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The asset lies curled at his handler’s feet, listening…
To the soft scratch of pen on paper, as his handler fills out paperwork. To the hum of the lights. Footsteps two corridors down, drunken Strike personnel by the sound of it. Something cold tries to twist about in the asset’s guts, but the sheer weight of his handler’s presence squashes it. The asset is safe here.
All the same he listens for potential threats. His handler keeps the asset safe, and the asset protects his handler. There are enemies everywhere. From both outside, but more commonly, within Hydra. Handler of the famed Winter Soldier is a prestigious if usually short-lived position. This handler is the best the asset’s ever had, his tenure far longer than anyone could have ever predicted. Therefore, individuals have sought to remove him. The asset has stopped them all.
The asset wraps the human hand around his handler’s ankle, protectively… Except that is not quite right. Possessively? Yes. His handler. His. His handler is to be kept safe.
“You gettin’ squirmy down there, sweetheart?”
“No, sir.” Truth. The asset can lie at his handler’s feet, monitoring for threats all night. Though it would be preferable to lie curled around his handler on the pullout couch. Warm liquid pools low in the asset’s gut, there’s heat in his cheeks, yet still he shivers slightly.
It’s taken time, the asset not entirely certain how much, but he’s coming to understand that those activities with this handler aren’t something to be dreaded. But something to be anticipated, looked forward to…
There’s the sound of wooden chair legs against concrete. “Go get the bed pulled out, babe.”
The asset crawls out from beneath the desk. His handler hadn’t left much room for maneuverability, forcing the asset to brush against the man’s legs as he squeezes past. A hand wraps around the asset’s wrist, and the asset allows his handler to yank him down, grip his hair in that way that hurts but feels good because it hurts… A whine comes out unbidden… The asset’s dick twitches… His handler’s mouth practically fuses with the asset’s for one too brief moment.
Then the kiss is over and the asset’s been shoved towards the couch, “Saturday Night Protocol, babe. You’d best bring your stamina.”
The asset’s dick is twitching constantly with interest now. It is currently Wednesday, but Saturday Night Protocol does not have to fall on a Saturday. It occurs whenever Commander Rumlow orders it. Which is on average every ten days.
Preparation protocol is mostly the same for all recreational activities. The asset unfolds the bed from the couch, and makes it up with fresh sheets, pillows and blankets from the office closet. Pillows are to be fluffed. Lube is to be placed on the small table next to the couch, Saturday Night Protocol dictates that lotion is to be placed beside the lube however. Finally, the asset is to strip naked and lie provocatively on the bed, and look at his handler, to indicate all is ready.
All of this the asset does. Lying down, half-hard cock on full display, and resting his head on his flesh hand. The asset has found that tilting his head, and allowing his hair to fall slightly in his face, makes his handler pause and simply stare for half a second. This response pleases the asset.
His handler sits back in the chair, finally done with paperwork. The asset enjoys the way his handler’s muscles flex as he stretches. He licks his bottom lip just as his handler looks over; the asset’s dick twitches at the way his handler’s eyes darken.
Eyes never leaving the asset, his handler rises and walks over. The asset stays perfectly still, save just slightly arching his neck, and licking at his bottom lip once again; inside however, the asset preens at his handlers undivided attention.
“My lower back’s been killin’ me, baby. Think you can help me out?”
The asset reaches for the lotion, making sure he stretches in that way makes his muscles ripple as he does. His handler makes a pleased sound as he plops down onto his stomach, stretching out.
The asset takes up position on his handlers thighs, pouring lotion onto the flesh hand and warming it via friction. Rule of Saturday Night Protocol: Lotion is to be warmed, lube is left cold.
The asset begins with broad strokes across his handlers lower back, over a gorgeous ass, and the back of his thighs. His handler groans in approval. “Khoroshiy soldat.”
Lotion evenly spread, the asset pours more into his hand – takes care to warm it again– and digs into the sore muscles of his handler’s lower back. Down either side of his spine and just above his hips; he lays a hand on the sacrum and rubs gently. His handler makes a sound the asset recognizes as a bitten back moan.
His dick – fully hard now– throbs pleasantly at the sound.
“You’re getting too fucking good at this sweetheart. Get going, I’m feeling impatient tonight.”
The asset palms his handler’s perfectly formed rear, kneading the muscles there. This time his handler can’t stop the moan. Satisfaction blossoms in the asset’s chest. He continues the work, wringing more moans from his handler.
“Khoroshiy mal’chik,” his handler whispers against the sheets. “Fuck… Little higher, yes there…”
The asset leans forward, tasting his handler’s skin just above the man’s hip. Now massaging at the junction where thigh and glutes meet, the asset sucks a bruise into the spot he’d just tasted. His handler bucks beneath him. “Fuck, you’re getting bold…”
“Problem?” the asset asks, tilting his head to the side. His handler’s expression always gets soft whenever the asset does head tilts. His handler cannot currently see him, but the action helps to inject a layer of innocence into the asset’s voice.
His handler chuffs a laugh, stretching a bit. “Nah… But I want your fingers inside me soon, babe.”
