Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9574250.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Brock_Rumlow/Original_Male_Character(s), James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve
      Rogers
  Character:
      Brock_Rumlow, Bailey_"Boomer"_Barnes_(o/c), Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"
      Barnes, Jack_Rollins
  Additional Tags:
      A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Omegaverse, Masturbation, guided
      masturbation, Nipple_Play, mentioned_mpreg, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat,
      underage_sexual_situations, Alpha_Brock_Rumlow, Omega_Bucky_Barnes, Alpha
      Steve_Rogers, Omega_Bailey_"Boomer"_Barnes, Canon_Divergent, Canon_What
      Canon, graphic_rape_scene, Unhappy_Ending
  Series:
      Part 2 of Baby_Boomer
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-04 Completed: 2017-02-08 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 15149
****** Bailey "Boomer" Barnes ******
by Entropyrose, Hiemallily
Summary
     A special Thank-you to RedPredator for all your input and help with
     formulating the storyline!
     Growing up the son of The Winter Soldier and Captain America isn't
     easy--it's made even worse when mother nature intervenes. Bailey
     "Boomer" Barnes is a bright 15-year-old kid just starting to carve
     out his own path in life. Brock Rumlow is a guy just trying to get on
     with his. And as always, nothing ever goes as planned.
Notes
     The following depicts situations of a sexual (if fictional) nature
     involving a 15-year old and a 50-year old. No sexual intercourse, but
     plenty of allusions to it. Don't say you weren't warned.
***** Chapter 1 *****
She looks a little taller closer up, and he can smell the bitter copper and
brine from the harbor. She is rusty, too—a green glow of patina cakes each and
every rivet piecing her together and orange streaks of rust run down her skirt.
He has seen her hundreds of thousands of times by now—she’s a permanent fixture
in the New York skyline.
He’s never really understood why hundreds of thousands of people flock to see
her each year, but he’s not about to tell his Dad that. He watches him stare up
at her with a nostalgic, sad kind of smile, his blue eyes bathed in the light
reflecting off her iron robes.
“She was the first sight any of them saw,” Steve says, placing a hand on his
son’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Many of them were escaping
hunger, oppression, exile.” He nods towards the statue. “And she was the sign
of opportunity. For hope of a new life. For a fighting chance.”
Boomer rolls his eyes when he’s sure his Dad’s not looking and takes a deep
bite of his ice cream. “You sound like one of those old guys on the History
channel.”
Steve chuckles and shoves his hand in his pocket, jingling his keys. “Yeah, I
suppose I do.” He ruffles the tuft of ice-blond hair on the kid’s head and
steals the cherry from the top of the cone, popping it into his mouth with a
grin.
“Hey—!” He slaps his Dad’s thick bicep and hops off the break-wall. “You owe me
a new cone,” he gruffs, a smile hidden under thick bangs.
“We’ve gotta cut that hair,” Steve mutters absentmindedly as they make their
way to the parking lot. “Alright, I suppose it’s time to go get your Father.”
* * * * *
The butt of Bucky’s Sig-Sauer finds Rumlow’s face, effectively knocking him to
the ground, but the Operative rolls away, jabbing a booted foot into his shin.
“Keep every angle in mind,” Rumlow shouts as Bucky slides to the floor. He
unsheathes a rubber knife hidden deep in his vest and slices the air near
Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s metal hand traps the knife and he flips it into his
gloved one and holds it under Rumlow’s chin. Rumlow huffs out a winded laugh
and raises his hands in surrender.
“Every angle.” Bucky’s eyes shift to the line of uniformed recruits whose jaws
are dropped in stupefied awe. “Because it will either mean opportunity, or your
death.”
“Always said you’d be the death of me,” Rumlow mutters into Bucky’s ear, giving
him a secretive grin.
Bucky slyly returns the expression, sliding the practice blade back to its
owner. He trots a few steps backward, keeping his eyes locked on Rumlow as he
exists the red-taped circle and taps the shoulder of the wide-eyed student at
the end of the line. “Now you try. Keep your focus towards the center of his
body, but don’t lose sight of his limbs.”
The kid hesitates forward, stepping into the ring with shaky hands. Rumlow
sheathes the blade, hunkering down into a ready stance, hands open, fingers
wiggling. “C’mon,” he barks. The kid goes for a roundhouse kick right off, and
Rumlow easily blocks it with an open palm, one jerk of his wrist sending the
kid tumbling to the mat. He rolls away and pops back up on the other side of
the circle, panting.
“Watch his stance,” Bucky orders, his booted feet landing heavily as he circles
the fighters. “You’re not going to be landing a hit any time soon if you don’t
get him off-balance.”
Another lunge awards Rumlow with a fist to his ribs, his side-step too slow for
the kid’s wiry physique. He counters with a grappling hold, both arms under the
recruit’s as they fight for control. The kid’s long legs jut out every which-
way, trying to latch around Rumlow’s boots and falter him. Rumlow side-steps
easily, taking the kid’s upper half with him and causing his feet to splay out
from under him. He drops him to the mat with an undignified “thud”.
“Not bad,” Rumlow instructs, offering a hand down to him. The recruit wipes his
mouth with his forearm and grasps hold. “The key is to get your opponent to
forget about what their body is doing in response to yours. Easier to find an
opening.”
“And never forget surprise attacks!” A blur of blond and denim spins into the
circle, colliding with Rumlow’s back and forcing him over his feet. Rumlow
barks out a laugh and traps the wiggling body underneath one bicep, squeezing
down mercilessly.
“Say it.”
“Never!,” the compact little body wriggles under his, soft hair tickling the
inside of Rumlow’s arm.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Rumlow chimes and squeezes down harder,
squeezing a sharp squeak from the puny assailant.
Bucky lets out a disgruntled sigh as he rounds up the uniformed students.
“Alright, class. To the showers.” As the line of students shuffles out, Bucky
plucks his son from Rumlow’s arm, absentmindedly tending to the creases in his
jacket.
“How did it go?” Steve approaches casually, arms folded across his chest.
“That’s Captain America,” one of the students softly lauds to a classmate on
her way out. A smile tugs at Steve’s mouth as the stares and murmurs of
admiration follow.
“You just had to steal our thunder, ey Cap?” Rumlow swipes a towel from the
rack and swings it over his neck.
“They’re showing promise,” Bucky murmurs, ignoring his remark, but his tone
suggests he’s less impressed with this year’s batch of Shield Recruits.
“Well, that’s cause they haven’t met me yet,” the short blond chides, rolling
up the jacket sleeve on each bicep.
Rumlow quirks an eyebrow and Steve ruffles the milky yellow hair on top of his
head. “Yes, son. We know.”
“Not cool, Dad.” The kid swats at Steve’s hand as the trio has a good laugh at
his expense.
“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Bucky announces, swinging a black duffel over
his shoulder and heading for the door. “I’m guessing you have homework to do
when we get back.”
“Nope, got it all done at school.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Mr. Hendsen let me stay in his classroom during lunch. So I was
wondering, Dad, could Uncle Rumlow take me for a ride?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “You skipped lunch so you could go for a ride with your
Uncle?”
“Well…yeah.”
Bucky slides a look between his husband and the grinning black-haired
operative. Rumlow pauses, but when Steve doesn’t chime in with his usual
objection, he shrugs and reaches in his pocket for his keys. “I’ll have him
home before dinner.”
“Dinner’s at six,” Steve mumurs, his eyes narrowing a vague amount.
“Six,” Rumlow repeats.
“Yes!” The kid clamps all for limbs around the unsuspecting operative, who
steadies a hand on his back to keep from falling over.
“Easy there, kiddo.”
“What do you say?,” Bucky prods.
“Thanks Dad!” The kid chirps.
“Come on,” Brock mutters into his ear, wiggling the keys so they let out a
happy chime. “Before either of them changes their mind.”
The two exit out the back, laughing back and forth giddily and going on about
what their day was like, while the two parents are left standing in the center
of the fighting ring, watching them leave.
“I’m proud of you,” Bucky says first.
Steve blows out a sigh through his nose and pulls his mate into his chest,
wrapping two mighty arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his
forehead. “Yeah well, he did earn it this time at least.”
Bucky lets out a soft laugh, squeezing Steve’s middle tight.
* * * * *
His name might be Bailey, but he hasn’t been called that in years. Not since he
smacked his head into a wall while chasing after Uncle Tony’s cleaning robot at
the ripe old age of 3. Earned himself a giant welt on his forehead and a
nickname. Steve had swooped him up in those big arms of his, preparing for the
explosion of screams and tears—but as his parents would explain to him much
later, he just gave his Daddy a wide, gappy grin and yelled “Boom!”
“Yeah, you’re a Boomer alright,” Steve had chided, drawing his little chubby
body in for a hug.
Boomer.
It has grown with him and has actually had earned him some cred in high school.
Now in 9th grade, he is popular and sharp and good at sports, everything the
son of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers should be.
“Faster!” Boomer shouts into Rumlow’s ear, nearly knocking their helmets
together as he leans over his shoulder to egg him on. The slick bike slices
through the rush-hour traffic, making quick work of 7th Avenue.
“Not here,” Rumlow corrects him. “You wanna go faster, kid, we’ll need to head
West, out to the ‘burbs.”
“Lets do it then! Aww, come on, Uncle Rum, please can we?”
Rumlow snorts, shaking his head and wondering to himself when Boomer will
outgrow his penchant for pleading for everything he wants (probably when Rumlow
stops caving to him). He drags out his sigh to make certain it doesn’t go
unnoticed as he flicks on his left blinker, veering past the cars that are all
going at a turtle’s pace comparatively.
“Yes!” Boomer wiggles back down into his seat, clamping his hands around
Rumlow’s waist and pawing at his leather jacket in the process.
Rumlow lowers his visor and hits the throttle, the tires squealing underneath
of them as they peel off into the hills.
95 is as fast as Rumlow will take it with Boomer in tow. Even at this speed,
they can both feel the road sucking them into each turn. At the top of the
climb, in the outermost portions of the New York suburbs, sits a little gas
station where they pull in and fill up. It’s late fall; the trees are ablaze
with color and the sun sinks low in the horizon. “Time to get you home,” he
says, topping off the fuel.
“You’re staying for dinner right?”
Rumlow ignores the small sting that rolls through him and shakes his head.
“Don’t think so, kiddo. You know how your Dad is about me hanging out…” Over
the years, the excuses of being tired or having to work late have lost their
effectiveness. Best to go with the facts of what the kid can plainly see for
himself.
Boomer glowers, jamming the helmet back on and fastening the strap under his
chin. “Dad sucks.”
A snicker escapes his lips as Rumlow climbs back on the bike and gives the
handles a few test-twists. “You don’t mean that. Sides, maybe you wanna spend
some time with your parents, now that school is back in session?”
Boomer wrinkles his nose. “Not really.”
Rumlow is left shaking his head and smiling down at the brat. What a little
punk he’s turning out to be. Some strange way, it endears him a little more to
Rumlow. His Daddy’s stubborn, rebellious streak mixed with Steve’s warrior
spirit makes for a fiery combo, all topped off with Boomer’s own brand of
unrefined sass. He takes it a little slower on the way back down, drawing out
the ride just a bit more and enjoying the tug of the fingers that draw him a
little closer.
Steve and Bucky opted for a small high-rise just a few blocks away from the
Avengers tower. Steve said he wanted to raise his son in as normal an
environment as possible, as if the Avengers team and their extra-super-special
brand of Crazy wouldn’t follow them there.
It is minimally decorated; just a few of Boomer’s school pictures hang on the
