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Even he calls himself ‘Rumlow’.

His mother might have called him Brock, but he never liked her much and prefers not to think of her. “Brock Rumlow!” she would holler when he was really in trouble and his entire identity was at fault. His father hadn’t stuck around long enough to call him anything at all. School teachers tried to be polite while condescending and they stuffily called him ‘Mr. Rumlow’. Then as soon as the word teacher turned to superior, he was just called ‘Rumlow’— just that and that’s all he is.

He’s a soldier. He can’t imagine being anything but. Once he was a young boy who threw temper tantrums and pulled hair until the principal brought out the paddle. Once he was a young man who slumped in on himself with suppressed rage until he had a uniformed man shout his back into practiced straightness. Discipline made him a better man. Not everyone was like that, though, and how strange.

What a strange way to be, Rumlow thinks as he stares across the cramped space. The soldier— the other soldier, the one without a name —looks back at him, but there’s no consideration there. Rumlow was not a man given to words any more moving than glib ribbing, but he thought about the phrase ‘eyes of the dead’ now and it fit.

At the very beginning of the op, Commander Vorges had pointed shortly at each other agent on the team and introduced them to Rumlow, and she’d said, “He’s Rumlow. Show him how it’s done here.” But she hadn’t mentioned this man, the one with limp, dark hair. Rumlow instinctively knows not to ask Vorges. Instead he waits until the unnamed man has strapped himself into his gear and taken a seat like a perch near the back of the transport.

“What’s your name, then, big shot?” he asks, tilting his chin up and giving a hard smile that the soldier does not return. With some quiet unease, Rumlow notes that no one else looks his way either. They seem not to hear the question at all, except for Vorges, who studies the reaction of the unnamed man. There follows some length of silence in which Rumlow wants more and more to sooth his edginess by popping his knuckles against some hard surface. Finally, the soldier, who had not looked away the whole time, curiously croaks, “Nyet,” and no more than that. Rumlow laughs derisively, offended. No one laughs with him, and the Russian does not speak for the rest of the ride.

In the course of the mission, Rumlow takes out three targets. The unnamed Russian kills ten. Rumlow had never before thought of another man as beautiful. Maybe it doesn’t matter; maybe the soldier is not a man at all, but something closer to a beast. Rumlow admires the soldier like one would admire a mustang running across Oregon plains: the very image of sleek power, and potentially tameable to the man with enough gumption to risk a kick in the head. And what a kick it would be from this one; Rumlow sees it in the way the man snaps a neck in one metal fist like anyone else would bend a straw. Rumlow wants that gleaming hand— wants to run his fingers over it, or have it as his own, and control that wild strength. Those powerful thighs, those quick eyes, the strong set of shoulders— if only he could possess them, one way or another...

The problem, though, is this— ‘this’ being later accepted as a good lesson in order— the kind of order to which one day a world might bend and well so—

One of the men that the unnamed soldier kills is their own.

Rumlow has been a soldier for a very long time. First he was in the most direct service to the United States, then he was in what might delicately be called ‘less direct’ service, or a private function, and then he moved on to the quieter ways. He follows the rules of being a soldier. So far, that has meant that no one is left behind.

That’s why he covers Gries when the guy gets taken down by return fire. “Man down,” he speaks into his communicator.

“Advance,” Vorges orders.

“Man down!” Rumlow repeats.


Gries’ expression betrays no surprise, and Rumlow can only feel an annoyed sort of confusion mixed with the fearful adrenaline. It’s the confusion that costs him: suddenly the enemy takes his hesitation as their chance to shove forward; Rumlow falls back to save his own skin; Gries is captured.

Rumlow is only aware for a moment that his heart is pounding, already expecting the dressing down, the expulsion— Strike newbie’s first mission all fucked up— before the whole scene explodes in flame and blood. The targets and Gries alike are swallowed up, obliterated. Rumlow’s breath catches when he looks up to find the firelight glinting off the Russian’s metal arm, raised as it is to level a grenade launcher.

The unnamed soldier takes them to victory, not as a leader but as a ship cleaving water, dragging them along in its dangerous wake. Gries is dead and Fike and Bridges are burnt to hell by the soldier’s indiscriminate fire. On the transport back home, Rumlow has time to wake the fuck up, and he stares at the soldier. The soldier stares back, and his eyes are as empty as ever. Rumlow’s stomach roils with a sick wave of survivalist dread. This creature could kill them all; it could crash this plane and probably walk away unharmed. It would feel nothing. Like the very personification of the grim reaper, it takes lives as easily as a person blinks and does not mourn, merely steamrollers its way to the next checkpoint on the list. It’s an inhuman monster piloting a meat suit.

