Chapter Text
The safehouse was a dim, concrete box tucked in the underbelly of a forgotten city, its air thick with dust and tension. Joaquin Torres knelt on the cold floor, wrists bound behind him with coarse rope that bit into his skin. The knots were tight, professional: Rumlow’s work. Brock Rumlow stood before him, his silhouette looming in the flicker of a single overhead bulb, eyes glinting with a predatory edge. The mission had gone sideways, and Joaquin, the young Falcon, had been caught in Rumlow’s trap.
But this wasn’t about interrogation. Not anymore. The air crackled with something darker, something both men felt but hadn’t named until now. “Comfortable, kid?” Rumlow’s voice was gravelly, laced with mockery as he tugged the rope, testing its hold.
Joaquin’s breath hitched, the pressure on his wrists sending a jolt of pain and something else—something that made his pulse race. He glared up, jaw tight, refusing to give Rumlow the satisfaction of a response. But his body betrayed him, the heat pooling low in his gut as Rumlow stepped closer, boots echoing on the concrete.
The older man crouched, his face inches from Joaquin’s, a smirk curling his lips. “You’re too pretty to be an Avenger,” he murmured, fingers brushing Joaquin’s jaw, rough and deliberate. Rumlow’s hand slid down, gripping Joaquin’s throat—not choking, just holding, a reminder of control. Joaquin’s chest heaved, his breath shallow as he fought the urge to lean into the touch.
The rope creaked as he shifted, the burn against his skin grounding him even as his mind spiraled. Rumlow’s fingers tightened briefly, then released, trailing down to tug at Joaquin’s tactical vest. With a flick of a knife, the vest was gone, fabric shredding under Rumlow’s practiced hands. Joaquin’s shirt followed, exposing his chest to the cool air, nipples hardening under Rumlow’s gaze. “Look at you,” Rumlow growled, voice thick with hunger. “All tied up and nowhere to go.” The older man stood, circling Joaquin like a wolf sizing up prey. From behind, Rumlow’s hands roamed, calloused palms grazing Joaquin’s shoulders, then lower, tracing the dip of his spine.
Joaquin tensed, the ropes holding him immobile as Rumlow’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants. A sharp tug, and the button popped free, the zipper loud in the quiet room. Joaquin’s cock twitched, already half-hard, and he cursed himself for it. Rumlow chuckled, low and dark, as he shoved Joaquin’s pants down, leaving him exposed.
“Eager, huh?” Rumlow’s breath was hot against Joaquin’s ear, his hand wrapping around Joaquin’s length, stroking once, slow and deliberate. Joaquin bit back a moan, his head tipping back as Rumlow’s grip tightened, the rope around his wrists forcing his chest out, vulnerable. Rumlow’s other hand slid up, pinching a nipple hard enough to make Joaquin gasp. The pain mingled with pleasure, a dizzying mix that left him trembling. Rumlow worked him with ruthless precision, stroking him to full hardness, thumb circling the tip where pre-cum beaded.
"You’re gonna beg for me, Torres,” Rumlow promised, voice rough as he knelt again, this time between Joaquin’s spread thighs. His tongue flicked out, tasting the slick head of Joaquin’s cock, and Joaquin’s hips bucked involuntarily, the ropes creaking. Rumlow pulled back, smirking as he reached for a pair of cuffs dangling from his belt. “Rope’s nice, but let’s make this personal.” He unbound Joaquin’s wrists just long enough to snap the cold metal cuffs in place, the click echoing like a gunshot. Joaquin’s arms were yanked above his head, secured to a low pipe running along the ceiling. The new position stretched him taut, muscles straining, cock bobbing against his stomach. Rumlow’s eyes raked over him, predatory, before he leaned in, sucking a bruise into Joaquin’s throat. His teeth grazed the skin, and Joaquin’s moan broke free, raw and desperate.
Rumlow’s hands were everywhere. Gripping Joaquin’s hips, spreading his thighs wider, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He produced a length of paracord from his pocket, improvising restraints to bind Joaquin’s ankles to the legs of a rusted chair, forcing his legs apart. Joaquin was utterly exposed, cock leaking steadily now, the humiliation of it only stoking the fire in his veins.
Rumlow knelt again, taking Joaquin into his mouth, sucking hard and fast, no preamble. Joaquin’s head fell back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as Rumlow’s tongue swirled, relentless, the cuffs biting into his wrists with every involuntary jerk of his body. The older man pulled off with a wet pop, grinning as he stood, undoing his own belt with a slow, deliberate motion.
Joaquin’s eyes widened, tracking the movement, his mouth dry with anticipation. Rumlow’s cock was thick, heavy, already glistening as he stroked himself, standing over Joaquin’s bound form. “You want this, don’t you?” Rumlow taunted, smearing pre-cum across Joaquin’s lips. Joaquin’s tongue darted out, tasting him, and Rumlow groaned, fisting Joaquin’s hair to hold him still.
He pushed forward, sliding into Joaquin’s mouth, the stretch making Joaquin’s jaw ache. Rumlow fucked his mouth with shallow thrusts, grunting as Joaquin’s tongue worked, eager despite himself. Joaquin’s world narrowed to the weight on his tongue, the burn of the cuffs, the ache in his stretched limbs.
Rumlow’s pace quickened, his grip tightening, and Joaquin gagged, tears pricking his eyes. Rumlow pulled out abruptly, stroking himself to finish across Joaquin’s chest, hot and sticky. Joaquin panted, his own cock throbbing, untouched. Rumlow smirked, wiping his hand on Joaquin’s thigh before kneeling to untie the paracord. But he wasn’t done. He slicked his fingers with lube from his pocket, pressing one against Joaquin’s entrance, circling slowly.
“Relax,” Rumlow ordered, voice low, as he pushed in, stretching Joaquin with a burn that made him whimper. Two fingers, then three, worked him open, curling to hit that spot that made Joaquin’s vision white out. He was begging now, incoherent, as Rumlow lined himself up, pushing in with one slow, relentless thrust. Joaquin cried out, the stretch overwhelming, the cuffs rattling as he strained against them.
Rumlow fucked him hard, each thrust driving Joaquin higher, the chair scraping against the floor. The world dissolved into heat, pain, and pleasure, Joaquin’s release crashing over him as Rumlow groaned, spilling deep inside. They stayed there, panting, the ropes and cuffs a reminder of the line they’d crossed, the safehouse silent except for their ragged breaths.