He couldn't fucking believe it. He'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and now look at him: handcuffed to a chair and coming off over a decade of rut suppressants, in SHIELD custody. Or, what was left of SHIELD.
“Brock Rumlow, do you know why you're here?”
Jesus, he fucking smelled her when she set foot in the interrogation room. She wasn't even in front of him, and he was getting hard just knowing she was there.
“Yeah,” he said with a sardonic twist to his lips, “because I was an idiot."
“No arguments here,” she said, pausing so close behind him he imagined he could feel her body heat, “though I think we might differ on what, exactly, is your biggest instance of idiocy.”
Rumlow didn't turn his head to catch sight of her; they'd misinterpret that move as fear, when it was just the opposite. His shoulder blades were itching by the time she circled into his line of sight.
“Getting conned into an ambush by a sweet piece of Omega seems to have done the trick,” he smirked. He wasn’t much for compliments, but then again, she didn’t need any.
“I was thinking more along the lines of becoming a Hydra agent in the first place,” she cooed, lips alarm-bell red. She was uniformed in a nondescript suit and white button-down that must have been tailored to fit her, because her tits weren't busting buttons. A week ago, when she'd been the bait in the honey trap, she'd been in skin-tight clothes and a massive sweater that emphasized instead of hiding all her curves. Same shade of lipstick on her, though.
And her scent- he was already breathing deep, her unmistakable aroma of healthy Omega untainted by the scent of another Alpha. Rumlow wanted to drag his hands through her hair and rub himself all over her until she smelled like him instead.
He was in deep shit.
“The first thing I want to know is how many of the recalibration chair rigs Hydra has, and where they’re located.” She leaned toward him over the desk, hands braced on its cold, grey surface.
Rumlow was tempted to look down her top, but didn’t. If this was her best move, he’d be fine- hold up. She was facing the wrong direction, facing him, but she was presenting. Her ass was out, her back slightly arched, and he knew that if he weren’t bolted to this chair, she’d be at the perfect angle for him to pound into her and make her scream for it.
The stressed clink of the reinforced chain connecting his wrists to the back of the chair caused the Omega to smile.
“I could tear you apart,” he said conversationally. If he were free went unsaid. She was safe; he'd been told these were the restraints designed for Cap. He didn’t give much of a fuck, but asked, “How’d they get a pretty little Omega like you to agree to being alone with me, anyway?”
He laughed, baring his teeth. “You like playing with fire, too, sugar?”
“That’s cute, Brock, but you are going to address me as Agent Lewis or Agent.” She was looking down at him with barely-restrained amusement. “We’re in a professional setting, after all.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Rumlow pressed. A green interrogator would fall for this come-on.
“No, I didn’t,” she said with a tilt to her jaw, exposing a hint of her smooth, pale throat. “But I’m not here to answer your questions; I’m here to get you to answer mine.”
“And how do you plan on doing that, sweetness?” Rumlow leaned back in his seat, comfortable in the knowledge that “Agent” Lewis hadn't been a member of SHIELD’s special interrogation team. She didn't have a pedigree he needed to worry about. She wasn't a threat. No Omega was.
“I have some ideas,” she said with a coquettish smirk, “but you're not going to like them. I trained with the Widow.”
Brock stopped himself from cringing; the Black Widow was a bogeyman even for Hydra. He started running through advanced interrogation techniques she might know, and kept his face blank, though he could feel sweat start to form at the small of his back. He'd been trained by Hydra's best- he was one of Hydra’s best- he could withstand torture.
“Oh, I'm not going to torture you,” she clarified, straightening up from the table. “As I said: the Widow taught me. We're going to try something a little unorthodox.”
She moved around the table and leaned her ass against it. Her feet set just outside his; their calves almost touched. If his ankles hadn't been chained to the chair, now would have been a perfect time to kick her legs out from under her and bear her down to the cement floor.
She flicked open two buttons of her blouse, revealing the barest hint of a dark bra and cleavage deep enough to suffocate. Then she began rucking up her skirt. For a second, Rumlow thought the rut hormones had made him hallucinate, but damn- there was a group of freckles on her thigh that he never would have dreamed up.
