We're all going to Hell

[infligere]

Who: Brock Rumlow & Sam Wilson
When: 6+ months post-TWS
What: Tans knows. I know. Yet another reason we have poor life choices because of conversations with each other.
Warnings: Rumlow, dubious science, sex no doubt.


Time was a slippery mistress to chase when one hadn't seen the outside world in a long time. The Hive was a facility that was designed to be both a prison and a feast of scientific advancement, buried in the ground and having little need to have any come to the top three prison levels for any more than resupplying. It was a revolving door of fresh faces and experimentation, hidden within plain sight and maintained by an apparent good standing in a functioning if hard penal system.

Rumlow hadn't had a chance to look at the date when he was stolen from the hospital room, not exactly his first priority. He knew upon awakening and being told he was at the Hive that he had been traded to another division to use up what was left of him. That was fine by him as all previous estimations were that he would never been fully functional as an agent again with the extent of damage that he had suffered. He was fine living out the rest of his life being of service.

Except he didn't die.

HYDRA was always on some advancement, and it seemed interested in the relative youth of the super-soldiers and the limited youth effects of Centipede. It had a good serum made up that was in test phase, and who better to test the effects on then the washed out remains of soldiers from the Washington D.C. failure. It began slowly at first and earnestly when responses were recorded. Alphas, fueled by testosterone and aggression and dominance, showed little production and response, though there was some age-stopping effects noted. Betas, the middle ground that swayed between nature and nurture, were moderately successful and lost a few apparent years and maladies that were associated with age. Omegas, nurturing and estrogen based and designed to take all manner of punishment, responded better than anyone expected. Years bled away (literally), they returned to prime 'breeding' years as it was called and they were suddenly on great interest.

Brock had healed well, his scarring bleeding away with the years that reversed him. Aches, pains and old injures sorted themselves out. He was a rarity. Among the omega population, only twenty percent were born male and the rest were all female, who had a more nurturing nature. His rarity had been a curse for most of his life, only HYDRA saving him from life in the underbelly. He had joined first because he had been guaranteed heavy duty and very experimental suppressants; as one of the few male omegas, he had first crack at them and disregarded any danger associated with them. It was better to be on them than risk heats every three months in his prime.

Now with the experimentation at its peak, he was back to where he had started when he was twelve and showed his nature. He hadn't been on suppressants since the Triskelion had fallen on him, and his highly regarded and coveted 'maleness' fell away. His hips ached constantly, the scent glands on his neck had developed out of forced dormancy, a considerable amount of his old musculature had not returned despite his aggressive attempts, and looking every bit like the man he had been when he was twenty-five or so, even his facial hair, once so prized by him and always left somewhat rugged, struggled to grow.

Worse, his second heat in twenty-five years had come and gone, leaving him in isolation so as not to send all the other omegas (all female but one other) into heats of their own.

The worst of it was the itch that he had spent most of his time ignoring getting stronger. At first, he thought little of it until the noises of doctors and guards alike giving orders and hurried moving equipment and paperwork. Within hours, the itch grew and Rumlow knew. The Hive had been discovered and was being taken down by whatever remained of SHIELD or the Avengers or whatever organization was giving HYDRA the chase around at this point. He had hoped that he wouldn't come, but the thin thread of bond that was still so new and foreign was searching and crawling through his mind. It was deep already.

Wilson.

Rumlow remained at the back of his cell, his knees pulled up and his arms resting across them as he stared at the door. The prison jumpsuit was almost threadbare and at least see-through in more than a few places, an indication of the time that had passed. It was probably too much to ask that he would be passed over in the raid, and he huffed softly at the sound of gunfire and the invasion. Perhaps Wilson would consider him a lost cause and let him go, but no... even with only thirty minutes of contact, his near death and then disappearance, the bond remained unbroken. Who would leave their bond behind? Him maybe.

Maybe not with his hormones running on full, and while he certainly wasn't a typical omega, he still was one. Certain rules of his nature applied even after thirty years of neglect of them and the same amount of time hating them. He had learned long ago how to manipulate with his hormones; he could do so again as long as his bond didn't step in. Chances? Slim to none.

"Don't do it. You'll regret every single moment of it," he whispered at the closed door. "I'll make you regret."

Comments

[airfoil]

Finding your bondmate was always talked about as one of those rare, golden moments of your life that should be celebrated with friends and family. He'd gone to enough vow ceremonies in his life, for both his friends and his family to want the same. I twas supposed to be that moment everything clicked.

It was supposed to be good.

Sam told no one for six months and quietly, horribly, hoped his bondmate would have the good sense to die. If they didn't come across one another again then maybe it wouldn't wind any deeper than it had in the few brutal moments it took to forge. The whole thing didn't make sense in the first place. How the hell he was intended for Brock Rumlow, he couldn't figure out. Seemed more like biology and nature making some gross error and maybe with enough time the bond would break or the forces that be would realize their mistake.

Not that lucky, though.

