I spent like a year creating a universe to this prompt, so the fill turned out rather lengthy. There's more world building in this part than actual trash. Sorry if you wanted trash.
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Brock’s woken up by a bucket of water being dumped on his naked body.
As far as his wake-up calls go these days, this one isn’t the worst. Would’ve been better if he wasn’t aching so badly that it makes him wish he could just strip himself of his own flesh and bones. He curls in on himself in the dog’s crate he’s now living in, every joint and muscle protesting at the slightest movement. The pain centers in his right side, the one he’s been sleeping on. He’s way too old to be lying on the crate’s metal floor for so long.
He watches as Rosenberg unlocks the door. They invested in a heavy duty crate after Brock broke himself out of the cheap, plastic one they kept him in before. He tipped it over and kicked at the bottom until it broke. This one he could kick for eternity and he wouldn’t get out.
He cries out when they grab him by the shoulders and unfold, then forcefully drag outside, the tender skin on his back catching on the threshold.
“Shut up,” Rosenberg barks at him.
“Or we’ll do it for ya,” Guldbrandsen adds.
Brock grits his teeth and lets himself be dragged down the corridor. He’s lost the track of time since he was kidnapped and made Hydra’s sex slave, but he knows there was a time, not so long ago even, when he was ashamed of obeying. He doesn’t feel much of anything now as the agents chuckle at him. He’s always been more pragmatic than honorable, and there really isn’t a good reason to suffer more for showing them he hasn’t broken yet.
Yeah, it’s better if they don’t know he hasn’t. Let them think he’s given in, that he’s harmless and can be left unattended.
Gone are also the times of him wondering what they planned for him this time. It’s usually either a gangbang or a one-on-one, and honestly, he doesn’t have a preference for one or the other. They both hurt, they’re both humiliating, and they both can be just as long. In the past, there was also a third option: body modification procedures. While different in nature from the other two, Brock hated them all the same.
He realizes they’re taking him to the showers right before he’s shoved inside and pushed onto the gray tiles. He props himself up on his hands and knees while Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen take a shower head each. He’s getting proper washing today, and that can mean only one thing: Rollins requested him.
Despite all this time, it’s still hard to believe Jack Rollins took over Hydra when Brock stops and thinks about it. Rollins was never special. During his time in STRIKE, he was a quiet, not very social guy who was maybe a good sharpshooter and tactician, but that was it. He wasn’t a good fighter, nor did Brock ever notice him having any leadership skills. He also knew Rollins had that weird, creepy thing for him, but despite that, he thought of him as rather harmless. Rollins could never beat him when they sparred, and he was too shy—or perhaps too worried about keeping his job—to try something sketchy.
But somehow he managed to convince the majority of the Washington Hydra cell to follow him, and Brock never saw it coming. They were preparing to launch Insight, and the next thing he knew, Pierce was dead by Rollins’ hand, and he himself was restrained by his teammates, a shock after a shock to the ribs from their stun batons keeping him from fighting back. A stream of water hitting his face brings him back to reality. He opens his mouth to wet his dry tongue and chapped lips. The water tastes sweet, and he doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until he swallows some of it.
He’s gotten good at tuning out the majority of his body’s complaints, the ever-present pain usually overtaking, though some of it has also become a background static. If he focused, he’d feel the dull ache deep inside him, or how his stomach is clenching from hunger. He’d realize his throat is burning, his neck tender, and his swollen pectorals ache. Instead, he’s focusing on the high pressure of water hitting him, how good it feels on his tired muscles, how refreshing it is after hours—days?—of being covered in sweat, spit and cum. He’s almost sorry when it ends and he’s being pulled up to his feet.
Rosenberg presents a choke collar to him, and Brock silently lets him push it over his head. He’s intimately familiar with the thing; these bastards always use it to walk him around. Since it’s one of the least painful things he’s being put through these days, and they let him walk on his feet instead of forcing him to crawl, he’s past the point of complaining. He’s escorted to Rollins’ quarters. As always, Rollins is not yet inside.
Despite everything Rollins always does to him, Brock actually likes being here. The thick carpet is plush under his bare feet and makes it easier to kneel than the concrete floor. He gets to lie on Rollins’ king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress. The sheets are soft to the touch. There’s a jug of water standing on the nightstand he can help himself to, provided his hands are free and no one’s watching.
He’s pushed onto the bed, the collar is pulled over his head, scratching his face, and his arms are wrenched back. He knows what it means even before he sees Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen reach for their handcuffs.
“Don’t!” he says quickly, then adds, “Please.” He looks into Rosenberg’s face, making sure not to eye the jug that’s just a stretch of his arm away. “He won’t be happy if I soil his bed again.”
Rosenberg exchanges looks with his friend. He shrugs, and Brock’s arms are released. They exit the room and lock it behind. Brock sighs in relief and stretches on the bed. It makes him wince, but at least this time he’s the one controlling his pain. After a moment of straight up resting, he pulls himself up and walks to the adjoined bathroom.