What the fuck was she thinking. She was a goddamn unbonded Omega locked in a room with a rutting Alpha. He couldn't get to her- and they both knew it- but he still wasn't safe.
Rumlow’s vision narrowed down on the flesh she was revealing, his sharpened hearing picking up the rasp of her skirt and her steady, relaxed breathing.
The Omega had been trained by Romanoff? Thought of herself as Black Widow’s apprentice? Rumlow wanted to scoff, use his disdain to put her in her place. But-
She'd dressed the part.
Her skirt lifted enough that he could see her bare pussy, rosy between pale thighs. And not a stitch otherwise. A wave of aroused Omega assaulted his senses, and Rumlow fought to shallow his breathing. He’d been half-hard just having her in the room; with the dual tease, his dick was rock hard and ready.
Rumlow groaned at the sudden restriction and pressure of his tac pants. He didn't need to look up to know the agent was smiling again.
“How many of Hydra’s wipe chairs are there, Brock?”
Rumlow tore his eyes away from her exposed skin and sneered up at her. She might be exactly what his instincts were howling for, but she'd have to do a lot better than this to get him to break.
She spread her thighs a little wider, her ass on the edge of the table, supporting her weight. Her skirt was tucked into its waistband, and she was fully revealed. The lips of her pussy glistened, and a hint of her flushed inner lips peeked out.
“If you're not telling me what I want to know, then you are going to put your mouth to better use.”
He realized the more of Agent Lewis’ scent he wallowed in, the more pliant he'd be to her questioning. An Alpha in rut wanted their Omega to be happy. Happy Omegas made good mates. It was dumb as fuck, and it was human biology. Rumlow would never have been this susceptible to the Agent’s charms if he hadn't started rut. After putting it off for years, he’d been due. Life's a bitch.
She thought she had him right where she wanted him, but he could hold out. He could withstand weeks of actual torture. This fucking Omega wasn't going to get the better of him.
Then she started petting herself, keeping her pussy wet and letting that fucking scent of hers drive him up the wall. He leaned forward in his seat, his instincts raging to get this Omega ready for his knot; his training shouting that this was another trap.
Rumlow knew it was a fucking trap. She'd as much as told him so. But the hushed gasp she let out when her finger grazed her clit launched his hindbrain to the forefront, and he jerked forward in his seat. The cuffs only let him get so far, and he was at his limit before he got close enough to more than brush his nose against her shining lips.
He wanted to growl. He wanted to tear free of his restraints and pin her down.
He wanted to be closer.
Rumlow struggled against the impulse to dive into her pussy face-first- he wasn't lacking in self-discipline under ordinary circumstances. The smell of her, and the half-formed idea that if he made her come hard enough, she'd return the favor, was affecting him enough to make his dick twitch. Fucking ruts. The drive to fuck anyone even slightly receptive, the drive to protect territory, the drive to claim people and things as his. He'd never enjoyed them, and his first in- what, twelve years?- was going to be used against him.
And damn him if his dick wasn’t dripping just thinking about it.
Agent Lewis’ fingers brushed his upper lip as she parted her folds, exposing slick, pink flesh, and he was gone.
Rumlow craned forward, his shoulders and neck stretched to their limit, and licked a stripe up her. He had never been religious, or had much use for fancy words, but she tasted divine. He used his lips and tongue on her, delving and sucking at her spread flesh to get at every hidden flavor.
Rumlow tried to shift his hips for friction. It worked- his waist hadn't been strapped down- but the rub of his cock against fabric was almost too rough. It was just what he needed.
He indulged himself. In the back of his head, Rumlow planned to pull away at any moment. Just after this one taste; after he'd mapped her; after he'd drawn a noise from her. He let himself focus on her slick, silky heat, and the world faded back.
Agent Lewis canted her hips away, pulling his mouth off her pussy until she was just out of reach. Rumlow felt a whine build in his chest. He hadn't made her come yet- why wouldn't she let him? If he could just get his tongue back on her, taste her some more-
“How many recalibration chairs does Hydra have, Brock?”
Was that all? She'd let him get back to pleasing her if he gave her information? He didn’t know why he’d refused, before.
