I prepared another modification for this year’s challenge! Next to a one word prompt for each day of the Week, there’s a dialogue prompt. You can choose to create for either or both prompts.
The Week will start on May 25th and end on May 31st. That means this year we’re starting on Tuesday! The prompts are as follows:
May 25th, Tuesday: Deception/”The sooner we forget what happened, the better.”
May 26th, Wednesday: Devotion/”Impossible.”
May 27th, Thursday: Desire/”How do you want me?”
May 28th, Friday: Damage/”Let me go.”
May 29th, Saturday: Despair/”Are you done?”
May 30th, Sunday: Death/”You weren’t supposed to be here.”
May 31th, Monday: Free day!
All you need to do to participate is to post your content on Tumblr on the right day and tag it as #rumrollinsweek21. You may also submit your work if you wish for it to be anonymous.
So @quillingyousoftly broke my heart with THIS, and you should read it (if you haven’t already)
Brock is in the middle of cooking dinner when his phone rings.
It’s his landline though, not his cell, so he ignores it. Anyone important who needs to get hold of him knows to call his cell, and the unknown caller rings off without leaving a message.
They try again though, half an hour later and just as Brock is stepping into the bath, and then again once he’s done and toweling off, but this time they don’t hang up.
“I think it’s time for you to fuck off, Mr Telemarketer,” he growls, stomping through the hall to where the phone is still ringing, but just as he’s about to yank out its cord, the answerphone kicks in.
“Commander Rumlow, this is Commander Harrison at the San Francisco field office. Please give me a—”
Brock snatches the handset out of its cradle so quickly that he almost fumbles it. “Yeah, I’m here,” he says, sudden fear making his heart skip a beat. “What is it?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then Harrison sighs. “Commander, are you aware that you’re listed as Jack Rollins’ next of kin?”
Brock closes his eyes. He can’t speak, can’t breathe. He spoke to Jack just a few days ago. God, it hasn’t even been a week.
“Commander?”
“Yeah,” he manages to say around the tightness in his throat. He feels lightheaded. “Yeah, I am. What, um… what’s happened?”
---
He feels numb.
He doesn’t feel sad, or angry, or confused. Jack is dead, but Brock doesn’t feel anything at all.
The medical examiner is going to rule it a suicide. There isn’t much doubt about the cause of death because Jack left the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter. But any death of a SHIELD agent raises eyebrows, and that means an autopsy, and an autopsy means a delay before Brock can take him home.
He’s going to go back to D.C. with a coffin and one duffel bag.
“You’re telling me that this is it?” Brock asks. The look he gives Harrison could strip paint, but the other man simply shrugs.
Jack’s personal effects amount to five t-shirts; two pairs of jeans and a pair of gray slacks; a couple of jumpers; two button-down shirts; a pair of sneakers and one pair of black dress shoes; one gray blazer; underwear and socks; workout gear; a razor; a phone; a wallet; and a couple of books.
And a framed picture of the two of them that had been found next to Jack’s body. Brock remembers that photo well; Jack had taken it and immediately announced that he thought he looked stupid in it.
Brock cleans the smudges from the glass, wraps it up in one of Jack’s jumpers, and then places it carefully at the very top of the bag.
Jack’s entire life fits into one duffel bag, and Brock has it all packed away again in under two minutes.
“He was always quiet, you know?” Harrison starts, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “We’d invite him out for drinks but he’d always decline, and we just... We didn’t think anything of it. Plenty of guys like to keep work and home separate, right? Don’t want to take work home, don’t want to bring home to work… You know how it goes.” Brock doesn’t say anything, and Harrison continues on quietly. “He was a bit odd, but he was a great agent. He used to show us all up on the mats, every single week. I guess we should have—”
“Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known,” Brock cuts in brusquely. He lifts the bag onto his shoulder. “Now, where was he living?”
---
Brock is no stranger to death, but even so it is an eerie sensation stepping into Jack’s apartment.
SHIELD hadn’t bothered to find him somewhere nice, but it’s serviceable. It has just one single bedroom, and a very small kitchen, but there’s no damp on the walls, no signs of pests, and he can’t hear the neighbors through the walls.
He doubts very much that they ever heard Jack, either.
Harrison had assured him that the apartment had been left as it was found, but Brock is still half-convinced that he has the wrong place, because there’s no sign that Jack lived here.
Hell, there’s no sign that anyone lived here.
The living room walls are bare; the kitchen cupboards are empty. In the fridge, Brock finds a solitary box of leftover takeout, and there’s a bar of soap on the side of the bathroom sink. He steps through to the bedroom expecting it to be every bit as nondescript as the rest of the apartment, but it isn’t, because the sheets on the right-hand side of the bed are still wrinkled from where Jack had laid down to die.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Jackie,” Brock breathes. His eyes start stinging as he takes in the sight.
