Rumlow's Plaything

by WhiteCeilings (orphan_account) (ao3)

Chapter 1

 The boy in front of him cost $117. Rumlow had paid more for a dinner. He had paid more for a pair of sturdy boots. He had paid more for his phone, which, like the boy, was used. 

  "Ah, I see you’ve noticed his price," the woman in charge said, grinning with shark teeth. "He is discounted due to health issues and multiple previous owners."

  "Health issues?" Rumlow asked dubiously. "What are we talking about here?"

  She shrugged, trying to pass it off as unimportant. "Nothing that would cause you any distress. He has a low life expectancy, but I would actually consider that a bonus. It allows you to move on to different things, when the time comes."

  Rumlow looked away from the boy's price, written in dry erase marker on the glass of his containment unit, to look at the actual boy. The clipboard next to the glass claimed he was in his mid-twenties, but he could’ve fooled Rumlow. He was small, both short and thin, and had an innocent mop of blond hair on his head. 

  The boy was completely naked, and with his arms tied above his head, nearly his entire body was visible. He was definitely underfed, but nothing horribly drastic. His cock was proportional with his body, which was to say, it was small. 

  "Can I have a look around back?" Rumlow asked, his voice coming out a little gruffer than he intended. It wasn’t that he was angry, he just had places he’d prefer to be than in an underground market, buying a half-priced whore. 

  The woman with the shark teeth nearly fell over herself going to the side of the containment unit and slipping in. The boy was blindfolded, and the glass was soundproof, but Rumlow saw him cringe as the woman touched his skin and made him turn around. He had a nice back with defined shoulder blades, and a little extra meat on the ass. For extra measure, the woman made him bend in half and pulled his cheeks apart so Rumlow got a look at his hole. It wasn’t the tightest thing he’d ever seen, but he could work with it. Even better, there was no visible damage around it that’d prevent him from fucking it. 

  The woman pulled the boy back up when Rumlow had had a good enough look, and though the boy didn’t fight, his cheeks were bright red. He knew he was on display, then. Of course, a boy like that was probably used to being on display all hours of the day, to whoever wanted to see him. Rumlow let his mind wander for a moment, imagining the boy on his hands and knees, naked in his apartment, his little cock wiggling as he crawled. Or maybe— tied down to Rumlow's dining room table, spread-eagle, with a speculum up his ass so anyone could see inside him. It was good the boy was already used to being on display. 

  "What do you think?" the woman asked, swooping in for the sale. "Of course, we have other options if I misread the situation. We have slaves who can hold a conversation, who can read to your kids—"

  "This is fine," Rumlow said, cutting her off. He didn’t want to hear anymore about kids. "I’m just looking for a set of holes to fuck. He’s 117?"

  "117," the woman beamed. "With just an extra $50 service charge."

  Rumlow groaned internally, and straightened up, making himself bigger like a predator. She didn’t seem very worried, the shrewd con she was. There were laws about the type of slaves you could sell, and someone in this boy's condition didn’t meet the cut. Of course, they were still an opportunity to make a quick buck, which was why they were such a popular black market item. If it was Brock's choice, he would’ve bought elsewhere, but well... he didn’t exactly have the money to spend on something like that. This would be fine. He wasn’t lying when he said he just needed a set of holes.

  He and the woman haggled for a few minutes before coming up with a price. Rumlow paid in cash, and after counting her bills twice the woman retrieved the boy from his containment unit. Immediately, Rumlow noticed something she hadn’t mentioned— a red and swollen welt on his shoulder, like a brand. "Hey lady, what’s your return policy?"

  "No returns!" she said delightfully. "All sales are final. No one will buy him off of you either, he’s too used up. You’re better off putting him down in a field somewhere."

  The boy shuddered, because of course he could hear now. The woman knew that too— she’d purposefully said that in front of him. 

  Rumlow shook his head, and took the boy's wrists, binding them with rope behind him. He then put a hand on the boy's shoulders, and lead him from the warehouse. 

  He would be good for Rumlow. Something to get his excess energy out with, get his rocks off in. And if he turned out to be a problem, Rumlow would get rid of him, easy as that. 

   $117 . Rumlow could’ve put that towards next month's rent. This boy better take his cock like a fucking champ.

———————————

  Rumlow was met with another unpleasant surprise when he took the blindfold off the boy. He waited until they were inside his apartment, as per tradition, and immediately questioned the sanctity of that tradition. The boy had a scar over his right eye, white and healed, but raised like it must have been deep. He was lucky he still had his eye at all. 

  The boy also had dark, angry blue eyes. He did not open his mouth to speak, but that didn’t silence the accusation in his eyes. 

  "Jesus," Rumlow murmured. "I see why they kept you blindfolded. You’re an ugly little thing, aren’t you?"

  He reached over to pinch the boy's ear, which had a triangular chunk missing, but the boy tucked his head in, dodging it. Rumlow stared at him for a moment before backhanding him— not nearly as hard as he could. The boy took it, moving his head with the slap and not trying to defend himself. His eyes were even stormier when he looked up again. 

  "Listen here, fuckthing," Rumlow growled, getting a good grip on the boy's ear this time. "You’ve got one job in this house, alright? And that’s to let me do what I want with your little body, and to not try and resist. You think you can do that, or are you too dumb to follow simple orders?"

  The boy didn’t respond, but he clearly understood the message. Fine, he didn’t need to talk. Rumlow didn’t buy him to use his mouth for words . 

  Without another thought, Rumlow turned and dragged the boy to his bedroom, not bothering to be gentle. The boy banged against the doorframe, but managed to keep up. Rumlow tossed him on the bed, then got to work binding him in latex until all he could do was writhe. The boy stayed quiet except for a few small grunts, and overall didn’t seem too bothered until Rumlow held up the mask. It was also latex, and had holes for the boy’s mouth and nostrils, but not his ears or eyes. It would leave him more or less completely in the dark. 

  Good. The little bitch deserved it. 

  He struggled, but couldn’t do much what with the latex cocoon he was already wrapped in. Brock got the sensory deprivation mask in place over his disheveled blond hair, then locked a collar around his neck to keep it in place. The boy was starting to pant pretty hard by then, so Rumlow gave him a hand by pushing a ring gag into place and racking it open wide. He got his dick out and brought himself to full hardness, though he was already mostly there. The boy writhed in his latex, and Brock had to squeeze his cock a little to keep from giving too much too soon. He didn’t just tie the boy up for show.

  He dragged the boy over to the edge of the bed so that just his head hung off, his mouth open and ready for the taking. His throat would be completely open, ready to accept him into its warmth. 

  The boy struggled a little more, half-hearted. Brock kept him still with a large, scarred hand gripping onto his skull, and used the other hand to rub his dick over the boy’s masked face. The boy tried to squirm, but he was really stuck now. It hardly took him another minute to give in, lulling his tongue out. With that, Brock gave in, positioning his cock and fucking the boy’s throat.

Chapter 2

  Brock woke up and rolled over, patting over the bed. He kept going, figuring Tony's body was just out of reach, and only remembering different after he opened his eyes to the empty bed. 