“You must match,” the asset says, seriously. He grips his handlers hips a bit harder than strictly necessary, while sucking a hickey above the other hip. Trails a line of kisses up his handler's spine, until he can bite the back of the other man's neck. Bury his face in the crook and inhale heat, woodsmoke and hints of molasses. “Commander,” he murmurs. “Rumlow.”
Rumlow writhes beneath him, swearing a little, grinding his ass back into the asset’s dick.
The asset tenses, nearly malfunctions. He is not allowed release yet. Not until he has satisfied his handler. Quickly, he grabs the lube from the bedside table.
“Metal fingers,” Rumlow orders, arching his ass upwards. The asset has to hold his handler in place lest he make the asset malfunction. Such things are allowed during the Saturday Night Protocol.
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a slight shiver down the asset’s spine, both from the cool lube hitting his palm and anticipation for what’s to come. Stomach swooping pleasantly, the asset applies lube to that warm, hidden junction between his handlers glutes. Feeling the soft wrinkled skin, sketching a circle around Rumlow’s tight, pink asshole with his thumb before finally pressing down on it. But not inside.
Rumlow bucks beneath him, hissing through his teeth. “Still a fucking tease…”
The sensors in the metal know heat and pressure levels. But it’s not the same as feeling. The asset prefers the hot clench around his flesh fingers but the sounds his handler makes when he presses two of his metal digits into his ass never fails to make the asset's mind melt.
He waits a breath. Both to give Rumlow a moment to get used to the feel and because release for the asset is not allowed. Not yet. Delicious, choked sounds made by his handler are irrelevant.
The asset knows his handler's body. Finding that spot – the prostate, he’s learned – is second nature now. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been doing this. Or all of his teachings. Exactly. The chair takes things. But the asset knows… The metal fingers know… Maybe it’s muscle memory now. He knows to scissor the fingers open. Brush teasingly against the prostate. Holds Rumlow still with the flesh hand because that’s what he likes.
When Commander Rumlow had first become his handler – the asset’s not entirely certain when that had been; there’d been the ice at least once and the chair twice since then – the recreational activity had been different.
Only his handler was allowed to fuck him. There’d been lube. His handlers fingers in his ass, preparing him. The fucking never hurt. The asset was allowed release again and again yet never mocked for it. He hadn’t even made it feel too good and then gotten mad at the asset for finishing too quickly.
The asset’s pretty certain the first Saturday Night Protocols were introduced during a month-long stay at a safehouse somewhere in Eastern Europe. That’s definitely where the asset’s fingers – both flesh and metal – had become intimately acquainted with the inner workings of his handlers asshole.
He adds a third finger, eliciting a low whine from his handler. Wait five seconds. Breathe through the sudden lightheadedness. The asset had thought all of his blood was in his dick, but he’d been wrong.
“You wanna fuck me, don’tcha baby,” Rumlow whispers, fucking himself on the asset’s metal fingers. “Come on, get your dick in me.”
The asset pulls his fingers back – even in this state of tunnel-vision and arousal, he knows to be careful, his handler is precious- Rumlow wiggles his ass, the asset sees double for a moment. He needs… And because it's the Saturday Night Protocol, he can simply grab his handler’s ass and take, take, take…
Hot.
Tight.
Delicious.
Rumlow’s swearing, squirming on the asset’s dick.
The asset’s moving, needs to see his dick move in and out of his handler’s tight little hole. But his handler does sound a bit too coherant. Pushing the other man flat on the bed, the asset picks up the pace. Rumlow manages to get out a strangled, “Shit, yes like that baby, just like shit… fuck…” but after that his noises turn to whines and half-sobs.
Rumlow’s dick is spurting pre-come when the asset’s hand finds out. He sets about stroking with single-minded intensity. When Rumlow comes the asset is allowed release. And the asset needs release.
Recreational activities with Commander Rumlow were preferable in every way. However, the asset has found that some things are more preferable than others. The most preferable thing, the asset has found, is the sense of autonomy. The asset can now be a participant in recreation, not just a hole.
He is allowed to touch his handler and find pleasure that way. Saturday Night Protocol is the greatest example of this.
To that end the asset leans forward, blanketing his body along his handler’s back. So, so carefully the asset cradles his handler's throat in the flesh hand. Beneath him, Rumlow melts, sobbing desperately now. Satisfaction blooms up in the asset’s chest, his handler letting the asset take care of him.
He presses a kiss to the back of his handler's neck, to the spot just below Rumlow’s ear.
He bites down on Rumlow’s shoulder and the other man comes.
His handler likes it best when the asset leaves bruises. The asset grips Rumlow’s hip harder as he comes, balls deep in his handler's ass.
For several long moments they lie like that. Flush against one another. This part, the afterglow, is one of the best parts in the asset’s opinion. He lies, face pressed against Rumlow’s hair until his handler gets his breathing back under control.
“Fuck, you’re just getting better and better at that baby,” Rumlow pants. The asset feels full to bursting with pride. “Go grab us some Gatorade. Ten minutes, then we’re going again in the shower.”