When he wakes up, the room is dark, and he can hear snoring beside him. He lies still for a while, staring into the impenetrable darkness as the opportunity he’s presented with fully sinks in.
He’s in a room with a tablet, and Rollins is asleep.
He feels a rush of adrenaline and holds his breath as he weighs the pros and cons of acting now. Rollins might wake up any time after all, and he’s sure he’ll be left alone in his bedroom again. He doesn’t know when that will happen though and if he’ll be free to roam around instead of chained to the bed. Besides, what if Rollins takes the tablet with him? It might be now or never, so with his heart in his throat, he gently places his feet on the carpet and gets up. Rollins is still steadily snoring, so Brock sighs in relief and, goggling to see better, he tiptoes around the bed with his arms outstretched. His fingers brush the chipboard counter, and he stops. He listens in for any sounds that might indicate Rollins has woken up, then feels for the drawer. Once he finds it, he opens it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He gently reaches inside, and there it is, his possible ticket to freedom right beneath his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and picks it up, then lights it up. The bright light hurts his eyes, but when he turns it towards the room, it softly illuminates his surroundings.
Rollins is lying on his stomach with his head pillowed against his folded arms, his back rising and falling with his breath. A thought hits Brock that almost makes his knees buckle with its boldness—he could kill him. Drive a knife through his back or shoot him in the head. He illuminates the inside of the drawer, but doesn’t find any weapon. He’s sure Rollins keeps a gun in his bedroom, but as long as Brock doesn’t know where it is, it’s too risky to look for it. Instead, he aims the light at the bathroom door. Now that he can see the way, he walks fast, almost jogs when the door is within his reach. He slips inside, carefully closes the door, and nearly slumps against it in relief.
He sets the tablet down on the counter on its back, so it illuminates the small space around him. His reflection is but paleness and shadows, and he avoids looking at it. He reaches behind and pulls the butt plug out, then winces when he looks at it. It’s nothing special; black and not even big, but it glistens with what he supposes is Rollins’ semen. He drops it in the sink, aware that he’ll need to put it back in. Absolutely gross.
He takes the tablet with him as he goes to sit on the toilet. He briefly thinks back to the times when he took his privilege to use the toilet for granted, but shakes the thought off. He doesn’t know how much time he has, so the sooner he’s done, the better.
He unlocks the screen and with his heart in his throat, taps the internet icon. Sharp, white light makes him squint as the browser loads. His hands shake when he types a name.
Natasha Romanoff
He scrolls through the results. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly. The little he knows about the world outside doesn’t paint a hopeful picture: overtaken and ruled by Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D. destroyed, Captain America captured and imprisoned. If there’s someone still fighting against Hydra, and Brock can contact them, it won’t be through Wikipedia or Facebook. But he needs to start somewhere.
He taps a random article just to find out Romanoff has been killed during Hydra’s Uprising in the Triskelion. He curses softly and looks for the others. Stark is dead, too. Barton and Hill are hiding and pursued by bounty hunters. Brock can only hope they’re together and forming a rebellion, but other than that, the knowledge doesn’t help him in any way. He lets out a shaky breath, wondering what to do next. He could leave an encrypted message somewhere, but Hydra knows all the S.H.I.E.L.D. codes, and no one can help him if he’s dead. He closes the internet and goes through the apps, hoping for some genius idea to strike him. He stumbles onto the surveillance streaming. He opens a camera view after camera view. His old team is sitting in some cozy looking room and playing cards. The sound must be off, but it’s too risky to turn it up, and besides, Brock doubts he’d learn anything useful from them. The labs are busy with white coats moving around like a colony of bees, but whatever they’re working on doesn’t tell Brock a thing. Then he finds Cap’s holding cell; he’s sitting curled in on himself in the corner, naked. Brock bites his lip. If only there was an app that controlled the cells’ locks...
