bakerstreet | (no subject)

[It was almost laughable to see the Winter Soldier sit like that, though the strength in those limbs was a thing of art. Still, the way the asset sat was like a veil of human that never really came across well in his mind, and he can't help but twist to roll up on his hip as he reached out and gathered up the weapon's dark hair. He had a length of leather in his pocket which he used to lash up the locks into a messy tail, taking the heat off the asset's neck.

His hand dropped here right after, his strong fingers massaging on either side of the vertebrae before closing tightly in the face of the words. He made certain to force the weapon's head forward just a little, wanting to leave bruises on that soft sweaty skin even if they will just fade soon.]

When I need an alarm clock, I'll ask you. [He would be the one to make suggestions, not the asset. It wasn't mission time when control briefly went to the big man with the metal arm. Until then, he was in control.] Do you understand?

[ A hand on his throat, a touch conveying force and another person's will--the fingers, calloused, massaging the cords of muscle that ran from the base of his skull down the nape of his neck and then closing hard, dragging him forward--it provoked in him a brief consideration of taking that hand off of him, and more, maybe, with it, as little as it would please Pierce or be the act of a good soldier, but he had in some sense invited this, or at least agreed to it. An objective to fill the waiting time, that took some of the pressure of an empty mind away from him: it was good, wasn't it, to be of use? He could smell Rumlow's skin and almost taste the salt of it on his tongue, this close. Face to face, his eyes went even blacker, liquid without the shadow of his hair to flatten whatever light still reflected in them. He could feel the dull pain of bruises setting in where the handler's fingers dug into his skin. ]

Understood. [ The winter soldier spoke the word like he was tasting it, like language itself was something foreign to him. He had little objection to relinquishing control, if that was what the man wanted. And yet the flatness of his gaze, the utter negligence to the way his body was handled, seemed to mock the very idea of control: it was an illusion, with or without a mission. He was always acting under someone's orders. He had no control, and neither, when it came down to it, did Rumlow. ]

[Brock was always assured by the men who maintained the asset that the weapon was programmed well. He'd probably have to rail and ride the Winter Soldier's ass in the field with unnecessary force to provoke a violent response, though he was of the opinion it didn't entirely matter if the asset hissed and spat like an enraged cat. It might even be entertaining. He hadn't sparred with the asset before, and it might feel good to bloody his knuckles... but not today. It was hotter than hell's asshole in here.

His fingers relaxed on that column of neck, stroking with an edge of affection like the kind a man bestowed on his favourite gun. He slipped his fingers around to force the asset's chin up higher before he leaned in and grasped an area of skin on that pale throat and sucked, applying teeth only enough to worry the skin to create a purple bruise. He ran his fingers along the underside of the weapon's chin.] Don't say I never do anything for you.

[ It's all chemical reaction, he knows. The things his body does, when Rumlow's teeth dig into his throat and the suction of lips and tongue break blood vessels under the skin, provoking a bruise that will be gone in a couple of hours, maybe less. The way his breath tightens, his pulse quickens. The curve of his fingers against the edge of the crate, his head tipping back a little more--without encouragement--to give his handler better access, to expose more the line of his throat. And the tightening, stiffening ache in his cock, his body acting like a man's not a weapon's: for the first time in a very long time, because everyone knows better than to try to touch Hydra's asset.

Chemicals. He can catalog the reactions, study them like something abstract, like it's happening to someone else, but it's in his body, it's him feeling the hard-edge sensation of Rumlow's teeth and the throb in his cock. His eyes shut briefly and then open again. ] I won't. [ There's a raggedness to his voice now. It's been a long time, a very long time, since someone touched him. ]

[That wasn't quite the reaction that he was expecting, honestly. He expected nothing at all, just the asset sitting there like some statue while he marked the greatest weapon known to Hydra like some common girlfriend, but that wasn't it at all. There was reaction, and he drank it all in and stayed in close, nudging the asset's chin with his nose as his hand lifted to stroke the opposite side from his lips with almost tender fingers, gathering sweat on his digits as he went. The fact that the asset was so responsive piqued his interest, and it also had to make him wonder about the other handlers and if they ever bothered to get close enough. Probably not; all probably too scared the weapon would sneeze and blow their heads off.