neutral-colored walls. The smell of cooking spaghetti sauce permeates the air
and has Rumlow’s mouth watering in spite of himself. Bucky is the first to
round the corner to the entry way; gone are the battle-ready tactical fatigues,
replaced with an oversized pair of sweatpants that hang well below his navel
and a white tank top that proudly showcases his physique.
Whether its DNA or the Super-solider serum, Bucky has barely aged. He is still
pouty-mouthed and baby-faced. Rumlow finds himself a bit envious of that—the
last few years have seen a steady increase of the white hairs that speckle the
stubble of his chin and creep through the temples of his hairline.
Cap, though.
Cap’s hair looks like a lighter blond, coated with sugary white hair. Lines
that have settled around his eyes, bit Rumlow is a little disappointed to admit
it makes him no less attractive. His scent has changed, too; gone is the bitter
spice of a newly mated rival-alpha. It has matured into a slow, deep burn that
settles into a heavy ball into the pit of Rumlow’s stomach upon inhale—it is
sated, fixed. Permanent.
“You two have fun?,” Bucky asks, one hip cocked, one strand of auburn hair
hanging in his face. Boomer is already brushing past him, charging into the
kitchen and plucking the wooden spoon from the sauce pan, licking a stripe up
the middle.
“Hey!” Steve snatches it away, reeling it back as if to paddle his behind and
Boomer lets out an animated shriek, stumbling backwards into Bucky and spinning
him around.
“Daddy!”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, glancing back at his son. “I’m not savin’ you.” He
ruffles the hair of the grinning kid and steals a glance back at Rumlow, who is
quietly grinning as he watches the scene. “Thanks for taking him.” Wavering on
his feet as Boomer peers at his Uncle from behind him, Bucky adds sheepishly,
“Would…would you like to stay for dinner?”
Rumlow feels the automatic pull from the doorway. “Oh, ahh. Thanks for the
invite. But I don’t…I’ve got some work back at the…”
Boomer’s face falls. “No he doesn’t. He just doesn’t want Dad getting pissed
again.”
Bucky’s eyes fly open. “Bailey!”
“S’true!”
There are moments when Brock feels like the unneeded extra appendage on an
otherwise perfectly functional machine. He chucks Boomer gently under his chin,
watching Steve’s scowling form in the corners of his vision. “See ya later,
kiddo.” With a sharp pointer finger aimed right at his nose, he adds, “Be
good!”
Rumlow grabs the door handle, maybe a little more hastily than he should, and
exits before he can hear a murmured conversation ensue. Bucky will say
something about Steve being more accepting or willing for Rumlow to be in
Boomer’s life. Steve will respond gruffly, under his breath, that Boomer
already *has* two fathers.
It’s strange, this feeling of being wanted. After 15 years of having a personal
shadow following him everywhere he goes, Rumlow still hasn’t quite gotten used
to it. Maybe Boomer isn’t his biologically, but when Bucky asked all those
years ago if he’d take on being the kid’s god-parent, he felt something awaken
inside of him that he hadn’t known was there.
What was this inescapable feeling? The thing that made his heart jump every
time he saw his face? (Rumlow shakes away the thoughts, lighting up a cigarette
as he heads back to his bike.)
Naw. Couldn’t be.
* * * * *
Rumlow is in the middle of his mid-day weight session the next day when his
cell phone chimes. He flips it open to the sound of a frantic voice on the
other end. “Rumlow. Oh, Thank god! Uhm. Boomer’s missing. Have you seen him?”
The caller ID says “Bucky-cell” but it’s Steve’s voice on the other end, high-
pitched and strained, like he’s dangling on the verge of his own sanity. Rumlow
bolts up on the bench, swiping away a streak of sweat as he switches shoulders.
“What? No, not since last night. Where’s Bucky?”
“He’s with me.” There is a muffled noise of a busy crowd in the background and
intermittent puffs of air hit the receiver as Steve makes his way through.
“Where are you guys?”
“We’re at the school. The Principle just called us a few minutes ago. Boomer
didn’t show for fourth hour and nobody here as seen him.”
Rumlow flicks a nervous tongue over his lips, eyelashes flitting about the room
as his brain scrambles to map out a visual of the school in his mind. “Okay, so
nobody saw him leave?”
Steve’s panic rises. “No! I mean, why would he leave?”
“Did you guys get in some kind of argument or something yesterd—“
“NO!,” Steve barks. “Christ, Rumlow—“
“Okay, calm down, Cap. I didn’t mean anything by it. Kids run away all the
time, and I’m sure—“
“No, not *this* kid!,” Steve’s voice gets suddenly dark and commanding, Captain
America taking over in the rising tide of panic. “Not Boomer. Look, you call me
if you see anything or hear from him, okay?”
Rumlow pauses, hesitating into the phone, mouth dropped open. He wants to ask
how Bucky is—can only imagine, if Steve is this mental over a kid whose been
missing for five minutes, Bucky’s either inconsolable or so far into Winter-
Soldier mode that it’s not safe for anyone to talk to him. But regardless of
Bucky’s mental state, he knows asking Steve how his mate is—his omega that
*used* be to Rumlow’s omega—is only going to push him over the edge. “O-okay.”
He barely rattles out the word before the other end of the line goes dead.
Rumlow sits on the end of the bench, staring out into nothingness. The distant
sound of thunder rumbles and his eyes flit up to the window just as a spatter
of rain starts down. “Fuck. Shit, okay…” He surges forward and makes it to the
door in three quick strides, swiping a towel off the rack as he goes by.
* * * * *
A search of the school turned up nothing. The Avengers tower: nothing. The old
comic book shop on 15th and Chase where he sometimes walks after school:
nothing. Shield: nothing. Rumlow has been pushing down that tendril of fear all
day—the one that tries to coil around his heart and eat away his nerve-endings.
He should have thought of it. So fricking obvious. He should have tried his
apartment first. Rumlow unlocks the door and it swings open to reveal a blond-
haired fifteen year old sitting upright on the edge of his bed. Boomer holds
his hands together between his knees, eyes locked on the floor.
“You little shit.” Rumlow lets out a shuddering breath before streaking across
the room and gathering him up into his arms. “Jesus, fuck, you are in so much
trouble.” Where have you been? What were you thinking? Why? All the questions
crowd together in Rumlow’s mind. He gathers the boy’s face in his hands,
staring down into the green/hazel eyes that dart off to the side. A spicy/sweet
scent curls teasingly underneath Rumlow’s nostrils and he breaths in the new
scent. It reminds him of what Bucky smells like, what he used to smell like
when they…
Rumlow jerks back, holding Boomer out at arm’s length as his alpha senses vie
for control of his judgement. “Jesus…” Rumlow holds the sleeve of his jacket
against his face, but that does almost nothing to block the scintillating
aroma.
“I know,” Boomer grinds out between clenched teeth. He skitters a hand through
his hair as a glossy tear runs down his cheek.
Rumlow sits back, stunned.
“I…I came to the only place I…” Boomer hiccups a little through the tears that
now flow freely, biting back a full sob. “I don’t want this.”
Rumlow’s hand wavers in the air, hesitating just inches from the tuft of blond
hair at the top of the kid’s head. He pulls back, wrestling inside himself
between fatherly instinct and the sensation of newfound, desperate hunger.
“It’s okay. Are—are you okay?”
Boomer shakes his head vehemently. “No! I don’t know what to do! I never wanted
to be like this! I thought, you know, my Dad’s Captain America, and…I thought…”
He lets out a breathy shudder and gasps, suddenly holding his stomach. “Owh.”
“You alright?”
“No!,” he snaps, turning away, shamelessly burying his head in a pillow. “God,
it wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I’m not supposed to be…” His eyes
flutter closed as his fingers curl in around his lower abdomen and a pink glow
lights up his face.
Rumlow has to fight to get ahold of himself. This is his godchild for fuck’s
sake, and yet his body is responding like a wild animal to the kill. Rumlow
wets his lips, reaching out—trying again—the back of his hand presses against
Boomer’s forehead and the kid moans. “You’re burning up.” He reaches for his
phone.
“No! You can’t!” Boomer’s hand clamps down on Rumlow’s wrist with surprising
force, his teary eyes glittering up into Rumlow’s. “Please! They just…Please. I
can’t tell them.”
Rumlow’s hand stills on the phone and he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Your
Dads still think you’re missing. They’re both worried to death. I have to tell
them something.”
“Okay, fine. Tell…” Boomer’s pink tongue flicks out across his mouth and Rumlow
suppresses the shiver of pleasure that skidders up his spine. “Tell them I’m
here. But! Tell them not to come. Please. They can’t come!”
Rumlow shakes his head sadly, but he’d kill for those sparkling green eyes.
“Alright. I can’t make any promises.”
Bucky picks up the other end. “He’s here,” Rumlow says and he hears a cry of
exhausted relief.
“Thank GOD. Oh, my god. Thank you. Is he—“
“He’s fine, Buck.” Rumlow makes his way out to the porch, out of earshot of the
kid curled up on his bed. The brisk New York night creeps along his skin and
cools every synapse. “He’s uhm…he wants to stay here for the night. If it’s
okay.”
“What? Why?”
Rumlow chews on his answer, placing a hand on the railing and looking down at
the glittering lights of the city below. “He got in a fight at school.”
“Another one? The principle didn’t mention anything…Is he alright?”
“Oh yeah, he’s uhm. He’s fine. Just a little banged up. He wants to stay over
here and sleep it off.”
“You sure you’re alright with that? I’ll tell Steve, but I can’t promise he
won’t want to rush right over and bring him home.”
Rumlow chuckles at this. “That’s what I told him. Just…remind him of all the
stupid shit you and him pulled back in the day. Maybe that’ll help him to lay
off.”
“Doubtful,” Bucky says, and he can hear the smile in his voice. “Tell my son I
love him and that he is grounded indefinitely. And Rumlow?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks again. I shoulda known he’d come to you.”
Brock hangs up, sliding the phone back into his pocket and taking a deep breath
of frozen air as if it’s his last.
Boomer has faded off into a restless sleep, one tennis shoe having fallen off
his foot and tumbled onto the floor. He hugs the pillow, his eyes tightly shut,
blond hair falling around his face. “That was fast.” Rumlow drags the blanket
up over his sleeping form, pausing to brush a tendril of hair away from his
forehead. Boomer lets out a stifled moan.
If he is going to withstand the spicy smell of the kid’s heat invading his
apartment, he’s going to need to drown himself in booze. He makes his way to
the cabinet across the hall, quietly slipping a carafe of whiskey from its
place on the shelf. He props himself on the counter, leaning against it with
one arm as he stares down Boomer’s sleeping form. He takes a deep swig and
rolls the burning drink around in his mouth before swallowing.
When he finishes his whiskey, he plucks a knitted throw from the back of the
recliner and sprawls out on the couch, kicking his boots off onto the carpet
and wriggling down into the plush cushions. He lets the alcohol go to work as
it crawls up into his brain and numbs his senses, letting out a sated sigh when
the tingle reaches his limbs. He closes his eyes and wills himself not to think
about having to deal with an emerging, horny omega and his two parents (who are
not doubt going to be a mixture of bewildered and pissed when they find out
what’s really going on). Tomorrow, he reminds himself. He can think about all
that tomorrow.
Minutes later, he is awakened by the weight of an anvil on his chest and sharp
little fingernails clawing at his tank. “The fuck…” His dick is knotted into a
throbbing gourd between his legs as the body above rubs against him in a
frantic back-and-forth rhythm. “Shit!” He lets out a guttural groan between
clenched teeth as the surge of pleasure rockets through his spine and jams his
hands down on the wandering fingers, collecting the wrists attached to them.
The body above lets out a frustrated grunt. “No…don’t stop…”
Boomer’s hips thrust mechanically over the bulge trapped beneath him, furiously
trying to wring his hands free. Rumlow jolts up with all the force of a bull,
spilling the kid onto the opposite end of the couch, roaming hands still
gathered in one of Rumlow’s fists. “Shit—Jesus, kid!” Rumlow winces as his
