#rumrollinsweek

[kalika999]

Title: Forever and ever Rating: Teen Warnings: None Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow Word Count: 981 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Human/Vampire Relationship, Kidnapping, Blood Drinking Summary: It takes a few minutes for him to realise what's going on.

Written for @rumrollinsweek via the prompt: May 25th - Wednesday: Snack || Energy Read here at AO3!

[leviathanhomecooking]

RumRollins Week, Dec. 1st: Free Day!

Brock wakes up alone. Not that he wasn’t expecting it, but was hoping not to. Jack’s side of the bed is empty and cold, and he looks at it longingly. He has to face the music at some point, so he figures it’s best to get it over with.

Brock walks out of the bedroom and goes to the living room. He figured after Jack had stormed out after their fight last night he would have returned and slept on the couch, but the couch was undisturbed. The throw blanket was still folded over the back and pillow hadn’t moved from the armchair. A quick peek out the window tells Brock that Jack’s truck is still gone. Jack hadn’t come back yet.

Brock collapses on the couch and rubs his palms over his face. He really fucked up this time.

Brock checks his phone. No new messages from Jack. He sits on the couch and thinks for a while, staring into the void. He’s broken from his stupor by his stomach growling, he’s been awake for two hours with no food.

Brock initiates his normal morning routine just to kill time. He’s frequently checking the clock and his phone, alternates between mindless tasks like doing laundry and moping on the couch for hours. Jack should have been home a while ago, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, they pretty much just have each other.

In a brief moment of fear, Brock goes through the master closet. Jack things are all still there, and that comforts Brock for the moment. Around twelve, he texts Jack, asking where he is. There’s no response. It’s another four hours of waiting until Brock finally hears Jack’s truck in the driveway.

Jack walks in all casual, holding grocery bags, and only glances at Brock on his way to the kitchen. Jack just unloads groceries in silence, and Brock is so tense waiting for the peace to shatter at any moment. He can hear the clatter of pots and pans for a while, sizzling on the stove, and a delicious smell hangs in the air.

Jack isn’t as good of a cook as Brock but he’s capable in the kitchen. It’s rare for him to cook, so Brock gets up to investigate. He can see there’s steaks in the pan that Jack is looming over, and something in the oven.

He just lingers there, watching, unsure of what to say.

Jack takes notice and glances over his shoulder. “Gotcha somethin’, it’s in the bag on the table.” He says. Brock carefully shuffles over to the table as if expecting the brown paper bag there to explode. He wouldn’t put it past Jack to do such a thing, blow them both up in his anger.

But what Brock pulls out of the bag isn’t in IED, it’s a bottle of wine. A simple, yet classy vintage that the sales person probably recommended to Jack.

“...what’s all this for?” Brock asks.

Jack sets two wine glasses on the table and takes the bottle to open it. The normally pleasant sound that comes from pouring wine into the glass is hard for Brock to enjoy in this circumstance. “Your birthday.” Jack says.

Brock blinks. That was today, wasn’t it? He completely forgot. More importantly, why did that matter right now?

“What about—”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Jack says firmly. “First, we’re gonna sit down to a nice meal.”

“Jack—” Brock tries again.

“Later.” Jack repeats, glaring Brock down. Brock reluctantly submits.

Jack holds out a glass and Brock takes it. He swirls it around, closing his eyes to take in the scent, and savors it when he takes a taste. Jack is not as sophisticated, simply sipping as he watches Brock over his glass. “Set the table?” Jack suggests and Brock does so.

It’s tense, but they sit down to a quiet meal. The food is good, and so is the wine. When there are only scraps left, Jack sets aside the dishes. “Gotcha somethin’ else.” He says, pulling out a little black box and setting it in front of Brock.

As happy as Brock would be to accept another watch or a pair of cufflinks from Jack, he doesn’t think he deserves it. Maybe that’s Jack goal, to make him swim in his own guilt until he drowns. Brock spends a little too long fiddling with the box and staring at it.

“Open it.” Jack says softly.