  He groaned, sitting up. Any relaxation from his rest was gone, and his head swam with memories, a dark, twisted bitterness at his own solitude. Then he remembered more, and cursed, jumping to his feet. 

  The boy was on the floor right where he'd left him. He was still completely encased in the latex, mouth opened crudely wide by the gag. His cheek was rested against the carpet above a growing puddle of drool. Rumlow had put him on the floor for just a minute after he'd came, wanting a moment to calm down and come up with a plan for the night, only to fall asleep. Fuck -- he couldn't even do this right. 

  He knelt next to the boy, getting his fingers on the side of the gag to ratchet it smaller again. When the gag was out, the boy closed his mouth, smacking his lips and swallowing visibly. When he spoke, his voice was very soft, rough from the poor treatment. "I'm sorry, Master." 

  Rumlow felt sick. He hated the boy's soft voice, hated his tone of apology, hated his words. He leaned close enough that the boy could hear him through the latex, and commanded " Shut. Up. " 

  His boy was silent and obedient as Rumlow removed his bondage, finally leaving him naked and sprawled on the floor. Rumlow grabbed him by the waist and hauled him into the bathroom, where he washed him off with a wet washcloth, taking extra care with the spit-stained skin around his lips. When he was done, he locked a collar in place around his neck, and forced him into a muzzle gag. "There you go. Now you won't be so fucking loud all the time."

  The boy glared at him, and Rumlow patted him on the ass roughly. "Get up. I have just the place for you." 

  It was still early, nearly four in the morning, but Rumlow wasn't going back to sleep. When he woke up, it was usually for the day, his mind too trained in military procedure and special ops to know any better. The fuckthing could go back to sleep if he wanted; Hell, he could sleep the whole day away if he wanted, Rumlow didn't care. 

  He brought the boy into his living room. His apartment was just big enough to suit his needs, with one bedroom, one bathroom, and one long room containing the living, dining, and kitchen area, with the living area by the bedroom, and the dining table across from the front door. Now, Rumlow dragged the boy into the living area, where he had two couches sitting perpendicular to one another. Where the two couches met, there was a perfectly square area, big enough for a side table. Rumlow had no side table however, and hadn't been sure what to use the space for, but it turned out to be the ideal holding area for his whore. He scooped him up and dumped him in, tossing a blanket over him to lay on the floor. "Stay there. And don't disturb me, alright? I'm a busy guy."

  Then Rumlow went into the kitchen to burn some eggs.

--------------------------

  The slave didn't bother Rumlow for most of the day. He seemed to give up on glaring at one point, and when Rumlow walked over to watch him while he ate his eggs, the boy just looked at him sadly. It was extra sad because of the scar on his face, his clipped ear-- he was like a sad, pouting, deformed puppy. Rumlow finished his eggs and washed his plate in the sink. 

  Rumlow spent the rest of the morning working on his laptop on the couch. Sometimes the boy would whine behind his gag, but overall he wasn't distracting. Rumlow got up around 8 and showered, used the bathroom, and brushed his teeth, then returned to his spot on the couch.

  Around 9, the boy started getting really annoying. He kept on wiggling, the blanket beneath him making a lot of noise. Brock snapped at him a few times, then slapped his ass once. The boy choked out a sob, then finally, finally went still. 

  Brock leaned over the armrest to leer at him, when he saw how the boy's eyes were squeezed shut. Beneath him, the blanket was darker. 

  The boy had pissed himself. 

---------------------------

  Brock moved one of the couches back, making the boy get on his hands and knees to clean up his mess. He stuffed his filthy blanket in the washing machine, adding extra detergent in hope that it'd get rid of the smell. When he came back, he made sure the boy had done a thorough enough job cleaning up, before unclasping the gag and asking "Can you take a shower, or are you too dumb to do that too?" 

  The boy nodded, so Rumlow sent him on his way. 

  He should've gotten a different slave, paid a couple of dollars more for one with a brain. The woman had even told him they had those, slaves trained in conversation, trained to be better than this pissrag he ended up getting. He thought again about getting a refund, and then imagined putting the boy down in a field somewhere. BANG!

  Somehow, the image did not bring him relief. 

  When the boy came out of the shower a few minutes later, Brock was ready for him. He lead him up onto the dining room table, strapping him down so his knees were spread, hips were up, and head was bowed forward. An assortment of ropes kept him in this position, including one rope that attached to his collar, pulling it tight against his neck. By the time the boy was all set up, Rumlow had fallen into a rhythm tying the knots, so he just kept going. He looped two ropes in between the boy’s asscheeks, pulling them taut to pull his cheeks apart, further exposing his hole. 

  The boy let out a long exhale as Brock started fingering him. Using lots of lube, Brock opened him up with two fingers, just enough to get his hole starting to slacken. As he worked, he announced “I really hate to do this.”

  The boy grunted, miserable. 

  “I really do,” Rumlow continued, spreading his fingers inside him. There was still a lot of tension. “You’re just a set of fuckholes, but here I am, having to train and discipline you like a dog. But you made a mistake, so now I have to ask you: why the fuck did you piss on my floor?”

  “You didn’t say I could go to the bathroom,” the boy recited immediately. His cheek was pressed to the table, his breathing audible.

  “Was I supposed to? Please tell me you’re house-broken.”

  “I can use the fucking toilet,” the boy gritted out, “But you gagged me and told me to stay where I was. I couldn’t leave .”

  Brock paused for a moment to consider this, pulling his fingers out. Technically, the boy wasn’t lying, but that didn’t make Brock like him any more. If anything, the boy was trying to pin his accident on him, like it was Brock’s fault he couldn’t hold it in. 

  “When I was in the military, there were times when I wasn’t allowed to piss for a full day,” Brock said, the memory coming back to him with almost vengeful force. “And I didn’t complain, and I sure as fuck didn’t piss myself. Do. Better.”

  With that, he picked up the paddle next to the boy’s leg, and used it to smack him right across the ass. The boy flinched hard, crying out in pain and trying to move away, only to be brutally reminded of his bonds. 

  “That’s fucking right,” Brock growled, smacking him again just to make him writhe. “That’s what you get for being a fuck up.”

  He hit him again, this time aiming right for the boy’s exposed hole. The boy yelped, pulling all of his ropes taut, and Brock hit him again and again, wherever he wanted, wherever he saw muscles clench. When the boy tried to twist away to defend one area, Brock hit him extra hard right on that area, until he was sobbing and yelling with every hit. It made Brock hard; it made him hard enough he could smash soda cans with his dick. It made him desperately, angrily hard, which was why he was so lucky he’d already stretched the boy, and with the addition of just a little more lube, he could drop the paddle and position his cock right at the boy’s red, puffy hole. 

  He fucked him, mean and dirty. Inside, the boy’s muscles clung to Brock’s dick, as if trying to hold on tight, squeeze him dry. The boy was annoying, sure, but he was a hell of a fuck. When Rumlow got close, he slammed himself in deep, bottoming out, and took the opportunity to wrap his hand around the boy’s mouth, cutting off his air. The boy struggled, but it was already game over for him. Rumlow used his other hand to pinch his nose shut, and then thrust into him hard, fucking him faster and faster all while choking him out. 

