himself for being such a pussy, for freaking out at some stupid test of his resolve.
Pierce walks back around his desk, takes off his suit jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. Cufflinks go next, unfastened and dropped into a jacket pocket, and then as he starts to roll his sleeves up he says almost casually, "Bend over. Elbows on the desk."
Just how far does this stupid test go?
Rumlow grits his teeth and obeys, focuses on the wood grain of the desk. At least it's harder for anyone to perve on his junk this way. He hears Pierce pick something up and walk back around the desk, and then hears – is he opening the bottle?
A warm hand settles on Rumlow's right hip. Rumlow breathes.
Then something cool and slick presses against his asshole.
Rumlow gasps and jerks, but the hand on his hip is firm and something is pressing into him and no, no, no. He's not a fucking fag, he doesn't – he grits his teeth. This is a test. And he's going to get through it because everyone knows Pierce's favorites get on the fast track to the top.
But it feels wrong in a way he doesn't even have words for. The finger – it has to be a finger – just keeps pressing in until he can feel Pierce's knuckles against his ass.
"Feeling all right there, Brock?"
Rumlow swallows, and swallows, and shuts his eyes. Digs his nails into his palms to distract himself from the sensation of – of being fucked, some terrible part of his mind whispers.
Rumlow's blood runs cold and he shakes his head. That's not going to happen. This is a test.
The finger inside Rumlow twists, and bends, and he almost bites through his tongue.
That's good. Pain is good, familiar – order. He bites down on his cheek, focuses on the pain even as Pierce's goddamn finger squirms in his ass, rubbing him from the inside out in a way that's making him shiver, making the skin on the back of his neck prickle.
He doesn't realize how much he's tensed up until Pierce's finger pulls back out. It's like having the knife lifted from his skin, electrodes finally detached from his chest. It's over. He lets his head drop, biting the inside of his cheek again to help him focus. Pierce's hand is still on his hip but that's fine, that's nothing.
When Pierce touches his asshole again Rumlow flinches hard enough to shove the desk half an inch, pens rattling in their holder. And, fuck, this time Pierce is pushing two fingers in, twisting them already and Rumlow bites down hard enough to taste blood.
It feels like it goes on for hours. He knows he’s endured worse for longer, but something about this is different. Impossible to block out, no matter how hard he tries to focus.
Pain would be better. Pain is straightforward, pain he can deal with, but this – it's not just the back of his neck that tingles now. Sensation spikes all the way down his spine with each twist of Pierce's fingers, like there's some pressure point Pierce is targeting, and Rumlow can feel his adrenaline spiking, his heart racing.
Just think of it like a different kind of pain. Another autonomous response to be controlled. Control brings order. The only way to learn control is to test it.
Rumlow takes a deep breath. Just another test.
He stops trying to fight the sensations and lets them happen, accepts that they're involuntary. Separates his mind from what his body is doing. Gets his breathing back under control: in for three, out for three. Manages to relax a little against the desk.
"That's better," Pierce says, and pulls his fingers out.
This time Rumlow doesn't make any assumptions. He keeps his focus on his breathing. It's never over until you're back in your bunk – and sometimes not even then.
"Look at me."
Rumlow swallows, still tasting blood, and manages to lift his head up to look over his shoulder. Pierce looks as coolly composed as ever, still wearing his lopsided smile, but there's something in his eyes that sends another shiver down Rumlow's spine. Pierce's jaw works as he looks over Rumlow's face, pausing at his bloody mouth.
"Do you want something to bite down on?"
Rumlow pauses, then nods. Pierce's smile shows teeth for a moment before he walks around to fish the key out of his jacket pocket again. This time he pulls something leather and metal out of the drawer, leans across the desk to offer the thickest part of it for Rumlow to bite on.
It takes Rumlow a moment to work out it's some kind of cuff. Worn, well cared-for, with a solid buckle at one end.
He puts that out of his mind. Opens his mouth to take it from Pierce's hand, and obediently bites down.
Pierce steps back and puts his hands on his hips. Rumlow must make a pretty fucking picture from that angle: blood and saliva soaking into the leather cuff, sweat dripping down his forehead and cooling on his spine, bare ass raised in the air. He stares right up at Pierce, resists the urge to bare his teeth around the cuff. He can take whatever this asshole can dish out.
Pierce licks his lips, and turns to walk back around the table – which silhouettes the big, obvious bulge in the front of his slacks against the window.
Rumlow's mind screeches to a halt. Somewhere Pierce is moving, but all Rumlow can hear is his blood pounding in his ears. Crazily he flashes back to his fantasy about the secretary. But that isn't – Rumlow's a fucking agent, best of his class. He’s proved a thousand times that he's more than fucking eye candy.