Instead of pulling away like he had intended, his lips parted and he played the tip of his tongue over the darkening skin and tasting the asset at the same time. He nipped along the asset's jaw, his dark eyes focused on the weapon's face.] Clearly someone is lacking in the friendly attention department. [His hand eased down, palming the asset through those dark trousers.] Aren't you just a hair-trigger.

[ The other handlers knew better, didn't they? They had to know that this wasn't protocol, that if Pierce or any of the higher-ups found out they would be angry, truly, lethally angry: Pierce in particular, so vigilant when it came to the soldier's programming, so explicit when instructing his handlers on the correct way to speak to the asset, give it orders, prepare it for missions. Only Rumlow ever deviated, testing the lines, speaking to him like he was a person: it was mockery, he knew, but he didn't care.

And the rest? They were simply afraid of him.

He shuddered when Rumlow's hand brushed over the front of his fatigues, another reaction beyond his control. He was trained to take pain, ignore it when it was possible and accept it like a docile child when it wasn't, but pleasure went far outside the bounds of his programming. Hair-trigger, he thought. Like someone taking a shot too soon, too eager, missing the mark. His head was tipped back against the wall, eyes staring at his handler's face; his skin felt freshly prickled with sweat and nerves. ]

Yes. [ Wasn't clear, what kind of answer Rumlow wanted. ]

[Brock was still young enough where toeing the line was part of how he ran himself, though he was always careful never to go directly outside of orders. He had been coached and lessoned well on the asset, knew the weapon was practically Pierce's little baby, but this reaction, this strangely human default setting was very interesting. He knew that toeing this line was dangerous, but if he could exploit it, work his way under the asset's skin, he could also report about it and head it off at the pass. No one like a weapon with such a weakness.

Without currently caring, he shifted up to a knee, and his hand dipped down to begin to open the asset's trousers. He leaned in to the weapon's neck, licking a line up until he found another spot and marked the side opposite to the original. Suddenly the heat wasn't so bad; suddenly it was an opportunity. He tugged the Winter Soldier's trousers.]

Lift your hips. [He tugged at the material pointedly until it could slide from the asset's hips and down those finely muscled legs. He brushed a hand between the other man's legs, caressing up an inner thigh.] Does anyone touch you like this?

[ He obeyed his handler's order automatically. Got his hips up, his trousers sliding easily down his thighs, off his legs, and being naked didn't bring any particular associations: he was usually naked only to be examined or for a procedure, any hands that touched him always impersonal, uninterested. Between missions, when he wasn't to be put back on ice yet, wasn't in need of attention to his body or his mental state, he might be kept in a holding cell, apart from other people until he was wanted. ]

No. [ he said in reply, not bothering to explain any of this. He thought Rumlow probably already knew the answer. Could probably tell by his rigid uncertainty, the way he didn't know how to move, whether to shift away from or towards that touch, his left hand beginning to splinter wood at the edge of the crate the longer it held on and his breath still tightening every time he drew it into his lungs. His cock half-hard already, and getting harder quickly. ]

[He left the Winter Soldier's trousers to pool in a pile near their feet, but otherwise, they went ignored for for more interesting opportunities that were quickly presenting themselves. He had always figured the dispassionate manners were just because the asset had had any sort of temptations stamped out long ago and only biological functions remained. This was clearly not the case at all.

He had known the answer only because the weapon had sprung an erection on him from a hickey. Seriously, the weapon would probably explode with any kind of delivered pleasure. His fingers danced up the asset's inner thigh, stroking and teasing smooth flesh and purposefully avoiding the avoid erection as the pads of his fingers pressed into the swell of the asset's hip.] Does it make you feel anything?

