Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

[trashmod]

Welcome to the latest, greatest, scummiest iteration of hydratrashmeme. Come on in and please check your sense of shame at the door.

Rules in brief: Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because this is emphatically not a safe space. Link your fills on the fill post. Unprompted fills: make a prompt or a header comment and reply to it with the full text. Continuations of fills from earlier rounds: just make sure you link in both places.

What's on-topic: Filthy and perverted twists on all the quality whump served up by Cap: Winter Soldier. Noncon, aftermath, uncomfortably sexualized violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves.
What's off-topic: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, shippy/romanticized noncon, MCU heroes repurposed into OOC or edgydark delivery vehicles for your fave's suffering. If you've got a prompt for one of those burning a hole in your brain, head on over to mcu_trash.

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[Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow

[(Anonymous)]

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.

-

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 (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Here be some trash.

--

He groggily props himself up on his elbows and sees Rollins approaching him. He’s smiling, but he looks tired; the sudden upgrade from a henchman to a head of a Hydra cell is taking its toll on him. Not that Brock feels sorry for him; he can work himself to death for all he cares.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Brock doesn’t come up with anything good to say to that, so he just forces himself to smile back. Lately, Rollins has been acting like Brock is here because he wants to, and it’s easier—and perhaps smarter—to just play along. Who knows, maybe one day Rollins starts trusting him, giving Brock a chance to get the hell out of here.

Rollins kneels on the bed in front of him, grabs his hair and pulls him in for a kiss. He’s the only one to ever do that, and Brock’s sure that in his mind, he’s pretending they’re lovers or some shit. Maybe he imagines Brock’s his dutiful wife that waits naked in their bed for her husband to come home from work. It’s creepy as all hell and keeps Brock guessing at what’s about to happen. It’s not that tricky with the others; they’re driven by titillation, they just wanna fuck something that can’t fight back. Brock isn’t a stranger to the concept. But Rollins? He actually acts like he’s in love with Brock or something, holy shit.

The kiss isn’t nice. It’s wet, and sloppy, and Rollins’ tongue is pushing his spit inside Brock’s dry mouth. It’s absolutely gross and reminds him he didn’t have that drink of water after all. Maybe Rollins will let him get some later if he’s good.

Rollins’ mouth is on his throat next, and Brock looks past the top of his head at the wall, his mind already getting ready to dissociate. He hears the buckle of Rollins’ belt, and he doesn’t need to look down to confirm that he’s shoving his pants down to his knees. No matter how affectionate Rollins might act sometimes, this is still only about sex. Rollins doesn’t request him here to hang out.

Rollins straightens up, pulling Brock’s head down towards his half-hard cock at the same time. If Brock cared, he’d wonder why he’s not as turned on as usual. As it is, he just acknowledges that fact and doesn’t dwell on it.

Rollins presses at his jaw joints; gently, just to let him know what he wants, but it still hurts, the pain flaring up to his cheekbones, and Brock opens his mouth as wide as he can, wanting him to just let go. He didn’t notice it earlier in the mirror, but it feels like his cheek is bruised, and maybe it is, with how often his face is shoved against something hard and unyielding. Thankfully, Rollins’ fingers stop pressing, but his hand rests on his jaw as he pushes his cock inside his mouth. This time there’s nothing gentle about it; it’s a quick shove, and the head goes easily past Brock’s throat. Rollins’ breath hitches, and Brock’s positive it has everything to do with the piercing in his tongue now teasing the underside of his shaft. If he were to guess, he’d say it was Rollins’ idea.

Rollins keeps his head in place as he fucks his face, his cock swelling gradually, the head pushing farther and farther down Brock’s throat. Brock’s view becomes hazy, and he focuses solely at keeping his teeth away and breathing through his nose. His habit of dissociating is so strong now it’s actually more difficult to stay focused on what’s happening, so he lets himself get lost in his mind. Sometime later, he snaps back to awareness just to realize it’s still happening, with the difference being his jaw is now aching and eyes leaking from the strain, and the hitches in Rollins’ breath have turned into grunts. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he thinks it’s taking longer than usual, and a moment later he’s spacing out again. He doesn’t even register when Rollins’ hips buck and he cums down his throat until his pulling out, and with nothing holding Brock up, he slumps onto the mattress. His saliva tastes of sex when he swallows, and his eyes flick to the jug sitting on the nightstand.

Rollins stands up and walks away towards the closet to change into something comfortable. Brock watches him just out of the corner of his eye, his full focus blatantly set on the jug. He wants it. He earned it. What would happen if he just took it? Would Rollins punish him for it?
Slowly but deliberately, he pushes himself up to his knees and hands, then eases himself back against the pillows. He lifts the jug and almost grunts—it’s heavier than he expected—then fills a glass. At the sound of the pouring water, Rollins turns to look at him, and Brock freezes, the jug almost falling out of his hand. He manages to keep a firm hold of it and carefully puts it back down, his eyes fixed on Rollins. His pulse kicks up when Rollins approaches him, and when he reaches out, Brock flinches. Rollins freezes.

