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Rumlow commands the Winter Soldier to do many things, but one inexplicable thing that gets him unbelievably turned on is asking the asset to light his cigarette.
Rumlow thinks it's the subservience that really gets him. The way the asset reaches into his many pockets to bring out a militaristic lighter- pockets to be used strictly for Mission purposes- and bends over lightly, not too much, just enough to hold the lighter up to the cig in Rumlow's mouth, avoiding eye contact. Rumlow watches the hair fall into the asset's face as he does this. He likes to place it back behind his ears. He likes the way it makes the asset tense ever so minutely.
He prefers to be sprawled on a seating usually. Still, the sex appeal isn't lost when, on the rare occasion, he's in the middle of a mission briefing with a cigarette hanging off his mouth, he tasks the asset with lighting it. And he does it. Every damn time, unflinchingly, he does it. Despite the many times, Rumlow himself has snuffed a cigarette on his body(who knows about the other handlers? Surely they have their own dirty tricks). Marking him, hurting him- just to watch him flinch, and then tense, and then anticipate the next hit.
Rumlow's possessive streak neither begins nor ends with this little thing they've got going on. He wonders if the asset would do the same regardless of his handler. If he would do it without a complete well-worded command. He probably would, Rumlow muses in his free time. But would he carry the lighter on him? For a different handler?
The next time Rumlow has the asset pinned under him, he picks up a cig. he enjoys the way the asset's eyes widen. God his fucking eyes. So expressive .
"Light it," he says lowly. He watches the command hit home, watches the asset squirm under him, and then flails his hand around to grab at his belt, which he had kept folded somewhere nearby. Rumlow doesn't help. Nor does he make it any easier, pushing harder, savoring the way the asset squirms. He watches as the asset maneuvers himself into possession of the lighter.
Rumlow doesn't bend, or move forward, choosing to stare impassively at the asset's trembling sweaty face. He preens at the sight of the asset lifting himself on a shaky elbow, Metal arm raised with the lighter in an almost reverent fashion. Reverent . Hah. That's what Rumlow would think of it as, if he was delusional.
The asset flicks the lighter, and Rumlow takes a long drag. The asset falls back, head banging loudly on the tiled floor. But he doesn't seem to care much for his skull. Lucky for him, neither does Rumlow. He grabs the cigarette with two fingers, and the asset's face with the other hand. He pushes him into a bruising kiss, letting his head clang once again on the floor. He exhales the smoke into his mouth. He watches the asset cough and then rasp in a breath, and then cough again.
"Now," Rumlow grins, watching tears spring into the soldier's eyes. "I thought you'd have done this shit before. Or maybe you have, but forgot? Stop acting like you don't like this." This; the cigarette; the sex. He moves his hand from the asset's face to his throat, pressing down in a practiced manner. The asset struggles, but not too much. He knows better than to try.
He takes another drag of his cigarette, and this time places the filter to the asset's lips.
"Breathe Soldier," Rumlow commanded. And with a hand bruising his throat, and tears running down the side of his face, the asset obliges.
It should not have turned Rumlow on as much as it did.
Oh, he was going to get reprimanded for the damage he was going to cause the asset now, he was sure.
Look what you've done to him, they'll say. You've given him cancer!
Was it even possible for a knockoff super soldier to get cancer? Probably not.
Rumlow pinched the cigarette off, and then pressed two fingers into the asset's mouth, searching for and pulling out his tongue. He snuffed the cigarette out on it, causing a low, pained whine from the asset. Rumlow smiled.
"Good boy."