 When he came, he came directly in the boy’s ass, painting his walls white. He stayed there for a moment, balls to ass, before finally removing his hands and pulling out. The boy gasped for breath, but knew better than to talk. For a vicious second, Rumlow almost wished he would talk, just so he’d have a good reason to cut off his breathing again. 

  Rumlow picked up the paddle and gave him one last brutal hit, right over the hole. Then he turned, and went back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Chapter 3

  Brock did better that night, and undid the boy's bondage after only a few minutes. He shoved the boy towards the bathroom to clean himself off; he didn't want him to stain his carpet with come. 

  Brock did a good job ignoring him for the rest of the day. When he went to go to the gym for a few hours, he leashed the boy to the wall so he wouldn't get himself in any trouble. It stressed him out to leave the boy alone like that, but as soon as he got into the gym, he relaxed. This was where he thrived. All he needed to get out of his funk was a few hours of pushing himself, until his hands were shaky and his shirt was stained with sweat. 

  It worked wonders. When he got back to the apartment, he took a long hot shower, and then headed for bed. Everything would be better in the morning. It had to be.

---------------------------

  It was only after Rumlow woke up that he remembered the boy. 

  "Not worth it," Brock muttered, thinking of the sex, and comparing it to the stress of having to deal with him. "Not even a little." 

  He went to the living room, expecting to find the ugly little thing still chained up by the couches, only to discover him in the kitchen, cooking something. He walked over, and even in his sleep-daze he managed to scoff "What the Hell are you doing?" 

  The boy looked up, but if he was nervous, he didn't let it show. His face was stony, a new recruit who knew he'd been selected for the front lines. "I'm cooking." 

  "I didn't tell you you could cook," Brock grumbled, leaning against one of the counters to watch. The boy was at the stove, an apron over his bare torso. Based on the smell, he seemed to be cooking eggs. 

  "You didn't," the boy agreed, turning around with some hesitancy. Brock understood why; by turning around, not only was he exposing himself to attack, but he was also exposing himself in general. His entire ass was bare, and Rumlow took the moment to appreciate it. It really did have a nice shape, plus some good coloring from the spanking the night before. He really was a perfect peach.

  The boy was talking again, and Rumlow made himself tune in. "...you also didn't feed me. Unless you want me to starve, one of us has to get me food." 

  "Maybe I want you to starve," Rumlow challenged. "The human body can withstand a few weeks without food. Who says I need you for longer than that?" 

  The boy angrily scooped his scrambled eggs onto a plate, not deigning to respond. Rumlow waited until he turned the stove off to snap his fingers and order "Come here. Bring the plate." 

  The boy clearly, clearly didn't want to, but he obeyed regardless. Brock gave him an expectant look, opening his mouth, and sure enough the boy picked up one of the bigger pieces of egg and hand-fed it to him. There wasn't much egg on the plate at all-- the boy had probably only cooked one, which was certainly too little for anyone, even his size-- so it didn't take long at all for him to hand-feed Rumlow all of it. When he put the last piece in Rumlow's mouth, Rumlow closed his lips around his fingers, sucking them. The boy withdrew his fingers in disgust. 

  Even though Rumlow hadn't physically touched any food, he kissed the tip of each of his fingers, as if sucking the grease off. If looks could kill, he'd probably be dead, but the thing was, looks can't kill, and besides, the boy is just a slave. Rumlow can play with him how he likes. 

  "I'm going out," he announced, standing and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "Stay in the apartment. Don't be a dumb shit. If you piss on my floor again, I'll make it so you never piss again." 

  "Yes sir," the boy said, unenthused. 

  Rumlow came up behind him, grabbing a big handful of his bruised ass. He flinched hard, and Rumlow wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him steady. "I have buttplugs in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Pick one out and get yourself stretched and prepared for when I get back. I want to see you kneeling on the dining room table, got it?" He slapped his ass again, but the boy's muscles were so tense he didn't flinch this time. "There's more eggs in the fridge. Cook some more for yourself, but cook at least two or three. I wouldn't want you to starve or something ."

------------

  In Brock's eyes, he was giving the boy a test. He didn't want to chain him up everytime he left, especially since the boy apparently couldn't control his basic bodily functions. It was like leaving a dog home alone for the first time; if he just napped and walked around, that was fine, but if Brock came home and he chewed up the couch, then he needed to be kept in a cage. 

  While Brock was out, he ran some errands. He had to get more protein powder, then he picked up his dry cleaning, and finally, he stopped by the only gun range in town that still accepted him and did some routine target practice. The range was empty, and based on how much clientele they got, it was possible it would be shutting down soon. Brock hoped it didn't come down to that. He'd had to get rid of all of his guns after his plea deal, and he was pretty sure if he didn't get to at least hold one once a week he'd go crazy.

  He didn't think of anyone in particular as he aimed at the targets, but the familiar sting of violence was enough to get him hard. He knew what he was doing with a weapon in his hands, knew the rhythm of the gun, the drumbeat as he counted off bullets in his head, ten before the clip was empty and he had to reload. He emptied, reloaded, emptied, reloaded. He imagined someone else walking into the room, imagining turning, shooting. His specialty was taking headshots. Sometimes, you needed to wound someone, get them out of your way with a simple shot to the leg, the shoulder, but sometimes you needed them out of your way more permanently. BANG!

   Needless to say, Rumlow was reering and ready to go when he got back home. The first thing he saw? The boy's bruised ass, plugged and raised in the air. Rumlow came in, took his boots off, and took a walk around the apartment, checking for any chewed up socks. The kitchen was cleaner than it had been that morning, and the living room looked like it had been vacuumed. A cage probably wasn't necessary, then. 

  "Hmm," Rumlow said, giving everyone one last look. He liked playing with the boy a little, making him wait even longer than he already had to get fucked. "Everything seems mostly in order. Maybe you're not as stupid as I originally thought." 

  "I'm glad I'm to your satisfaction, sir." 

  Rumlow looked at the boy, really looked at him. He was knelt on the table, his forehead pressed against the wood. "Satisfaction is a strong word. More like, you met my bare minimum of expectations."

  Rumlow ducked into his room, retrieving a blindfold and a very malleable dildo. He set both items in front of the boy, allowing him to get an eyeful. The boy stayed quiet. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm going to do with these?" 

  "I can guess," the boy said. "Blindfold me and use that in my ass?" 

  "You're not nearly creative enough," Rumlow announced as he tied the blindfold around the boy's head, cutting off his vision. "It's alright. You'll learn." After the blindfold was on, he grabbed the boy and yanked him off the table, his limbs flailing for a moment. Rumlow got him in position not on the table, but bent over it, his perky ass high in the air. Rumlow slicked up his cock and took out the boy's buttplug, sinking into his warm hole slowly. He could feel the boy tightening and relaxing his muscles, trying to allow the intrusion to happen against his preferences. Rumlow bottomed out, then pulled out and gave one rough thrust that caused the boy to cough in surprise. Rumlow decided that was good enough, and with his cock still buried hilt deep, he reached around and pulled the boy back by his hair, making him arch his back. "Mouth, open," he ordered, pulling his jaw open with a few grubby fingers. He got out the silicone dildo then, and positioned it at the opening of the boy's maw. 

