Dumpster #5: We didn't start the trashfire

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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 CHAPTER 2 [1/4]

[(Anonymous)]

I wrote another chapter of this.

--

Brock wakes up wrapped in something warm and soft. As he shifts, the bed dips underneath him like a huge marshmallow. It’s the nicest he’s woken up in a long while, and it makes him groan softly. As soon as the sound leaves his mouth, he feels something smooth pressing against his lips, making his heart jump and eyes open wide in panic. But then a sweet smell breaks through to him, making him realize what it is: a grape. He opens his mouth, and the fruit is pushed past his chapped lips. He lets it sit on his tongue for a few seconds, wanting to make sure it’s real, and when he salivates, he bites. Sweet juice floods his mouth, and he smiles in bliss, his eyes falling close. After he swallows, another grape is pushed against his lips, and then another, and another.

After the fifth grape, Brock’s first hunger is satisfied, so he opens his eyes to cast a look around without moving his head. He realizes he’s in Rollins’ bedroom, lying in his bed, with his warm, firm body pressed against his back. It stings; for a moment there, he dared to hope he was saved. But it’s too good to be true, apparently.

His body starts to wake up, too, and the ever-present pain sets in. His rim smarts more than usual, and memories of Cap fucking him flood his mind. He must have passed out during, because he can’t remember leaving or being brought here. He wonders briefly if they made Cap fuck him when he was unconscious, but the answer must be yes. It must have been even more mortifying for Cap than fucking him when he was awake.

Brock throws the memories out of his thoughts, instead focusing on the green grapes which keep coming. He’s afraid that each one will be the last, but then his stomach feels full for the first time in ages, and Rollins is still feeding him. Brock forces himself to swallow everything he gets, knowing this will be his only food for days to come, but when his stomach begins to ache, it feels more like torture than pleasure, and he wonders if he won’t throw it all up. His stomach must be tiny if it can’t contain a cluster of small grapes. 

Finally, Rollins’ hand disappears from his peripheral vision, and Brock feels him lean away.  He stays still, breathing a little hard. He tries to brace himself for whatever Rollins has in mind for him next; he’s not here so he can be hand-fed, after all. But he’s feeling lazy, full and warm, and he wishes he could just drift off to sleep. 

Instead, he jolts when something cold fills him up; Rollins has squirted lube directly into his asshole. Brock feels his fingers enter painlessly; he must be still stretched wide from Cap’s monster cock.

“You did a great job,” Rollins mutters against his ear. “I watched you. Rogers panicked when you passed out; it was perfect.”

He thrusts his fingers in and out of Brock’s hole, and it keeps being surprisingly painless. The lube soothes the undeniably torn skin of his walls, and it’s—not all terrible. He’s not sure if Rollins is actually expecting him to answer, so he just hums softly in acknowledgement.

Suddenly, Rollins curls his fingers, and Brock jerks in pain. Rollins must misinterpret his reaction, because he doesn’t let up, rubbing Brock inside until he’s tense and sweating—or maybe he doesn’t, it’s not like he has ever cared about Brock’s comfort.

Brock’s so dazed with the pain that he takes a while to understand that what Rollins is torturing is his prostate. Everything hurt when Cap fucked him, but now that the chafed skin has more or less healed, the abuse his prostate went through is so much more apparent. He whines, bites the pillow, and shuts his eyes tight. He should start spacing out soon. Anytime now...

He’s hauled up so suddenly, the fabric slips out from between his teeth. The fingers are gone from his ass, and as Rollins puts him in his lap, they’re replaced by the head of his cock. The sudden upright position makes him dizzy, and he needs to brace himself against Rollins’ bare chest.

“Can we—can we not?” he asks quietly, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’m tired.”

“You can rest, sweetheart,” Rollins purrs. The pet name gives Brock a full body shudder; this shit has been going on for months, but he’s still not used to how creepy Rollins can act. “I’ll do all the work.”

He guides Brock’s head to rest against his shoulder. This close to his neck he can smell his cologne, and it’s the only pleasant thing about this situation, as opposed to his sweaty, sticky skin and the hard, thick cock Brock’s being pushed onto. Rollins keeps his promise and doesn’t expect Brock to ride him; he rather moves his hips up and down, fucking himself like with a sex toy—which Brock supposes he is now. Rollins is one of the bigger cocks he has been forced to take, but even his doesn’t compare to Captain America’s, and for once, sex with him isn’t painful, especially now that he’s not hitting his prostate. Once Brock closes his eyes, his mind is quick to take him somewhere else. It might even be said he’s resting—until the feel of a warm hand on his cock draws a moan from his throat.