And then another bold idea hits him: he could break out Cap himself. He can vaguely remember the way, and with the surveillance streaming, he can avoid the agents wandering about. If he can’t find the key, maybe he can pick a lock with something, and then maybe they’d stand a chance to break themselves out—
He shakes his head; too many maybes. Despite how terrible his life currently is (and that’s an understatement), he isn’t too keen on the idea of losing it. He closes the app with a sigh. So that’s it? He stole the tablet for nothing?
He sits there for a while longer, desperately trying to come up with an idea that would have at least half a chance of working and wouldn’t get him killed. If only Cap had told him a name back then... Brock would know trying to contact them wouldn’t be a total waste of time. But he has no names, no ways of contact, and his half-baked plan to breakCap out is doomed to fail. He rests the tablet on his thighs and hides his face in his hand, squeezing his temples and trying desperately not to start crying like a baby. He’s an ex-commander of STRIKE after all, even if currently reduced to a sex slave. His missions didn’t have a 99% success rate because he cried when things went to shit.
He manages to calm down a little and looks down at the tablet again. He has too little intel and no team behind him, but he was one of the best, and he can do it, with a tablet or without it. Even if it takes him a lot of time. He sighs, wipes himself down and winces when flushing because damn, that’s loud in the night's stillness. He listens in for a while, and when he hears nothing, he moves to the sink to wash his hands and the butt plug. He inserts it back and creeps towards the door. He slowly opens it and walks straight into Jack.
He looks up at him with his eyes wide and body starting to shake. “I—I just—” he stumbles, wondering how the hell to even explain himself. He looks pretty fucking guilty with the tablet held right in front of him like a flashlight. He can’t believe he got caught red-handed so stupidly...
Whatever explanation starts to form in his mind, it dies the moment Rollins takes the tablet and checks the opened apps. Brock’s blood runs cold; even if Rollins had any doubts before, now he has proof Brock was looking for information and not, let’s say, using the tablet’s light to find his way to the bathroom (which is an unbelievable excuse anyway). Why didn’t he think of this? He could’ve closed the browser and the surveillance feed and open a game. It would’ve still looked suspicious, but at least Rollins wouldn’t have seen black on white that Brock tried to find out about the Avengers’ and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives’ fates.
Rollins looks up at him, and Brock doesn’t know if it’s the white light, or if his stare is really so cold it sends a tremor through him. Suddenly, Rollins strikes out, but Brock ducks, and Rollins hits the door right beside his head instead.
“I give you a chance, and this is what you do?” he asks in a dangerously low voice. “Look for your old S.H.I.E.L.D. buddies the moment my back is turned?”
Brock swallows thickly, but when he meets Rollins’ gaze, he does it with a defiant look. He’s just compromised himself anyway, so he might as well stop acting docile.
“Fuck you, Rollins,” he snarls. “You seem to be under some crazy impression I’m here of my own volition—”
He doesn’t dodge a backhand this time. His head flies back from a force of it.
“—be six feet deep,” Rollins’ voice breaks through the ringing in his ears. “They hated you just as much as they did Pierce; maybe more. I saved your fucking life.”
Brock glares back at him. “So what, I’m supposed to be grateful that thanks to you I’m—” His voice wavers, but he takes a breath and for the first time says it aloud— “raped... every fucking day? Killing me would’ve been more merciful.”
Rollins’ response is to shove his forearm against Brock’s throat, pressing him into the door. Brock thrashes wildly as his breath is knocked out of him, but his training kicks in, and his hand flies to Rollins’ throat. Rollins expects it though and catches his wrist.
“I know all your moves, commander.” He grins like it’s a clever insult, and hell, Brock hasn’t felt more ashamed even when called a girl or a cockslut. That word means nothing now, and he should have never let it happen. “You want to die so much? It won’t be a problem. I guess I owe you something after all. What do you say?”
He tries to pull Rollins’ arm away with his free hand, but it doesn’t budge; only presses more into his trachea. It dawns on him what a terrible mistake he’s made. What was he expecting to achieve by his little outburst? Make Rollins feel bad? The only thing he has achieved was letting Rollins know there’s still fight in him. It will definitely postpone his escape.
The room starts spinning, and Brock does what he’s sure Rollins is expecting: he taps out. The pressure against his neck lets up, but his wrist is still held in a vice grip.