trapped cock twitches in the pants that now feel three times too small on him.
A wet patch spills outward as it spasms angrily, the loss of the begging little
body on top too much to bear. His heart pounds so loudly in his eardrums that
he can barely make out Boomer’s gasps from his own and he separates himself
from the kid as far as his arms will allow. “STOP.”
“I…I can’t…” Boomer swallows hard, and Rumlow believes him. Boomer’s greenish
blue eyes are hazed over with the need that’s taking over his whole being, his
scent curling seductively under Rumlow’s nostrils tauntingly.
Rumlow flicks a tongue over coarse lips and gives his hands a little shake.
“I’m…I’m gonna let go. Okay?”
Boomer’s eyes flicker closed, his mouth parted and panting. He nods weakly,
biting his pouty bottom lip. “Hmm-hm.”
“I’m gonna let go and you’re going to stay right. Where. You. Are.” Rumlow’s
fingers unfurl, the contact of his skin against the softness of the boy’s
lighting little sparks straight through his dick. Rumlow slides away,
flattening himself against the far corner of the couch, eyes warily locked on
Boomer.
He should be fucking him right now.
He should be bending that perfect ass over the back-end of the couch and
drilling him as hard and as fast as the kid needs, it, and he *knows* he needs
it. He should be attacking those perky pink nipples with his mouth and biting
into his firm, tender flesh and marking him, *claiming* him until he begs for
it, begs to be writhing on the tip of his cock, pleading to be filled with his
seed, to be *knotted*, because that’s what he was made to do, what he was
*bred* for…
Rumlow shakes his head, clearing the thoughts away for only a split second and
high-tailing it to the bathroom. He closes and locks the door, his back against
the wall, sliding downward until the floor hits his ass. He hears the
heartbroken, frustrated sobs on the other side of the door.
“Please…” Nails scratch down the door, those sharp little nails that were
trailing down his chest just moments ago, and Rumlow swallows sharply.
“Trust me, kid.” He grabs at his cock, readjusting himself in his pants and
leaning his head back against the wall. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”
The kid lets out a doubtful huff and sits down, too, the shadow of his crouched
form darkening the sliver of light coming from under the doorway. “I’m…wet,” he
admits bashfully, and fireworks light up Rumlow’s insides. It’s just instinct,
their bodies reacting the way they were intended to towards one-another.
“Yeah, it’s uh…” Rumlow fiddles with his fly as if scratching an itch he can’t
quite get to. “It’s what happens, to uhm…to, you know…”
“Omegas.”
Rumlow sighs. “Yeah.”
“Fuck!” Boomer’s fist tamps against the floor, hot tears spilling down his
cheeks. He draws his knees up to his chest, swiping a hand through his sweat-
dampened hair. “I didn’t want this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”
“I know,” Rumlow murmurs. The kid’s velvety voice is a distraction, a siren’s
call to what is about to become Rumlow’s full-blown knot. The pressure is
painful. He tears open his fly and his fleshy rod springs out, veiny and
pulsating and glossy with his own slick. “It’s…It’s not that big of a deal, you
know,” Rumlow lies.
Not surprisingly, the son of the Winter Soldier sees right through his
bullshit. He scoffs darkly, tugging at the jeans that have suddenly become too
hot to continue wearing. “What do I do?,” he asks, his voice small, insecure.
Scared.
“For what?”
“You know…to uhm…to make it go away.”
Rumlow’s throat is suddenly parched. No way is he going to make it. Not having
to coach this kid through his own heat. Rumlow scratches the sudden itch that
crawls up his neck, his fingers sweeping across the engorged veins there, and
sighs. Great. The kid has thrown him into a rut. “Nothing will make it go away,
per se, but you can get a little relief by uhm…well, you know.”
“Touching it?”
“Yeah.” Rumulow’s eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised the
kid already gets it. When he was 15, he was busy doing prostitutes in the back
of greasy diners and shooting up massive doses of rut increasers. He swallows
hard at the sound of Boomer wriggling out of his jeans—the swish of heavy
fabric on tight, smooth skin as he brings himself out of his pants. Rumlow
hears the stifled moan and the soft, methodical slap of skin on skin. The kid’s
breath gets increasingly shorter, sharper, and Rumlow watches the shadow under
the doorway move in a spasmodic rhythm.
Rumlow leans back as his calloused hand falls down to his own member and wraps
around tight. His cock twitches in his fist and spatters his fingers with
precome. He brings his mind off the boy by focusing his mind’s eye on his
Daddy—how Bucky used to look on top of him, brown hair spilling down his
shoulders, face warped in pleasure, mouth hanging open.
“Are you…are you touching yourself, too?” Boomer’s voice is small as his climax
reaches higher and higher.
“Yeah,” Rumlow means for it to come out like a moan but somewhere in the middle
of his throat it becomes a harsh growl as he pumps away at his throbbing
member.
“What does it feel like…you know…to be in someone?”
“It’s uh…” Rumlow tries, unsuccessfully, to steady his breathing as the tips of
his fingers glide over his glossy, veiny shaft to the twisted head of his cock.
“It’s tight,” he manages. “It’s incredibly tight and incredibly hot.”
A keening wail echoes from the other side of the door, a sob catching in
Boomer’s throat as he pets his impossibly hard dick. “Why…why can’t we—?”
“Because you’re just a kid, Boom.” It’s not that the thought hasn’t crossed his
mind. It has, on too many occasions. Rumlow might never admit it to the kid,
but he smelled the *omega* on him a long time before presenting as one. He has
wanted him for a long time. Because of that tight little body and those
haunting green eyes. Because of his attitude and his sass and the mile-wide
rebellious streak that reminds him of…
“Daddy told me you used to be together.”
Rumlow’s back stiffens, a cold shock suddenly running through him. “Uhm. Yeah.
Yeah, we were together for a while.”
“What was it like…you know…with him?”
His throat now feels like the sides are sealed together. This feels so wrong.
It feels so wrong and so good and so incredibly hot… “It was…it was amazing.”
“Do you love him?”
Rumlow frowns. “You know I do.”
“No, I mean, do you love him. *That* way.”
He swallows hard, dragging down the lump in his throat as his fingers go numb
from rubbing himself raw and he feels his climax catching. “Mh….Yeah. Yeah. I
do.”
There is a pause on the other end with just Boomer’s pathetic, beautiful
whimpers and the sound of him stroking himself off to fill the silence. “Do you
think you could love me that way?”
Rumlow can’t answer—his cock is arched up backward into his hand as his orgasm
rockets through his system and he comes, white spray spattering his stomach and
the fabric of his tank tee and stealing every ounce of air from his lungs. His
knot swells at the base of his dick, choking it off and angrily fighting to
keep the seed locked inside for his failure to come inside of a warm, aching
hole. It spasms, sending shooting pain down both of Rumlow’s legs as it
successfully blocks the remaining semen off. Hot tears threaten to spill from
his eyes and he lets out a shuddering breath. When he can finally breathe
again, he hears ragged gasping from the other side of the door. “Pinch your
nipples”, he instructs.
“Mhh….wh-what?”
“Pinch your nipples. Trust me.”
Boomer feels his whole face flush as he reaches up into his shirt, obediently
clamping down on a hardened bud and rolling it between his fingers. A sob
catches in his throat.
“Wait till that one’s nice and hard. Don’t stop rubbing yourself, though. It’s
going to feel so much better.”
“Really?” Boomer does as he’s commanded, pinching and working one nipple into a
pin-sharp point before latching on to the other one.
Rumlow slides his eyes shut, leaning his head against the door. “That’s it,
sweetheart,” he murmurs when Boomer lets out a little squeal. “You have milk
ducts in yours, that’s what makes it feel so good. When you have pups, those
nipples swell a little so they can suck the milk out.”
Boomer’s face is now beet-red, but his body shamelessly reacts, his cock
arching upward in his curled fingers, his bottom sliding around in his
underwear from being so wet with his own lubricant. “Don’t wanna have pups,” he
pouts.
Rumlow laughs softly. “You don’t have to. You can do anything you want, never
let anyone tell you otherwise. Look at your Daddy. Nobody tells him what to
do.”
“Dad can,” Boomer says softly. He switches back to the first nipple; it has
softened due to lack of attention. “He usually obeys whatever Dad says.”
Rumlow pushes down the tendril of jealousy that springs up. “That’s because
your Daddy is an Omega. He was bred to obey his Alpha.”
The comment has the desired effect, as Boomer scoffs sharply. “Nobody’s gonna
tell me what to do, ever.”
“I don’t doubt that, baby. You still squeezing those nipples?”
“Mh…yeah.” Boomer bites down on his bottom lip, pulling at the sensitive nub.
“Now pinch em.”
“I…I am.”
“No, you pinch down hard. Like someone’s sucking on ‘em. Imagine a mouth going
around your tit and sucking in so hard you lose your breath, getting you wet
with their spit.”
“Yeah?” It comes out as a tight, high squeal as Boomer obeys, clenching down
with both fingers until sparks of pain fly down his stomach. “Owh. It hurts.”
“I know. Do it harder.” Rumlow’s cock has barely gone down, the knot still
inflated and furious. He gives it a few experimental tugs.
A whine escapes Boomer’s clenched teeth. “Uncle Rumlow, can’t you…can’t you
just?”
“No,” Rumlow barks, grinding his mouth to the door. He flattens his palm to its
wooden surface and listens to the keening wail as the euphoria climbs higher.
Lust thickens the air around them and makes it hard to breathe, their scents
mingling mid-air, doing what their bodies refuse to do. He can’t. He can’t open
that door and trust himself to not attack the kid with his mouth, his hands,
his body, his cock…
“Just use your imagination, kiddo. Think of whoever you want, and just—“
“YOU.” Boomer barks out. “I—I want to think of you.”
“Okay…” Rumlow wets his lips and tightens his grip around his veiny cock.
“Alright, think of me, then. Imagine me sucking away on those bright pink tits
of yours.” He blows his breath out through his nose in a vain attempt to keep
his voice from shaking. “Think of me baring down between those warm, slick
thighs and fitting my hips between ‘em.”
“Ohh…..oh god…” Boomer’s voice becomes little more than a stifled wail.
“I wanna fuck you, sweetheart. I do.” Rumlow dissolves against the door as his
cock sputters in his hands, unleashing a stream of white as his climax comes
over him like a steam-roller. “I want my cock buried in your tight little
hole.”
Boomer is crying out now, as his body gives out with one last push against the
floor and one more twist on each nipple, lungs scraping for air as he comes,
convulsing against the door and dissolving into a writhing mass of limbs and
shuddering breath. “Fuck…ah….”
Rumlow runs a hand along the door, imagining stroking that finely-tuned, tight
body. “Good boy. There, sweet thing. Good boy.”
Boomer stares off into nothingness, waiting for the stars in his eyes to fade
and for oxygen to return to the room.
Rumlow slumps against the wall, reaching behind him to absentmindedly pull a
towel down from the rack behind him. He wipes himself off, the rut still
playing havoc with his brain, the smell of barely-sated Omega rolling in
through the crack in the door like smoke from a housefire.
He piles a clean towel under his head on the bathroom floor and lets the
muffled sound of Boomer’s breathing lull him back into a listless sleep.
[Rummer photo rummer_zpsbirnvcm6.jpg]
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter by Entropyrose
Chapter Summary
     “Listen closely, you slimy sack of shit”—Rumlow’s eyebrows disappear
     underneath his bangs—“I won’t hesitate to separate your head from the
     rest of your body if I so much as suspect you have anything but the
     purest intentions for my son. Got it? He worships the ground you walk
     on and that’s the ONLY reason you’re still breathing right now.”
     Steve releases him with a shove, sending the back of Rumlow’s head
     bouncing off the drywall. “I hope he never finds out what a
     slithering, bottom-feeding scab you really are. For his sake.”
Steve watches the clock all night. He simply can’t understand how Bucky can be
so lax about Boomer staying the night at Rumlow’s. Not because their son hasn’t
done that a thousand times before. It’s that he hadn’t ever ran away like that
before. Ever.
 
