He’s already walking down the corridor, busier now than at night, when he’s awake enough to recognize the people that lead him. It’s his old team again, but with a pang of alarm, Brock notes the absence of Collins. The fourth agent is Rosenberg which is even more concerning, and to top it all, Westfahl is carrying a rifle. Brock has a bad feeling before he even realizes where they’re heading.
He stops in his tracks when he recognizes the route to the body modification room—or at least that’s what he calls the clean, white room he got forcefully pierced in multiple times. Rosenberg pulls onto the chain leash, and Brock moves on tense legs. It’s been a while since he last was here; he’s thought they already put all the piercings they wanted in him, so he expected another gangbang, but not this.
He also has an unpleasant feeling he’s not here to get pierced this time. Memories of being pinned down to the metal table and having the circulation in his right arm cut off flash in front of his eyes. Feeling light-headed, he stumbles when taking another step and falls onto his knees. He yelps when the pain of the impact takes him by surprise.
“What the fuck?” Rosenberg asks, pulling on the leash again. Metal spikes dig into Brock’s nape, causing white spots to dance in front of his eyes.
Foster scoffs. “He does that.” He pokes Brock’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up, bitch, we don’t have all day.”
When Brock looks up at him, the spots become bigger, whiting out Foster’s face. A thin sheen of cold sweat covers his body, and his stomach does a somersault when he tries to get back onto his feet. Then, his vision whites out completely, and he feels himself fall.
When he comes to, he’s kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the white room. He’s kept upright by Foster’s hands—and he really hates the fact that he’s so intimately familiar with the agent that he can recognize him by his touch alone. His chest is braced against the metal table, and his right arm is stretched out on it, held in a vice grip by King. Brock, still sweating profusely and shaking from how cold it makes him, tries to yank his arm away. King isn’t big, but lean in the way that suggests he used to be a swimmer. Brock remembers him being no challenge on the mats, but now, King’s hold is too strong to break. King smirks smugly at him, and Brock ducks his head.
He tries to regulate his breathing to calm himself down, but it’s hard when he knows what’s about to happen. When he sees a pair of boots approaching him, he looks up, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. A wave of relief washes over him when he notices Rosenberg isn’t holding the oscillating saw, but it’s short-lived when he realizes what the hammer is most likely for. He shudders violently against Foster’s bulk. King unfolds his fist and smooths it out on the table.
“Don’t hit me,” he tells Rosenberg as he pins Brock’s wrist down.
Rosenberg scoffs, offended. “I’m a professional.”
Ignoring how he’s hyperventilating, Brock thinks back to his torture training. He never had his bones crushed, but he was forced to withstand a lot of pain. He’s been withstanding a lot of pain since he was enslaved; he’s gotten used to it. It won’t be much different. He closes his eyes, deciding to treat it like just another training.
The hammer falls onto his fingers with a deafening snap. He’s screaming before the pain fully registers, and when it does, it’s so much worse. He doesn’t have the time to recover before the hammer hits his metacarpus. By the time his thumb is crushed, tears and snot run freely down his face, and Brock doesn’t even have the energy to try to stop them. The strong ammonia smell hits his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look down to know what has happened; his wet legs only confirm his suspicion.
“Fuck, he pissed himself,” Foster says. His big hand grabs the back of Brock’s head and bashes it into the table. Pain flares up Brock’s nose straight to his head. “You got piss on my pants you stupid bitch!”
Somewhere to his right, Westfahl is laughing.
“It’s not fucking funny,” Foster barks at him. “Shut up, or I’ll make you do my laundry.”
Westfahl stops laughing. “Fuck off.”
Foster turns to King. “Hold me or I’ll go and hurt him, I swear to god.”
“I’m already holding one princess down,” King responds.
Brock can sense that Foster isn’t happy about his younger teammates talking back to him, and that there isn’t much he can do about it in the current situation. But he can take his frustration out on Brock instead. He grabs his hair and shoves his face harder against the table. A wet puddle reaches his cheek, and Brock realizes he’s bleeding from his nose.
“I ain’t gonna clean after you.” Foster leans in, his breath hot on Brock’s face. It reeks of coffee and cigarettes. “You’re gonna clean it all yourself to the last drop. You copy?”
Brock tries to swallow, but his mouth is completely dry. “Yes, sir,” he replies, his voice but a rough whisper.
Another powerful hit aimed onto his knuckles draws a long, hoarse scream from him. King lets go of his wrist and Brock looks up at his hand. It’s now twice its size and red-purple. He sobs when he tries to move his fingers and nothing happens. He realizes he would need a surgery to fix bones this crushed, and that no one will provide it. These motherfuckers just destroyed his dominant hand for good.
For that brief moment, he thinks the worst is over, but then King wrenches his left arm onto the table.
“No!” he rasps, fighting against him and losing. “Not both!”
“You don’t deserve your hands, whore,” King spits. “You should fucking thank us for not sawing them off.”
The heat and throbbing of his right hand is momentarily outshined by the excruciating pain in his left. Rosenberg hits every nail, then every knuckle, and Brock screams and screams until all that comes out of his mouth are quiet, rough sounds, and his throat feels like someone put sandpaper to it.