  The boy keened, rocking back against Rumlow, but he managed to keep still enough for Rumlow to push the dildo down into his throat. He had to go slow, allowing the boy to slick it with saliva, but once it was in he was able to wrap his hand over the boy's mouth, holding the dildo in place as he pulled out and resumed fucking him. The boy's moans came out grumbled, but they were there. He was a noisy little thing, Rumlow thought vaguely as he increased his pace, fucking him into the table. Using one hand, he kept the dildo in the boy's mouth, while he wrapped his other arm under the boy's hips to fuck him deeper. The position was a little brutal, but that was the only way Rumlow knew how to do anything: rough, hard, mean. He could admit that he was cruel; he'd been called it enough times that it would be stupid to deny it. It was the reason he was such a good soldier, and it was the reason he was a soldier no longer. 

   War crimes. Fucking rediculous; they weren't overseas to be nice. 

  As Rumlow changed his thrusts to be less fast and more aggressive, the boy started making more and more noises, just about as loud as he could get around the gag. It was enough to bring Rumlow out of his head some, and he grinned. "You like that, don't you? Little slut? You're a fucking nympho, isnt that right. You haven't known what to do all day without a cock in you, but now you're exactly where you need to be." He was getting close, but he slowed down, pausing buried deep in the boy. His sensitive cock throbbed, but he had discipline, and could focus on other things for a minute. "Hey, little slut, raise your hand. That's right. Now, with your fingers, tell me how long it's been since you've came." 

  The boy shuddered, his jaw muscles moving a little around the dildo as he was forced to swallow around it. On his hand, he held up the number 3.

  "Three days?" Rumlow laughed. The boy shook his head. "Three weeks?" A nod. "Was that with an old owner, or when you were in the slave market? Show me, option 1 or 2?" 

  The boy held up two fingers: the last time he came, three weeks ago, was when he was held by the slave market. Rumlow laughed lowly. "Yeah, I figured they used you. I know I would've. It'd be hard not to, with you looking the way you do. You're an ugly little thing, but you've got this look in your eyes like you just wanna get fucked all day, everyday. Greedy slut." He resumed his thrusting then, pushing the boy's head down against the table and reaching for his dicklet. "Well, it's your lucky day, because I'm going to let you come. But only… if you beg for it."

  The boy let out a garbled sob. Rumlow grabbed onto his cock, stroking it gently, and to his surprise, it twitched. The boy really did want to come; if anything, he seemed close. 

  "You really are a whore," Rumlow muttered. "Alright. Start begging."

  The boy thrust his ass up, making Rumlow thrust even harder into him. At the same time, he moaned around his gag, whimpering and whining indicernably, making lots of wet, desperate sounds, and it was so much, and Rumlow hadn't expected him to be so receptive…

  Rumlow came inside of him, hand working to stroke the boy's dick roughly. As soon as he came, it seemed to set off a chain reaction, and the boy shuttered and spilled all over the table. 

  Rumlow panted, leaning over the boy to catch his breath. "You disgusting thing," he muttered, "You know people eat off that table, don't you?" 

  The boy grunted, and Rumlow carefully pulled the dildo out of his mouth, then removed his own cock. It took a moment to build up his strength, then he pulled away for real, pushing the boy to his knees. "Go on, clean up your mess. Better do it now than when it's dry."

  The boy was still blindfolded, so Rumlow had to use his hair to guide him to the puddle of come on the table, which he used his tongue to lick up. It was all the boy's come, since Rumlow had spilled directly inside him.

  "Good fuckthing," Rumlow praised when he was done. He pulled the blindfold off, shoving the boy toward the bathroom. "Go clean up, then come back here. I'm not done with you." 

  The boy looked hesitant, but he nodded. He was pretty obediant, Rumlow noted as he watched the boy walk away. He followed orders, even if he didn't always seem happy to. He was a regular cadet.

---------------------

  When the boy came back, Brock was fully clothed and lounging on the couch. The boy seemed to be dreading something, but whatever it was wouldn't come to term. Brock was a one-load wonder, and he'd already maxed out for the night. Of course, there were always other things he could do to the boy, other ways he could make him beg… but he didn't have the urge to bother with it that afternoon. He had other things on his mind. 

  "Go get my phone," he ordered first, nodding towards the kitchen counter where he'd put the device upon coming home. The boy retrieved it dutifully, giving Rumlow a little frown as he passed it over. "Who's 'Bucky'?" 

  "Reading my texts, are you?" Rumlow challenged, raising his eyebrows. "Kneel here." 

  The boy knelt next to the couch, falling into the position gracefully. "I didn't read the text, just the name. Besides, it was on your lockscreen." 

  "Brat," Rumlow replied, but he was already distracted. He ignored most texts, but he wasn't allowed to ignore Bucky's. 

From: Bucky

U still alive?

  Rumlow rolled his eyes, irritated. You go off the map for one week, looking into black market slavery, and everyone assumes you've offed yourself. He doesn't bother giving more answer than necessary. 

From: Rumlow

Guess.

Bucky replied immediately, which meant he was waiting by the phone again. Fuck, he was like a teenage girl waiting to get a call back from a boy she likes. 

From: Bucky

lets go drinking tomorrow

Shaun's place?

  Rumlow looked to the side, where the boy was kneeling dutifully. He didn't really want to leave him, but that was probably just the post-sex hormones talking. He was fine when Rumlow left earlier that day, he'd be fine tomorrow. 

From: Rumlow

Sure

I'll see you at 6

From: Bucky

dont sound too excited

I might get confused and think you actually care

From: Rumlow

Clingy much?

I'll see you at 6. Maybe tell your bf so your fucked up head won't forget it. 

From: Bucky

eat my shit

  Rumlow snorted, turning his phone off. That message didn't deserve a response. Besides, Bucky got what he was looking for: proof of life, agreement to meet up, an excuse to get drunk. When it came to friends, Rumlow was basically a saint. 

  He propped his head up with his arms, turning just his head to get another look at the boy. He'd stayed perfectly quiet, and for the most part, still. Rumlow was about to say something to try and get a response when his eyes caught on the scar on the boy's shoulder, the old branding scar. It was just about as healed as a thing like that could get, with the skin around it a little extra pink, and the raised scar tissue white. "You burn yourself?" He mocked, tracing a finger along the scar.

  True to form, the boy twitched a bit at the touch, but didn't fight it. "No sir. That's from an old master." 

  Brock hummed. "You got in trouble with him?" 

  The boy cringed. "Sure. Let's say that." 

  Brock took him by the chin, making him turn around so he could meet his eyes. "I don't mind it," he said, not quite sure why he felt the need to say anything, but not used to hiding his feelings. "I mean, you're still an ugly little thing. Like a rag-doll or some shit. But not because of the brand. Just because of your face."