Bucky and Steve had both grown up, so long ago---over a hundred years ago, in
fact—and the world has changed, drastically. Steve had to learn that the hard
way. Bucky, on the other hand, never seems to have gotten the chance. He had
been lost to years of reprogramming and hard-wiring that had made him more
machine than man. Steve sometimes wonders how much of that conditioning
remains. He thinks he knows the answer. He doesn’t want to know the answer.
 
Bucky has become very good at faking sleep. His heart rate thrums steadily in
his chest as Steve presses his cheek against him, secretively glancing up at
the clock every few minutes. As soon as that clock hits 6am, he is going to go
collect his son and he’s going to throttle him. He’s going to make sure he’s
okay first, obviously, thenhe’s going to throttle him. Steve waits,
breathlessly, and the hours tick by slower than a freeze-frame.
 
“He’ll be okay,” Bucky mumurs, his tone 1-part reassurance and 3-parts
annoyance. He absent-mindedly brushes flesh fingers through the dusting of hair
at the nape of Steve’s neck. “Rumlow will take care of him.”
 
“Yeah. You mean like he did with you?”
 
Bucky’s hand stilling and the silence that ensues is enough of an answer for
Steve to know he fucked up.
 
He blows out a ragged breath and his eyes flit back up to the clock.
 
When it hits 5:42 he swipes the keys from the side table and darts out the
front door.
 
* * * * *
 
Rumlow waits in the blackness of the hall. He’s not stupid. Any minute now,
Steve is going pound on that door and demand to see his son.  And Rumlow’s
going to have to prepare him for what waits inside that bedroom door. He adds a
little more whiskey to his black coffee and takes a long slug, raking a hand
through his freshly washed hair. The manufactured orange smell of fabric
softener wafting through the air doesn’t so much mask the tendrils of heat-
scent so much as adds to the chaos, but at least it distracts him. Yet another
inconvenient thing about heats and ruts—the lengthy cleanup requirements.
 
6am, right on the dot, the door swings open. He didn’t bother locking it—it
would have probably just gotten torn off its hinges if he had. Cap doesn’t
knock when he’s pissed.
 
The six-foot-five Arian god struts in, swallowing the distance between them in
two strides, blue eyes burning. “Where is he?”
 
“He’s in the bedroom—“ Rumlow rises from his spot on the counter but Cap is
already halfway to the bedroom door. “Cap, we have to talk. CAP.”
 
The heat-scent hangs thick, and when Rumlow grabs Cap’s sleeve he tears away,
the motion kicking it up right into both Alphas’ faces. Cap’s eyebrows quirk
upward and he tilts his head towards the smell before his eyes land
questioningly on Rumlow.
 
“Like I said,” Rumlow huffs, reaching behind him to slide a fresh cup of coffee
across the table. “We need to talk.”
 
The look that Steve gives him is one of wild desperation, like his brain is
scrambling to understand what is so clearly happening. At last arriving at
acceptance, he swallows dryly, his shoulders slumping-just a little. “Does
Bucky know?”
 
Rumlow shakes his head. “It apparently came on yesterday, sometime when he was
in school. He came straight here. The kid’s scared, Cap.”
 
“Yeah no shit,” Steve murmurs into the distance. Suddenly, a fist has balled
itself up under Rumlows chin, the black fabric of his uniform shirt threatening
to shred like cheese as he is lifted off his heels. “Did you touch him?”
 
“No. GOD no.” Rumlow raises both hands in the air, signaling surrender. Steve’s
nostrils flare as he tamps his nose against Rumlow’s cheek and takes a big
whiff. Rumlow scrunches his nose, resisting the urge to shove the other Alpha
clear to the other side of the room. “C’mon, man. You smell like shit. Back
off!”
 
Steve releases him with a shove and Rumlow topples into the counter, catching
himself just before his head goes straight through the coffee pot. “If I find
otherwise, I swear to god I will gut you. Slowly.”
 
Rumlow’s hackles are straight up and he growls defensively before working
himself back down with a few jaw flexes and another sip of spiked coffee.
“Just…take it easy on him. Okay?” He smooths his shirt back down into place as
Steve disappears down the hallway to the bedroom.
 
* * * * *
 
Steve hesitates at the handle, letting his breath out slow before raising his
hand to rap his knuckles on the door instead.
 
“Go away,” Comes the tired, muffled sound.
 
“C’mon, bud. It’s me.”
 
“I know who it is,” Boomer pouts. The sound of shifting blankets reaches
Steve’s ears as he switches sides on the bed. Rumlow’sbed.
 
An icy prickle runs through his spine and Steve does his best to ignore it. He
clears his throat, shuffling his feet before trying the handle. It’s unlocked.
He slides the door open, a bittersweet smile crossing his face as he sees the
ball of blond hair that peaks out from underneath a mound of blankets. He wants
to rush over and throw his arms around him, hold him tight and never let him
go, like he did when Boomer scraped his knee or cut his finger (which happened
on a pretty regular basis. Thank god he is a fast healer.) How Steve suddenly
longs for those days—the older the child gets, the deeper and more complex the
problems. And this is one problem that no amount of parental love can fix.
 
“You scared the shit out of us,” he begins, locating a barren spot on the bed
and sliding down into it. The scent of Boomer’s heat is thick but familiar.
It’s a mixture of coriander, ice and fern—alot like Bucky’s. While it doesn’t
smell particularly bad, (family members’ scents have evolved to be usually very
unattractive-smelling to their relatives as it drastically cuts down on incest)
it doesn’t seem very strong and its fairly easy for him to ignore.
 
“I know,” the lump in the bed says. “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you just come home, bud?” Steve runs a wide hand along Boomer’s
back and shoulders. Boomer shivers, pulling away closer to the far edge of the
bed. Steve withdraws, swallowing back a twinge of hurt. “Are you…are you okay?”
 
“No, m’not okay!” A tidal wave of blankets erupts as Boomer furiously tosses
them off, his face flushed and contorted into a mixture of pain and confusion.
“I mean, what was I ‘sposed to say? Hi Dad, Hi Daddy. I ran out of class
because I was sliming my seat and my stomach hurt and a bunch of the bigger
guys were basically trying to fuck me?” He scrubs away at the bitter tears that
roll freely down his face. “And fuck---now I’m crying! What the hell isthis
shit?”
 
“Oh, Pup.” Steve smooths back a runaway lock of hair and gathers his face in
his hands. “It’s completely normal. It’s…It’s my fault, probably. I should have
prepared you for this. I just thought…well, we thought…you’d…you know…”
 
“Be an Alpha,” he murmurs. Boomer’s eyes shift upwards past Steve, towards the
doorway, before falling back down to his lap, the redness in his face
deepening.
 