“Didn’t think so,” Rollins jeers. He pulls Brock towards the door. “It’s back to the cage with you.”
The corridors are dark and deserted, but the lights above turn on as they pass. Brock can feel his heart jackhammer as he follows Rollins and he’s jolting at every shadow he sees out of the corner of his eye. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; the retribution for going behind Rollins’ back can’t be just spending the rest of the night in the crate.
They turn a corner, and even in the dim light Brock can see the crate at the far end. Rollins opens it and gestures for him to crawl in, what Brock does without complaint. Rollins shuts the door and walks away. Brock lies in the darkness for minutes, tense, waiting, until he believes that that’s it. That he won’t be punished after all. He lets himself sigh in relief; he doesn’t want to get too optimistic.
He closes his eyes, but after spending so much time in a comfortable bed, he has trouble falling asleep. His legs feel cramped in the tight space, and there’s no way to stretch them. His bones ache from lying on the hard metal. The pressure on the top of his head from the bars is difficult to ignore. He realizes his body’s needs now that he has nothing to distract himself with; he’s hungry and thirsty again, but unfortunately, not tired. After another handful of minutes doing nothing, he also becomes bored. Groaning, he shifts his body until he’s lying on his back. With his knees up in the air and feet resting against the bars, he would’ve been comfortable if it wasn’t for the hard floor. He reaches for his navel ring and plays with it as he closes his eyes again and imagines he’s somewhere else.
He’s in the house he was planning to buy after the successful launch of Insight. He has a garden with a vegetable patch and fruit trees. Inside, there’s a fireplace and a big couch with a pile of soft blankets on the side. And a rocking chair. He’s sitting in it, watching a movie on a low volume. A dog is sleeping at his feet, a big one trained to bite on command. He’s eating a full meal and watering it down, and as soon as the movie ends, he’ll go to sleep in his big bed with Egyptian cotton sheets—
His spine being dragged over the crate’s threshold wakes him up. His bones pop when two pairs of hands straighten out his body. A choke collar is pushed down his head, and he’s pulled onto his feet.
[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [2/4]
He’s in a room with a tablet, and Rollins is asleep.
He feels a rush of adrenaline and holds his breath as he weighs the pros and cons of acting now. Rollins might wake up any time after all, and he’s sure he’ll be left alone in his bedroom again. He doesn’t know when that will happen though and if he’ll be free to roam around instead of chained to the bed. Besides, what if Rollins takes the tablet with him? It might be now or never, so with his heart in his throat, he gently places his feet on the carpet and gets up. Rollins is still steadily snoring, so Brock sighs in relief and, goggling to see better, he tiptoes around the bed with his arms outstretched. His fingers brush the chipboard counter, and he stops. He listens in for any sounds that might indicate Rollins has woken up, then feels for the drawer. Once he finds it, he opens it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He gently reaches inside, and there it is, his possible ticket to freedom right beneath his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and picks it up, then lights it up. The bright light hurts his eyes, but when he turns it towards the room, it softly illuminates his surroundings.
Rollins is lying on his stomach with his head pillowed against his folded arms, his back rising and falling with his breath. A thought hits Brock that almost makes his knees buckle with its boldness—he could kill him. Drive a knife through his back or shoot him in the head. He illuminates the inside of the drawer, but doesn’t find any weapon. He’s sure Rollins keeps a gun in his bedroom, but as long as Brock doesn’t know where it is, it’s too risky to look for it. Instead, he aims the light at the bathroom door. Now that he can see the way, he walks fast, almost jogs when the door is within his reach. He slips inside, carefully closes the door, and nearly slumps against it in relief.
He sets the tablet down on the counter on its back, so it illuminates the small space around him. His reflection is but paleness and shadows, and he avoids looking at it. He reaches behind and pulls the butt plug out, then winces when he looks at it. It’s nothing special; black and not even big, but it glistens with what he supposes is Rollins’ semen. He drops it in the sink, aware that he’ll need to put it back in. Absolutely gross.