Rumlow looks incredulously to Vorges. She looks up distractedly from where she’s penning a report. No one else says a damn thing.

She sighs and crushes the deafening silence with words as heavy as a hammer to his ears. “You don’t get it yet, new guy. But we could teach you.”


Rumlow receives his lesson on his knees.

They take him to the training facility to do it in the conference room with its blaring fluorescent lights. Rumlow hadn’t tried to fight; a soldier always follows orders. And, honestly, he can't figure anything else to do. He can't leave Hydra; he can't just stop being himself. He desperately seeks direction. They seem willing to give it to him.

Vorges stands apart, feet planted firmly and arms crossed, at the front of the room, while Davis kicks the back of Rumlow’s legs. He can’t help the angry growl that escapes him; he hasn’t been so manhandled since he was a dumb rookie kid. He wonders how fast he can divert the gun now pressing itself to his temple. Pretty fast, but—

Rumlow strains his eyes without moving his head when the door opens again. The Russian enters, flanking a Suit like a particularly imposing shadow, a one-man bodyguard team. The Suit is—

“Sir,” Rumlow greets through teeth clenched and chewing on his humiliation.

Alexander Pierce smiles blithely and takes a seat just in front of where Vorges is standing. The unnamed man waits by his side until Pierce waves a disinterested hand. Only then does the soldier seat himself without ever fully relaxing.

“Good evening, Agent Rumlow.”

“Whose idea was it to muzzle that thing?” Rumlow asks insolently, jerking his head at the soldier, whose face has been covered with a black mask. In response, someone strikes him across the face hard enough that he tastes coppery wetness. He’s not sure who did it, as the team is mostly lined up behind him, but he’d like to know. He’d like to know upon whom he should spit the blood. “Just saying,” he continues with no small amount of snark, “It was a good call.”

Pierce simply chuckles as if humoring a nephew. “You like it?” He waves his hand at the soldier without really looking at him. “It’s very valuable, you know.”

“I can imagine.” He can: what must it cost for a weapon both flexible and devastating?

“Of course,” Pierce says, “you’re very valuable, too, Brock.”

Rumlow clamps down tightly on the sudden emotions making his stomach flip and face twitch.

Pierce leans back comfortably in his chair. “I’ve read your file. I’ve gotten reports from your superiors. I’ve seen footage of you in action, even. There’s a reason you were selected.”

Rumlow ducks his head and swallows just to clear his throat.

“You’ve come this far. And we certainly don’t want to lose you. You could be something greater, you know, you could be exactly what we need. We live in a chaotic world, and men like you could be strong enough to bring it to order.”

“Sir,” Rumlow says quietly. He tries not to let the full extent of his gratitude be heard, lest it be taken by the others as a sign of weakness.

“But you‘ve been faltering,” Pierce says, voice dropping ten degrees. He folds his hands together and sighs, the very image of a scholar figuring a puzzle. Rumlow doesn’t let himself consider any platitudes to offer. It’s Pierce’s decision what to do with him now. After a moment, Pierce asks, seemingly unrelated, “Were you afraid?”


Pierce gestures. Rumlow lets his eyes rove over to the unnamed soldier. The soldier had been glaring holes into the ground, but, sensing Rumlow’s gaze, he glances up, and his stare feels to Rumlow like a shock of cold water. Pierce looks between the two of them and then chuckles softly. The sound of the team behind him shuffling nervously is a bit of a shock; he’d almost forgotten they were there.

Then Pierce stands, straightening out his jacket casually. As smoothly as if he were reaching into his own pocket, his unholsters the gun from the soldier’s shoulder— a move which the soldier himself does not contest. Pierce ejects the magazine with a soft click and then, turning smoothly back to Rumlow, thumbs out a bullet that arcs and then drops with a small ping against the floor. It rolls to a stop to the left of Rumlow’s knee.

“Are you scared of that?” Pierce asks lowly. Rumlow says nothing; he thinks he understands. Indeed, after pausing for effect but not an answer, Pierce makes his point: “Because it’s the same thing. This is my weapon. It shoots where I say shoot.

“It was forged by the hands of many, and it is governed by the lesson you must now learn. That order comes from pain. Stand up, Rumlow.”