Brock flips the lid and freezes. He looks from the box to Jack, and then back.

“I don’t understand…” He says, staring at the simple gold band nestled pretty in the box.

“I...cheat on you and you...ask me to marry you?” Brock asks hopelessly. Jack is looking back at him evenly, no malice or anger to be found. It’s got to be some kind of joke, a trap with Jack waiting to pull the rug out from beneath, play with Brock’s emotions like Brock did to him.

Jack sighs, “I know you, Brock. You’re naturally chaotic. You need order, you need discipline, and you crave it.  And that’s what I’m here for, to keep you on the right track and from falling into your naturally chaotic ways, that’s what makes us an effective team.”

He continues, “I made the mistake of underestimating the extent that you needed it. Should’ve known you’d go around whoring yourself out, ‘cause with every inch you’ll take a mile. Not even because you want those other people, it’s because you want me to react. You want me to claim you.”  Brock opens his mouth to say something, but Jack cuts him off, “And don’t try to pretend you don’t ‘cause I can see that glazed-over fucked-out look on your face. Turnin’ to mush whenever I put you in your place, bossin’ you around, when I’m possessive.”

Brock’s face goes red, he can’t deny it.

Jack taps the lid of the box. “And that’s what I’m offering you: Rules. Boundaries. Order.”

There’s a long suffering moment of silence as Jack waits for Brock’s response. Brock plucks the ring from its carrier, examines it idly, contemplating. “What did you have in mind?” He asks.

“Out there, in the field, at work, you’re in charge. But here, in this house, in this relationship, I call the shots. Ground rules: you belong to me. You don’t so much as look at anyone else without my permission, much less fuck anybody. That means no flirting either, especially with Rogers.”

“I don’t flirt with Rogers.” Brock insists.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. It’s called being friendly, which your antisocial ass wouldn’t know.”

The seriousness on Jack’s face flickers, but remains stern. Brock concedes, “Fine. I’ll keep my distance.” Jack nods, pleased.

“What about work?” Brock asks after a beat, there are no limits to what Hydra will demand of its members, much less the demand of SHIELD agents.

“You do what needs to be done, but you still ask permission.” Jack says, “The same rules apply to me.” How egalitarian of him.

“Is this a ceremonial thing or legal?”

“We’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow.”

“Ain’t changin’ my name.”

“Me neither.”

Brock can’t help a little chuckle. Leave it to them to turn a marriage proposal into a negotiation.

“So, what do you say? Do you, Brock Rumlow…” Jack takes the ring and holds up Brock’s hand. “Take me, Jack Rollins…” Jack slips the gold band snuggly onto Brock’s finger. The glittering metal a stark contrast from Brock’s worn hands. “As your lawfully wedded husband. In sickness, and in health…” Jack holds Brock’s palm warm, and safe his own.

“...’till death do us part?”

Brock is lost in the earnestness of Jack’s fern green eyes, and it’s taking everything in him not to just break out in a big grin and jump the man right then and there. Brock can’t even speak, he just nods. Jack’s mouth splits into a wide, eager grin, the edges of his eyes crinkling in that charming way it does.

“Yeah?” He breathes like a sigh of relief. “Yeah.” Brock confirms. Neither knows who moved first, but they crash face-first into each other in a biting messy kiss.

And then Jack is grabbing Brock by the throat, licking the taste of Brock from his lips. His face breaks out in a familiar sadistic grin that has Brock squirming in anticipation.

“But first...I should punish you for that little stunt you pulled.”

[carpecerevisiam]

Rumrollinsweek: Nov 25th S.H.I.E.L.D

Brock has been back Stateside for just ten days when the first offer comes in; he reads the first few lines—just enough to glean that it’s a training position at Quantico—and then tosses it into the bin.

Training rookie FBI agents? It’s almost insulting.

But that’s only the first of many. Letters, emails, phone calls. They even make an approach in person once. He comes back from the gym late one morning to find a baby-faced suit waiting outside his apartment building. Brock barges him aside and slams the door in the guy’s face before he can even mention which alphabet agency he’s representing.

