Davis licks his lips and keeps on his steady stream of chatter. "Yeah. Sucking one dick, another working your asshole. Got a load on your face, and I bet you're just dripping back there—"
"He is," Frederick confirms, voice pitched high and mocking. "Oh, he is. Babe all worked out. You're all loose, baby boy, you've taken so many cocks—"
"Could you guys just shut the hell up and get on with it?" someone else calls.
"Stop being such a damn freak!"
"Fuck him and let the next guy step up!"
"You're ruining our fun," Davis responds with a lazy smile.
The easy shit-talking, the camaraderie... it's sickening. Rumlow hates being on the outside. He never wants to be here again. He should be beside them, not below them— he's worth that much. He'll show them—
He begins to honestly put effort into sucking, though Frederick comes long before Davis does. He makes an embarrassing sound that, had his mouth been free, Rumlow would not have been able to keep from calling out. Instead he lets out a startled, bitter laugh around his mouthful and Davis' hands tighten against his scalp. Weaver takes Frederick's place easily, sliding in with a disgusting squelch. He says nothing, only drives in efficiently, quickly— a pace that Rumlow can appreciate despite the immense pain it causes.
His jaw is aching by the time Davis finally falls silent and presses too deep into Rumlow's throat. Rumlow automatically retches and struggles in panic. Davis' cum shoots uncomfortably where Rumlow can't help but to swallow. Davis steps back with a contented sigh and a dribble of semen still leaking out that he wipes on Rumlow's cheek and ear while Rumlow heaves desperate breaths.
Davis tilts his head and considers the man choking on his load. "You're welcome."
Rumlow drools pathetically at his feet. "F-fuck... you..."
"You're such a shithead, Rumlow," Weaver says— the first thing he's said at all —and he wraps his fist around Rumlow's sore throat mercilessly. Rumlow can't breathe, he can't— He struggles fruitlessly: it only serves to work himself back onto Weaver's cock.
Davis kneels before him. "Say thank you."
"F-f-fff— hek—" Rumlow's vision is turning brown in splotches. Weaver groans quietly and fucks him harder.
"Say thank you," Davis says again, untroubled. "Thank us for teaching you."
Weaver clenches and unclenches his fist in a slow rhythm; Rumlow catches his breath and loses it again. The room spins. Heavy breathing in his ear. Murmurs in the background.
"Th—... thank you..."
Weaver's hand eases, retreating to the back of his neck. Rumlow gulps air greedily.
"What was that?" Davis asks. "I didn't quite catch that. And make sure you’re properly respectful."
Rumlow says, and it's nearly painful to do so, "Thank you, sir."
"What for? Tell me why."
"...for teaching me..."
Davis grins. “So you’re not as much of a dumb fuck as you look.”
"Fuck you."
"If that's what you want," Weaver cuts in salaciously, and then the hand is back, and soon he can't tell up from down. He faints.
When he comes back, Davis is gone, the Winter Soldier is gone, and he's staring at an empty stretch of scuffed flooring. His upper half is limp, but Weaver still has his ass in the air, kneeling, and is driving into him roughly. The noise is absolutely obscene; a nonstop wet slapping as hips meet ass.
He can't even tell when Weaver is done— he supposes he feels numb; at one point there is pressure, then there isn't— but the pain remains no matter what. He grows cold on the floor.
The room is quiet for a while— or maybe he just isn't listening. He hears low whispers sometimes: "Look at it dripping down his thighs" and "Sloppy" and "Have fun throwing your hotdog down that hallway, Stone". Laughs. A punch to the arm.
The words grow louder, accompanied by bootfall. "Is he even conscious?"
"I'd fuck him like that, but I know it's kind of besides the point."
“Too bad Fike and Bridges can’t have a turn.”
"I'm still here, you bastards," Rumlow rasps.
"Good," says Porter after a short pause. "Because you've got two left."
Rumlow uses all his strength to bring himself to his elbows and from there to strain his core to straighten his back and lift his head. He waits until the rush of blood stops spinning him around. Then he says, to great applause, "Bring it on."
