Brock Rumlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
infligere) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
spaces_between2015-01-18 12:51 pm
infligere) wrote in spaces_between2015-01-18 12:51 pm
[For airfoil]
Who: Brock Rumlow & Sam Wilson
When: A few months post-TWS
What: Rumlow's out of the hospital without supervision, and he decides to pay someone very special a visit to take on his threat.
Warnings: Violence, dubcon sex... more to no doubt be added later.
Rumlow chewed on the toothpick at the side of his mouth, sighting down his sniper rifle at the quaint little house in that quaint quiet middle class suburb. He was using the house next to Wilson's, aware that the owners were on holiday after he had seen them packing and yapping far too loudly about how long they would be gone for. People still had no survival sense whatsoever, but it saved him having to slit their throats in the middle of the night and bury their corpses in the backyard.
As it was, he was using the fall of their giant weeping willow to his advantage for cover to perform surveillance on Wilson's home, aware the guy had to come back more often than Rogers. He counted on the fact that Wilson had personal attachments more than Rogers to draw the man back to Washington between various missions sniffing after the cold trails left by the Soldier. Those two were pathetic in the attempts, but it had allowed him opportunity to end up where he was.
Of course, maybe his recent escape from the hospital had drawn them back? He supposed that it hadn't been subtle killing his nurse and painting the HYDRA symbol on the wall with her blood and mockingly left her corpse laid out on his old bed. It had still been fun after months of boredom, pain and continual glares as if he were some animal for his part in Project Insight. People just failed to understand the beauty of that kind of freedom, but his loyalty to HYDRA remained and he didn't want anyone to forget it.
He'd used his underground contacts to get a few things that he needed to make his life bearable, which included clothing that wasn't too rough on his overly sensitive skin. Burns were a bitch, but he didn't mind the scarring much. People tended to avoid him because of it, when he bothered to appear at all, sometimes just enough to let old SHIELD facial recognition programs catch him. Laying a false trail on his activities while he spent most of his time laying in wait for far, far more important matters.
Like the fact that Wilson was home. His index finger stroked the trigger, aware he could put the man away with a single glorious shot. It was almost tempting, but he wanted this to be far more personal for them, seeing as Wilson was the reason that he had failed to put a bullet in Hill's pretty forehead and stop the Insight protocol. It wasn't a delay that he had appreciated until he had lay roughing shit out of his lungs.
Easing down from his perch on the house, he abandoned his rifle there on the roof where he would retrieve it later. Instead, he slipped over the fence, his black army fatigues whispering against his legs and the faint jingle of metal-on-metal in his pocket. He crept forward under the cover of darkness and slipped up to the backdoor, trying it first before he enjoyed himself picking the lock. Ah, old skills never failed to come in handy, especially when it came on the heels of revenge. He had come prepared for that, and it would be a painful but enjoyable lesson.
He eased the door open and slipped inside from the deck, locking the door so that there was no easy escape for the time being. His ratty sneakers had just enough sole to pad his feet but allow him to still feel the surface he walked across as he moved in search of his quarry, sliding the combat knife from the sheathe on his belt. He wanted things real close and real personal.
When: A few months post-TWS
What: Rumlow's out of the hospital without supervision, and he decides to pay someone very special a visit to take on his threat.
Warnings: Violence, dubcon sex... more to no doubt be added later.
Rumlow chewed on the toothpick at the side of his mouth, sighting down his sniper rifle at the quaint little house in that quaint quiet middle class suburb. He was using the house next to Wilson's, aware that the owners were on holiday after he had seen them packing and yapping far too loudly about how long they would be gone for. People still had no survival sense whatsoever, but it saved him having to slit their throats in the middle of the night and bury their corpses in the backyard.
As it was, he was using the fall of their giant weeping willow to his advantage for cover to perform surveillance on Wilson's home, aware the guy had to come back more often than Rogers. He counted on the fact that Wilson had personal attachments more than Rogers to draw the man back to Washington between various missions sniffing after the cold trails left by the Soldier. Those two were pathetic in the attempts, but it had allowed him opportunity to end up where he was.
Of course, maybe his recent escape from the hospital had drawn them back? He supposed that it hadn't been subtle killing his nurse and painting the HYDRA symbol on the wall with her blood and mockingly left her corpse laid out on his old bed. It had still been fun after months of boredom, pain and continual glares as if he were some animal for his part in Project Insight. People just failed to understand the beauty of that kind of freedom, but his loyalty to HYDRA remained and he didn't want anyone to forget it.
He'd used his underground contacts to get a few things that he needed to make his life bearable, which included clothing that wasn't too rough on his overly sensitive skin. Burns were a bitch, but he didn't mind the scarring much. People tended to avoid him because of it, when he bothered to appear at all, sometimes just enough to let old SHIELD facial recognition programs catch him. Laying a false trail on his activities while he spent most of his time laying in wait for far, far more important matters.
Like the fact that Wilson was home. His index finger stroked the trigger, aware he could put the man away with a single glorious shot. It was almost tempting, but he wanted this to be far more personal for them, seeing as Wilson was the reason that he had failed to put a bullet in Hill's pretty forehead and stop the Insight protocol. It wasn't a delay that he had appreciated until he had lay roughing shit out of his lungs.
Easing down from his perch on the house, he abandoned his rifle there on the roof where he would retrieve it later. Instead, he slipped over the fence, his black army fatigues whispering against his legs and the faint jingle of metal-on-metal in his pocket. He crept forward under the cover of darkness and slipped up to the backdoor, trying it first before he enjoyed himself picking the lock. Ah, old skills never failed to come in handy, especially when it came on the heels of revenge. He had come prepared for that, and it would be a painful but enjoyable lesson.
He eased the door open and slipped inside from the deck, locking the door so that there was no easy escape for the time being. His ratty sneakers had just enough sole to pad his feet but allow him to still feel the surface he walked across as he moved in search of his quarry, sliding the combat knife from the sheathe on his belt. He wanted things real close and real personal.
no subject
Fuck. This.
"You're telling me out of all the damn things they could be working up HYDRA sat around and made some sort of sex...drug?" Sam dragged his eyes away and went to the table where his phone still laid, snatching it up and pressing in the passcode so he could at least text Steve. Though it was hard to do with just one hand - the other one drifting down to palm and knead at his dick for some sort of relief. Just that bit of harsh friction had him smothering a hard groan into his shoulder, gripping himself tightly and jerking again with the sentence he was typing out left half done.
Trouble. Yeah. Felt like it.
"How long does it last?" His voice dragged rough as he looked over again, not quite letting go of himself until he forced it -- finding compromise with at least undoing the button to his pants, unzipping a little -- and started to type again.
no subject
"Do I look like I work in the science department? No," he replied through gritted teeth as he maneuvered the couch where he wanted it and dropped it, rubbing his hand over his brow and making the mistake of looking over at Wilson. "There was a America chemical made by Howard Stark in the mid-40s that caused people to go berserk and tear each other apart. They've been tinkering with that formula for years to see what they could..." he trailed off as his mouth felt suddenly dry with Wilson palming himself and no act had ever looked so damn arousing in all of his life. "Jesus Christ, stop that!"
His brain was thoroughly derailed from the topic of conversation as he rubbed his now sweaty palms down his thighs and tried to remember what the hell they had been talking about. He really just wanted out of his clothing. Why had he worn so many belts and buckles anyway? "How long does what last?"