Brock has spent the last decade and a half shuttling from one war zone to the next at the behest of these shadowy puppeteers, with little to show for his service other than a handful of medals, blood-soaked hands, and a head full of nightmares.

He won’t do it again.

—

SHIELD are smarter than the others. They wait damn near close to a year before they approach him.

They wait until the novelty of being a civilian has worn off and monotony sets in. They wait until his apartment—which had seemed so spacious at the start—feels oppressive and the silence at night becomes stifling.

They wait as his savings dwindle because it’s amazing just how hard it can be to find stable work when your entire employment history is classified, and he’s facing the prospect of being just another homeless veteran on DC’s streets.

The letter, when it arrives, is obnoxiously short and to the point, giving him directions to the Triskelion and a time by which to arrive, and nothing else.

Brock tears it into smaller and smaller pieces as his vision blurs.

He doesn’t want to go, but his rent payment is already overdue.

He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t have a choice.

—

Later, he’ll find out that SHIELD exerted pressure on at least three potential employers to make them back off.

—

The Triskelion symbolises everything that Brock thinks is wrong with the world.

It’s a towering monstrosity of gleaming steel and glass, a shining beacon of freedom and democracy—or so Brock has heard it described by people who are still naïve enough to believe in those lies.

He lounges in the atrium people-watching from behind his sunglasses as fresh-faced SHIELD agents hurry back and forth, all of them looking so very earnest as they go about their work winning hearts and minds around the world.

Brock wonders if they have ever cared about hearts and minds picked clean by carrion birds in foreign lands and then shakes his head. Of course they don’t. In the same way that they don’t care about the interrogation cells hidden in the Triskelion’s basement levels, or the enhanced interrogation techniques SHIELD psychologists helped devise, or that the former Secretary of State thought half a million dead Iraqi children was a price worth paying.

Hypocrisy; that’s what the Triskelion symbolises to Brock.

But, well, he’s here, too, isn’t he? So who is he to throw stones?

—

They keep him waiting for thirty-five minutes.

The Deputy Director is in a meeting that’s overrunning but she’ll see him as soon as she can, he’s assured, and Brock smiles and nods and says nothing in response.

He knows the games these people play as well as he knows the back of his own hand.

—

There is a man at the front desk that Brock has been keeping an eye on. He’s spotted at least two other people keeping tabs on him, but Scarface is the key, and Brock has to hand it to him; he’s not bad. He almost—almost—sells the bored, under-trained, under-paid tough-guy security persona.

Almost, but not quite.

He’s too young for the role, for starters. Mid-thirties, Brock reckons. Handsome, too, and in peak physical condition if the way he nicely fills out his uniform is any sign. He pays little attention to the bank of screens in front of him, preferring to watch the people milling around in much the same way Brock would.

If someone were to enter the Triskelion intending to shoot the place up, he knows Scarface would have a bullet between their eyes before they’d even raised their weapon.

Brock drains his third coffee—because fuck it, they’re free—and waits for the right moment.

—

“Hey, pal.”

Scarface looks up sharply, but if he’s at all disconcerted by Brock having caught him off guard, he doesn’t show it. “Help you with something, sir?” he asks, and okay, the bland, world-weary rent-a-cop accent is spot-on.

Brock flashes him his most charming smile. “I’m bored now,” he says.

Scarface frowns, but Brock doesn’t miss the slight quirk of his lips. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to go back to your seat.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.” Now that he’s closer, Brock revises his age estimate downwards. Scarface can’t be a day over thirty; in fact, he’s probably quite a few under it.

“Sir—”

Brock cuts him off with a sigh. “Look, I know the deal, okay? I know there’s a guy a few floors above us who’s been watching me. He’s about five-eleven, bald, and built like a brick-shithouse, yeah? Just like I know the guy over in the far corner has just been pretending to replace that busted light.”

Scarface blinks. He really does have very nice eyes, Brock thinks idly. “How did you—?”