  To his surprise, the boy actually smiled, making the scar over his eye ripple a little. "Thank you sir. I'm so glad to have your approval." 

  Rumlow shoved him lightly, laughing. "Little shit." 

Chapter 4

  That night, Rumlow slept like shit. He couldn't get comfortable in his bed, his mind constantly darting back to his old bedroll and how he'd always slept like a rock in it. The bed was so damn soft, stupidly so, and he couldn't get his pillow to work. When he finally did get to sleep, it was fitful, and he kept on waking up. It was like his body knew he needed to sleep, but also was too miserable to commit to it. 

  The following morning, Rumlow woke before the boy, and made his noisey way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. The boy was sleeping on the couch, which was annoying because Rumlow didn't tell him he could do that, but at the same time, he just didn't have the energy to deal with it. He turned the coffeemaker on, and when the boy started to stir, he retrieved a ball gag and forced it on the boy as soon as he awoke. The boy must have had a shred of intelligence, because he stayed out of Rumlow's way, all the way until Rumlow left the apartment.

  Rumlow texted Bucky to let him know that that night wouldn't work, and that he could fuck himself. Then he turned his phone onto Do Not Disturb Mode , and pocketed it. He would work out, he would go home and fuck the boy, and tomorrow, things would be better. They fucking would. 

---------------------------

  Rumlow spent the next few days doing a few things. He continued responding to Bucky's texts, because if he didn't then Bucky would get really worried, but he avoided agreeing to go out. He didn't want to, and Bucky would just have to deal with it. He couldn't be Bucky's fucking emotional support friend, or whatever-- he didn't want to meet up with his friend just so he'd cry all over him. 

  The next thing Rumlow did a lot over over the next few days, was, well, the boy. He fucked him at least once a day, sometimes in the mouth, sometimes in the ass. He gagged him if he got annoying, but mostly they just coexisted in the same space. Rumlow didn't know what the boy did in the long hours he was alone, but he could guess based on the way he came home to find the food in his refrigerator organized by color. He didn't care; whatever kept the whore busy was fine. 

  One day, Rumlow was feeling particularly inspired, and he set something up to keep the boy entertained while he was at the gym. He hogtied him on the couch and tied him to a fucking machine, then left him alone with the machine pummeling his prostate. When he came back, he fucked the boy's mouth, and pulled out to come on his face. Only then did he turn the machine off. 

  The way Brock saw it, the boy deserved everything that was coming to him. 

  Brock also went to the gym a lot that week, taking his dissatisfaction out on his body, forcing himself to push further. By his standards, he was out of shape, civilian life catching up to him. He had to do better. 

  It was after one such gym session that Brock came home, fully ready to load up on food and fuck the boy until he cried, only to find his door unlocked. That wasn’t right; Brock wasn’t a fucking idiot, he locked his door whenever he left the apartment. Either someone had gone in, or—

  He burst in, fully expecting to find his apartment trashed and the boy nowhere to be found. Because of course the boy would run, why didn’t Brock think that through, why did he dare to trust the slut with something as delicate as—

  Inside, his apartment wasn’t trashed. In fact, everything seemed extra clean, his wooden dining table practically shiny. And, sitting at the couch, was Bucky. 

  "Fuck you," Rumlow announced before he could fully take in the scene. Not only was Bucky sitting on his couch— which meant he’d broken in— but he was sitting on his couch with his slave. The boy knelt at Bucky’s feet, hands behind his back and lips closed around his fingers, sucking them delightfully. He opened his eyes when Rumlow came inside, but didn’t stop. 

  "You’ve been avoiding me," Bucky accused, removing his fingers from the boy's mouth to run them through his blond hair. "And now I see why! Were you going to tell me about Steve at all, or were you planning on just hiding him?"

  Rumlow was about to reply, when his brain caught up. "'Steve'?"

  Bucky gave him a disbelieving look. "Yes, Steve. Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you know your slave's fucking name." 

  Rumlow felt himself cross his arms, making himself look bigger. "Fuck you, I know my slave's name. Fuck-thing, come."

  Bucky scoffed as the boy— Steve, fucking Steve— rose to his feet and came obediently over to Rumlow. "Hello, sir. I made you dinner."

  "You’re a bitch," Rumlow accused. "I want you to go put on a panel gag, and then go to the corner. Get out of my face."

  Steve went, and on the couch, Bucky scoffed. "He didn’t even do anything."

  "You shut your mouth," Rumlow snapped, "Or I’ll make you go to the corner too."

  "Please, I could take you."

  Rumlow cracked his knuckles. "Is that an offer?"

  Bucky raised his hands in surrender. He had an abnormal skill Rumlow had never possessed; the ability to back down from a fight. "There’s beer in the fridge. I genuinely just wanted to come and make sure you’re doing alright, that’s all. I didn’t expect you to have gotten a black-market slave."

  Rumlow went to the kitchen, getting out two beers. By the time he’d come back to the couch and sat down, Steve was back from the bedroom, freshly gagged. He went to the corner and knelt there silently.

  "How do you know he's black market? Maybe he’s just really ugly."

  Bucky rolled his eyes. "Like you could afford getting a slave over the table. How much did you pay for him? Five-hundred bucks?"

  Brock shook his head, taking a sip of his beer. "You overestimate my financial situation."

  "Jesus."

   They kept talking for a while, about life and about being overseas and about things now. Brock subtly checked in on how Bucky was adjusting to his prosthetic arm (even though it had been four months, there were still problems), and Bucky loudly and blatantly made sure that Brock wasn’t going to kill himself between then and the next time they met up. Throughout the conversation, Bucky's eyes continuously drifted over to the nude boy in the corner, until finally, Brock gave in. "Alright. Ask me what you really want to know."

  "Why do you keep him naked?" Bucky questioned, looking concerned. 

  Rumlow ignored it. "He doesn’t have clothes. Next question."

  Bucky rolled his metal shoulder, a habit he had when he was uncomfortable. "I don’t know. Is he house trained?"

  Rumlow smirked. "Mostly."

  "Is he... I don’t know. He seems obedient, but I don’t know how much of that is good training and how much it’s fear."

  "I’ll show you," Rumlow promised. "Fuckhole, come here."

  Steve got on his knees, crawling over. He batted his big blue eyes at them, the right one marred by the scar. The panel gag kept him quiet. 

  "Present," Rumlow ordered. 

  Steve turned, dropping to his elbows and lifting his ass up. He pressed the side of his face against the carpet, reaching around with his hands to pull his asscheeks apart, exposing his hole. Bucky inhaled sharply. 

  "He’s... pretty," he said, his IQ lowering before Rumlow’s very eyes. "You seriously paid less than $500 for him?" 

  "He cost the same as my old steel-plated vest," Rumlow bragged. Bucky’s eyes were still a little glossy. Rumlow nudged him gently. "You can fuck him if you want."

  That shook Bucky out of his stupor. "What? No, no, I can’t. Because of... of..."

  "The boyfriend?"

  "Right!" Bucky said, too loud. "The boyfriend."