“There you are,” Rollins rasps against his ear and sucks in the skin beneath. Brock barely registers it, more preoccupied with the pulse he can feel in his crotch. He shifts his head to look down, and—yes. He’s hard.

He stares at his full, flushed erection in both awe and horror. After months of day-to-day rape, he really didn’t think he’d ever be able to get it up, not to mention with Rollins balls deep inside him. His face burns hot; if he thought Cap seeing him naked, fucked open, wearing pigtails and lipstick was bad, this is a hundred times worse.

He’s not enjoying it. He’s being raped, for fuck’s sake. He feels sick, but his cock doesn’t agree with his stomach, and twitches in pleasure when Rollins strokes it with his big, calloused hand. Another moan escapes Brock’s mouth. He bites his tongue, but it’s too late; it rings loud and clear, and Rollins picks up his pace in both fucking and stroking him. Brock hides his face back in Rollins’ neck, because he can’t look, he can’t be present for this—

As much as he doesn’t want to, he’s hyper aware of his body; of the heartbeat in his dick, and how his hips jerk chaotically under Rollins’ hands; how unsettled his stomach feels because of all the grapes and the movement; how his saliva tastes like bile, and how hot and sweaty he is. Rollins babbles into his ear about how he loves fucking him; how Brock loves his cock; how he loves the sounds Brock makes; how he doesn’t need to hold back and can cum, but Brock’s only paying him half of his attention, too busy trying not to vomit over both of them. Soon though, all his discomfort and even shame fades as pleasure rises in his abdomen. His world narrows down to Rollins’ hand that’s bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. The pace is unrelenting, and he doesn’t last long; he digs his fingers into Rollins’ shoulders and lets out a broken moan as his body tenses up. Rollins murmurs something, but Brock can’t hear it over his own heartbeat. Then, his hips buck involuntarily into his hand, and he’s cumming.

He slumps against the firm, sweaty body beneath him, his ears ringing and his mind floating. He’s uncomfortable, hot and sticky, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s vaguely aware of Rollins still fucking him, but he can’t feel him cumming; after some time, he’s just removed from his lap and laid down on the bed. As his afterglow subsides, he feels sick again. He hopes that if he lies still for a while, it will pass.

Rollins gets up and moves around, but Brock is too tired to track him with his eyes or even care. A moment later, a glass of water is pressed into his hand, and he takes it gratefully; his mouth feels like a desert. Rollins refills it once Brock empties it, and hands him two pills. That gets Brock’s heart to skip a beat, and he looks up at him in disbelief. 

“Sleep... here?” he asks, his voice more croaky than he expected.

Rollins just nods, and hell, Brock will take any bed over the fucking dog crate, so he isn’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth. He takes the pills, waters them down and lies down onto his side. He can feel warm cum drip out of his ass, but then Rollins pushes it back in. What enters Brock’s ass isn’t his finger though; it’s hard and smooth, and—hell, is it a butt plug?

It’s a novel feeling, and while not painful, he can feel it there, and his body wants it out. He shifts his hips, but stills when Rollins rests his hand on his thigh. He knows it’s a warning, so he just grits his teeth and waits for his body to adjust.

Rollins goes to the bathroom for a moment, and when he returns and lies down, Brock’s already drifting off. He cracks one eye open when he feels a hot breath on his face, and then Rollins kisses him. 

It’s different from all the other times Rollins has kissed him; gentle, affectionate, and not as gross—or perhaps Brock’s just too tired to feel grossed out. He doesn’t return it, but Rollins doesn’t seem to mind, and when he closes his eyes again, the pills finally knock him out.

[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [2/4]

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: [FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [3/4]

[(Anonymous)]

Warning for blood & gore in the next 2 parts.

--

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.

[FILL] Fuck or Die with Steve and sextoy Rumlow CHAPTER 2 [4/4]

[(Anonymous)]

In a main corridor there’s a fuck bench bolted to the concrete floor right in the middle of an intersection. Brock had a dubious pleasure of spending a whole day in it a handful of times. He definitely prefers the casual gangbangs, because those at least don’t last more than a couple of hours; often much less.

Westfahl pushes him forward with the butt of his rifle. Brock grits his teeth and, breathing hard through his aching nose, lets himself be strapped down. He bites down on a whimper when Foster and Rosenberg roughly grab his hands. Agents passing by cheer loudly, happy to have an opportunity for a quick fuck on their break.