“Been doing this a lot longer than you, sweetheart, that’s how.” He reaches out to tap Scarface’s earpiece, and the kid doesn’t even try and stop him. “Now, how about you tell them I’m ready for my interview, hmm?”

[obi-wan-kenobied]

Rumrollins Week - Free for all - 2

Royalty AU

~~~~~~~~

“My darling boy, you are to be king one day. You mustn’t waste time being foolish when there’s a wedding to be planned.”

Brock swallows thickly, then looks back at his mother, with determination set in his eyes.

“But I don’t want to marry him. I’m in love with Jack...” he whispers.

~~~~~~~~

“You were to protect the prince, not lay with him!”

Jack shifts smoothly out of the way from the punch that Pierce throws at him, his laughter loud and obnoxious. Pierce is older, but he has nothing against Jack’s experience as a knight, he knows how to avoid hits, so he usually has the upper hand. He’s growing tired of hearing others thoughts on himself and Brock, there’s only so much he can take, Pierce, of course, is the last straw.

“I could do both,” he snipes, with a smug grin.

Pierce steps closer, as he points one gloved finger at Jack, before jabbing it into his chest roughly. 

“Mark my words Jack...this lunacy could be the death of you, or your precious prince.”

[rumrollinsweek]

Welcome to Rumrollins Week--the first event hosted to celebrate the best canonical ship Marvel Cinematic Universe gave us! Here’s how this works:

Each day in a week from November 25th to December 1st will have a prompt to create rumrollins related fanfiction/fanart/other content. They don’t have to be a romantic ship--everything from best friends to worst enemies is game!

You need to have a tumblr or ao3 to participate. When posting your work on tumblr, tag it with #rumrollinsweek, so we can find it and reblog! You can also submit your work. On ao3, use a Rumrollins Week tag (if there’s enough works on ao3, we’ll consider making a collection). Please remember to warn for sensitive content!

Here are the prompts:

Nov 25th (Monday): S.H.I.E.L.D.

Nov 26th (Tuesday): Hydra

Nov 27th (Wednesday): Home

Nov 28th (Thursday): Hobby

Nov 29th (Friday): Winter Fun

Nov 30th (Saturday): Summer Fun

Dec 1st (Sunday): Free day! (create whatever you like!)

Please read the rules and FAQ for more information!

[quillingyousoftly]

My first entry for the Rumrollins Week! It’s for day 3: Home. I had that scene in my head for years and finally I had a reason to write it 😝

The water's going cold. Jack turns the pages in his book to check how many are left till the end of the chapter. Only eight; he might as well finish it now. He hasn't had nearly enough of relaxing in a scented bath with meditation music playing softly in the background, even if the foam has already disappeared. He opens the tap with his foot for hot water to warm up the cooling bath.

Then, a loud knocking on the door interrupts the peace.

"Jack! You've been there for two hours! I need to get in!"

Jack sighs. It's a little post-mission ritual of his, to lock himself in a bathroom and forget about the world he has to live in. He loves Brock, loves spending time with him, but after four days of being with him non-stop, he needs a bit of alone time. That's not the case with Brock, unfortunately. Post-mission, when it's getting dark, and they're both tired, he likes to curl up against Jack's side, talking about this and that or nothing at all. And that's nice, sure. But reading in a bath all by himself is nicer.

The lock clicks; a flimsy bathroom one couldn't possibly keep the commander of STRIKE out of where he wants to be. Brock unceremoniously walks in and over to the sink, takes his toothbrush and opens the tap. Jack doesn't look up, but he has stopped reading. He stares at one word at the top of the page, unable to comprehend its meaning and listens to Brock brush his teeth.

"You really need to do this right now?" he asks, trying not to get irritated. He's been enough irritated during the mission.

"Wuth, and rithk decay becauthe ya can' geth clean enough?" Brock shoots back without taking the brush out of his mouth. He spits into the sink and rinses his mouth. 

Jack wants to argue further, but he's startled into silence when Brock undresses and puts one foot in the water.