  Steve mumbled something into his gag, shaking his butt suggestively like What boyfriend?

  "We can still play with him," Rumlow offered, getting to his feet. "You don’t even need to fuck him."

  Bucky hesitated, but didn't say no, so Brock took it as agreement. He ordered the boy to get over Bucky’s lap while he went to his room. There were so many options, but there was one Rumlow’d been fantasizing about for a while, and this seemed like the perfect time to try it. 

  When Rumlow came back, the sight was almost enough to make him coo. Steve was laying over Bucky’s lap, his pert little ass elevated by Bucky’s thighs. Bucky had removed his gag and was petting him, making the boy smile sweetly. Rumlow didn’t try to disturb them, just took the opportunity to quietly bind Steve’s hands tightly behind his back, keeping them out of his way. 

  "What were you thinking?" Bucky asked quietly, still petting Steve's hair. 

  In answer, Brock held up the gleaming metal anal hook. 

  "Holy sh--" Bucky started, and Steve startled on his lap, trying to turn to see what the contraption about to be used on him was. Before he could, Rumlow grabbed his hair, pushing his head down so he couldn't see. "We're really using that on him?" Bucky questioned. 

  "A little slut like him? He'll love it," Brock reassured. "Do me a favor and open him up." 

  He passed a bottle of lube to Bucky, who got to work, slower and more gentle than Brock would've. He used his flesh hand to finger him, rubbing lube around his hole and down his perineum. 

  "Are you good at this from practicing on yourself, or--" 

  "Both," Bucky said, rolling his eyes. "Though as of recently, I've only been topping. I'm assuming that's what you're asking." 

  "Ow," Steve muttered, and Brock patted his flank in sympathy. Bucky bit his lip, focusing in on his task more than strictly needed. Within a minute or two, Brock deemed it good enough, and lubed up the hook, positioning it over his hole. This hook was a rather wide one, a centimeter or two in diameter, with a large ball at the end. He pressed the ball against the boy's hole, putting pressure to start to push it in. 

  "How does it feel?" Bucky asked. He had resumed his petting, and Brock would have been more annoyed if he didn't appreciate his friends sensitive side so much. "Use your words." 

  Steve moaned, the sound quiet, a little caught in his throat. "It's… cold. Really cold. Is it glass?" 

  "Metal," Rumlow corrected. He took ahold of one of the boy's asscheeks, pulling it to the side so he could better see what he was doing. He pushed the ball in, finally, letting it linger for a moment at the widest point in Steve's hole before pushing further. Steve shifted, arching his back, but Bucky held him down, fawning and cooing over him. Rumlow pushed more, forcing the metal hook in as deep as it would go. Steve squealed a little when the cold metal hit his prostate, but he wasn't able to wiggle enough to dislodge it. 

  The hook was attached to a length of red rope, which Rumlow started looping through Steve's collar, pulling it taut. He pulled until the boy was forced to arch his back uncomfortably, then tied it off, forcing him to maintain the pose. He ran his hands down the boy's body, squeezing his ass. "How does an ugly little thing like you have such a great ass?" 

  Steve moaned, the hook shifting inside him as Rumlow groped and squeezed. "Injections," he exhaled. 

  Rumlow stopped, looking at him. "Are you joking?" 

  The boy’s eyes fluttered open, slightly glossy with lust and confusion. “What? No. An old master of mine was a scientist, he injected my ass with a special growth serum. It’s all my tissue, no silicone or anything, but it’s not natural.”

  “Jesus,” Bucky muttered, running his hand reverently over Steve’s ass. “How many masters have you had?”

  “Nine. Doctor Erskine was the one with the injections. He did a lot of… experimentation… but I liked him. He died, though.” He seemed genuinely disheartened at this. 

  “Nine seems like a lot,” Bucky commented. 

  Rumlow took Steve’s chin in hand, forcing him to look back at it. It was clearly an uncomfortable position, made worse by the yanking of the hook, but the boy didn’t object. “No, I think nine sounds about perfect, especially for a slave from birth.” Steve didn’t respond, just got a little more doe-eyed. “Besides, it means you’ve got a lot of practice. Why don’t you show me how good you are at sucking cock?”

  Steve nodded, wordless, then started looking around for a good way to get down. His hands were still bound behind him, his back forced into a considerable arch from the taut anal hook. Rumlow sat back, watching him try and figure it out, and Bucky took his lead from Rumlow. Finally, Steve managed to swing his legs onto the floor, clumsily lowering himself he grunted in pain as he landed on his knees, probably pulling the hook especially hard, but at least he was in position. Brock spread his legs further, giving the boy access to scoot between them. His fly was still zipped, but Steve must have read his face because he started nuzzling Rumlow’s crotch, trying to get the little metal clasp between his teeth to pull it down. 

  “Let me know if you change your mind about fucking him,” Rumlow said to Bucky, voice getting gruffer as he got more turned on. “We could double team him. He could take both of us at once; that’d really stretch him out. He’d be so loose he wouldn’t even feel it when we hung him by his hole, a hook up his ass and a dildo down his throat.”    

  Steve just groaned. 

Chapter 5

  Steve was very good about waking up before Rumlow. Once he’d learned his routine, he started smoothly taking over, making coffee and preparing breakfast right before Rumlow woke up every morning. He still didn’t own any clothes (he didn’t need them), so oftentimes Rumlow walked in to the boy standing by the stove dressed only in the apron. There was something enticing about the apron, about how it covered up parts while emphasizing others. It gave Rumlow a good opportunity to look over Steve’s ass with a keener eye. His ass was perfectly shaped, and now that he’d mentioned it, it seemed reasonable that it wasn’t completely natural. But the job looked good; Rumlow had to admit, whoever that Erskine guy was had known what he was doing. 

  That particular morning, however, Rumlow was not greeted with a cute ass and a filling breakfast. Instead he came into the kitchen to find Steve sitting on the counter, wearing the apron but not holding out a plate of food to go along with it. 

  “Morning, fuckthing,” Rumlow greeted, pushing to stand between the boys spread legs. Steve didn’t wince or anything, just picked up the cup of coffee beside him and offered it to Rumlow. 

  “We don’t have any food,” Steve said, voice a little low. “At least, nothing I can make breakfast with.”

  “Damn, I guess I’ll finally have to resort to eating you,” Rumlow teased. “I’ll go to the store after I work out. Just wait for me to get back, alright?”

  “Yessir.”

  Rumlow took the boy’s chin in hand, holding it tightly and pushing his thumb in between those bitten red lips. “Don’t eat anything until I get back, understand? Then, you can cook, we’ll eat, and I’ll fuck you in your little apron.”

  Something clouded over the boy’s vision, and he swallowed, Adam’s Apple bobbing visibly. “Yessir.”

  Rumlow gave him an up and down look, trying to figure out what the boy was actually thinking, when his eyes caught on something interesting. He reached around Steve, undoing the apron and gingerly pulling it off, exposing, yes— Steve was half hard. 

  “Well look at that,” Rumlow hummed. Steve was bright red in the face, but didn’t say anything. “That really gets you going, huh?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Steve muttered, refusing to meet Brock’s eyes. 