“Anyone else getting turned on?” King asks, adding insult to injury. His words make Brock look up, and through the tears, he notices the tent in his pants. He turns his head away, but at the same time Foster’s hardness presses against the small of his back.
He doesn’t realize immediately when King lets go of his wrist, and Rosenberg stops hitting him and moves away. At first he just thinks he’s lost feeling in his hand, but it still pains more than anything he’s ever went through. He slumps against Foster’s bulk, and the agent lets out a soft rumble when Brock’s ass lands on his lap. Brock ignores it, staring at his useless hands. Tears are still leaking from his eyes, making his vision blurry, but he can see their ugly, purple-dead color.
Then, Foster grabs the back of his neck and shoves him face-first into the puddle of his own piss on the floor. His arms shoot up automatically to hold him up. He would have howled when his hands hit the hard tiles, but he only breathes out air. Piss floods his open mouth, and he chokes on it as he inhales.
“Pathetic,” Foster says as Brock coughs and splutters. “Pull yourself together and clean that up. I want this floor dry when you finish.”
Brock opens one eye as the other is submerged in piss. It slowly dawns on him that Foster really wants him to drink it. When he tries to look up, all he can see are the legs of the agents surrounding him and the dark eye in the barrel of Westfahl’s rifle. He swallows the thick spit that has gathered on the back of his tongue and drops his gaze. Over the side of his nose, he can see the puddle.
It’s not big; with how dehydrated he is, he doesn’t have much water to excrete. But that also means it’s concentrated; dark yellow with a sharp smell that he can taste on his tongue. Wincing, he slowly parts his lips and slips his tongue out.
It’s sour, bitter and reminds him of cheap beer—only if it was beer, it would have been the worst he’s ever had. There’s a hint of metal; he must be still bleeding from his nose, adding to the puddle.
The faster he does it, the sooner it’ll be over, so he closes his eyes and laps it up, swallowing right away and trying not to pay attention to the taste. It’s not all bad; the cold tiles soothe his hands a little, and it’s easy to get lost in his mind. In comparison to having his hands hammered, this is almost relaxing.
Foster moves his head here and there, where the piss traveled farther down the grouting, and he cleans it with his tongue. Finally, Foster lets him go, and he’s hauled up to his feet again. The sour-bitter taste remains in Brock’s mouth as they walk through the base. He twitches nervously when they pass his crate and he realizes the torture isn’t over yet. He slows down significantly when he recognizes the way.
Re: [FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [3/4]
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He’s already walking down the corridor, busier now than at night, when he’s awake enough to recognize the people that lead him. It’s his old team again, but with a pang of alarm, Brock notes the absence of Collins. The fourth agent is Rosenberg which is even more concerning, and to top it all, Westfahl is carrying a rifle. Brock has a bad feeling before he even realizes where they’re heading.
He stops in his tracks when he recognizes the route to the body modification room—or at least that’s what he calls the clean, white room he got forcefully pierced in multiple times. Rosenberg pulls onto the chain leash, and Brock moves on tense legs. It’s been a while since he last was here; he’s thought they already put all the piercings they wanted in him, so he expected another gangbang, but not this.
He also has an unpleasant feeling he’s not here to get pierced this time. Memories of being pinned down to the metal table and having the circulation in his right arm cut off flash in front of his eyes. Feeling light-headed, he stumbles when taking another step and falls onto his knees. He yelps when the pain of the impact takes him by surprise.
“What the fuck?” Rosenberg asks, pulling on the leash again. Metal spikes dig into Brock’s nape, causing white spots to dance in front of his eyes.
Foster scoffs. “He does that.” He pokes Brock’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up, bitch, we don’t have all day.”
When Brock looks up at him, the spots become bigger, whiting out Foster’s face. A thin sheen of cold sweat covers his body, and his stomach does a somersault when he tries to get back onto his feet. Then, his vision whites out completely, and he feels himself fall.
When he comes to, he’s kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the white room. He’s kept upright by Foster’s hands—and he really hates the fact that he’s so intimately familiar with the agent that he can recognize him by his touch alone. His chest is braced against the metal table, and his right arm is stretched out on it, held in a vice grip by King. Brock, still sweating profusely and shaking from how cold it makes him, tries to yank his arm away. King isn’t big, but lean in the way that suggests he used to be a swimmer. Brock remembers him being no challenge on the mats, but now, King’s hold is too strong to break. King smirks smugly at him, and Brock ducks his head.
He tries to regulate his breathing to calm himself down, but it’s hard when he knows what’s about to happen. When he sees a pair of boots approaching him, he looks up, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. A wave of relief washes over him when he notices Rosenberg isn’t holding the oscillating saw, but it’s short-lived when he realizes what the hammer is most likely for. He shudders violently against Foster’s bulk. King unfolds his fist and smooths it out on the table.
“Don’t hit me,” he tells Rosenberg as he pins Brock’s wrist down.
Rosenberg scoffs, offended. “I’m a professional.”
