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“Good morning, soldier.” Brock pulls the needle out of the asset's neck and clamps the puncture site with his fingers, squeezing a little harder than he should. Bruises will eventually blossom on the thin, pale skin. Slowly coming to his senses, Bucky feels several pairs of hands holding him in place. Rough gloves, a steely grip, not an ounce of pity or compassion.
As soon as Rumlow removes his hands from his neck, his head falls to his chest, like a toy thrown against the wall, a fragile porcelain doll that didn't shatter by sheer luck.
The Winter Soldier is a weapon, a ghost, the world's best assassin, kneeling in the middle of a half-empty hangar. His hands are restrained behind his back by energy handcuffs, preventing him from moving. The bionics are also traitorously silent. It's annoying.
The taste of dust and gunpowder settles on his tongue, and he ignores the Commander as he glares menacingly and sends the soldiers away. He ignores Rumlow, and Rumlow pays no attention to Winter. He waits until everyone is gone before grabbing his hair, and forcing him to look up.
The man smiles like a cat that's caught a bird, which makes radiant wrinkles appear around his eyes. Carefully and almost gently, he extends the bindings on his cheekbones, slides his fingers along his jawline and removes the soldier's mask, tossing it aside the wooden crates like the most unimportant thing in the universe.
“You do realize why you're here, don't you, princess?” Bucky wants to nod, but his head is held so rigidly and forcefully that he's simply unable to do so. “Of course you understand.”
Dry calloused fingers stroke his cheekbone, pass over his lips. The soldier's gaze is thick and dark, scalding hot like coffee. Brock looks down at him, stroking his hair lightly with his free hand. Bucky whimpers, realizing he's not allowed to catch his fingers with his lips, and then moans muffledly as a whipping slap burns his cheek.
“Use your mouth, soldier. You know how to make us both feel good, don't you?”
Bucky lifts his head and stumbles into a frown, cold, devouring with all his giblets, gaze. Brock's eyes are a light brown, almost yellow, and inside the ruddy black speckles like quail feathers. A hot wave of excitement burns in his insides: the commander is looking at him like a lowlife, pulling his hair like a whore and apparently wanting to eat him. That's good, so he, the soldier, is desirable. The words go under his skin, shaking his insides with a pleasant shiver.
“Yes...” the rest of the phrase is drowned in a hoarse ragged sigh - the body is pierced by an electric shock. The asset gasps and wheezes, bending even more, almost touching the concrete with his forehead. He's not in pain, no. The discharge is more of a reminder of who he is and what he was created for.
His handler has no intention of hurting him. At least not right now. Bucky knows it, feels it.
“Speak,” easier said than done, but judging by the look in the man's eyes, he had no intention of waiting any longer. Nor does he intend to say it a second time. The taser in his hand is proof of that. Know your place, boy.
“P-please” Bucky feels his voice shake violently, but still finds the strength to rise. He shifts impatiently on his knees, feeling every concrete crumb digging into his flesh. He wants desperately to crawl closer, but he doesn't have permission, and his muscles are cramping. The Winter Soldier squints, brushes away tears, and can't take his begging gaze off the man.
“Come on, baby, I'm listening. What do you want?” Brock smiles the smile of a benefactor who has built at least a hundred temples and helps anyone in need at their first unspoken request. That's how it seems to the kneeling soldier until he bows his head. The shadows float away and now Brock scowls predatorily, just like a wolf in a fairy tale, while the asset mutters something completely inaudible.
A heavy army boot kicks Bucky's knees even wider. Standing is now completely impossible, and he lurches forward, completely losing his balance. Bucky wants to back himself up with his arms, but realizes too late that they are out of his hands. Because of too strong, not careful jerk, his real, human arm is pierced by a sharp flash of pain: he has broken his wrist and ripped off some skin.
There's a sweet, thick fog in his head. It spread from within, creeping into his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Ramlow tilted his head doggedly to the side and admired the work he had done, his cock aching painfully against the stiff fabric of his pants.
The soldier swallows the viscous saliva and thrusts forward, trying to ignore the pain completely, pressing his nose against the commander's groin. He moans hoarsely, inhaling the tart odor of another man's arousal. He rubs his cheek against the hard cock, expecting to be punished at any second for touching his handler without permission, but surprisingly Ramlow is silent.
Stares at him with his cold eyes, watching his shoulders shudder and the soldier's back stiffen as he raises his hand above his head. He hums thoughtfully, but doesn't hit him.
Unbuckles his belt and puts the taser away. Thinks about something for a moment and pulls out his cock immediately, sparing his and the soldier's patience.
“ Might, babe.”
Bucky nods, as if in a trance passes his tongue over the entire length and licks the head. He moans rumblingly as the cock pushes against his cheek and allows himself to be possessed. He's desperate to feel the hard hands on him. I don't care where: in his hair, on his ass, he wants them to caress his breasts, rub his nipples or roughly squeeze his buttocks. So that they could bruise, scar, and - Bucky's throat slid down his cock, swallowing it almost all the way down; his commander's satisfied, hoarse sigh was his reward - throbbing painful bites.
Rumlow bites tastefully, like an animal. He leaves purple-red bruises on the marble skin, licks them off, and bites again. Gnawing into the supple flesh as if he wanted to rip out a fattier, more attractive piece, keep it for himself or swallow it without chewing.