[FILL] Order [10] (rumlow gangrape)
"He is," Frederick confirms, voice pitched high and mocking. "Oh, he is. Babe all worked out. You're all loose, baby boy, you've taken so many cocks—"
"Could you guys just shut the hell up and get on with it?" someone else calls.
"Stop being such a damn freak!"
"Fuck him and let the next guy step up!"
"You're ruining our fun," Davis responds with a lazy smile.
The easy shit-talking, the camaraderie... it's sickening. Rumlow hates being on the outside. He never wants to be here again. He should be beside them, not below them— he's worth that much. He'll show them—
He begins to honestly put effort into sucking, though Frederick comes long before Davis does. He makes an embarrassing sound that, had his mouth been free, Rumlow would not have been able to keep from calling out. Instead he lets out a startled, bitter laugh around his mouthful and Davis' hands tighten against his scalp. Weaver takes Frederick's place easily, sliding in with a disgusting squelch. He says nothing, only drives in efficiently, quickly— a pace that Rumlow can appreciate despite the immense pain it causes.
His jaw is aching by the time Davis finally falls silent and presses too deep into Rumlow's throat. Rumlow automatically retches and struggles in panic. Davis' cum shoots uncomfortably where Rumlow can't help but to swallow. Davis steps back with a contented sigh and a dribble of semen still leaking out that he wipes on Rumlow's cheek and ear while Rumlow heaves desperate breaths.
Davis tilts his head and considers the man choking on his load. "You're welcome."
Rumlow drools pathetically at his feet. "F-fuck... you..."
"You're such a shithead, Rumlow," Weaver says— the first thing he's said at all —and he wraps his fist around Rumlow's sore throat mercilessly. Rumlow can't breathe, he can't— He struggles fruitlessly: it only serves to work himself back onto Weaver's cock.
Davis kneels before him. "Say thank you."
"F-f-fff— hek—" Rumlow's vision is turning brown in splotches. Weaver groans quietly and fucks him harder.
"Say thank you," Davis says again, untroubled. "Thank us for teaching you."
Weaver clenches and unclenches his fist in a slow rhythm; Rumlow catches his breath and loses it again. The room spins. Heavy breathing in his ear. Murmurs in the background.
"Th—... thank you..."
Weaver's hand eases, retreating to the back of his neck. Rumlow gulps air greedily.
"What was that?" Davis asks. "I didn't quite catch that. And make sure you’re properly respectful."
Rumlow says, and it's nearly painful to do so, "Thank you, sir."
"What for? Tell me why."
"...for teaching me..."
Davis grins. “So you’re not as much of a dumb fuck as you look.”
"Fuck you."
"If that's what you want," Weaver cuts in salaciously, and then the hand is back, and soon he can't tell up from down. He faints.
When he comes back, Davis is gone, the Winter Soldier is gone, and he's staring at an empty stretch of scuffed flooring. His upper half is limp, but Weaver still has his ass in the air, kneeling, and is driving into him roughly. The noise is absolutely obscene; a nonstop wet slapping as hips meet ass.
He can't even tell when Weaver is done— he supposes he feels numb; at one point there is pressure, then there isn't— but the pain remains no matter what. He grows cold on the floor.
The room is quiet for a while— or maybe he just isn't listening. He hears low whispers sometimes: "Look at it dripping down his thighs" and "Sloppy" and "Have fun throwing your hotdog down that hallway, Stone". Laughs. A punch to the arm.
The words grow louder, accompanied by bootfall. "Is he even conscious?"
"I'd fuck him like that, but I know it's kind of besides the point."
“Too bad Fike and Bridges can’t have a turn.”
"I'm still here, you bastards," Rumlow rasps.
"Good," says Porter after a short pause. "Because you've got two left."
Rumlow uses all his strength to bring himself to his elbows and from there to strain his core to straighten his back and lift his head. He waits until the rush of blood stops spinning him around. Then he says, to great applause, "Bring it on."