  Brock patted him roughly on the hip, moving away. “Sure it doesn’t. You know what, go over to the wall. I’m going to tie you up before I leave.”

  Steve obeyed immediately, as was the tendency with him. Rumlow wondered if most slaves were that way, or if it was something truly unique to Steve. “Get on your knees over there, right under the eye hook,” Rumlow ordered, getting Steve into place. He retrieved some rope and bent him forwards, tying him in a kneeling strappado position, with his knees on the ground and arms pointed up toward the ceiling. He avoided tying his arms particularly cruelly, since the boy would be forced to hold this position for around two hours. To finish the bondage off, he slid a band of latex onto each of his legs, making it so he couldn’t straighten them to try and stand up. 

  At one point, Rumlow stopped telling Steve how to move or what to expect, and just started maneuvering him himself. It was one of the benefits of having such a small slave. 

  Rumlow finished off the look by pushing Steve’s mouth open, forcing in a ring gag, and clasping it tightly behind his head. He’d drool, but that was part of the appeal. Rumlow tried to imagine the picture he’d come home to: Steve, exhausted, strained, drooling and sloppy. “Sit tight,” he murmured, pressing an obnioxulsy wet kiss to the boy’s cheek. He wouldn’t be able to wipe the excess saliva off, and it’d probably drive him a little nuts. Good. 

  Rumlow left immediately after, already looking forward to finishing up at the gym. 

  He went to the gym and let his mind shift away from the rest of the world, focusing in on his workout. He kept it short, ending after an hour so he could walk to the store and get some food. Maybe he’d get Steve a treat, a cinnamon roll or something. He could make Steve kneel, and tear off pieces, making him beg like dog for every sugary bite. That would be nice. 

  Rumlow’s mind was just shifting back to the grocery list when he heard the gunshot. He dropped like a stone, covering his head on instinct, because there was no such thing as a lone gunshot. He’d have to get better cover, find a rock or a trench to hide behind, and then—

  And then nothing. He was in New York, not Afghanistan. New York, the land of backfiring cars. It was bullshit. People had no sense of fucking decency—

  There was yelling, and Rumlow realized, somewhat shocked, that that gunshot had in fact not been a car backfiring. It had been a gunshot, an actual, legitimate gunshot. And it came from the alley next to him. 

  Without thinking anymore, Rumlow stood and marched into the alley. Sure enough, there seemed to be some sort of mugging/threatening in process, judging by the woman sobbing against the wall, and the two thugs, one of whom had a gun in hand. They turned to look at him when he marched in, looking more than a little surprised. 

  “Hey, asshats!” Rumlow yelled, storming right up to them. “You know this city is fucking full of vets, right? Do you realize how fucking rude it is to shoot that around here? How many people you could set off?”

  The thug with the gun narrowed his eyes. “This doesn’t concern you; leave.”

  “Fuck! You!” 

  Maybe Rumlow should get back into sparring. He couldn’t right after getting back from Afghanistan, but maybe it would be good for him to have a better outlet for his aggression. Maybe, if he’d resumed sparring earlier, he would have handled the situation differently than he did. 

  Rumlow punched the goon with the gun in the face. 

  He shoved the gun to the side, and the bullet went astray. If anything, the sound just made his aggression higher, because like he’d said, he wasn’t the only vet in the city. And if that asshole didn’t get the message the first time, Rumlow would just have to pound it into his head the old fashioned way. 

  He grabbed onto the barrel of the gun, twisting it out of the man’s grip and slamming it down on his head. The man crumpled to the ground, dazed but still conscious. It was around that time when his friend tried to intervene, throwing a punch that Rumlow caught, twisting his arm too, but not being so generous. He twisted until there was a snap and a scream, and then kicked him back so hard his head hit the concrete and he collapsed, dead weight. 

  Then there was that fucking noise again, and pain, and Rumlow turned to see the man on the ground who’d just shot him. He was still in a position of cowering, eyes wide as moons with how Rumlow wasn’t dying. Carefully, Rumlow reached down, touching his abdomen. His hand came back bloody. Oh, that asshole. 

  Careful not to aggrevate the wound further, Rumlow stepped over to the man, and punted the gun out of his hands. The man clearly wasn’t in any gangs, or he wouldn’t be such a goddamn pussy; he was just an everyday mugger, waving around his gun like he had any sort of idea the power a weapon like that held. It disgusted Rumlow; a mugger like him should use a gun for show, and show only. If he wants to prove he’s willing to use his weapon, then he should just have a knife for fucks sake. 

  Rumlow made his message clear by stomping the man’s face in. Once it was thouroughly fucked up, he moved back, sliding against the brick wall. His brain was a little blurry, but he knew that when in combat situations that go unexpectedly south, you’re supposed to call for backup, so that’s what he did. 

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hi,” Rumlow said, voice impressively steady. His anger had all drained out, and now he just felt annoyed. “There was a mugging by, uh… 49th and Frankfort. Three people injured, one with a bullet wound to the abdomen, one unconscious. The other one just has a broken nose or something, he doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, we have EMTs on the way. Are you a bystander?”

  “No ma’am, I’m the fucker that got shot.”

  There was just a moment of silence before she continued. “Alright then. Put pressure on the wound, help is on the way.”

  Rumlow looked down at his bloodied hand pressing over the wound. “Good shit.”

  “Stay on the line if you are able—”

  The world was becoming harder and harder to get his fingers around. Rumlow slumped harder against the wall. He could hear his own breathing. Hmm. 

  “—don’t panic, everything will be okay.”

  “I know,” Rumlow said, voice clearer than the situation really called for. “I know, ma’am. I used to be in the army, special ops. I’m not going to die from this. Wouldn’t be fair.”

  And then he blacked out.

———————————

  Rumlow woke up at one point while the doctors tried to fix him. He registered the environment, registered the blood, and frowned, grabbing a nurse and dragging her to his side. She seemed a little surprised, and rapidly pressed the button on his IV to dispense pain meds. It was nice of her, but in all honesty, Rumlow felt fine. He just felt a little guilty, is all. 

  “I have a slave in my apartment,” he said intensely, squeezing the woman’s arm to make sure she understood the importance of his message. “Someone needs to get him. He’s… he’s…” he thought about the situation he’d left Steve in, brutally bound and hungry. “He’s not house trained,” he said finally. “He’s going to piss on my floor.”

  The nurse patted his hand, and then Rumlow sunk back into nothingness.

———————————

  The next time Rumlow woke up, he immediately remembered Steve, and rolled over to see if he was there. He regretted that decision immediately when, instead of finding Steve in the visitor’s chair, he was met with a face he never wanted to see again. 

  “Morning, sunshine,” Tony said without a smile. Behind his red-tinted glasses, his eyes were sharp, guarded. “Guess what? It looks like I’m still your emergency contact.”

Chapter 6

  It took a few tries for Rumlow to wake up for good. When he finally did, he squeezed his eyes closed, prepared himself for the worst, and looked over. 