Ignoring how he’s hyperventilating, Brock thinks back to his torture training. He never had his bones crushed, but he was forced to withstand a lot of pain. He’s been withstanding a lot of pain since he was enslaved; he’s gotten used to it. It won’t be much different. He closes his eyes, deciding to treat it like just another training.
The hammer falls onto his fingers with a deafening snap. He’s screaming before the pain fully registers, and when it does, it’s so much worse. He doesn’t have the time to recover before the hammer hits his metacarpus. By the time his thumb is crushed, tears and snot run freely down his face, and Brock doesn’t even have the energy to try to stop them. The strong ammonia smell hits his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look down to know what has happened; his wet legs only confirm his suspicion.
“Fuck, he pissed himself,” Foster says. His big hand grabs the back of Brock’s head and bashes it into the table. Pain flares up Brock’s nose straight to his head. “You got piss on my pants you stupid bitch!”
Somewhere to his right, Westfahl is laughing.
“It’s not fucking funny,” Foster barks at him. “Shut up, or I’ll make you do my laundry.”
Westfahl stops laughing. “Fuck off.”
Foster turns to King. “Hold me or I’ll go and hurt him, I swear to god.”
“I’m already holding one princess down,” King responds.
Brock can sense that Foster isn’t happy about his younger teammates talking back to him, and that there isn’t much he can do about it in the current situation. But he can take his frustration out on Brock instead. He grabs his hair and shoves his face harder against the table. A wet puddle reaches his cheek, and Brock realizes he’s bleeding from his nose.
“I ain’t gonna clean after you.” Foster leans in, his breath hot on Brock’s face. It reeks of coffee and cigarettes. “You’re gonna clean it all yourself to the last drop. You copy?”
Brock tries to swallow, but his mouth is completely dry. “Yes, sir,” he replies, his voice but a rough whisper.
Another powerful hit aimed onto his knuckles draws a long, hoarse scream from him. King lets go of his wrist and Brock looks up at his hand. It’s now twice its size and red-purple. He sobs when he tries to move his fingers and nothing happens. He realizes he would need a surgery to fix bones this crushed, and that no one will provide it. These motherfuckers just destroyed his dominant hand for good.
For that brief moment, he thinks the worst is over, but then King wrenches his left arm onto the table.
“No!” he rasps, fighting against him and losing. “Not both!”
“You don’t deserve your hands, whore,” King spits. “You should fucking thank us for not sawing them off.”
The heat and throbbing of his right hand is momentarily outshined by the excruciating pain in his left. Rosenberg hits every nail, then every knuckle, and Brock screams and screams until all that comes out of his mouth are quiet, rough sounds, and his throat feels like someone put sandpaper to it.
“Anyone else getting turned on?” King asks, adding insult to injury. His words make Brock look up, and through the tears, he notices the tent in his pants. He turns his head away, but at the same time Foster’s hardness presses against the small of his back.
He doesn’t realize immediately when King lets go of his wrist, and Rosenberg stops hitting him and moves away. At first he just thinks he’s lost feeling in his hand, but it still pains more than anything he’s ever went through. He slumps against Foster’s bulk, and the agent lets out a soft rumble when Brock’s ass lands on his lap. Brock ignores it, staring at his useless hands. Tears are still leaking from his eyes, making his vision blurry, but he can see their ugly, purple-dead color.
Then, Foster grabs the back of his neck and shoves him face-first into the puddle of his own piss on the floor. His arms shoot up automatically to hold him up. He would have howled when his hands hit the hard tiles, but he only breathes out air. Piss floods his open mouth, and he chokes on it as he inhales.
“Pathetic,” Foster says as Brock coughs and splutters. “Pull yourself together and clean that up. I want this floor dry when you finish.”
Brock opens one eye as the other is submerged in piss. It slowly dawns on him that Foster really wants him to drink it. When he tries to look up, all he can see are the legs of the agents surrounding him and the dark eye in the barrel of Westfahl’s rifle. He swallows the thick spit that has gathered on the back of his tongue and drops his gaze. Over the side of his nose, he can see the puddle.
It’s not big; with how dehydrated he is, he doesn’t have much water to excrete. But that also means it’s concentrated; dark yellow with a sharp smell that he can taste on his tongue. Wincing, he slowly parts his lips and slips his tongue out.
It’s sour, bitter and reminds him of cheap beer—only if it was beer, it would have been the worst he’s ever had. There’s a hint of metal; he must be still bleeding from his nose, adding to the puddle.
The faster he does it, the sooner it’ll be over, so he closes his eyes and laps it up, swallowing right away and trying not to pay attention to the taste. It’s not all bad; the cold tiles soothe his hands a little, and it’s easy to get lost in his mind. In comparison to having his hands hammered, this is almost relaxing.
Foster moves his head here and there, where the piss traveled farther down the grouting, and he cleans it with his tongue. Finally, Foster lets him go, and he’s hauled up to his feet again. The sour-bitter taste remains in Brock’s mouth as they walk through the base. He twitches nervously when they pass his crate and he realizes the torture isn’t over yet. He slows down significantly when he recognizes the way.