"What are you doing?" Jack asks despite it being clear when Brock happily settles himself in his lap. He lies down against Jack's chest, his arms sneaking around his waist. Resting his chin against his left pectoral, he smiles up at him. 

"I miss you."

Jack's fingers run through his hair before he realizes, and he sighs. "Fine, but be quiet."

Brock makes a happy sound into Jack's neck as he returns to his book. Brock takes his request literally and is oh so quiet when he nibbles on the skin against his lips just to soothe it with his tongue. Jack suppress a growl, mainly because he isn't sure if it would've been a sign of discontent or quite the opposite.

"By that I meant, don't distract me," he grumbles instead.

He misses Brock's mouth on him as soon as he pulls away.

"Shoulda said so," Brock says, his voice a little rough, and rests his head on Jack's shoulder.

Jack chances a glance down; Brock's eyes are closed. 

"Don't fall asleep on me."

Brock makes a sound of agreement, but Jack already knows he's lying. His hand leaves Brock's hair only briefly to turn the page; there's no way Brock will last for seven more. He's tried after the mission, and it's way past his bedtime. Jack reads just one more page; he will have tomorrow to read for as long as he likes. 

When he's finished and reaching out to put the book away on a shelf, Brock's heartbeat is slow and steady against his rib cage, and his breath on his damp skin shallow. Jack gently shakes him awake.

"Come on. Sleep time."

Brock just hides his face in the crook of Jack's neck with a groan and mumbles something unintelligible. Jack pats his thighs underwater. 

"Come on. Let me get up and I'll carry you to bed, how does that sound?"

It must sound fantastic, because Brock reluctantly straightens up, blinking sleep away, and gracelessly climbs off Jack's hips. Jack gets out of the bath, dries himself off, then helps Brock out as well. He wraps him in a towel, lifts him up bridal style and carries him to the bedroom. There, he lays him out on the bed and dries him off for a moment before throwing the towel on the chair. Brock grins up at him, keeping his eyes open with the last scraps of willpower he has left, and reaches out for Jack.

"Sure. Right," Jack mumbles.

He lies down beside him, and Brock wraps all his limbs around him like a koala holding onto a tree. Or a sloth. Jack smiles to himself at the thought. Brock doesn't see it, already falling back to sleep.

[winter-angst]

RumRollins Week 2019, Nov. 26th: Hydra

insanity

In the absence of light, there is only dark. Even as the darkness consumes that bit of light, it had a purpose. Even as it is extinguished, it contributed. Even when only the darkness prevailed, it's because the light existed.

This, Brock told himself as he rested his forehead against Jack's chest, made it okay. He smelled of soap, of the water running in pink rivulets down their skin, circling the drain before it vanished. Swallowed up by the darkness inside the pipes.

Part of the sewers but also part of something more.

"You're quiet this morning," Jack's long fingers ran in comforting circles over his shoulder blades. "I'd hate to get bored with you."

"Asshole." There was the thrill of that casual joke that gave Brock a forbidden jolt of excitement, that further intensified the craving he had for Jack. "I take it your mission went well?"

"Real well. Maybe you should cook us up something special for dinner."

Brock glared at him through his eyelashes. The water burned his eyes but he wasn't a stranger to pain. Order comes from pain, after all.

"You're full of jokes this morning."

"You're cranky. What did you miss me or something?" A hand still streaked in blood cupped under his chin, tiling his head up. Jack saw through him. From day one it was impossible to stay a step ahead of someone inside your head. "You did. Fag."

"Shut up," Brock swatted his hand away. It was insane to feel jealous of whoever's blood it was Jack was currently wearing but he couldn't help it. "Just...clean up already."

That was their love, anyway. Insanity.

[kalika999]

Title: Oh, devour me Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow Word Count: 1487 Additional Tags: Masturbation, Walking In On Someone, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Come Eating, Naked Cuddling Summary: Brock wakes up with Jack on his mind.

Written for @rumrollinsweek via the prompt: May 27th, Thursday: Desire/”How do you want me?” Read here at AO3!