Pierce's hand is back on his hip. There's a slick noise behind him that he really does not want to think about.
Hail HYDRA. He focuses on the words, repeats them like a mantra. Hail HYDRA, hail HYDRA, hail HYDRA.
Blunt, thick pressure at his asshole – and some pathetic, weak little noise forces its way out of his throat. This isn't right. He doesn't do this. And it's – it's too big. Feels like it's splitting him open.
His jaw aches.
It goes on, and on, and on until between one breath and the next Pierce is pulling back again. For a moment that's almost like relief, pressure easing up a bit but in the next moment Pierce changes direction again. Sliding in and then out like he's –
Fucking me. Rumlow tosses his head, groans around the cuff because he doesn't do this. But now it's been done, he's taking it up the ass like a fucking fag and the shame of that settles deep in his gut, far worse than the uncomfortable, shivery sensation building up from the feel of – of.
Whatever pressure point Pierce was after before, he's rubbing against it maddeningly now and Rumlow still can't place the sensation. Not pain. But somehow even more distracting, making it impossible to focus on anything else.
A hand grabs his cock and Rumlow yelps, dropping the leather cuff.
Suddenly everything falls horrifyingly, dizzyingly into place. He's hard enough to break rocks. And whatever Pierce is doing, whatever he was fucking around with using his fingers before is making it worse.
Rumlow groans, shoving back to try to chase the sensation before he realizes what he's doing. The shame churns in his gut but Pierce's hand moves on his cock and he groans again, head dropping to hang between his shoulders.
He thinks he hears Pierce say good boy. It twists something inside of him, even deeper than Pierce's cock in his ass. Good boy and yes, fuck, the sick shame of it sends adrenaline surging through him. He fucks forward into Pierce's hand, rocks back against Pierce's cock, and when he gets the rhythm right it's overwhelming, it's too much. He can feel it building inside him and in the instant he realizes he's about to come with a cock in his ass that's it – he cries out, thigh muscles almost spasming to drive him into Pierce's hand again and again.
Rumlow slumps against the table, forehead resting on the cool wood, still being jerked back and forth as Pierce fucks him. He feels distant, dazed, and it barely registers when Pierce goes still, grinds deep against Rumlow's ass and grunts through his own orgasm. Rumlow pants against the desk, gasps when Pierce pulls out.
He stays where he is. The air of the room is cool against his ass, his softening cock. He shifts his weight on his feet a bit and feels something dribble out of him, drip down his thigh. His cheeks burn. There’s a soft sound of shifting fabric; Pierce is still standing behind him.
Rumlow barely flinches when Pierce touches his inner thigh. Pierce's fingertips slide all the way back up, and Rumlow only realizes what he's doing when they press gently at his asshole – pushing Pierce's come back inside him.
Rumlow bites his lip on a whimper.
"Alright. Up you get." Pierce slaps him on the ass and Rumlow jerks, come dribbling right back out of him. Pierce chuckles and walks back around his desk. "You can put your clothes back on. We're done for today."
Rumlow swallows, composing his expression before he pushes himself up off the desk. His arms and back are stiff and he can still feel come sliding slowly down his thigh. Pierce drops back into his chair with a sigh, kicking his feet back up on the desk and wiping his hands with a handkerchief.
"Problem, Agent?" Pierce raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing across his lips.
"No sir." Rumlow takes a breath, then grabs his underwear off the floor. He tries not to wince as he tugs it on. Walking back to his quarters is not going to be pleasant.
Pierce watches him dress. Rumlow goes through the motions mechanically until he's finally refastening his tac vest, armor solidly back in place. He stands up straight, ignoring the damp, sticky feel of his shorts.
"Well." Pierce folds his arms and grins. "I'd say that was a highly productive meeting, wouldn't you?"
Rumlow can't seem to find an answer for that. Pierce laughs.
"You're going to go far in this organization, Agent Rumlow. You've clearly got a strong... personal dedication to the cause. I'd like to keep an eye on your progress, if that's alright with you?"
Pierce's smile shows teeth again, and Rumlow nods. "Yes sir."
"Perfect. I'll have Cindy schedule you in for sometime next month, when I get back from Europe."
Rumlow nods again. Maybe there's a long op he can volunteer for next month. Pierce opens a desk drawer, pulls out a small stack of documents and starts flicking through them.
"Dismissed, Agent. You can show yourself out." Rumlow snaps to attention but Pierce isn't even looking at him – he pulls a pair of glasses out of the drawer, starts reading over the papers in his lap. Rumlow turns stiffly and makes his way back through the door, heading straight for the elevators.
The secretary doesn't meet his eyes.