Rumlow flexes his fist, debating whether or not to sock the smug bastard across the jaw, but then he's cold again from the absence of Frederick's hot body, and he's being nudged forcefully in the sides. It turns out to be easier on his ribs to just roll with Frederick's direction. He settles on his stomach and resigns himself to getting fucked again. This position was maddening the first time around; he takes the moment before Frederick paws at him again to spread his legs a little, enough that Frederick could slot his body between them and Rumlow wouldn't have to feel so trapped.
They're laughing again. "Not like that, you slut."
Strong arms circle Rumlow's middle and heave him up. He inhales sharply through his nose, fighting the dizzy rush swirling his head. When he comes back to himself, he's half-kneeling, half-sitting; his knees are planted on the floor but his ass is pressed firmly to Frederick's lap. He groans lightly: the press of Frederick's lengthy cock grinding between his ass cheeks is... not unpleasant, amongst the myriad of unpleasant things swimming in the room.
Rumlow can finally get some traction here, and he tries to unfold his legs, to escape Frederick's lap. The unnamed soldier is there again, however, his hands on either of Rumlow's shoulders as effective as a brick wall in stopping him from getting too far.
"Easy there, bitch," Frederick says. He peels back his hips just enough to get his hand between them, to prepare his dick to penetrate. Rumlow feels his fist bump into his cheeks on every upward stroke and grits his teeth.
While he waits, he glares balefully at the unnamed soldier. The spit Rumlow hurled at him earlier has dried into a little spot of discoloration against the black. He still has that damnable furrow in his brow, but now it might be— angry? His expressions are too rare, too subtle; Rumlow can't read them.
Why does he want to? he asks of himself. Perhaps because the man does not seem to enjoy this debacle. He does not enjoy the power he so clearly has over all the people in this room. The blankness might have been a weakness that Rumlow could leverage, to— to what? (A tiny, quiet voice crops up, quickly nipped in a prideful fury. Help me!) Rumlow meets the man's eyes steadily and the man does not react; that blasé acceptance incites a hatred in Rumlow.
Suffer! He wants to see this man suffer! Who bends himself so easily to Pierce, suffer! Rumlow's hand darts out before he can think about it, grabs a chunk of the man's hair and begins to rip— and that hand is swiftly dealt with: another clean, effortless break that has Rumlow screaming; and in the same quick moment, Frederick pulls him back into his lap, burying his cock deep in Rumlow's ass.
Now this, unmistakably, is anger: the Winter Soldier's eyes are burning hot and wild. Ostensibly he takes a sensible, efficient way of restraining Rumlow's attack, but there's a viciousness in how the soldier takes hold of either wrist and squeezes. Rumlow bites his lips until they drip blood down his chin and, in his dizzy, incomprehensible headspace as he takes deep, gulping, fiery breaths, he marvels at the pureness of the Winter Soldier's wrath, cloaked as it is in a veil of obedience.
"—get a hold of yourself, Rumlow—"
"What a fucking moron—"
"Well, you deserved that one, didn't you?"
It takes the entirety of Rumlow’s will to keep the screaming in his throat, to keep the tears only as itching eyes, to keep the vomit as a roiling in his gut. Pain arcs and lances electric from the point where he is split open to the point where he is crushed together: his anus to his innards; radiating out to his lower back; to the blood throbbing in his head and pushing against bruises and cuts; and each small thrust jostles his ribs; and each thrust swings him forward on the pivot of his screeching wrists.
The unnamed soldier casts his eyes over Rumlow’s shoulder and then, reacting to some unseen cue, shifts both of Rumlow’s wrists into his flesh hand. The metal comes up to take Rumlow by the throat. Rumlow’s heart beats fast again; how can the soldier know how much pressure to put here that he doesn’t choke Rumlow out, or worse, snap him like a twig?
Rumlow feels as secure as if he were in a damn hammock. He can’t hold himself up; he’s sagging into the crushing steel around his neck, and the grip Frederick has on one of his shoulders, and the arm Frederick has belted across his lap. What if Frederick falters and drops Rumlow’s full weight against the unnamed one’s hand? It’s possible—
“There— you’re not fighting anymore. Too busted up?”
The soldier shifts to the side and allows Davis to take his place in front of Rumlow. Rumlow splutters at him; hopefully he’ll take it as an insult.
“You’ve got a hard head,” Davis responds with a huff. “A smart fella would’ve seen he was outmatched since the beginning and just gone with it.” He reaches out to rake his fingernails against Rumlow’s scalp. “But we had to go this far. That’s all on you.”
With his other hand, Davis deftly frees his heavy cock from his trousers. He steps forward. Rumlow presses his lips tightly together.
“Stop fighting already,” Davis says. “Why can’t you get it?”
Rumlow can’t move his head away, not with that thick steel enveloping his neck. He has to stay perfectly still while Frederick churns slowly inside of him and Davis presses the head of his dick to Rumlow’s mouth.
“You’re not rejecting Hydra, are you?”
Rumlow’s eyes fly open, though he’d been unaware of the last time he closed them. His control over his face loosens just a little, and Davis presses forward again, getting his tip wet on the insides of Rumlow’s lips.
Reject Hydra? Impossible! No one rejects Hydra… He looks up into Davis’ smooth countenance and questions with his eyes.