Steve’s hand falls away and he shoots a dirty look behind his shoulder towards
Rumlow, who is leaning against the open doorway, arms folded across his chest.
Rumlow isn’t staring back. He is focused on the blond on the bed, his bright
black eyes locked on, unblinking and an expression on his face that Steve can’t
quite read. He spots his son’s backpack on the floor by the nightstand, the
contents partially spilling out, and gathers it up along with his jacket. “Put
your shoes on.” It’s said softly, but it’s an order nonetheless. “I’m taking
you home.” He comes back into the hallway, his shoulder connecting with Rumlow’
even as the backs off, sliding the door closed softly behind him. All the
gentleness going out from his face, as he keeps his eyes focused ahead. “If you
really care for him, even the slightest bit…” Steve’s ice-blue eyes span across
the hallway to burn into Rumlow’s. “You will back way off.”
 
Rumlow’s arms are still crossed as he shrugs defensively. “Hey, he came to me,
Cap. What does that tell you? Huh? That your own kid didn’t feel safe enough to
come home—?” His shoulder-blades are bashed into the wall behind him, Steve’s
clenched teeth and heady scent invading his face.
 
“Listen closely, you slimy sack of shit”—Rumlow’s eyebrows disappear underneath
his bangs—“I won’t hesitate to separate your head from the rest of your body if
I so much as suspectyou have anything but the purest intentions for my son. Got
it? He worships the ground you walk on and that’s the ONLY reason you’re still
breathing right now.” Steve releases him with a shove, sending the back of
Rumlow’s head bouncing off the drywall. “I hope he never finds out what a
slithering, bottom-feeding scab you really are. For hissake.”
 
Rumlow grasps the back of his head and warm wetness seeps through his fingers.
It doesn’t stop a sharp smirk from permeating his expression as he watches the
noble, unblemished Captain America strut to the front door to wait for his son.
 
* * * * *
 
Bucky is the first person that can touch Boomer without sending his senses into
overdrive since his heat hit. Boomer melts into his arms, his eyes fluttering
closed as he fights back the tears. “S’okay,” Bucky coos, smoothing his hair
back and planting a kiss on his forehead. “We’ll take you to the doc’s and get
everything straightened out, alright?”
 
Boomer nods, his head buried deep into Bucky’s chest. Over his head, Bucky
glances at Steve, giving him a reassuring smile. Everything will be alright.
Everything will work out. Just like it always does.
 
* * * * *
 
“You should have taken the day off.” Rumlow’s rut smolders like burned cinders
and wet grass in Bucky’s nostrils. A tendril of want/need unfurls somewhere
deep in his belly and he pushes it down, running a greased cloth through the
barrel of his Sig-Sauer and trying to look as nonchalant about it as possible.
The smell that hits next, when Rumlow crosses the room to slide into the
rolling chair beside him, is the acrid odor of alcohol. He rumples his nose.
“Shit, you reallyshould have taken the day off.”
 
Rumlow lets out a sharp laugh and rolls closer, dipping his head underneath
Bucky’s chin to play with a strand of cinnamon hair. “B’then I wouldn’t get to
see you.”
 
Bucky quirks an eyebrow at his inebriated partner.
 
“It’s hard to hang with my best bud when Mr. Tall Blond and Stupid’s in the
room…” Rumlow growls loosely in afterthought and Bucky can’t help but chuckle.
 
“God, how much have you had?”
 
“Hmmm…4.”
 
“Only 4 drinks?”
 
“Oh, drinks? I thought we were talking Rut Inhibitors.”
 
Bucky shifts away with an eye roll, sliding his shoulder out from Rumlow’s head
and angling himself toward the pistol.
 
“Hey,” Rumlow eggs, his face falling serious. He scooches to close the distance
Bucky gained, nosing his neck and rubbing his stubble on the exposed skin above
his collar. Bucky gives him a futile, half-hearted swat before accepting his
fate and plucking up a clean rag from the counter to wipe down the gun. “How is
the little guy?”
 
Bucky lets out a soft snicker—it has been a few years since anyone could
actually mistake Boomer for being “little”---he is lanky and long, his height
nearly surpassing Bucky’s shoulders, even if he is made entirely of scrawny
limbs and jutting bones. Whatever the super-soldier serum may have passed on to
him, he seems to have retained some of Steve’s original form. Bucky smiles as a
vision of a corduroy-clad blond weed of a kid runs down the alleyway that used
to take them into town, glancing over his shoulder and yelling ‘C’mon, Buck!
We’ll be late for the picture show!’
 
“He’s fine,” Bucky announces, shaking the memory out of his head. “He’s upset,
but he’ll get over it. Just like we all do.” The we allBucky refers to needs no
explanation; it’s a very rare thing to find a male who actually wants his
reproductive affiliation to be Omega—in most cases, it’s devastating;
sentencing the sufferer to a lifetime of unspeakable misery, abuse and bias.
 
“I worry about him.” Rumlow flexes, and it’s only then that Bucky realizes that
at some point during the conversation, big arms have knotted themselves around
his waist, his back now pressing into Rumlow’s tactical vest.
 
“I’m still fucking pissed,” Bucky growls in warning. “You lied to me. Lied.
About my son.You had him spend his first heat at your place—yours—!”
 
“Hey, hey…sh…” Rumlow smooths back Bucky’s hair from his forehead and damned if
it doesn’t get him practically purring. He grits his teeth and fights the
calming, controlling sensation pulling at him, but only as long as his nerves
can stand. He feels his body relax into the touch, hates himself for it, eyes
fluttering closed and letting out a shuddering breath as the warm scent
surrounds him, draws him in, pulling him back and flattening him to Rumlow’s
wide chest. “Baby, you know I’d never do anything to hurt him.” Rumlow’s voice
is sincere, the saccharine love-song he’s wooing him with having dropped back
into his normal tone. “I love him like he was my own.”
 
“He loves you, too,” Bucky mumurs, turning his face into Rumlow’s ear, pressing
their foreheads together.
 
A low growl rumbles up from somewhere in Rumlow’s chest and a hand clasps
around Bucky’s throat, keeping his head stationary as their lips press
together. Bucky gasps and tries to move his head back, unsuccessfully, as
Rumlow devours his open mouth. “Fuck….baby…” His wide tongue splays out into
Bucky’s mouth, lapping up the taste.
 
“Mmmh—“ Bucky’s metal hand flies up to tug at Rumlow’s collar, but even the
synapses in his mechanical arm seem to be misfiring under the convincing haze.
Rumlow’s grip is fierce, unrelenting, and Bucky is flattened up against the
counter before he can utter a coherent word. He claws at the slick surface for
leverage, scattering gun parts and toppling the bottle of grease to the floor.
Rumlow’s hands seem to be everywhere at once, pulling his thighs apart,
reaching up under his tactical vest, fingers brushing against the soft hair
dusting his navel as his belly clenches and ebbs from struggling breath.
 
* * * * *
 
Rumlow pulls his head back with a fistful of auburn hair, nipping at Bucky’s
collar and growling when he can’t get to the scent gland. Bucky smells like
Steve and it’s making his stomach turn. Fucking Steve!He is watching Bucky’s
metal arm carefully from the corners of his vision, but Bucky is moaning, his
chest heaving under the weight of the love-spell. It’s easy, the poor bastard.
Bucky has been his before. The familiar scent still clings to him, somewhere
down deep, calling to a primal urge to listen, to obeyhis alpha.
 
Rumlow is his alpha. Not Steve—that fucking, goody-good, blue eyed church boy.
Rumlow knows what Bucky wants, what he needs. A finely-tuned machine requires a
steady, skillful hand.
 
He drags Bucky’s zipper down with his teeth, the smell from the gland rolling
out and nearly choking him. This used to be his. All of it. He bucks against
Bucky’s spread legs, against the warmth and the hardness that presses against
his own trapped, aching junk, grinning as those emerald eyes roll back into his
pretty auburn head, exposing—no, presenting—that milky-white neck and the
bobbing Adam’s apple and that forsaken scent glandthat smells too much like
Captain-fucking-Merica. “Jesus-god, you’re beautiful,” he groans into it,
tongue flicking out to lick a stripe of saliva up the gland.
 
Bucky freezes.
 
“It’s okay, baby,” Rumlow coaxes, his thumbs drawing little circles around
Bucky’s hips. “Shh, sweetheart. I’m gonna make it all okay.”
 
“Mhh….stop…” Bucky’s moving in the opposite direction, now, flattening himself
to the stone wall and gaining whatever little space between them he can.
 
“Bucky,” Rumlow grinds out between clenched teeth.
 
“—stop it. Steve, he…”
 
A ball of pure rage works itself out of Rumlow and he wrenches Bucky’s head
back. “So sick of hearing that fucking name—“
 
“Professor Barnes—?“ Brock turns towards the sudden whine of the door being
opened. A knock-kneed, red-faced student stands there shaking like a wet
Chihuahua. “Oh, uhm…”
 
It’s enough to jolt Bucky back into the real world, because a metal fist is in
Brock’s hair and his face meets the counter, spattering blood against its slick
surface. It smells like gun grease and Bucky’s arousal and Rumlow grits his
teeth through the pain to breathe in that scent as deep as he can get it, so
far back in his lungs he’ll be smelling it for a week because chances are
that’s the last time he’ll get to for a while. “You fucking…”  Bucky doesn’t
bother finishing the sentence, releasing him with a shove and turning quickly
to the bewildered student while smoothing his hair back into place. “What is
it?,” he barks.
 
The kid jumps. “Uhm. S-sorry, we were wondering where the extra sparring gloves
are..?”
 
Rumlow shoves past the kid, dragging the cuff of his shirt across his face. All
it seems to do is smatter the blood. He can feel Bucky’s eyes boring a hole in
his back. Whatever. He can deal with the fallback later. He needs to find
something tight and wet to plow his aching dick into, the sooner the better.
 
* * * * *
 
“Cool hair.”
 
Boomer blinks and absentmindedly scrubs at his locks. “Oh this?” He ducks his
head, staring at the space in between his bare feet. “It’s not intentional.”
 
His friend quirks an eyebrow, hefting the console case up higher on his
shoulder. “Hey, this thing is getting heavy.”
 
“Oh, right, sorry.” Boomer steps aside to let him pass and his eyes flicker up
to the hallway mirror. His hair has an eerie red tinge to it. It looks more
strawberry than blond, and it seems to be getting worse.
 
“So, your first heat, huh?” Noa is a neighbor kid and a (now) fellow Omega, but
he never has seemed to let that bother him, a fact that absolutely astounds
Boomer. Boomer had been convinced, not so long ago, that when he presented as
an Alpha he might consider mating with Noa, when the time came, and even had
gone so far as to envision what their pups would look like. Noa is a bit
stockier than Boomer, with eyes like poached pears that perfectly match his
coiffed chocolate brown hair.
 