He takes the tablet with him as he goes to sit on the toilet. He briefly thinks back to the times when he took his privilege to use the toilet for granted, but shakes the thought off. He doesn’t know how much time he has, so the sooner he’s done, the better.
He unlocks the screen and with his heart in his throat, taps the internet icon. Sharp, white light makes him squint as the browser loads. His hands shake when he types a name.
Natasha Romanoff
He scrolls through the results. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly. The little he knows about the world outside doesn’t paint a hopeful picture: overtaken and ruled by Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D. destroyed, Captain America captured and imprisoned. If there’s someone still fighting against Hydra, and Brock can contact them, it won’t be through Wikipedia or Facebook. But he needs to start somewhere.
He taps a random article just to find out Romanoff has been killed during Hydra’s Uprising in the Triskelion. He curses softly and looks for the others. Stark is dead, too. Barton and Hill are hiding and pursued by bounty hunters. Brock can only hope they’re together and forming a rebellion, but other than that, the knowledge doesn’t help him in any way. He lets out a shaky breath, wondering what to do next. He could leave an encrypted message somewhere, but Hydra knows all the S.H.I.E.L.D. codes, and no one can help him if he’s dead. He closes the internet and goes through the apps, hoping for some genius idea to strike him. He stumbles onto the surveillance streaming. He opens a camera view after camera view. His old team is sitting in some cozy looking room and playing cards. The sound must be off, but it’s too risky to turn it up, and besides, Brock doubts he’d learn anything useful from them. The labs are busy with white coats moving around like a colony of bees, but whatever they’re working on doesn’t tell Brock a thing. Then he finds Cap’s holding cell; he’s sitting curled in on himself in the corner, naked. Brock bites his lip. If only there was an app that controlled the cells’ locks...
And then another bold idea hits him: he could break out Cap himself. He can vaguely remember the way, and with the surveillance streaming, he can avoid the agents wandering about. If he can’t find the key, maybe he can pick a lock with something, and then maybe they’d stand a chance to break themselves out—
He shakes his head; too many maybes. Despite how terrible his life currently is (and that’s an understatement), he isn’t too keen on the idea of losing it. He closes the app with a sigh. So that’s it? He stole the tablet for nothing?
He sits there for a while longer, desperately trying to come up with an idea that would have at least half a chance of working and wouldn’t get him killed. If only Cap had told him a name back then... Brock would know trying to contact them wouldn’t be a total waste of time. But he has no names, no ways of contact, and his half-baked plan to breakCap out is doomed to fail. He rests the tablet on his thighs and hides his face in his hand, squeezing his temples and trying desperately not to start crying like a baby. He’s an ex-commander of STRIKE after all, even if currently reduced to a sex slave. His missions didn’t have a 99% success rate because he cried when things went to shit.
He manages to calm down a little and looks down at the tablet again. He has too little intel and no team behind him, but he was one of the best, and he can do it, with a tablet or without it. Even if it takes him a lot of time. He sighs, wipes himself down and winces when flushing because damn, that’s loud in the night's stillness. He listens in for a while, and when he hears nothing, he moves to the sink to wash his hands and the butt plug. He inserts it back and creeps towards the door. He slowly opens it and walks straight into Jack.
He looks up at him with his eyes wide and body starting to shake. “I—I just—” he stumbles, wondering how the hell to even explain himself. He looks pretty fucking guilty with the tablet held right in front of him like a flashlight. He can’t believe he got caught red-handed so stupidly...
Whatever explanation starts to form in his mind, it dies the moment Rollins takes the tablet and checks the opened apps. Brock’s blood runs cold; even if Rollins had any doubts before, now he has proof Brock was looking for information and not, let’s say, using the tablet’s light to find his way to the bathroom (which is an unbelievable excuse anyway). Why didn’t he think of this? He could’ve closed the browser and the surveillance feed and open a game. It would’ve still looked suspicious, but at least Rollins wouldn’t have seen black on white that Brock tried to find out about the Avengers’ and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives’ fates.