There are no windows, of course. It’s not uncommon for bathrooms, but given the fact Brock hasn’t seen a window for months makes him believe they’re actually underground. It makes his escape more difficult to plan, because with no windows, there may be only a couple certain ways out, and Brock knows none. That, and they’re surely heavily guarded. For now, he’s not going anywhere, and they know it. He bets Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen locked him in here only to avoid the hassle of chasing him down the corridors. They’re not really worried he might escape.
And hell, that sucks.
With that depressive thought, he relieves himself like an actual human being for once, then washes his hands and looks up in the mirror. For the first second, he doesn’t recognize himself. It’s not that he’s changed that much; rather, he hasn’t seen himself for so long he forgot what he looked like.
But the changes are there, too. He’s thinner now, his cheeks sunken. He’s being shaven regularly, but no one ever cuts his hair. It’s now long enough to be tied into pigtails, which they obviously do. They call them ‘love handles’. Right now, the wet strands fall chaotically around his face. He combs them back with his fingers.
All that doesn’t bother him as much as the piercings. He remembers each time he was held down and pierced—it was early enough for him to still try and fight back—but this is the first time he has an opportunity to see what he looks like with all that metal in his face. The answer is: not good, and to this day he wonders why the hell it was done to him. He sticks out his tongue, covering the vertical labret in his lower lip to scrutinize the piercing there. Those two are the ones he can never forget about, because he always feels them. He hates the former, but he kind of tolerates the latter; he’s decided that, should he become desperate enough, he’ll choke to death on it. He has two in his eyebrows and another two in his ears that he’s happy to cover with his hair and pretend they don’t exist. The one in his ear was actually the first one; something about it being gay, he’s not sure—all the mocking has faded to a buzz in his memories. Brock supposes it just escalated from there. His nose is surprisingly untouched, though the guys threatened they would give him a cow ring and attach a leash to it.
He pulls away from the mirror and looks down at his naked body. He’s lost a lot of muscle mass. His stomach looks sunken; when was the last time he was fed something other than cum? The moment he focuses on it, it rumbles loudly. Perfect. He fingers the piercing in his navel for a short moment, the one he always plays with when he’s bored out of his mind or trying to focus on something else than the pain he’s in. His nipples are also pierced, but they always hurt too much to touch. He knows he also has one—or maybe two?—in his ass crack, but he neither knows nor wants to know what it looks like.
He returns to the bedroom and curls up on the sheets. They’re not exactly fresh, but it’s a major upgrade from the dog crate, and Brock’s dozing off before he knows it. His sleep is light though, and he wakes up as soon as he hears the door open.
[Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow
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Brock’s woken up by a bucket of water being dumped on his naked body.
As far as his wake-up calls go these days, this one isn’t the worst. Would’ve been better if he wasn’t aching so badly that it makes him wish he could just strip himself of his own flesh and bones. He curls in on himself in the dog’s crate he’s now living in, every joint and muscle protesting at the slightest movement. The pain centers in his right side, the one he’s been sleeping on. He’s way too old to be lying on the crate’s metal floor for so long.
He watches as Rosenberg unlocks the door. They invested in a heavy duty crate after Brock broke himself out of the cheap, plastic one they kept him in before. He tipped it over and kicked at the bottom until it broke. This one he could kick for eternity and he wouldn’t get out.
He cries out when they grab him by the shoulders and unfold, then forcefully drag outside, the tender skin on his back catching on the threshold.
“Shut up,” Rosenberg barks at him.
“Or we’ll do it for ya,” Guldbrandsen adds.
Brock grits his teeth and lets himself be dragged down the corridor. He’s lost the track of time since he was kidnapped and made Hydra’s sex slave, but he knows there was a time, not so long ago even, when he was ashamed of obeying. He doesn’t feel much of anything now as the agents chuckle at him. He’s always been more pragmatic than honorable, and there really isn’t a good reason to suffer more for showing them he hasn’t broken yet.
Yeah, it’s better if they don’t know he hasn’t. Let them think he’s given in, that he’s harmless and can be left unattended.
Gone are also the times of him wondering what they planned for him this time. It’s usually either a gangbang or a one-on-one, and honestly, he doesn’t have a preference for one or the other. They both hurt, they’re both humiliating, and they both can be just as long. In the past, there was also a third option: body modification procedures. While different in nature from the other two, Brock hated them all the same.
He realizes they’re taking him to the showers right before he’s shoved inside and pushed onto the gray tiles. He props himself up on his hands and knees while Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen take a shower head each. He’s getting proper washing today, and that can mean only one thing: Rollins requested him.
Despite all this time, it’s still hard to believe Jack Rollins took over Hydra when Brock stops and thinks about it. Rollins was never special. During his time in STRIKE, he was a quiet, not very social guy who was maybe a good sharpshooter and tactician, but that was it. He wasn’t a good fighter, nor did Brock ever notice him having any leadership skills. He also knew Rollins had that weird, creepy thing for him, but despite that, he thought of him as rather harmless. Rollins could never beat him when they sparred, and he was too shy—or perhaps too worried about keeping his job—to try something sketchy.