Then, slowly and somewhat awkwardly, Rollins slips his long fingers between the still damp strands on Brock’s head. He rubs his scalp as Brock sits tight as a string, bracing himself for a hit. But then Rollins turns and walks away, and Brock takes a few calming breaths before he finally presses the glass to his lips. He intended to drink the water slowly, but then it’s gone before he realizes. Keeping an eye on Rollins who’s now looking for something in his desk drawer and seemingly not paying him any attention, Brock pours himself another, and drinks it, too. He sighs.
Sweet, sweet water.

Rollins walks back to him, and Brock’s gaze settles on the tablet in his hands.

“I have something to show you.”

Rollins sits down beside him, but Brock can’t tear his eyes away from the tablet. He hasn’t seen any piece of electronics in months. Rollins shows him the screen, taps one of the icons, and the vivid colors turn to black and white. He knows immediately it’s a video feed, but it takes him another moment to figure out what he’s looking at exactly.

It’s Cap. Captain freaking America, sitting with his knees drawn up in the corner of a room that would have been bare if not for a simple, small table welded to the floor in the very center. Brock stares at him wide-eyed, and maybe his jaw goes slack a little, too.
Rollins’s watching him like a hawk, and he must like his reaction, because he smirks.

“We’ve had him for days,” he explains, closing the feed and putting the tablet away. Brock tracks it to the opposite nightstand, then snaps his eyes up to Rollins’. He can’t let him notice his interest in it. “He’s a tough nut to crack. You’re going to help me.”

“Crack him?” Brock asks, confused, because well, this is new.

“Like the Asset was cracked,” Rollins explained. “He was forced to torture and kill until he became obedient.”

He must notice how completely stiff Brock goes at that, because he lets out a soft chuckle and his big hand is back on his head, stroking.

“Not like that,” he assures, his voice laced with amusement. “I have no intention of getting rid of you.”

Then it becomes clear: sex. That’s what he’s here for. They will force Cap to rape him, maybe multiple times. He lets himself relax. That he can take. It happens every day anyway; it doesn’t make much of a difference if it’s Cap or a guy Brock thought was his friend.

Rollins smiles when he sees Brock relax, a gross stretch of his lips. He stands up again, retrieves something from the desk, and comes back to hand it to Brock. Two white pills land on his open palm.

“Take them. Get some rest.”

Sleeping pills. Relief washes over him when he realizes what it means: there’ll be no round two with Rollins fucking his ass this time. He’s still chafed after the last gangbang, or maybe torn even, he can’t tell the difference anymore. If Rollins decided to take him, it’d be a very literal pain in the ass, one that perhaps would even make him pass out. He’s so fucking grateful this won’t be the case that he doesn’t even wonder about the pills, just takes them, washes them down with another glass of water and settles on the bed, curling into a ball. Rollins covers him with a blanket, and it’s so soft and warm around him he can’t suppress a smile, but he turns his head to hide it in the pillow. He falls asleep to Rollins petting his hair.

He wakes up on the floor. He groans unhappily, still groggy from the pills, and tries to prop himself up. That’s when he realizes he’s not alone; two pairs of hands grab him to hold him down, and he thrashes on instinct. Something cold and hard is shoved down his head and rests heavily around his neck. He feels the metal spikes tease his skin and freezes. He takes in a shaky breath as he comes back to reality and realizes that for a moment there, he forgot in what situation he is in.
The metal collar digs into his throat and his upper body is jerked up. He takes in a ragged breath and slumps back on the plush carpet when the pressure loosens, then he’s jerked up again.

“Move!” Someone barks at him, and then he’s turned around to face them. “We don’t have all day.”

Four guys hover over him, and Brock’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes his old team. It always hurts more when it’s them, even after all this time. The men he fought with, protected, and considered his friends turned on him, becoming his torturers.

The biggest one, Foster, is holding the leash. He pulls again, apparently determined to drag Brock out of the room if he won’t cooperate. And despite knowing it's a lost cause, Brock doesn’t want to cooperate. He doesn’t want to go back to the dog crate. Now that he’s more awake, he can feel the old pain set in his muscles and bones, and he can’t imagine spending another night crumpled in the tight space. He grabs at the carpet when Foster keeps dragging him towards the door, digs his nails in, but they’re too weak to hold and break. His front burns from the friction, and he tries to get on his feet, but it’s hard when he’s relentlessly pulled forward. He cries out for them to wait, and miraculously, they do. Shaking all over, he picks himself up on his hands and knees, only to lose his balance when Foster pulls the leash harder than expected. He whimpers as he’s mercilessly dragged over the carpet to the door. He looks around feverishly, seeking out Rollins, then mentally kicks himself when he realizes what he’s doing. Rollins wouldn’t help him; fuck, he’s the reason Brock’s here. No matter how he acts and what he does, Rollins is not his friend.