Once Brock’s body is fully secured, King wastes no more time. He shoves his pants and underwear down, freeing his full erection. He grabs Brock by the hair and guides his cock to his mouth. Brock can feel somebody remove the butt plug and push their fingers dry into his ass. Some passing agents and lab coats pause to look, some line up behind King. Brock closes his eyes to stop himself from calculating how long he’ll spend here. He’d rather be surprised when it’s over.

He slips in and out of awareness. It’s hard to stay in the dreamland when he’s so uncomfortable; sure, the bench is padded, but he can’t rest his head, and the straps are digging into his skin, leaving burns whenever someone shoves or pulls him too hard.

The taste of cum mixes in with Brock’s pissy saliva, and King pulls out. He zips himself up and walks away. Another agent takes his place. Brock doesn’t open his eyes, but he remembers it was Guldbrandsen who lined up right behind King. Sharp, musky scent hits his nostrils when a damp tip gathers spit from around his mouth and pushes in. Someone in the background is still fucking him dry. The sound of the man’s grunting tells him it’s Rosenberg.

After a while of being pushed and pulled, other agents get impatient. Guldbrandsen hasn’t yet pulled out when two more cocks start rubbing against Brock’s face. The skin under the pleather straps becomes wetter and wetter, stinging bad enough to fight for his focus against the still throbbing hands, the thick cock tearing his ass, and the long one clogging his throat.

Instead, he imagines being comfortable. The image of the table in Cap’s cell briefly flashes in front of his eyes, but that was far from comfortable, even if slightly better than the fuck bench. No, he thinks of a bed. The king-sized bed he would have had if he wasn’t captured. The bed he will have once he gets the fuck out of here.

He’s lying on a memory foam mattress, wrapped in soft, fresh sheets. Warm sunlight seeps through the big window. He can smell the wind, blooming apple trees and freshly mowed grass. It’s quiet, and he can rest his head, and his knees don’t hurt, and his skin doesn’t sting. Fingers slip through his hair, and when he opens his eyes, it’s Rollins—

His eyes shot open just when someone cums on his face. A dribble hits his eye, and he blinks it out quickly, but it’s too late; it stings and waters, adding to the mess on his face. It’s the same eye that got irritated in Cap’s cell; one day, something will blind him.

He opens his mouth for yet another hard, red dick, but with his good eye, he can see the line has gotten shorter. These people aren’t here for fun; they have work, and some of them have resigned. Brock knows they’ll come back later, but for now, he feels a bit relieved. Another person comes on his abused ass, someone else jerks off and shoots all over his back. He can feel it drip down his sides, his thighs, his neck. His hands have become numb, though they’re still warm.

He slumps after the last agent hides his dick and walks away. He’s itchy from all the drying cum and he can’t even scratch himself. It makes him want to howl. Pain he knows. Pain he can handle. Itching is so much more rare and therefore, so much worse.

He jerks when he hears footsteps, but he can’t bring himself to raise his head, even if his back hurts when it’s hanging down. But when it isn’t, it’s his neck—really, neither option is good.

A hand winds into his hair and pulls. Brock’s eye is still leaking, but his vision’s not as blurry. He doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. He thinks he might’ve fucked him before, but he’s not sure. He’s young—so young—so Brock supposes he’s a recruit. New people must have joined Hydra now that they’re publicly known and controlling the world. Or at least America, frankly, Brock isn’t sure.

Far to the left, another stranger circles Brock, also young. Another youngster joins the first one. A rookie team, Brock realizes.

“I’m not sure about this,” says a voice behind him. Four men then. The words bring Brock hope that maybe they’ll leave him alone, but he’s learned not so long ago hope is useless in this place.

“Too filthy for you? You want a tissue?” The second one on Brock’s left mocks.

“You have any?” The fourth one asks, either not catching the sarcasm, or simply not caring.

There’s rustling, and then Brock feels soft fabric prod at his hole. The fourth one wipes his ass and thighs. It helps with the itching. He makes a sound of disgust, and a moment later, Brock’s hole twitches around his cock head. All the cum inside Brock helps it slide in, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Brock doesn’t need to be told to open his mouth for the one with his fingers still in his hair; he does it automatically. The stranger shoves his half-hard cock in and begins fucking Brock’s face right away, grunting. The abuse Brock’s throat has gone through becomes more noticeable and harder to ignore as the tip prods at it. The other two just stand there, watching. Brock doesn’t like the third’s analyzing gaze; it makes him shift nervously, which earns him a smack upside the head from the first one when his cock slips out of his mouth.