“Open up,” Davis says softly. “Come on. I’m not even hard yet, you’ve got work to do.” Rumlow whines in frustration. Davis smiles a little. “This is the will of Hydra. This is a gracious lesson.
[FILL] Order [8] (rumlow gangrape)
They're laughing again. "Not like that, you slut."
Strong arms circle Rumlow's middle and heave him up. He inhales sharply through his nose, fighting the dizzy rush swirling his head. When he comes back to himself, he's half-kneeling, half-sitting; his knees are planted on the floor but his ass is pressed firmly to Frederick's lap. He groans lightly: the press of Frederick's lengthy cock grinding between his ass cheeks is... not unpleasant, amongst the myriad of unpleasant things swimming in the room.
Rumlow can finally get some traction here, and he tries to unfold his legs, to escape Frederick's lap. The unnamed soldier is there again, however, his hands on either of Rumlow's shoulders as effective as a brick wall in stopping him from getting too far.
"Easy there, bitch," Frederick says. He peels back his hips just enough to get his hand between them, to prepare his dick to penetrate. Rumlow feels his fist bump into his cheeks on every upward stroke and grits his teeth.
While he waits, he glares balefully at the unnamed soldier. The spit Rumlow hurled at him earlier has dried into a little spot of discoloration against the black. He still has that damnable furrow in his brow, but now it might be— angry? His expressions are too rare, too subtle; Rumlow can't read them.
Why does he want to? he asks of himself. Perhaps because the man does not seem to enjoy this debacle. He does not enjoy the power he so clearly has over all the people in this room. The blankness might have been a weakness that Rumlow could leverage, to— to what? (A tiny, quiet voice crops up, quickly nipped in a prideful fury. Help me!) Rumlow meets the man's eyes steadily and the man does not react; that blasé acceptance incites a hatred in Rumlow.
Suffer! He wants to see this man suffer! Who bends himself so easily to Pierce, suffer! Rumlow's hand darts out before he can think about it, grabs a chunk of the man's hair and begins to rip— and that hand is swiftly dealt with: another clean, effortless break that has Rumlow screaming; and in the same quick moment, Frederick pulls him back into his lap, burying his cock deep in Rumlow's ass.
Now this, unmistakably, is anger: the Winter Soldier's eyes are burning hot and wild. Ostensibly he takes a sensible, efficient way of restraining Rumlow's attack, but there's a viciousness in how the soldier takes hold of either wrist and squeezes. Rumlow bites his lips until they drip blood down his chin and, in his dizzy, incomprehensible headspace as he takes deep, gulping, fiery breaths, he marvels at the pureness of the Winter Soldier's wrath, cloaked as it is in a veil of obedience.
"—get a hold of yourself, Rumlow—"
"What a fucking moron—"
"Well, you deserved that one, didn't you?"
It takes the entirety of Rumlow’s will to keep the screaming in his throat, to keep the tears only as itching eyes, to keep the vomit as a roiling in his gut. Pain arcs and lances electric from the point where he is split open to the point where he is crushed together: his anus to his innards; radiating out to his lower back; to the blood throbbing in his head and pushing against bruises and cuts; and each small thrust jostles his ribs; and each thrust swings him forward on the pivot of his screeching wrists.
The unnamed soldier casts his eyes over Rumlow’s shoulder and then, reacting to some unseen cue, shifts both of Rumlow’s wrists into his flesh hand. The metal comes up to take Rumlow by the throat. Rumlow’s heart beats fast again; how can the soldier know how much pressure to put here that he doesn’t choke Rumlow out, or worse, snap him like a twig?
Rumlow feels as secure as if he were in a damn hammock. He can’t hold himself up; he’s sagging into the crushing steel around his neck, and the grip Frederick has on one of his shoulders, and the arm Frederick has belted across his lap. What if Frederick falters and drops Rumlow’s full weight against the unnamed one’s hand? It’s possible—
“There— you’re not fighting anymore. Too busted up?”
The soldier shifts to the side and allows Davis to take his place in front of Rumlow. Rumlow splutters at him; hopefully he’ll take it as an insult.
“You’ve got a hard head,” Davis responds with a huff. “A smart fella would’ve seen he was outmatched since the beginning and just gone with it.” He reaches out to rake his fingernails against Rumlow’s scalp. “But we had to go this far. That’s all on you.”
With his other hand, Davis deftly frees his heavy cock from his trousers. He steps forward. Rumlow presses his lips tightly together.
“Stop fighting already,” Davis says. “Why can’t you get it?”
Rumlow can’t move his head away, not with that thick steel enveloping his neck. He has to stay perfectly still while Frederick churns slowly inside of him and Davis presses the head of his dick to Rumlow’s mouth.
“You’re not rejecting Hydra, are you?”
Rumlow’s eyes fly open, though he’d been unaware of the last time he closed them. His control over his face loosens just a little, and Davis presses forward again, getting his tip wet on the insides of Rumlow’s lips.
Reject Hydra? Impossible! No one rejects Hydra… He looks up into Davis’ smooth countenance and questions with his eyes.
“Open up,” Davis says softly. “Come on. I’m not even hard yet, you’ve got work to do.” Rumlow whines in frustration. Davis smiles a little. “This is the will of Hydra. This is a gracious lesson.
“Submit. It’ll set you free.”