Re: [Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

THIS HAS BEEN AMAZING. Thank you and bless.

Re: [Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you so much <3

[Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow (3/6)

[(Anonymous)]

Foster drags him out onto the cool corridor floor, and Brock’s pleas to let him get on his feet turn into pleas to not take him back to the crate. He goes on for about a minute before Collins takes pity on him and tells him he’s not going to the crate. Brock shuts up at that and fixes his gaze on the floor to avoid the looks of the people they pass—other STRIKE agents and technicians. Some make snide comments his way that amuse Foster enough to laugh out loud.

He’s dragged to a storage room. He’s seen a handful of these; he’s always taken to one of those for a gangbang. Foster drops the leash and doesn’t waste any time to circle him and crouch behind him. It’s Collins who takes the choke chain off.

Brock doesn’t protest when he’s positioned onto his knees, though his muscles tremble slightly. He’s not sure why he’s barely able to keep his balance; perhaps the pills are still working. He rests his cheek on the floor, trying not to wobble as Foster parts his asscheeks and leans in to scrutinize his hole.

“Clean like my grandma’s porcelain,” he comments, and Brock jolts when a gobble of spit lands in his asscrack. “What does Rollins even do to you these days, cuddle?”

“Foster.” Collins’ voice is soft, but the warning is clear. Foster may have no respect for authority, but most of the agents draw the line somewhere, and that’s disrespecting Rollins.

“Hey, you don’t see me complaining.” Foster spits again, and just when Brock feels the wetness reach his hole, he jams two fingers in. Brock’s breath hitches. “Don’t for a second think I enjoy his sloppy seconds.” He wiggles his fingers, and Brock suppresses a sound of discomfort. “Still loose though.” He pulls out. “What’re ya waiting for, pretty him up for the guest.”

Collins rolls his eyes, but takes a hairbrush out of his pocket and kneels at the side of Brock’s head. He grabs his hair, and Brock lifts his head before he tugs. He must have a lot of knots, because the brush pulls his head down with it. Collins grabs his jaw to keep it in place, and Brock cries out when he tugs again. He’s sure Collins just tore out a handful.

“Westfahl, stick a cork in him,” Foster barks from behind him. Brock can hear the rustle of fabric, and a moment later he feels Foster’s big, warm cock gather the spit from his crack. “Bitch’s killing my boner with its whining.”

Westfahl eyes Brock warily. “No, thank you.”

Foster laughs heartily at that. “He won’t bite you again. He knows it’s not worth losing a limb.”

Westfahl’s still eyeing him. Brock uses the fact that Foster can’t see his face, Collins is still distracted with his hair, and King’s busy with his own dick, and smirks up at him. Westfahl steps back.

“He’s smirking at me!”

Collins turns Brock’s face towards him to check, and he gives him his most innocent expression.

“Stop being such a whiny bitch, Westfahl,” Foster snaps.

Westfahl was the first guy who thought shoving his dick inside Brock’s mouth was a good idea, and Brock had no qualms about biting down. Though something did stop him from biting clean through, it might just be the best memory he’s made in this place, and what came next might just be the worst.

When the guys finally managed to unclench Brock’s teeth from around the base of Westfahl’s shaft (after they were done laughing their asses off), they dragged him to a clean, white room that smelled of antiseptic, pinned him down to a metal table and cut off the circulation in his right arm. Brock was thrashing the whole time, but he didn’t start shouting desperate protests until Rosenberg approached him with an oscillating saw. They didn’t hurt him that day, but they explained very carefully that hurting them would entail losing his limbs one after another until he was nothing more than a fuckpotato. It was positively the scariest thing they’ve put him through, and when they finally released him, he cried in relief.

So yes, Foster’s right; if Westfahl gathered his courage and stuck his dick inside Brock’s mouth again, Brock would suck him off like nobody’s business. But Westfahl’s a fucking idiot, and Brock will use every opportunity to mess with him if he can get away with it.

He’s brought back to the present when Foster shoves his whole cock in him at once. With just spit easing the way and barely any preparation, the burn of the stretch makes his skin light up. His arms and legs give out and he slumps onto the floor with a pained mewl. Collins swears when the sudden fall of Brock’s head yanks the brush out of his hand, and Foster slaps his ass for that, then pulls his hips back onto his cock.

“Someone fucking shut him up, I swear to god,” he snarls.