But somehow he managed to convince the majority of the Washington Hydra cell to follow him, and Brock never saw it coming. They were preparing to launch Insight, and the next thing he knew, Pierce was dead by Rollins’ hand, and he himself was restrained by his teammates, a shock after a shock to the ribs from their stun batons keeping him from fighting back.
A stream of water hitting his face brings him back to reality. He opens his mouth to wet his dry tongue and chapped lips. The water tastes sweet, and he doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until he swallows some of it.
He’s gotten good at tuning out the majority of his body’s complaints, the ever-present pain usually overtaking, though some of it has also become a background static. If he focused, he’d feel the dull ache deep inside him, or how his stomach is clenching from hunger. He’d realize his throat is burning, his neck tender, and his swollen pectorals ache. Instead, he’s focusing on the high pressure of water hitting him, how good it feels on his tired muscles, how refreshing it is after hours—days?—of being covered in sweat, spit and cum. He’s almost sorry when it ends and he’s being pulled up to his feet.
Rosenberg presents a choke collar to him, and Brock silently lets him push it over his head. He’s intimately familiar with the thing; these bastards always use it to walk him around. Since it’s one of the least painful things he’s being put through these days, and they let him walk on his feet instead of forcing him to crawl, he’s past the point of complaining.
He’s escorted to Rollins’ quarters. As always, Rollins is not yet inside.
Despite everything Rollins always does to him, Brock actually likes being here. The thick carpet is plush under his bare feet and makes it easier to kneel than the concrete floor. He gets to lie on Rollins’ king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress. The sheets are soft to the touch. There’s a jug of water standing on the nightstand he can help himself to, provided
his hands are free and no one’s watching.
He’s pushed onto the bed, the collar is pulled over his head, scratching his face, and his arms are wrenched back. He knows what it means even before he sees Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen reach for their handcuffs.
“Don’t!” he says quickly, then adds, “Please.” He looks into Rosenberg’s face, making sure not to eye the jug that’s just a stretch of his arm away. “He won’t be happy if I soil his bed again.”
Rosenberg exchanges looks with his friend. He shrugs, and Brock’s arms are released. They exit the room and lock it behind.
Brock sighs in relief and stretches on the bed. It makes him wince, but at least this time he’s the one controlling his pain. After a moment of straight up resting, he pulls himself up and walks to the adjoined bathroom.
There are no windows, of course. It’s not uncommon for bathrooms, but given the fact Brock hasn’t seen a window for months makes him believe they’re actually underground. It makes his escape more difficult to plan, because with no windows, there may be only a couple certain ways out, and Brock knows none. That, and they’re surely heavily guarded. For now, he’s not going anywhere, and they know it. He bets Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen locked him in here only to avoid the hassle of chasing him down the corridors. They’re not really worried he might escape.
And hell, that sucks.
With that depressive thought, he relieves himself like an actual human being for once, then washes his hands and looks up in the mirror. For the first second, he doesn’t recognize himself. It’s not that he’s changed that much; rather, he hasn’t seen himself for so long he forgot what he looked like.
But the changes are there, too. He’s thinner now, his cheeks sunken. He’s being shaven regularly, but no one ever cuts his hair. It’s now long enough to be tied into pigtails, which they obviously do. They call them ‘love handles’. Right now, the wet strands fall chaotically around his face. He combs them back with his fingers.
All that doesn’t bother him as much as the piercings. He remembers each time he was held down and pierced—it was early enough for him to still try and fight back—but this is the first time he has an opportunity to see what he looks like with all that metal in his face. The answer is: not good, and to this day he wonders why the hell it was done to him. He sticks out his tongue, covering the vertical labret in his lower lip to scrutinize the piercing there. Those two are the ones he can never forget about, because he always feels them. He hates the former, but he kind of tolerates the latter; he’s decided that, should he become desperate enough, he’ll choke to death on it. He has two in his eyebrows and another two in his ears that he’s happy to cover with his hair and pretend they don’t exist. The one in his ear was actually the first one; something about it being gay, he’s not sure—all the mocking has faded to a buzz in his memories. Brock supposes it just escalated from there. His nose is surprisingly untouched, though the guys threatened they would give him a cow ring and attach a leash to it.
He pulls away from the mirror and looks down at his naked body. He’s lost a lot of muscle mass. His stomach looks sunken; when was the last time he was fed something other than cum? The moment he focuses on it, it rumbles loudly. Perfect. He fingers the piercing in his navel for a short moment, the one he always plays with when he’s bored out of his mind or trying to focus on something else than the pain he’s in. His nipples are also pierced, but they always hurt too much to touch. He knows he also has one—or maybe two?—in his ass crack, but he neither knows nor wants to know what it looks like.
He returns to the bedroom and curls up on the sheets. They’re not exactly fresh, but it’s a major upgrade from the dog crate, and Brock’s dozing off before he knows it. His sleep is light though, and he wakes up as soon as he hears the door open.