He had wondered why Jack had taken pills when a self-inflicted gunshot would have been easier, but now it makes sense; SHIELD would have needed to clean and redecorate, and Jack would have wanted to minimize the unpleasantness his death would cause. He would have felt bad about ruining someone’s day by forcing them to scrub blood and brain matter off the wall and out of the carpet.
Brock sinks to the floor as the tears finally come. He can’t stop looking at the bed. Jack had called him from that bed to say goodbye—only Brock hadn’t known that. He’d told him that he’d call him later, but without really meaning it. Work had been frantic that week, and Brock had been feeling overwhelmed. He had just wanted some peace and quiet; an evening to himself without interruptions.
But Jack had been dying, and Brock had blown him off.
for day 3 of rumrollins week, for the prompt Desire
------
With personalities as strong as theirs, it’s a marvel they don’t tear each other’s throats out. They almost had, at first. Rumlow’s always been loud, stubborn, petty, and Rollins is cold, damn near silent, and controlling. Anything he can’t directly impact, he wants no part of. Which might be how they end up here, both bleeding, Rumlow on his knees in front of Rollins, Rollins’ fist in his hair as he thrashes wildly.
Rollins isn’t an idiot; if Rumlow wanted out of his grip, he would be already. Instead, Rollins notes with something above amusement and more akin to awe, Rumlow folds, albeit angrily, at his feet, glaring up at him. “So what now? Going to fuck your superior officer, Rollins? Doesn’t seem your style.” It’s an obvious out for Rollins to take. He undoes his fly with his free hand instead, shoving Rumlow’s face against the rough material of his jeans.
“You don’t know shit about my style. But you will.” Rumlow stills, just for a brief second, and Rollins sighs. This could end terribly, but he’d like to be there in the time before it does. “You’re going to suck me off, aren’t you? Go ahead, love, get on with it.”
Rumlow growls, actually fucking growls, and Rollins laughs, yanks Rumlow’s head back by his hair and slaps him, open handed.
“Go on, bitch. You heard me.”
Rumlow thrashes in his grip again, whimpers when Rollins pulls him up by the hair until his knees are barely still touching the ground.
“Suck me off, Commander.”
Rumlow shivers, and finally reaches up to unzip Rollins’ jeans.
“Good boy,” Rollins praises, lowering his hand so Rumlow can relax a little in his grip.
Once he’s started, Rumlow’s fairly complacent, to Rollins surprise. He sucks Rollins down easily, like he was born to do this, and Rollins groans, tells him as much. Rumlow just glares up at him, but goes to work blowing Rollins like his life depends on it.
Rollins refuses to be embarrassed about how quickly he comes down Rumlow’s throat. He hasn’t gotten a blow job in longer than he cares to think about, and Rumlow’s got a wicked mouth. He keeps Rumlow’s head held down on his cock until Rumlow’s whining, tears forming in his eyes.
Finally, he lets go, and Rumlow sits back on his heels, blinking away tears, eyes glassy.
Rollins looks down, lets out a breath. “Christ, did you come from just that?”
Rumlow’s ears go red, and Rollins laughs. “You’re amazing. Get the fuck up, you’re coming back home with me. Unless there’s any objections to a round two?”
Rumlow stands on shaky legs and follows Rollins out of the room and to his car without a word.
RumRollins Week 2021 | May 26th, Wednesday: DEVOTION
As a mob boss, Jack Rollins is used to getting what he wants. But Father Rumlow is not his usual prey.
Jack Rollins is used to men and women willingly falling to his feet wherever he goes, but there is no more beautiful image than the strong, fiery, loyal Father prostrating himself before the visages of the Lord Christ.
Father Rumlow does not kneel for him. But he willingly crawls on hands and knees to worship before a mere statue of The Holy Mother. Palms and knees scratched bloody, sharp pebbles and dirt wedged in between open wounds, from his near daily laps around the church garden.
The man was too beautiful, his display too enthralling, for Jack to let anything stop him from possessing him.
Written for day 6 of Rumrollins Week, for the prompt "You weren't supposed to be here."
AO3 link for tags and whatnot.
Jack stumbled out of yet another pub. A group of people dressed in black leather threw him unfriendly glances as he righted himself and smoothed down his pewter slacks. He hadn't dressed appropriately for the Low Town and he had one too many beers to drink; this little trip to Madripoor was becoming more dangerous by the minute.