“He doesn’t have enough holes,” the third one says, scrunching up his nose.

“Why I prefer women,” the second one says. Brock can hear him open his zipper and stroke his cock. “That and the boobies.”

“Me, too, I’m not a fucking fag,” the third one snaps.

“Hey, no one here is a fag,” the first one pants as he fucks Brock’s mouth.

“There’s lotsa place to make new holes though,” the second one notices and pulls out a knife. The third one cackles.

Brock’s blood runs cold, and he tries to pull away, but the bindings hold him in place. The first one slaps his face with his cock with an unhappy grunt after it slips out of his mouth again. The hands of the fourth one clench around his hips, stilling them. Brock wants to tell them Rollins would never allow this, but he doesn’t manage; the moment he opens his mouth again, the first one’s cock fills it.

The third one joins the second one by Brock’s side, and he loses the sight of him. He can hear them mutter things like, ‘here’, ‘a little to the left’, ‘but not too deep, I don’t wanna fuck his guts’. He can feel the tip of the knife travel up and down his side, making his heart race and his body shake. Finally, it digs in.

He doesn’t feel it at first, and thinks they resigned; that they just wanted to scare him. Then it registers; the sharp pain in his side, and the wetness flowing down his side and pooling between his stomach and the bench. He tries to yell, but it’s muffled. The first one moans as he does. He shakes and jerks as the knife is turned, pushing and cutting his flesh to form a hole.

The first thrust of a dick feels even worse.

Brock has been through a lot of different pain in his life, but this one is comparable to nothing. It’s worse than being stabbed or shot. Worse than a surgery. Fuck, worse than his bones being crushed. It feels like somebody’s fucking the life out of him. It’s so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He loses all the control he still had over his body and—without even realizing it at first—bites down.

He takes a moment to realize why the first one is screaming like a little girl. When he does, he relaxes his jaw. The first one retracts, moaning and crying, and Brock notices blood around his shaft.

He should be scared. Biting means losing a limb. But he’s oddly apathetic about it. As he slumps forward, his head swimming and the pain fading, he realizes that ‘fucking the life out of him’ is quite accurate. He blacks out for a moment, and when he comes to, there’s another dick fucking his face. Its owner squeezes his jaw joints to keep his mouth open. His vision is swimming, but when he finally focuses his gaze on the man in front of him, he notices it’s an entirely different team. He feels throbbing pain in his side, but at least no one is fucking his new hole anymore.

Swallowing another cum shot makes him sick. He can’t tell how many are filling his stomach; he supposes he has been unconscious for a part of it. A new erection replaces the last one. The next thing Brock knows, he’s choking on vomit.

For the next while he’s conscious, no one’s touching him. A few agents that pass by hoot and whistle at him, but don’t stop on their way. The reek of the vomit right below his face makes him sick again, and he throws up more. He feels a little better afterwards, and the vomit—and the cum dripping off him, Brock supposes—is soon dealt with by a janitor. He doesn’t look at Brock as he mops the floor, and Brock lets himself rest.
The next time he’s awake, he’s being unstrapped from the bench. He whines when he moves his numb limbs that were stuck in the same position for hours. His hands flame up again after the blood reaches them. He can’t walk, but the team that’s unstrapped him take it under consideration. They carry him, one guy for each limb. Brock’s too weak to even try to recognize them.

They fold him and push inside the crate. Brock rests his face against the bars and lets himself breathe.

He’s dizzy, but he looks himself over. He’s covered in cum and blood. The wound is still leaking. Brock finds it a little surprising that no one thought to do anything about it. Maybe it isn’t that deep, and he’s so weak for another reason.

He jolts when he hears a bang. When he looks through the bars, he realizes someone just dropped a bowl in front of his crate.

“Dinner,” Woods says happily. He crouches down. Brock would see his face if he looked up, but it feels like too much work right now.

He hears a can open, and something brown falls into the bowl with a wet thump. Dog food. One of the better things he eats here. Normally, he’d squeeze his hand through the bars, grab a bite and eat. But now, he can’t even move his pinky.

Woods stands up. “You don’t wanna eat? Fine. Suit yourself.”

He kicks the bowl away. Brock watches the dog food spray around on the floor.

Woods leaves. The blood is still flowing. Brock thinks there’s a good chance he will die here.

Better here than strapped to the fuck bench.