[ He knew it was only biological function, his body still working the way a man's body did even after he had been stripped of everything human, of things like motivation and desire--the way he still had hunger to tell him to eat, still had pain to tell him move away from danger or obey. This one had no such virtue, no necessity. It was an aberration, a malfunction in his programming.

That he needed to do what his handler wanted in the field, in spite of malfunctions, was a given. That he should report it when he came back in was probably a given too, though he supposed Rumlow wouldn't like it. Nor Pierce. Pierce would want to start over, fix his programming. The soldier knew what that meant.

Rumlow's fingers had the same callouses his right hand did from rifles and handguns, and they were scarred as his were not, from knife- and fist-fights, he assumed. He could feel the dry rasp of them along the inside of his thigh which was unaccountably sensitive, the muscle underneath the skin rigid with tension. ] It makes me feel hot. [ Beyond the mere heat of their hiding-hole, he meant, the furnace-temperature drenching them both with sweat; this was a different kind of heat. He tried to describe it. ] Under my skin. In my nerves. It's like the current in the chair, before...

[ He grimaced, leaving the rest undefined. Strange how such an unpleasant association could, in a different context, be something that felt almost good. ]

[Brock couldn't help but wonder how far programming extended and what would happen if they edged underneath it, working within the boundaries of what a man could have and want without shattering too many rules. It was a dangerous thing to consider, but this was also very intriguing. He knew a few handlers and none of them had ever mentioned something like this before, not that he expected it to be a new thing. It had to happen. Awkward boners happened; it was a guy thing and one learned to work around them.

If the asset didn't report it, he would be surprised. He'd take his knocks for seeing about this too and as long as he lived to see the other side, no matter. It was probably a weakness they needed to know about regardless.

He was fascinated by the steely tension under his fingers, and his smile was rather crooked at the plain explanation. His fingers caressed deeper between the asset's legs, moving ever closer to the plain show of arousal until his hand left smooth taunt skin to caress his knuckles up the weapon's erection.] It's pretty hot in here already... before they rack it up a few levels, hmm? I could make you breathless... if you thought it was worth your while.

[ The physicality of it was brand new, too new, the way his body was transmuting someone's hands on him and the accompanying tightness of breath, the rigidness of his limbs, as heat and pleasure instead of danger and pain. Or if not new, then long forgotten. Long enough that he had no real expectation of what would come next, no way to prepare himself for that dry stroke of knuckles along the underside of his cock and the way his head startled back and his eyes closed a full two, three hissing breaths through his teeth, and fuck, that was dangerous, that was too vulnerable, too exposed. Assuredly overwrought, betraying his utter unfamiliarity with--whatever this was. His eyes opened bright again and he stared at Rumlow as though his own body aggrieved him. ]

This is a malfunction. [ His voice came short, raspy. Almost accusatory, like he suspected his handler of trying to weaken him deliberately. ] I'm not supposed to--feel good.

[ Those were the right words, or as close as the soldier could get. Hydra never meant for him to feel good. That wasn't how he was managed. ]

[It was kind of like touching a virgin or something, though he suspected one such as the Winter Soldier probably had been touched before all this. The weapon had just been forced to forget, but the body always knew, always remembered even when the mind didn't. There was just some things that flesh never forget, pain and pleasure happened to be the two that he thought would stick the longest and burrow the deepest. The asset was just proving that right now too, though the accusation was almost endearing.]

For a weapon, yes. For a living breathing individual, no... this is natural. [He raised an eyebrow, waiting to see if the weapon would refuse him. Now that would be a malfunction that he would take the asset to task for. This... this was just an enjoyable pass time really.] So... you and your hard-on want me to stop?

[He purposefully brushed his hand back down the hard flesh between the weapon's legs, leaning his head in to nuzzle his rough cheek against the soft flesh of the asset's knee.]