He turned his back on the group, placing his hand on the handle of his gun stuffed in an open holster beneath his dress jacket. He wasn't afraid of danger or death; if he was, he wouldn't have come here. He wasn't worried about strangers either; he only cared about finding one person.
His search had proved unsuccessful so far.
He rambled down the street, booze thrumming in his veins, the stink of the city assaulting his nostrils, and the colorful neons painting the nightlife in bright shades. The streets were packed, the citizens desperate for a moment of fun in their otherwise tough lives, and as Jack squeezed through the crowds, he cupped his right front pocket with his free hand to protect his wallet from some sticky fingers. His mind raced as he passed a pub after pub. He felt like he'd already visited each one. Had he been wrong after all? Perhaps Brock wasn't in Madripoor at all, and Jack was just wasting time.
He shook his head. No sign of Crossbones didn't mean Brock wasn't here; after all, with his face all over the news, he hardly needed that old fake identity he used to hide in Madripoor. He wasn't a SHIELD agent anymore, but an ex-Hydra; someone Madripoor should welcome with open arms. Jack could hardly think of a better place for him to seek refuge in.
Maybe that was it. Maybe it was too obvious.
Or maybe Brock got wind of Anatoli Knyazev looking for him and hid from him. One could never be too discreet in Madripoor, and when one was asking questions looking for someone, well, he was bound to get noticed. Jack cursed, ducking into a maze of dark alleyways devoid of crowds, and took a deep breath. He checked the time; it was nearing two. He still had half the night before what was left of SHIELD found out their double agent went triple.
He looked around, suddenly realizing he had no idea where he was. He stopped his walk, panting. The streets were dark and devoid of life, not counting one raccoon rummaging in a dumpster and cockroaches passing before his feet. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. If it were up to him, Brock would be hiding in the High Town, but he knew well enough Brock thrived in places like the Low Town. Almost like he didn't believe he deserved better.
After observing the cockroaches for half a minute, Jack realized he was hearing sounds of life nearby; a muted EBM music to be exact. He followed the sound, crushing a couple of cockroaches under his oxfords, and reached an unmarked, hole-in-the-wall club. It looked like a secret spot, and Jack narrowed his eyes. For the past few hours, he hadn't seen a better place to hide in.
He crept in closer, watching the entrance. The door swung open and closed several times as people dressed in leather walked out for a smoke or a breath of the air they grew so used to they didn't notice the stink. Jack spied at least two bouncers hiding just behind the doors. Once again, he cursed his choice of clothes; there was no way he'd be let in. Not all was lost though; surely there was someone around whose clothes Jack could 'borrow'.
He sneaked around the club, searching for someone dumb enough to wander around drunk and alone, but as he came close to the back of the club, he heard something even more promising: sex noises. He crept up, holding his breath, eyes fixed on two joined silhouettes hidden in the shadows.
He froze before even realizing why. Those were two men, alright, unlike what he thought at first, but it wasn't it. He could take down two drunk men with their pants around their ankles easily.
It was the voice he heard, familiar but strange; the figure of the man bracing himself against the wall, so known to Jack but changed. He hesitated another two seconds--what if he was wrong?--but hell, he'd recognize the love of his life anywhere. No matter the changes.
He moved like a jaguar as he jumped behind the stranger fucking Brock. He wrapped his arm around his neck; he was roughly his size, but not as buff. He cried out and thrashed, but Jack held him tight, moving just his head backwards until he heard a snap. The dead dick fell out of Brock's hole as the body slumped to the ground, and Jack was relieved to see it had a condom on. He kicked the body away and stepped right behind Brock.
"Ya done already?" Brock asked, his voice gravelly as if he had drunk a gallon of gasoline. Jack suppressed a shudder as he realized it wasn't far from the truth.
Brock's masked head turned, and Jack grabbed it to force it back in place.
"I'm just getting started," he said, opening his pants.
Brock's shoulders tensed as he noticed the change in his companion's voice. He went even more rigid when he saw the dead body lying not so far away from his feet. He thrashed when Jack pressed the blunt head of his cock against his open hole, and Jack had to wrap one arm around his frame--much thinner than he remembered--and press him close against his chest to still him.
"Shhh, calm down, baby," he soothed, sliding inside Brock's lubed hole right past his prostate, his breath hitching. "You're safe."
Brock stilled again. "...Rollins?" he choked out. "...the fuck--you weren't supposed to be here."
"No? Where else could I possibly be?" Jack slid out, then thrust back in powerfully, forcing a moan past Brock's lips. He placed a kiss on an uncovered strip of naked skin on his neck.