He busied himself with following Steve and his own desperate, headlong chase after his bondmate who seemed more set on a long game of cat-and-mouse rather than turning around and facing the tie between them. They got close only for Steve to look up and realize that Bucky was moving away it was that strong between the two of them that he had a pinpoint better than any sort of tracking system but even then it wasn't flawless. Every time Bucky pulled away he watched a new line of pain etch itself into Steve's face.

Eventually though, Bucky came around. Sam heard what parts Steve deigned to share though he didn't come back with Barnes, he came back easier with the frequent distant looks that said he was speaking to his bondmate as a new addition. And Sam was happy for him. He was even if he doubted that he'd even have that sort of easy thing. Happy to be packing it up after traveling cross-country and jumping continents (their European tour had been nice, the bond in the back of his head no more than a odd, distant tickle only in his most unguarded moments in his sleep).

He failed miserably at settling back into work at the VA. Failed in ignoring the louder itch and thrum in his head and he told Steve when something felt like it clicked when he mentioned the raid the remnants of SHIELD was planning. The look on his face...

Hell of a thing having Captain America look at you with something akin to pity under the confusion. Shouldn't have been possible. If it was he would have bonded long, long ago.

They let him on and Steve at least kept it between the two of them who Sam was really there for while they raided what was frequently described as the Hive in HYDRA's recovered files. Smooth as the raid was going Sam still felt a gross tightness in his stomach and up his throat which wasn't helped by the failed experiments – twisted bodies, god- sometimes just limbs- they'd come across in the block before.

Steve was off providing cover, having tossed the fancy all-access pass coded once they'd broken in over for use. Sam didn't have to consult the chart hanging at the front of the hallway, neatly listing the names or numbers of the cells residences. He went right to the fifth one down, an urgent tugging pulling him along. The bond a strong dark cord-

Simple cell. Stark, cold, plain with the florescent lighting bright. HYDRA wasn't treating their former operatives with much grace, but he'd already read as much.

When his eyes fell on his bondmate from over the train of his gun they widened. Not what he expected. He looked-

His gun lowered.

What the hell did they do to you?

“You tired of staring at this box yet?”

[infligere]

Rumlow was warm and comfortable, more so now than he had ever been in his life. There was a hum to his flesh that had never been inside of it before, the calming waves of satisfaction from a productive heat, a sleep of a few hours, and the gentle wash of bond through his sleepy mind as it slowly pulled free of the hazy dreamless state he had found himself in. A part of him didn't want to wake, just wanted to stay just like that in the warm loosen confines under the blanket and nestled into the mattress with Wilson's body, bond and breath washing all over him.

They had moved at some point. He couldn't pinpoint much of time aside from when they were having sex or knotted together and when they were settled close or dozing for the next time to repeat the first two options. Somehow, Wilson had convinced the people running the joint to let them out of the interrogation room that he had originally put in, abandoning their ruined clothing and the equipment. He remembered gluing himself to Wilson, all snarls and alpha-like challenges to everything from the walls to any cameras that they passed. He didn't know or care of the facility enough to even track the path that they had taken. All he knew was that they had ended up in a place that was livable with a big bed with clean sheets and smelled fresh and clean.

It didn't stay that way long, not once they had found the bed anyway. Now, his heat was over, the hormones a low pleasant simmer and his limbs that pleasant kind of heavy. He stretched his legs out, curling his toes and making a soft sleepy noise as he gradually came awake and aware. He nestled into Wilson's firm chest, his alpha's scent all familiar and comforting even as his eyes blinked opened and he became aware of the dried pull of their mixed cum between his legs, on his hips and along his ass. He made a soft humming noise as he drew a hand over his flat muscular belly and realized a moment later what he was doing.

He lifted his head to peer around, laid out on his stomach and nestled close to sleeping Wilson next to him. The motion of jerking his head up cracked open the scabbing on his neck where the bond was scarring quickly to announce his state of bonded. He reached up with fingers to poke at the thick mat of scabbing, feeling the bond surge with that motion, all still so new and raw.

Rumlow issued several soft huffing grunts as he shifted to crawl away, assurances to a sleeping mate to not be alarmed by his distance. He only had to take a piss after all. He moved up and walked with little of his usual balance, more of a sashay to the bathroom where he did what he set out the do and regarded the flecks of dried semen and slick with growing disdain. He felt so damn good, but he was covered inside and out with the stuff. Now that he could think clearer, he understood that being bond-starved and then suddenly bonding and mating had been a bit... more than most pairs accomplished.

He flushed the toilet and approached the mirror, smoothing his fingers through the overly long hair and disliking it. He'd get Wilson to cut it, he decided. He was forced to tuck some of it behind his ears, and he leaned forward to examine his appearance before his eyes dropped to the obvious bond bite scabbing his neck. Forty-five years old, reduced to twenty-five... and bonded fast and hard, everything he had never wanted to do. The worst part as he ran his fingers over the scabbing was that he had wanted it, that he had offered over and over for it, desperately seeking that connection so long denied to him through everyone.

Now he had it.

His fist impacted with the wall all the same, aware that smashing the mirror would make too much noise. A bonded omega. He hated most that he wasn't as upset as he thought he should be. His knuckles throbbing, he moved to return to the bed.