Agent Lewis shifted minutely closer, but not close enough. What did she want? He’d answer any questions she had if it meant she'd lean in again.
“Where are these chairs located, Brock?”
He hesitated, and she leaned back further, stroking a finger through her own wetness with a practiced ease and a hum of pleasure. Rumlow loosed a faint growl- bringing her off was his job.
He rattled off the coordinates of the five facilities he knew had one of the Asset’s electric chairs.
Agent Lewis shifted her ass back in range of his mouth, and he wasted no time pressing his face against her, reveling in the brine and tang of her, and the sweet Omega scent every time he drew breath.
He didn’t keep to a rhythm; he sucked on her clit and flattened his tongue over it. He drew her folds between his lips and dipped his tongue into her. Rumlow traced shapes over her and tried to learn which ones she liked best.
In a distant way, Rumlow could hear the noises he was making. Not just the wet sounds of him tending to Agent Lewis, but the growls and groans he let loose as she let him make the case for sitting on his aching cock.
He speared his tongue into her with added vigor, nose bumping against her clit. Rumlow rocked his hips in time with his tongue. Either Agent Lewis didn’t notice or she didn’t care, and Rumlow was just close enough to coming that he was willing to risk it.
He felt Agent Lewis’ thighs quiver, all the warning he got before her hand flew to the back of his head and pressed his face into her sopping pussy. She bucked against him and let out a moan that sent a bolt to his groin. He could barely breathe, but her pussy began flexing and clasping against his tongue, and he was lost.
Brock shuddered in his restraints, electricity shot down his spine and the pressure he'd been holding at bay released in a rush. The hot stretch of his knot filling was a sharp pleasure.
The pleasure was short-lived, though: his pants constricted most of his dick, but didn't constrict his knot at all. He needed pressure on his knot- he needed the squeeze of a hot, willing cunt. Or the tight grip of a fist, if he had his hands free. Something to anchor him during the aftershocks, while his dick jerked in the prolonged orgasm of rut.
Rumlow wasn't satisfied. He’d come, he'd given Agent Lewis an orgasm and all the intel she'd asked for, but it wasn't enough. He was still rock hard in his pants, come following gravity down his thigh where it wasn’t soaking through his briefs.
“Did you know that an Alpha can stay in rut for prolonged periods if they don't knot?” Agent Lewis said mildly, not a hint of breathless satisfaction in her tone. “There are cases of ruts lasting up to a month, and that doesn't even take into account the abilities of enhanced individuals.”
Rumlow opened his eyes and met the cool, unruffled gaze of his interrogator. Her lips were bitten-pink and color spotted her cheeks, but she didn’t have the fuck-dazed look of a properly sated Omega.
Agent Lewis smoothed her skirt down, and stood to leave.
“That was good, Brock. Tomorrow you'll do better.”
She left him, incredulous, dick straining in his pants. The flavor of her was in his mouth, and he sucked it off his lips, starving for more. The wet spot in his briefs was cold now, though he didn’t pay it much mind. With his hands cuffed, he couldn’t do more than wipe his jaw on his shoulders; her come was drying on his chin. The lingering smell of her would be the real torment.
He’d do his best to hold out- Brock Rumlow wasn’t a stranger to torture, but he already knew that pretty Agent Lewis was going to break him.
“Holy shit, Nat.”
Natasha handed her a pair of fresh underwear, and smiled as Darcy wriggled it up under her creased skirt with little grace.
“You did beautifully, vdovenka.” She handed Darcy the scent-canceling spray, and made sure to send the security transport team the go-ahead to remove Brock Rumlow to his cell.
They left the darkened monitoring room; Natasha had encrypted the video files the moment Darcy finished her interrogation. The prisoner’s intel would be passed along, of course, just not the methods used to obtain it.
“I had no idea how into this I’d be,” Darcy said, almost to herself. She looked pensive and predatory, already thinking up ways of making Rumlow desperate to talk.
“It’s a power few Omegas get to experience,” Natasha agreed as they passed into a less restricted corridor. She watched Darcy bite her lip. “You’re planning your next moves. Good.”