Brock grunted and grabbed Jack's arm holding him, but didn't fight back; he pressed his hips closer to Jack's if anything. "Following the false tracks I left for SHIELD in Monaco, for example?"
Jack grabbed Brock's right thigh and raised it, so he could slide even deeper, and they both moaned at that. Brock dropped his head, bracing it against the dirty brick wall.
"And they're following them. But I know you. I'll always know where to find you. You can't hide from me."
Brock's free hand grabbed his hip. "Well, then at least quit playing around and fuck me good before you arrest me. I was getting close there before you went all attack dog on my friend, you jealous fuck."
"Arrest you?" Jack whispered in his ear. "You really think that's why I'm here? Don't break my heart like that." He gave Brock another powerful thrust, punching out another moan. "I found you to join you. To be with you."
Brock's hips moved against him, trying to force a faster pace. It was hard to keep his mind clear with that familiar, silky heat welcoming him home. "Not falling for it... twice..." Brock panted out.
"I'll prove my loyalty to you."
Jack took Brock's hand in his and braced them against the wall. A cockroach crawled over them, but he paid it no mind. He gave Brock what he wanted, fucking him fast and hard, each needy, broken sound he pushed out of Brock's throat bringing him closer to the edge. Brock's body finally went rigid, twitching with every pump of cum he painted the wall with, then slumped against it. Jack could barely focus on holding him up as he followed soon after, spending himself inside him.
They kept themselves upright against the wall, crushing several cockroaches under their bodies. Jack wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, tucked his spent cock inside his boxers, and zipped up his slacks, then looked at Brock. His forehead was still pressed against the wall, his breath wheezing, and Jack reached for the hem of his black mask to pull it off.
Brock jerked back, almost tripping over his cargo pants still around his ankles. "Fuck off," he said, bending over to pull his pants up. Jack watched him silently. When Brock finally looked up, it was the first time in ages Jack saw his eyes, the same shade of hazel he loved so much, but reddened as if recently irritated.
"What now?" he asked, his voice full of aggression, but Jack heard a note of uncertainty and hope.
He sighed. "That's not how I planned our meeting," he admitted. "I didn't expect to find you getting riled in the ass behind some seedy club."
Brock flipped him off and walked over to the body. He patted the pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes. He took one, lit it, and hid the pack inside his own pocket. Jack still hadn't moved.
"We have much to discuss," he continued. "I have a place in the High Town."
Brock took a long drag, then held it in his lungs with his eyes closed. He let the smoke out through his nose and looked at Jack, eyeing him up and down.
"Fine," he said finally, his voice even rougher than before, throwing the barely started smoke away. "But if there's a SHIELD tac team waiting for me there, I'm blowing m'self up with you lot."
Jack grinned. "All there's waiting for you is another kind of blowing. If you're nice."
Brock rolled his eyes. "Lead the way," he ordered, turning away from him.
Jack could swear that just before he did, his mask stretched in a smile.
for day 4 of rumrollins week, the prompt “Let me go.”
------
Rollins isn’t supposed to be here, he knows that, but the nurses don’t argue with him when he points to Rumlow’s bed in the ICU and states simply “I’ll be over there.”
Maybe it’s the look on Rollins’ face. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s now the highest ranking Hydra agent besides Rumlow. It’s impossible to know, and frankly Rollins doesn’t care what the reason is, just as long as he can sit by his husband’s side until he wakes up.
A nurse comes by to tell him that Brock’s in a medically induced coma until they can repair more of the damage, and Rollins just nods, settles into the chair more comfortably, and the nurse hesitates but leaves them alone.
Rollins can barely see Rumlow’s face through all the bandages, even his hands are so wrapped that it looks like he’s wearing mittens. Rollins sits there silently, glaring down each nurse that comes by to take Rumlow’s vitals, daring them to tell him to leave. None of them try, and Rollins tries to think through what comes next. Their faces are going to be all over the internet, all the work they’ve done for Hydra bare for the world to see. They’re going to have to run and hide, at least until they can start to rebuild.
Is it even worth rebuilding? Rollins wonders. Will it even be possible to rebuild?
He’s pulled from his thoughts by a couple nurses coming up, the first approaching Rollins. “We need to move him to an operating room, you’re welcome to stay, but it’ll be a while, and he’s still in a coma. We can call you when he’s awake.”
Rollins shakes his head. “I’ll wait here.”
He waits for three days until they pull Rumlow from his coma, and Rollins holds his hand as he wakes up, smiles at him. “Hey, you,” he says softly, and Rumlow tries to sit up, hisses in pain as he lays back down. “Yeah, wouldn't do that,” Rollins says, “you got pretty banged up. Third and fourth degree burns over most of your body. But you'll be alright, they're working on it and-”
“Kill me,” Rumlow rasps, cutting him off.