Noa slides down to the carpeted floor and hooks up the controllers to his game
system, chatting all the while about his first heat, how he pretty much knew he
was going to present as an omega, how his older sister discovered him in the
bathroom with the end of her hair brush stuck up his ass and wouldn’t speak to
him for months afterword (not to mention making him buy her a new hairbrush).
He talks about it so nonchalantly that it has Boomer’s stomach doing backflips.
He glances at him over his shoulder, ripped jeans showing off the perfect curve
of his backside. “You want to be player 1 or player 2?”
 
“Uhm. I don’t care.”
 
Noa sits back on his heels, a soft, sympathetic expression crossing his face.
“Hey.”
 
Boomer’s blue eyes flick up to meet his.
 
“You’re going to be okay. I promise. Your Dad got you some heat suppressants,
right?”
 
“Yeah.” Boomer’s face glows beet red. That’s something he could do without
remembering—as soon as his Dad has brought him home, he had been carted off to
the doctor’s office and forced to endure an embarrassing exam complete with
gloved fingers pressing up into places inside of him that he hadn’t known
existed, all for a couple of pills that barely dampered the crazy hormones
currently waging war with his body.
 
Steve called the school, excusing Boomer for the rest of the week to live out
his miserable condition without the unwanted attention from his Alpha
classmates. “Call up one of your friends, you know, someone who’s…ya know…been
through this,” Steve had insisted. That knot in Boomer’s stomach had grown
tighterr. His Dad was so ashamed of him he couldn’t even bring himself to say
the word. Omega; Submissive. Lesser. Weak. Boomer slides down beside Noa,
scraping up a controller and staring lifelessly at the projector screen as the
game starts up. He’s hoping it’s a First-Person Shooter. He could really go for
blowing a zombie’s head up right now.
 
“Oh, I almost forgot!,” Noa exclaims, reaching into the bag. “I brought our
assignments from second and fifth hours today. And this.” A clear plastic
package tumbles out, and Boomer’s eyes go wide.
 
“Wh—what’s that?”
 
Noa snickers as he pushes the package towards him. “Go on. It’s yours.”
 
Boomer’s eyes slide from the package, to Noa’s grinning face, and back again.
“What does it do?”
 
Noa’s voice grows quiet as he peeks around the empty apartment. “What do you
think?”
 
Boomer’s face is hot and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears as he inspects
the present. Encased inside it is a 10” long, impossibly thick flesh-colored
silicone tube with a bulbous tip and blue veins that run the length of it. It’s
heavy, and Boomer wiggles the box experimentally; it sloshes softly from side
to side like a water balloon. “No.” Boomer immediately shoves it back into the
bag, way down deep, as if he could make it disappear altogether, and Noa
squeaks out an impish giggle.
 
“Dude, what’s the matter? You don’t like it?”
 
“No. It’s not that. It’s…thanks but, no.” Boomer draws his knees up to his
chest, staring out at nothing, looking beaten.
 
“Aww, man. I’m sorry. I just thought that…”
 
“Yeah, I know.” Boomer scrapes his fingers through his hair. “It’s just, I
don’t need it.” He raises his chin, the light returning to his eyes as he
forces a smile. “I already have a mate.”
 
It’s Noa’s turn to look shocked. “You…you do?!” He wriggles closer, his voice
dropping, head lowered. “Do I know him? Do your parents know him? Do…do your
parents know you two are…?”
 
Boomer shrugs. “Yeah, they know him. And, the thing is, we haven’t actually…ya
know…yet. Not yet. But we will.”
 
“Yeah?” Noa closes all space between them, looping their forearms together as
his eyes burn intently into Boomer’s. “When?”
 
Boomer ponders his answer, biting down nervously on his bottom lip before
straightening up and gathering his resolve. “Tonight,” he answers.
 
Yeah, he thinks. Tonight.
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter by Entropyrose
Chapter Summary
     “I wanna be your mate!” Boomer launches himself at Rumlow, tangled
     arms and legs wrapping around his neck and waist, giggling happily.
     He smooshes his face into Rumlow’s giving his cheek a wet kiss, then
     the tip of his nose, then his mouth.
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is all angsty shit. Without giving everything away, YES
     this is really the last chapter of the fic but NO this series is not
     done, not by a long shot!
     This chapter does include a very large, very graphic rape scene.
     Please scroll past the second bar of stars when you see it if you
     don't wish to read this part.
 [ photo Boomerb_zpsbsfcbgug.jpg]
11 Years prior…
 
The radio crackled at every bump they hit as the beat-up little truck made its
way down the two-track. The 4-year old in the front seat was undeterred,
sticking his fingers out as far as they would go as if to touch the clouds that
went by.
 
“Uncle Rummy what’s married?”
 
“What?” Rumlow chuckled,  turning his head momentarily to smile down at the
pup. He had insisted on wearing Rumlow’s red baseball cap, even though it hung
well below the tips of his ears and barely allowed him to see past the wide
brim. “Where’d you pick that up?”
 
“Dad said him and Daddy are married. What’s that?”
 
“Well, kid,” Rumlow turned a corner down the trail as branches rattled past. As
the foliage became thicker, he tapped the kid’s forearm and he obediently drew
his hand back into the vehicle, just as they had practiced. “Good boy,” he
muttered on afterthought. “Lessee…when two people love each other very much….
{or one person screws up and gets the other pregnant}…”
 
“What?”
 
“Nothing. When two people love each other, they make a promise to be with each
other for always.”
 
His fuzzy blond eyebrows angled upward in shock and he gazed at his Uncle in
wonder. “For always, always? Like, forever?”
 
“Yeah, kiddo. Like forever.”
 
This seemed to please the runt. He set back into his seat, clutching the
seatbelt tight and squealing in joy as they went over a particularly big bump.
 
Rumlow’s head disappeared into those clouds. His heart soared whenever Boomer
flashed him that big, toothy grin. Made him want to give him the world.
 
“I like that.”
 
“The big bump?”
 
Boomer nodded. “And married. Are you married Uncle Rummy?”
 
“Nah.”
 
Boomer’s brow furled. “Why not?”
 
Rumlow shrugged. “Well….maybe I just haven’t found that special person yet.” Y
 
Boomer sat silent for a while, his little mouth pursed in thought. Suddenly, he
raised a finger, turned in his seat, and announced, “You and me will be
married, then.”
 
“Oh, we will?”
 
“Yup. You and me can get married and then Uncle Rummy won’t ever be alone.”
 
Rumlow scrubbed at the loose red baseball cap, wobbling it around on the fuzzy
tuft of hair below. “Well, kiddo, you’re a little young.”
 
Boomer looked genuinely offended. “No’m not. I am 4 and two months.”
 
Rumlow laughed. “Yeah. Yes, you are.”
 
“Good. It’s a deal then. Me and Uncle Rummy will get married. Next week!”
 
“Next week!?”
 
“Uh-huh.” Boomer resolutely straightened his Uncle’s hat on top of his head and
turned back towards his window. The trees had thinned and the blue sky
returned, bright and open and airy. His hand slipped back out, into the free
air, the stray wisps of blond hair fluttering underneath the hat.
 
Rumlow knew that Boomer would be home in less than five minutes. He would bolt
out the door, run up the driveway and scamper into his Dad’s arms and forget
all about his proposal. Rumlow would have to listen as Steve went on about how
he shouldn’t have had the kid in the front seat to begin with, with Rumlow
responding that it’s just a two-track, they weren’t going that fast, and to
pull his pedigreed blond head out of his retentive asshole and let the kid have
some fun.
 
Next week would come and go, with Boomer obsessing about the latest board game,
or a new kid in his preschool or how much he liked turtles.
 
But for now, it was just Uncle Rummy and Boomer, making their way home the
“back way”—wind in their faces and the whole world at their feet. And for the
five minutes that “marriage” was a concept fresh in his mind, Rumlow was
happily engaged.
 
* * * * *
 
“Dude, your face is fucked up.” Rollins’ expression is one of sheer amusement
as he leads Rumlow on through the kitchen of his penthouse apartment, past a
scowling redheaded woman. Rollins may be bigger (and play a little nastier, if
Rumlow’s being honest) but he has a taste for the finer things in life. Rumlow
eyes a diapered toddler as she careens across his path, sippy cup in hand.
 
“Fuck,” Rumlow murmurs. “How many do you have?”
 
“Seven,” Rollins announces proudly. “But we’re aiming for twenty.”
 
Rumlow eyes his colleague suspiciously. “You mean, “we” or just “you”?”
 
Rollins shrugs and shoots him a guilty smirk . “Just me.”
 
Rumlow nods sharply, sliding a knowing glance to the dark-haired figure that
sits on the couch, a room away.
 
Rollins smile grows darker. “You wanna meet ‘im?”
 
Rumlow passes his tongue over his parched lips and flexes his fist inside the
pocket of his fatigues. He nods, stepping silently into the room. The man is
young, probably in his early twenties, with straight black hair that spills
over a billowy cotton peasant top. His ocean-blue eyes are focused away from
the two of them, towards the window but not particularly focused on the world
outside of it. He couldn’t have been cheap—he has model good-looks and
everything on him is slender and lithe—not a body one would consider possible
after birthing seven pups.
 
“He’s a part of the breeding program,” Rollins says, as if reading Rumlow’s
thoughts. “You take some super-serum and mix it up with a bunch of stress-
modifiers, throw in a splash of regenerative DNA, add a Ukrainian houseboy,
and—“ Rollins closes the gap between himself and the kid, pulling his head back
with a fist buried in his sleek, black hair to leer intensely down at him.
“—you get Sasha.”
 
A tinge of guilt tightens somewhere deep inside Rumlow. He is being selfish, he
knows this. He is taking advantage of another human being and something about
that should bother him; he knows that too. But his cock twitches eagerly as the
scent of wildflowers and caraway permeates the room.
 
“Sasha,” Rollins instructs, guiding the boy’s eyes with a turn of his chin
until they land on his workmate. “This is Rumlow.”
 
With Sasha’s head turned towards him, Rumlow catches the glimmer of a solid
metal collar hanging at the kid’s throat. The knot in his stomach gets tighter.
“Rumlow,” the boy mutters obediently. His eyes fall somewhere at Rumlow’s
chest.
 
“That’s it. Good boy.” Rollins tugs on the collar and the kid stands up.
Rollins wide hand lands on his backside with a resounding CRACK and the kid
doesn’t even jump. “Go say hi.”
 
