The asset was ready for his punches, as though he knew they were coming: Rumlow hissing at him, swinging his fists and the asset catching them with an answering growl, taking the elbow to his gut without much more than a curl of his lip. The man was strong, like his handlers had always been--seasoned soldiers, cold and brutal men. He'd only gotten stronger and more vicious as he aged; he made a worthy match for the asset as a handler and as his omega. But he wasn't stronger than the Winter Soldier, none of them were, and in his alpha state he showed it, bending his handler's wrists close to breaking with a grasp that demonstrated how easy it would be to snap them like twigs, with either hand. He dragged Rumlow close to him, snarling right in his face, and then the asset kissed him in a clash of teeth and bruising force.

Subduing his mate's struggles, he transferred both wrists to his left hand, locking the metal fingers around them like a vice, and grabbed his hair again, fisting savagely in the short, thick locks at the base of his skull. There--he left Rumlow without an inch of space to pull away from him, and the soldier could tilt his head and force his lips to part with the insistent pressure of his lips, his teeth, his tongue; he pushed his tongue into Rumlow's mouth as soon as he gained an opening, and the taste of his omega brought a deep rumble of satisfaction from his chest.