“I'm sorry?” Rollins asks, and Rumlow looks at him, eyes practically dead.
“Kill me. I can't do this. I won't. Just kill me.”
“Brock-”
“Let me go, Jackie, please.” He passes out, last word slurring, and Rollins has to blink away tears.
He loves Rumlow, would do anything for him, but he can't do that. They'll go home, and Rollins will find a way to fix this. To get Rumlow back to his usual self. There has to be a way.
i haven’t slept yet so it’s technically still tuesday, right? another quick attempt at writing for rumrollins week, this time for the other day 1 prompt, “The sooner we forget what happened, the better.” a little bit of a dom/sub au, with sub rumlow and dom rollins.
------
Fuck small towns.
That’s the only thought going through Rumlow’s head when they stumble into some shitty little bar, bleeding and bruised and much worse for wear, and the bartender takes one look at them and tells Rollins “Your sub looks pretty beaten down there, hope you’re not planning on letting him drink.”
Rumlow’s about to correct him that he’s no one’s fucking sub, that he can manage just fine and would like at least three whiskeys on the house as an apology, when Rollins cuts him off with a “No sir, just some tequila for me and a seltzer for my boy.”
The bartender nods, and Rumlow glares at Rollins’ back as he leads the way into the bar, pointing at a table in the back. “Go. Sit. We’ll deal with your injuries in a second.”
“He alright?” Rumlow hears the bartender ask.
“Ran into some trouble on the way here, just a street fight I had to pull him out of. You know how subs can get when they’re in a bad mood,” Rollins answers easily.
Rumlow can’t hear the rest over his own fuming thoughts as he settles himself into a seat at the table Rollins had indicated. Rollins follows shortly behind, tequila and seltzer in hand. “On the floor,” Rollins orders, and Rumlow glares at him but slides off the seat and onto his knees. They need a minute to recover from that shit show of an assignment, and Rumlow’s too tired to argue.
“Ask me to do anything for you and I’ll slit your fucking throat, Jack, I swear to every fucking unholy thing on this earth,” he hisses.
Well. Too tired to argue a lot, at least.
“Just play along,” Rollins hisses back, holding down the glass of seltzer for Rumlow, clearly intending for Rumlow to drink while he holds it.
It’s an old fashioned way of doing things, the kneeling in itself is fucking old fashioned, but Rumlow obeys anyway, sips at the seltzer and then ducks his head, touching his forehead to Rollins’ knee. The perfect picture of submission, if anyone bothers to watch.
“Where are you hurt?” Rollins asks.
“Left side, right arm, left ankle, and left knee. Think I’ve got a couple cracked ribs, sir.”
Rollins sighs. “Sounds like we’re about reversed, then. Alright. I’ll drink this and then we’ll get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” The words flow easily, and it’s just as easy to slump down at Rollins’ feet, head resting in his lap as Rumlow drifts, head starting to float just a little with the submission.
God, when was the last time he actually subbed for someone? He can’t remember. It’s usually best to just keep that part of him tucked away as much as possible, and if it leaves him a little on edge all the time, well, that only makes him seem like a more authoritative commander.
He must doze off, because he wakes up to Rollins stroking his hair. “Rum, come on, time to go.”
He nods, waiting for Rollins to stand before he gets to his feet, following him out of the bar and ignoring the sideways glances from the other patrons.
It doesn’t occur to him to be angry, even as Rollins checks them into some shitty motel with one bed and stitches up the pretty nasty cut on Rumlow’s side, both of them sliding into bed and passing out without a word spoken since the bar.
-
Anger comes the next morning, when Rumlow wakes up with Rollins’ arms around him.
Rumlow scrambles out of bed, wincing as it pulls on the sloppy stitches from last night. “God fucking damn it!”
Rollins groans, rolling onto his back and blinking up at Rumlow. “Fucking hell, get back in bed, it’s too early for your shit.”
“You wanna tell me what the hell last night was?” Rumlow asks, and Rollins shakes his head.
“No. The sooner we forget what happened, the better. Are we good? Can I go back to bed now?”
Rumlow just stares for a moment, then nods. “Fine. But I need to get back to base, explain what the fuck happened.”
Rollins rolls over and is asleep before Rumlow can ask anything else. He’s not sure what else there is to say anyway, so he catches a cab back to base, debriefs, goes down to medical to get the stitches redone, and then heads home.
He dreams about Rollins’ hand in his hair, and shakes the thought off as soon as he’s awake. The sooner we forget what happened, the better. Rumlow intends to keep it that way, dreams be damned.