  Steve was sitting in the plastic visitors chair, and Tony was nowhere in sight. Rumlow let out a sigh of relief, then actually looked at Steve, and frowned. The boy was sullenly eating a breakfast burrito as big as his head, fully dressed in an oversized hoodie and workout shorts. It was the first time Rumlow had ever seen him with actual clothes on, which was impressive. He looked surprisingly… normal, like he was just your average, everyday person. 

  Steve glanced up, noticed he was awake, and reached over to press the Call Nurse button. 

  “Who got you?” Rumlow asked. He’d told the nurse, but he doubted she would retrieve Steve. He just hoped it wasn’t Tony.

  “Bucky,” Steve answered simply, looking down at his lap. “He was kinda… surprised to find me where I was. I kind of figured you’d forgotten about me.”

  Rumlow tried to think how to respond to that. He hadn’t forgotten about Steve— he’d cut his gym session short, he’d gone to get the groceries, he’d made sure to tell the nurse that Steve needed to be retrieved— but he wasn’t sure how to put that into words. The words I would never forget about you were way too sentimental. Just because Rumlow was high on painkillers and the thrill of a fight didn’t mean anything had changed. Steve was still just a slave. 

  Apparently he’d been quiet for too long, because Steve spoke up, voice much more casual now, all of the hurt completely covered up. “Anyways, Bucky had to go home, but your ex is still here.” He smirked. “He seems nice.”

  Brock groaned, pushing himself up into a more defensible position. “Aaaaand I think I’m done listening to you talk. Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth to better use?”

  Steve pursed his lips, his eyes glittering with laughter. “I would, but you’ve got a catheter in. Your dick is currently a no-fly zone." 

  “I hate you!” Rumlow pulled his covers up, just to make sure the boy wasn’t lying, and sure enough he wasn’t. “Just for that, I’m buying a set of sounds. Be afraid.”

  “I’m terrified,” Steve teased.

 Just then the door opened, and Steve quickly got up, cradling his breakfast burrito like it was an actual child. He slipped out right as Tony slipped in. Rumlow was immediately jealous that he got to escape, while he was still practically strapped to his bed. 

  “I talked to the nurse, she says that gunshot wound was fatal,” Tony said, as way of introduction. “You have three minutes to live. I wish I could say it was fun knowing you, but…”

  “Fuck you,” Rumlow growled. “Why are you even here? If you care so little, why didn’t you just hang up the phone when they called you?”

  Tony shrugged with just one shoulder. When he was in his element— like, say, his lab, or his favorite restaurant, or on top on a Rumlow, riding him to completion— he was extremely expressive. Right now, his face barely moved, a perfect mask of apathy. “I was in the area. Anyways, I did actually talk to the receptionist, and she changed your emergency contact to Barnes, so…”

  Rumlow swallowed. “Good.” 

  Tony looked behind him at the door that Steve had left through, and mentally Brock prepared himself for the comments. Tony was good at being harsh— it was one of the things that made their relationship so good. Tony called him on his bullshit, didn’t let him get away with things other people might. It was also one of the reasons their relationship was doomed from the start. 

  Rumlow knew Tony, knew the type of questions that were going through in his mind. Where’d you get him; why’d you want him; why couldn’t you just be normal?

   “He seems nice,” Tony muttered. 

  Rumlow looked up, suddenly angry. “He is nice. For a fucktoy.”

  Tony nodded slowly, like he’d expected that. “Alright. I’m glad you could finally find someone who wants the same things in a relationship as you.”

  It was like a slap. “Why don’t you just go,” Rumlow asked, too tired to deal with him. His ribs were starting to ache, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the painkillers started to really wear off. “No one wants you here.”

  “Oh look, another reminder of our relationship. Let me know when you get tired of your little fucktoy— because we both know you will get tired of him. I’ll take him off your hands, make him a receptionist or some shit.”

  “Thanks.” Rumlow paused, trying to think of the most brash, repulsive thing he could to scare Tony away already. “But I think I might just kill him myself. That’s what the breeder recommended, at least.”

  Tony nodded, which was probably the worst reaction he could have had. It meant he wasn’t even surprised, like he’d just accepted Brock was a killer and didn’t have to think any further than that. “Alright. I’ll see you later. Or not, whatever.”

———————————

  Tony left, and Steve came back in. Finally the doctor made an appearance, giving Rumlow a rundown of the stitches they put in his small intestines, the necessary precautions they put in place to stop the internal bleeding. “You should feel very lucky,” she said, making a note on her chart. “That shot could very well have been fatal.”

  But no, it really couldn’t have been. Rumlow wasn’t going to die in an alley from a mugging; he just wasn’t. 

  The police came in after that and got a slightly glamorized statement from him about the mugging. Then he was fed some pudding, and told that if he needed anything, he just needed to press the call nurse button. 

  “You think the nurse would give me a foot rub?” Rumlow asked, fingers tracing across the button. 

  “If she does, she deserves a raise.”

  "You think you would give me a foot rub?" 

  Steve hummed, not looking at him. "I would if you ordered me to."

  They spent the afternoon watching tv, with Steve only leaving a few times to retrieve things for him. As the sun grew lower, visiting hours ended, but still no one tried to make him leave. It was like they saw him as just a part of the decoration; a condolence teddy bear, maybe, that someone had left for Brock to lift his spirits. 

  (It was annoying.)

  It was around nine at night when Rumlow noticed Steve shifting in a weird way. He slouched in his chair, tilting his head back for a few moments before moving, apparently deciding that position wasn't comfortable enough. It was only when he propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes that Rumlow realized what he was trying to do.  

  "You're not sleeping in that chair," he said, Steve's eyes snapping open instantly. "You're gonna break your fucking back." 

  Steve shot him an angry, bitter look, like he thought Rumlow was going to make him stay awake all night. "Well, I'm not going to sleep on the floor." 

  "You can join me up here," Rumlow offered before fully thinking it through. "Just don't touch my stomach." 

  Steve pursed his lips, looking very much like he didn’t want to do any of that. “Yes sir.”

  Rumlow scooted over on the bed, carefully arranging his various tubing to make room. Steve had to really climb up to join him on the bed, tucking his small body under the sheets, facing Rumlow so there was no risk of touching his stomach. He carefully rested his head on Rumlow's bent arm, glancing up to make sure it was okay. 

  "Why are you so obedient?" Rumlow muttered, pressing the button to turn out the lights. 

  Steve shrugged minisculely. In the dark, it was impossible not to look at his eyes. "I don't know. I guess I got tired of being kicked."

-----------------------

  Steve trusts him, in a weird way. It makes Rumlow uncomfortable. 

  It's not five minutes after Steve lays down with him that the boy's asleep, leaving Rumlow to be quiet and still and stare at the walls. The walls get boring quickly, so he stares at the boy instead. Dark eyelashes. Prominent scar. Cinnamon-pink lips. 

   A fucktoy. Nothing but a set of holes. 

  Rumlow is excited to go back to their home, get Steve out of his clothes. Maybe it'll be easier, when he's naked again. Easier to ignore everything that really matters, and only see his dick, and his ass, and his collar.