Rollins looks up at him, and Brock doesn’t know if it’s the white light, or if his stare is really so cold it sends a tremor through him. Suddenly, Rollins strikes out, but Brock ducks, and Rollins hits the door right beside his head instead.
“I give you a chance, and this is what you do?” he asks in a dangerously low voice. “Look for your old S.H.I.E.L.D. buddies the moment my back is turned?”
Brock swallows thickly, but when he meets Rollins’ gaze, he does it with a defiant look. He’s just compromised himself anyway, so he might as well stop acting docile.
“Fuck you, Rollins,” he snarls. “You seem to be under some crazy impression I’m here of my own volition—”
He doesn’t dodge a backhand this time. His head flies back from a force of it.
“—be six feet deep,” Rollins’ voice breaks through the ringing in his ears. “They hated you just as much as they did Pierce; maybe more. I saved your fucking life.”
Brock glares back at him. “So what, I’m supposed to be grateful that thanks to you I’m—” His voice wavers, but he takes a breath and for the first time says it aloud— “raped... every fucking day? Killing me would’ve been more merciful.”
Rollins’ response is to shove his forearm against Brock’s throat, pressing him into the door. Brock thrashes wildly as his breath is knocked out of him, but his training kicks in, and his hand flies to Rollins’ throat. Rollins expects it though and catches his wrist.
“I know all your moves, commander.” He grins like it’s a clever insult, and hell, Brock hasn’t felt more ashamed even when called a girl or a cockslut. That word means nothing now, and he should have never let it happen. “You want to die so much? It won’t be a problem. I guess I owe you something after all. What do you say?”
He tries to pull Rollins’ arm away with his free hand, but it doesn’t budge; only presses more into his trachea. It dawns on him what a terrible mistake he’s made. What was he expecting to achieve by his little outburst? Make Rollins feel bad? The only thing he has achieved was letting Rollins know there’s still fight in him. It will definitely postpone his escape.
The room starts spinning, and Brock does what he’s sure Rollins is expecting: he taps out. The pressure against his neck lets up, but his wrist is still held in a vice grip.
“Didn’t think so,” Rollins jeers. He pulls Brock towards the door. “It’s back to the cage with you.”
The corridors are dark and deserted, but the lights above turn on as they pass. Brock can feel his heart jackhammer as he follows Rollins and he’s jolting at every shadow he sees out of the corner of his eye. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; the retribution for going behind Rollins’ back can’t be just spending the rest of the night in the crate.
They turn a corner, and even in the dim light Brock can see the crate at the far end. Rollins opens it and gestures for him to crawl in, what Brock does without complaint. Rollins shuts the door and walks away. Brock lies in the darkness for minutes, tense, waiting, until he believes that that’s it. That he won’t be punished after all. He lets himself sigh in relief; he doesn’t want to get too optimistic.
He closes his eyes, but after spending so much time in a comfortable bed, he has trouble falling asleep. His legs feel cramped in the tight space, and there’s no way to stretch them. His bones ache from lying on the hard metal. The pressure on the top of his head from the bars is difficult to ignore. He realizes his body’s needs now that he has nothing to distract himself with; he’s hungry and thirsty again, but unfortunately, not tired. After another handful of minutes doing nothing, he also becomes bored.
Groaning, he shifts his body until he’s lying on his back. With his knees up in the air and feet resting against the bars, he would’ve been comfortable if it wasn’t for the hard floor. He reaches for his navel ring and plays with it as he closes his eyes again and imagines he’s somewhere else.
He’s in the house he was planning to buy after the successful launch of Insight. He has a garden with a vegetable patch and fruit trees. Inside, there’s a fireplace and a big couch with a pile of soft blankets on the side. And a rocking chair. He’s sitting in it, watching a movie on a low volume. A dog is sleeping at his feet, a big one trained to bite on command. He’s eating a full meal and watering it down, and as soon as the movie ends, he’ll go to sleep in his big bed with Egyptian cotton sheets—
His spine being dragged over the crate’s threshold wakes him up. His bones pop when two pairs of hands straighten out his body. A choke collar is pushed down his head, and he’s pulled onto his feet.