Rollins likes to watch. It’s been years since Rumlow has shared one of Rollins’
omegas, but Rollins has taken a liking to this particular one—and hasn’t been
willing to share up until now. Having pups with an omega changes things, Rumlow
supposes. Sure, Rollins might be the same asshole he’s always been, but now,
he’s home for dinner every night and hasn’t taken another lover since getting
with Sasha two years ago.
 
Sasha comes closer, languidly sliding his arms around Rumlow’s neck and
Rumlow’s eyes flicker over his shoulder to Rollins. Rollins nods. “Go ahead,
man. Knock yourself out.” The over-muscled brunet sprawls on the couch, eyes
locked on the back of Sasha’s head.
 
Rumlow lets both hands slip around the his slight waste and he chuckles. “Fuck,
kid, how do you fit pups in there?” He feels as silky as he smells, and Rumlow
freely noses at his neck, just under the heavy silver collar.
 
Sasha doesn’t moan into him or anything—he clearly is doing only as he’s told
and isn’t particularly enjoying this one bit. Somehow, some inexplicable way,
it makes Rumlow even hotter. “’Beer?” Rollins asks, sliding one across the
coffee table towards him and cracking one open for himself on the edge.
 
“Thanks,” Rumlow says, turning to the chair opposite where Rollins sits,
keeping one arm around Sasha’s waist and guiding him to his lap.
 
Sasha may be pretty, but his ass is boney and not the two firm mounds of
muscled flesh he’s used to on Bucky. The kid’s ass sinks into his lap, his
whole body stiffening upright when he encounters the swollen eggplant Rumlow is
sporting in his pants. Rumlow bites down on his bottom lip, turning a sharp
growl into a groan halfway out of his throat.
 
“SIT,” Rollins barks before taking a swig of his beer and shaking his head
towards Rumlow. “Sorry, man. We’re still learning. Sometimes we like to
exercise our free will and see how far we can push things before getting
punished. Isn’t that right, Sasha?”
 
Sasha swallows hard, his dead eyes planted on the carpet, before murmuring,
“Yes.”
 
Rollins swallows down the beer in two gulps and kicks his boots off onto the
floor. “Like last night. Why don’t you tell Rumlow what happened last night,
Sasha?”
 
“I…” Sasha’s eyes suddenly flicker upwards, burning into Rumlow’s as if begging
him to stop it. Rumlow skirts a hand down his spine, lifting up the billowy top
to run his fingers back up the soft, smooth skin and Sasha shivers. “I told you
no last night.”
 
“Yes, you did. You told me “no” when I tried to fuck you, which wasn’t very
nice. So what happened?”
 
“I got…” Sasha squirms as if moving could help somehow alleviate some of his
discomfort, the crevasse of his ass planting itself firmly against Rumlow’s
arched, trapped frenulum. Rumlow hisses, planting wide hands on either side of
Sasha’s sharp hip bones and rutting upward. “Mmmh---“ Sasha hides in his sleek
black hair, a glow of pink settling along his cheeks. “I got locked away.”
 
Rumlow’s mind reels as to what that could mean. Did Rollins keep the kid in
some kind of makeshift prison? Of course, it wouldn’t be much different from
what they did with the Winter Soldier experiments, which is probably where
Rollins got the idea anyway.
 
“Show him,” Rollins commands.
 
Sasha’s pleading eyes now turn to Rollins, his mouth hanging open as if to beg.
“But…” His eyes dart across the room, to the sound of the children playing in
the adjacent room. “The babies.”
 
Rollins shakes his head. “Molly is with the babies,” he insists. Rumlow thinks
back to the red-haired woman in the kitchen and connects the dots; she must be
the baby sitter, or the maid, probably amply compensated for her silence in the
fucked-up situation at hand. “You show Rumlow what happens when you misbehave.”
 
The lanky kid stands up with a huff, facing Rumlow and grasping the hips of his
jeans and pulling them down in one fluid motion. He’s still hiding in his hair,
one knee slightly bent as if to hide himself. A gold-colored cock cage wraps
itself around his flaccid length, a padlock of matching color connecting the
ring underneath his shaved testicles to the tear-drop shaped prison of his
cock. “Fffffuck,” Rumlow growls, reaching out to grasp the smooth metal. Sasha
jumps, fighting back the wetness forming in his eyes and the urge to move away
from the touch. “Jesus Christ, Rollins, you fucked-up asshole, it’s exquisite.”
 
Rollins flashes him a sly grin and starts another beer. “You’re part of his
punishment, too.”
 
Rumlow lifts an eyebrow. “Really.”
 
“Yup.” His feet land on the table with a heavy “THUD”, earning a shiver from
the omega. “Sasha’s not been touched by anyone but his alpha. Ain’t that right
sweet-pea?”
 
In any other situation, Rumlow might have at least had the decency to whisper
something soothing into the kid’s ear, to brush his hair away from his face
with a coaxing hand, to promise he’d go gentle, maybe even draw him in for a
kiss. But the fear in his eyes feeds the hunger, and as one ragged breath
tickles Rumlow’s throat, he lunges forward, all clawing hands and biting teeth,
knocking the lithe omega to the floor and following him down.
 
“Jesus, Brock!” Rollins is half off the couch himself, frozen with his claws in
the couch, hackles raised. He stops himself, though, caught in the ferocity and
thrill of it all.
 
Sasha has been reduced to a whimpering mess, the delicate peasant shirt being
rucked up clear to his elbows, the fabric muffling is helpless cries. He
doesn’t fight back, doesn’t dare to—Rumlow can do what he wants and there’s
nothing anybody can or will do about it. Not now.
 
 He jerks at his belt and it flies free, one hand keeping steady pressure on
Sasha’s neck, practically bolting him to the carpet with a fist wrapped around
the solid steel collar at his throat. “How long has it been, huh, Princess?”
Rumlow frees his trapped dick with a heave of his hips, the protrusion slapping
against the inside of Sasha’s warm thigh as he wriggles.
 
“Don’t you dare tear him,” Rollins spits, but his stance belies his menacing
tone. He is back to leaning his elbow on one knee, taking intermittent swigs
out of the glass bottle in his hand.
 
“He’s not even slick,” Rumlow argues, down to finger into the writhing omega’s
tight, dry hole. Sasha is panting beneath him, one fist pulling at Rumlow’s
shirt, threatening to pop the buttons.
 
“Sasha,” Rollins barks, and the struggle ceases.
 
“Don’t, don’t, please…” His black hair spilling on the carpet and all around
him, like a fallen angel, he shakes his head slowly, pleadingly, eyes glossy
with tears. “I’m sorry. I will be good. Just please—“
 
Rumlow cups a hand over Sasha’s mouth before spitting into his open palm and
rubbing it furiously at the kid’s unforgivingly tight entrance. Calloused
fingers push past the stubborn ring of muscle and Sasha’s chest heaves with a
muffled sob. “Sorry, kid,” Rumlow grinds out. He gives his hole a few quick
jabs before lining himself up and bottoming out in one fluid thrust.
 
Rumlow’s eyes shut tight, his face pressed to Sasha’s cheek, hot and stained
with Sasha’s tears. The walls of strained muscles are bearing down on his
aching cock, swallowing him in and pushing him out simultaneously. Rumlow finds
his sweet spot, a soft, dough-like mound buried deep inside of him and rocks
against it. He cradles the pathetic creature, one arm lifting his head off the
floor, the other wrapped around his leg, keeping it over his waist as he
mercilessly plows in.
 
He thinks about the wiry blond from the night before pressed against his
bathroom door, begging to be fucked. His mind’s eyes lingers on those swollen
pink nipples and his flushed, elegant skin, the heat-addled teen coming in
thick, white spurts with Rumlow’s name on his lips.
 
He shudders as the world around him explodes, his nails digging into the taught
flesh of the trapped body beneath him, giving out with a few dry grunts as he
rides his climax. He feels the familiar press at the hilt of his dick as his
knot inflates, locking himself and his seed inside for the duration.
 
“Fuck…” Rumlow pushes up on his hands, careful not to jolt the bond and hurt
them both, giving Sasha some much-needed breathing room. His eyes stare out
into nothingness, lifeless and cloudy like the sea after a storm.
 
The knot lasts twenty minutes or so, after which Rumlow pulls out smoothly, his
eyes discreetly falling to his limp cock and Sasha’s spent hole as white liquid
seeps out. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, picking himself up off the floor before
Rumlow can offer a hand. He smoothes his cotton shirt back down over his boney
shoulder blades which are scored and red, a little bloody.
 
The knot in Rumlow’s stomach returns. He doesn’t know quite what this feeling
is, but it’s beginning to get worrisome. He frowns a little, but only for a
moment as he is distracted by Rollins giving him a congratulatory pat on the
back. “Fuck, man. That was hot. Thanks for the show.”
 
“Thanks for the invitation.” He flashes his teammate a toothy grin and pretends
not to notice when Rollins scoops up Sasha’s discarded jeans from the floor and
throws them at him.
 
“Go get in the shower,” he instructs, bending low to Sasha’s ear. “You’re going
to make up for what he just did to you, you hear me?”
 
The lanky omega slips through the bedroom doorway with one bitter nod of his
black-haired head. “The young boy,” he says, loud enough to drop Rumlow where
he stands. “I can smell him on you.”
 
Rollins gives him a hard slap on his bare, raw ass but Sasha continues,
undeterred. “Treat him with kindness.” Rollins next words are most likely
threats, but they are guttural and ground out between Rollins’ mouth and
Sasha’s ear, one hand clamping down around his slender arm and throwing him
towards the center of the room.
 
“He’s going to pay for that one,” he assures Rumlow as the pair walk the
opposite way, back towards the front door.
 
Rumlow is still buckling his belt when they reach the entryway. His dark eyes
slide back to the peaceful scene in the kitchen; toddlers and babies gathered
around the counter, “helping” the nanny cut out shapes into rolled sugar cookie
dough. The nanny (Molly, was it?) lifts her head and Rumlow faces forward
before their eyes can meet.
 
“Take it easy on him, okay?”
 
Rollins chuckles. “Look at you, getting all soft and gooey in your old age.”
 
Rumlow shrugs, scooping up his leather jacket and jingling the keys in his
pocket. “Yeah maybe. Still, he’s the father of your pups.”
 
“Yeah, yeah, boss.” Rollins swings the front door wide, shamelessly adjusting
the massive bulge he’s been packing for the past hour. “Don’t  you worry. I’ll
make it good for him.”
 
“Yeah. Okay.” The door slides shut. The hallway is quiet , except for the
patter of wings as a moth beats itself against the ornate lamp suspended above
his head. He watches it with eerie fascination, counting the number of hits it
makes with those burned little wings before tumbling to the carpet below.
Rumlow grins and crushes it under his boot as he walks past, the crunch of the
exoskeleton muffled by the black rubber sole.
 