King walks around Westfahl and positions himself in front of Brock’s mouth, his cock in hand. Collins flinches.

“I’m not that into you, get that outta my face.”

King snorts. “Not my fault you’re in the way.”

“This is the last time I’m doing this with you guys,” Foster pants.

“You’re all whiny bitches.”

“You’re like a five-year-old that learned a new insult and keeps repeating it,” Collins shoots back.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Foster fucks him in a steady rhythm, causing his head to rock back and forth in Collins’ hands. Brock can sense him get more and more annoyed as he ties the first ponytail. Then, he stands up and circles to the other side of his head, and that’s King’s cue to push his dick past Brock’s lips, muffling his pained little gasps. The blunt head hits the back of his throat, and King lets go of him. Foster's fierce thrusts push Brock's face farther onto King's dick, doing all the work for him.

The lack of air from the cock clogging his throat and pressing against his trachea from the inside helps him check out. For a long moment, he's vaguely aware of Collins brushing his hair and Westfahl jerking off somewhere to his right. Then he's on a completely different plane of existence, ignorant of what's happening to him until a sharp pain deep inside jerks him back to awareness. Foster must have shifted, because he's cock is impossibly deep, stretching Brock in places he didn't know it could reach.

"I hate this room." Foster grunts and keeps shifting. Brock cries out in distress around King's thick cock when he feels Foster's abdomen push against his ass, but it's too muffled to make any kind of impression. King seems to like it even, if the way he braces himself against the wall behind him and grinds his hips with a soft moan is any indication. "I prefer the one with the mattress."

"That one doesn't have any chairs." Collins chimes in from where he's lounging in a simple wooden chair farther back in the room. He's not looking at them, scrolling through something on his phone instead.

"Like I give a fuck about your fucking chairs.”

"Newsflash: I don't give a fuck about your mattress either," Collins shoots back, not even lifting his head.

"Both of you shut up," King grumbles.

The sharp pain Foster's fucking is causing makes it impossible to space out again. Brock didn't think that was possible anymore, but apparently there are still parts of him that haven’t been thoroughly ruined, well, until now at least. He tries to shift away, pressing his face into King's pubes and swallowing his cock farther down his throat in the process. King whines and tenses, and his thighs begin to tremble.

"What the fuck," Foster pants when he feels his dick slip out of Brock's ass. He grabs his hips hard enough to bruise and jerks him back onto his lap until Brock's half-sitting, causing King's dick to fall out of Brock's mouth.

"No!"

Brock watches cum shoot from King's slit and dribble down his shaft. He jerks his hips helplessly against the air, but it's too late and it's done.

"No!" he shouts, tries to jerk himself through the aftershocks, and whimpers. "You ruined my fucking orgasm, you useless fucking whore!"

Foster laughs cruelly behind him, his hips speeding up as if King's misery turned him on more. The laughter is almost contagious, and Brock can't help it; the satisfaction he feels numbs the pain and clouds his judgement, and he smirks. It only pisses King off more.

"I'm gonna fuck you up!" He unholsters his long tactical knife and grabs Brock's jaw. "I'm gonna fuck your throat with that, we'll see who'll be smirking then."

The threat successfully wipes the smirk off Brock's face, and he freezes, paralyzed with fear. King squeezes his cheeks to force his mouth open, but before Brock can even think about breaking out of his grip, Collins pushes himself between them, skillfully knocking the knife out of King's hand, and Brock's face is free again.

"What the fuck?" King snarls, looking at Collins reproachfully.

"I should be asking you." Collins' voice is cold and collected.

"Yeah, you fucked up your own blowjob, so what. Don't ruin the fun for the rest of us," Foster says. His hand twists into Brock's hair, the hair ties pulling on his scalp painfully. He bucks his hips and cums with a choked moan.

Brock barely pays attention to the wetness in his hole, more interested in the Collins vs. King stare-off. Collins protecting him from mindless violence—that's new. Collins, unlike the majority of Hydra agents, isn't his torturer. He never lays a hand on him. Doesn't hit him, doesn't even manhandle him. He's simply not into that stuff; Brock can get that. And after being tortured and raped every day by almost everyone in the building for god-knows-how-long, he admits that he's unhealthily grateful for that.

But Collins is also an enabler. He never tries to stop his coworkers from hurting Brock, never even suggests to tone it down a bit. Hell; he might not touch Brock, but Brock witnessed him touch himself to other guys raping him more times than he can count. If he's suddenly defending Brock, it's not because he feels sorry for him or something. Apparently, Hydra agents can't do everything they want to him, there are rules they're limited by.

It's a poor comfort though, considering amputation is apparently fair game.

Re: [Fill] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow (3/6)

[(Anonymous)]

lol, I love all the casual bickering. Raping him is so commonplace they're just like "I like the room with the mattress"