“Fuck, baby, come on.” Feeling an attempt to get away from a particularly deep thrust and turn away, the handler jerkily pulls Bucky away from him and squints angrily. For a few moments, he stares into lust-laden eyes and then smacks his face with the palm of his hand. For now, with the palm of his hand.
Active whimpers, obediently accepting the blows: left cheek, three and a half seconds apart, right cheek, and a firm grip on his throat. He is jerkily dragged aside the wooden crates and hurled, knocking the back of his head painfully against the damped wood.
“A lusty slut like you should be grateful to be used” Bucky hears a smile. An unpleasant and cruel one. It's the tone that makes his groin tug sweetly, the tone that makes his knees tremble, that man, the voice, makes him want to submit, to lie on the floor with his hips thrown up and beg to be inserted.
There's not enough air, making the world in front of his eyes swim and melt, but he doesn't even try to resist. He could, but he won't. He wants his handler to yank him out like the last bitch he is, make him howl and wheeze and tear his voice down, but if he keeps misbehaving like this, he'll get nothing but more fractures and a burning coldness in his gaze.
“Say you're sorry,” a rough fingertip smears blood across a split lip. “If you sound convincing enough, you might get my cock back.”
“I'm sorry...” the taser stings the exposed part of his neck, making his whole body shake with a spasm. He spends too much energy trying not to shriek. Rumlow doesn't like it when he whines over nothing.
Winter's reflexes muffle human weaknesses, bringing back the ability to analyze - he needs another tactic.
“Please, Commander, I promise I'll be obedient.” Bucky gasps as Brock presses his boot to his groin and utters something incoherently approving.
Receiving his approval, the soldier reaches for his cock and licks off a tart drop of lubricant. Either the beating of his subordinate or the pitying look in Bucky's almost lust-black eyes made Brock's cock harden even more.
This time the man took matters into his own hands and fucked the asset in his mouth with smooth, rhythmic thrusts, giving no time for respite or tongue play. The wet slurping sounds and saliva dripping down his chin makes Bucky crumple and melt. He ignores the dull aching pain in his wrist, but moans unrestrainedly as his parted lips stretch around the hot hard cock and blood settles iron on his tongue.
The commander's hands on his neck are guiding and forcing. Bucky swallows, knowing full well that his handler insanely enjoys feeling the contours of his cock in his hotly clenching throat. Brock groans and drives his cock up to his balls, pushing into the wet tightness. The soldier breathes heavily through his nose and brushes away tears, realizing the man is about to cum.
The asset moans, feeling the hot cum on the root of his tongue and opens his eyes. His chest heaves heavily and his head is ringingly empty.
“Buck?” Steve's worried voice sounds a little hoarse from sleep, but it's nothing compared to how terrifyingly lustful his commanding officer has just tormented him. “You okay?”
Bucky nods, the back of his palm brushing the moisture off his cheeks without Steve noticing.
“Nightmares again?” he nods, making his hair fall over his eyes. “Rumlow, that bastard, what a creature...”
Rogers clutches the scrap of the blanket in his hand, threatening to tear the unfortunate sheet, but catching his partner's puzzled and worried look, he turns away from his anger and explains:
“When you have nightmares you always wheeze his name.”
“Go back to sleep, I'll take a shower.” Bucky curses himself for the obvious fuck up but realizes he can't do anything about it, nevertheless, he turns around, throws his head up and smiles reassuringly; strokes Steve's forearm and quickly gets out of bed, not allowing time for further questioning.
The last thing he'd want to do right now was explain to his boyfriend why he'd been standing on his now officially dead commander for a month.
He loves Steve now as he did before the war, but after meeting Rumlow, something in him snapped, making him want more, which Rogers, unfortunately, or fortunately, was unable to give him. The current Captain America remains a scared little boy who can't not only fuck hard but also be on top.
The man leans back against the wet tile of the bathroom, wraps his hand around his cock and closes his eyes, trying to plunge into memories and feel the rough caress on his skin again. He caresses his balls and pushes two fingers into his asshole at once, sparing no effort to insert them all the way in, pre-lubricating them with saliva. Bionic feels smooth and slightly cool, and he exhales intermittently, almost physically feeling his handler's hot hands caressing his nipples, stroking his ribs and traveling to his groin.
Rumlow would have licked his neck, ignoring the cool drops of water settling on his shoulders. He would have chosen the tastiest spot and made him proud with a bite, clenching his teeth as he listened to the soldier's pitiful whimper and his ragged sighs.
The commander would stretch him quickly and efficiently, squeezing his thighs to white spots on the tender skin, running the knife lightly along his spine, and following it with his lips, picking up the ruby drops and tasting them.
Bucky bit the back of his palm to keep from moaning. All of this was beyond him. He missed the everlasting cigarettes and the smell of tar sand that so delightfully mingled with the spicy odor of lust and sex.
He came as he imagined his handler squeezing his neck, whispering nonsensical nasty things in his ear, and calling him “baby.” Bucky thought about how much he'd give to feel cum running down his thighs right now and hoarse breath in his hair.
The man was still jerking, reliving his orgasm. He had no idea how long he could last, jerking off at the memories. He wanted something more tangible and real. It was good to know that Steve had no idea what kind of “nightmares” he was having, or why he was screaming so often in the morning.