Thirty-seven.
 
His text alert chimes suddenly and he digs his phone out on the way to the
parking garage. He glances down with a quirked eyebrow at the strange message.
 
>From: Bucky’s i-Phone<
>To: Rumlow’s Android<
 
>>>>>Paradise Bridge, 7pm<<<<<
 
He glances at the time and calculates that he has about twenty minutes to get
there.
 
He makes it in ten.
 
* * * * *
 
It could be Bucky, standing there at the mouth of the dam, elbows perched on
either side of the painted old railing. His hair is blood-red in the setting
sun, the angles of the jacket in those slight shoulders pronounced and proud.
That could be Bucky’s round ass poking out from the bottom of the burnt brown
leather jacket. Almost.
 
“What the hell are you doinghere?” Rumlow approaches, flicking out his
cigarette and grounding it against the pavement. Boomer turns, the blue in his
eyes heightened by the auburn bangs. “What did you do to your hair?”
 
He runs a hand through sheepishly. “It’s been doing this since I presented. It
just keeps getting darker, at like, an exponential rate.” He shakes his head as
if to clear the thoughts away, turning to gather Rumlow’s gloved hands in his,
gleaming up at him with a big bright smile. “But, that’s not what I’m here to
talk about.”
 
Rumlow shakes his head. “Wait…how did you..?”
 
“I choked the throttle,” Boomer exclaims, as if that solves everything.
 
Currently, nothing about that sentence is computing. “What?”
 
Boomer licks his lips and recites as if he’s memorizing a verse from Leviticus.
“Kickstand off, Open the petcock, Choke the throttle. Two twists on the handle,
Kick it over twice. Lean into the Curve. Keep your back straight. Just like you
taught me, you know. Just like you said.”
 
Rumlow’s eyes flutter sharply. “You rode the panhead down here?”
 
“Yeah!”
 
“Wait. Your Daddy’spanhead?”
 
“Yeah!”
 
“Boom, that’s the stupidest thing you could have done! Why the fuck would you
do something like that? What if—what if you had gotten in an accident, huh?”
 
Boomer’s face contorts into disappointment, pain. “I…I thought you’d be proud
of me.”
 
Rumlow sweeps his hand through the red streaks that have now taken over the
banana-blond locks, following the strands down the side of his face, cupping
his chin in his hands and angling his eyes upward. “Sweetheart, I am veryproud
of you. And also, very pissed. And you are in so much shit. You realize that
don’t you? Your Dads are getting out of work in an hour or less and when they
find out you’re not home—“
 
“I know!” Nothing in the barrage of despairing information has any effect on
his spirits. He only tugs on Rumlow’s hands harder, pulling them apart and
guiding them around his waist. Rumlow blinks as the slight, flat chest presses
against his own and that calming, incredible, spicy, scintillatingscent unfurls
right under his nose. “Which is why we don’t have much time. We have to get
back soon and tell them the good news.”
 
“Good news?”
 
“Yeah.” Boomer’s face flushes as he stares down bashfully at the space between
his shoes. “About you and me.”
 
Rumlow pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a ragged sigh and shifting
to create space between them. “Look…kid…your Uncle’s got a big-ass migraine
starting and I’ve had a hell of a day, so you better start making sense soon,
or—“
 
“I wanna be your mate!” Boomer launches himself at Rumlow, tangled arms and
legs wrapping around his neck and waist, giggling happily. He smooshes his face
into Rumlow’s giving his cheek a wet kiss, then the tip of his nose, then his
mouth.
 
The supple skin of his lips taste tangy, like that energy drink Rumlow keeps
telling him to lay off of. Rumlow is too busy reeling from the electricity that
happens when their mouths touch to dwell on it, though. His thumb sweeps
against Boomer’s bottom lip as fire awakens between his legs, his rut springing
to life as if it had never been sated. He pulls the pouty lip down, tugging his
mouth open to lap inside.
 
“MMh.” Boomer shifts, his mouth obeying, dropping open with a sigh as his
little body responds.
 
Rumlow growls, his tongue trailing over unclaimed land, marking it with his
scent, imprinting the memory of his touch,his kiss, his teeth as he worries on
the kid’s cupid’s bow and his fingernails skim through his feather-soft hair,
nails dragging down his scalp and lighting little sparks wherever he touches.
“Fuck, baby…so good…”
 
Boomer whimpers, his bottom wiggling against Rumlow’s hips, the contact so
blissful and raw that Rumlow could swear he was bruised down there. “Yeah…”
Boomer climbs him like a tree and Rumlow presses his body against the railing,
his throbbing cock springing to life inside of his fatigues. “I’m ready, Uncle
Rummy. I swear, I am.” Boomer brushes a bead of sweat from Rumlow’s brow and
hisses as Rumlow’s hands find their way under his Daddy’s leather jacket and
the thin tee shirt beneath. His belly ebbs with every breath, the skin firm and
soft and deliciously scented.
 
“Yeah?” Rumlow moans, rutting shamelessly between Boomer’s jean-clad legs,
reveling in the little, happy gasps he’s rewarded with.
 
“Yeah. I want to uhm…” Boomer blushes. “I mean, can we…mate? Then we’ll go home
and tell Daddy and Dad and then we can be together.”
 
Rumlow growls into his ear, attacking his lobe and nipping at the scent gland
below. “Oh, sweet boy, you have no idea how much I want that.”
 
“Mmh…me too. God, I want you so much. Please, I need you...” Boomer’s tongue
wets his mouth as he tries this newfound adult language. “I need something…in
me.”
 
“Mmmm….you mean, something big?”
 
“Yeah, big…”
 
“You want something to shove up inside that aching little hole of yours?”
Boomer sighs against Rumlow’s open mouth. Rumlow’s calloused fingers brush over
the buds of his chest and pinch down mercilessly, making Boomer jump. He
scampers further up still, hooking both legs around Rumlow’s belt and hanging
on for dear life as he’s flattened against the railing of the concrete abyss.
“You want my cock, sweetie.”
 
“Uhhng…yes.”
 
“You want my big, fat cock in that tight little pussy of yours, is that it? You
want me to pound it into you?” Rumlow gives his hips a demonstrative thrust and
Boomer gasps happily. “You want me to fill you with my thick, hot come and give
you my fat knot, is that it?”
 
“Yes!” Boomer kisses him furiously, as if the only air there is to breathe
comes from Rumlow’s mouth. Their teeth scrape together in a frenzied rush, wet
tongues mingling and tasting each other’s scents.
 
“You want me to take you home, sweet thing? You want me to make love to you?”
Rumlow pulls away suddenly, one hand at the nape of Boomer’s neck. Boomer’s
eyes are a lustful glaze and he whimpers at the loss of Rumlow’s mouth on his.
“You don’t know how bad I want that.”
 
“I love you,” Boomer murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.
 
“I love you too, precious one. I love you more than anything. More than my
breath. More than my life.” Rumlow pets his face and Boomer practically coos.
If he catches the hint of sadness in Rumlow’s voice, he doesn’t show it.
“Promise me you won’t hate me.”
 
Boomer’s eyes flutter. His arms loosen as he slips from Rumlow’s grasp, an
uncomprehending expression marring the pretty features of his face. “Of course
not. How could I? Why would..?”
 
The corner of Boomer’s eye catches a glint of a bright blue truck rumbling down
the gravel path, towards them. An incredulous hiss catches in his throat, those
sparkling cyan eyes turning into vengeful black pools. “You called them?”
 
Rumlow flicks the phone off before sliding it back into his pocket, staring out
into the sliver of dying sun glowing over the horizon. “Go home, kid.” His
voice is cold, commanding. Like the perfect Shield Agent, all lustful ardor and
impassioned pleading gone from his tone.
 
Boomer takes a step forward, fists clenched, eyes burning. “You called them?”
 
Rumlow fishes out a cigarette, fumbling with it in his bruised fingers,
inspecting the bent filter absentmindedly. “I raped someone today.”
 
Boomer’s eyes flash and he reels back as if he has just gotten sucker-punched
in the solar plexus.
 
“Just a kid. Twenty one, twenty two, maybe. He’s someone’s house slave. So it’s
not like I’ll go to jail for it. Fuck, it’s probably even legal.” He flicks his
lighter, sweeping his thumb across the strike a few times until it ignites. He
puffs at the cigarette, drawing the warm ash into his mouth, holding it there.
Makes his eyes water just enough that it blurs the details of Boomer’s
reaction. “He is just an omega. A fuck-toy, born and bred.” He puts the lighter
away as two tall figures step out of the blue truck and approach. “Yeah, I
fuckin’ bred him alright.”
 
“I don’t believe you,” Boomer mumurs, his fists shaking, feet sliding a few
steps backward towards the entrance.
 
“Nah, I didn’t figure you would. You’ve held me up on a pedestal for so long, I
bet my shit’d smell like roses to you. But the point is, Boom, I would have
done that same thing to you. Without  a second thought. Without mercy. No
lovey-dovey, picking out curtains and planning baby showers shit. I would have
fucked you—because that’s what I do. And you would have let me—because that’s
what omegas do. You ain’t in love, kid. You know who does love you?” Rumlow
points his cigarette out towards Bucky and Steve as they make their way to the
bridge. “Those two idiots, there. Your parents are good people, Boom. They love
you.”
 
“I love you,” Boomer says, his voice breaking.
 
“You’ll get over it,” Rumlow mutters.
 
“You’re full of shit, I hope you know that.” Boomer straightens his back, his
eyes steeling their resolve. “I can see right through you. You think you know
what I want? What I’m feeling? You don’t have a fucking clue.”
 
“Yeah. Okay.” Rumlow keeps his face turned, nodding bitterly at the sunset. “So
grow the fuck up a little and prove me wrong, then, huh?”
 
A single icy tear makes its way down his cheek and he shakes his head in
disgust. “Fuck you.”
 
Rumlow listens to the footsteps as they pad their way down the gravel drive.
Hears Bucky’s arms throwing themselves around his son, hears Boomer nearly
collapse onto the gravel drive, sobs heaving from his chest. He glances towards
Steve and sees the slightest nod from the stoic Captain. He doesn’t bother
returning the gesture.
 
The truck peels out as quickly as it had come, down the gravel drive, out of
sight, out of existence.
He draws in a shuddering breath as he burns away the remaining cinders between
his fingers and dabs at a bit of moisture he feels falling on his face. Damn
head-wound must have busted open. He sweeps his fingers against his cheek,
brushing away at the warm sensation, then pulls his fingers away to inspect the
damage.
 
“I’ll be damned,” he scoffs bitterly, staring down at the clear, salty stains.
 
 
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