Rumlow stills his nervous fingers, keeping them from clenching into fists just yet. The gun pointed at his head disappears as the team backs away. Rumlow rises.

Pierce replaces the magazine. For a moment, Rumlow thinks Pierce really might shoot him— but it turns out worse than that. Pierce tucks the gun into his suit pocket without chambering a round and takes his seat back. Then he turns to the unnamed soldier and says, “Have at him, champ.”

Rumlow barely has time to brace himself as the soldier leaps up like he was on coiled springs and pounces. Rumlow can’t dodge him— he’s too fast —and neither can he block, for when he tries, the soldier asserts a strength akin to a machine. It isn’t unlike the time Rumlow was mauled by the neighbor’s dog when he was ten: it happens so fast and so savagely that one blow is the same as another until he can’t count how many times he’s been hit or discern from where he is bleeding. And though he manages a handful of vicious returns on his own, the soldier’s animal countenance keeps on fighting regardless, not conceding even the smallest of inches.

A kick to the chest sends Rumlow into the wall, and then the soldier comes crashing in on him. Rumlow wheezes under what could be broken ribs.

The soldier’s fist stops mid-swing.

It takes more than a few seconds for Rumlow’s head to stop swimming and for him to belatedly realize that Pierce had called for a cessation. He takes a few heavy gulps of air, tries not to pant in fear, and watches the soldier’s eyes.

“You see,” Pierce says, and then he stops, considers himself, and visibly fights a smug smile. “The one you should fear is the one with his finger on the trigger. Like so: Break his wrist.”

And the soldier grabs Rumlow’s hand and snaps it with the barest twitch of mechanical muscles. Rumlow screams inside of his own tight throat.

“And that’s good,” Pierce continues smoothly. “I’m the one causing you pain right now. I’m the one to fear. Brock, this is the basics of discipline. This one has been taught already, taught to perfection. He knows pain, and so he knows order. Order to this degree... Would you like to see?”

This time Pierce is addressing Vorges, who had, all this time, stood as still as a statue. She is unsmiling as ever, but Pierce’s grin only grows.

“How about the rest of you?” Pierce says to the team at large, sweeping his body grandly back and forth, voice raised and jovial. The team responds, partly anxious, partly enthralled, murmuring ascent.

Pierce takes hold of his weapon with the power of his voice and fires with this: “Have at him, dear.”

The unnamed man takes hold of Rumlow’s shirt, and Rumlow tries to mentally prepare for another beating. It isn’t quite what he expects, but the soldier is anything but gentle as he gets his foot under Rumlow’s legs and swings him down. They hit the ground, smacking Rumlow’s breath loose. It feels like fire.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there’s the sound of ripping, and Rumlow’s abused chest is cold. He lets out a light-headed, disbelieving laugh— “What are you about to show me, big guy?” —but really, by now he should be believing. There are a few small answering laughs in the crowd. They are not laughing with him.

The man’s flesh hand lands on the top of Rumlow’s throat more sweetly than Rumlow thought him capable. His fingers manage somehow to be colder than metal in this brief respite between destroying things. Rumlow hisses as those fingers slide with mechanical, practiced grace down the column of his neck, squeezing dangerously at the base. But it does not throttle him— it’s more like a warning— ‘do not move’.

Rumlow moves anyway. It’s simply in his instinct to fight back. And it’s in the Russian soldier’s design to quell struggle.

The mechanical hand closes around Rumlow’s broken wrist and pins it above their heads. Rumlow chokes on the pain but won’t stop just for that. The unnamed soldier takes the hard kneeing to his side with remarkable stoicism, but at length seems to grow frustrated with it, and punches Rumlow in the softer flesh of his inner thighs. From there he moves back to grab hold of Rumlow’s ankles and holds them aloft with ease until Rumlow’s hips and lower back leave the floor.

Rumlow tries to struggle, to twist his way out of the harsh grasp of those inhumanely tight hands, but the soldier counters his every move in efficient little bursts. His hands pop off Rumlow’s boots, scraping his ankles and swelling his toes. Then those hands clench into the fabric of his pants and begin to tug.

“Fuck off!” Rumlow forces out, rough and wild. He ignores the pain of his wrist and grapples with the unnamed man’s hands, but the soldier swats him aside as easily as one might do a child. The soldier deftly unbuckles Rumlow’s belt and wedges his hand in the waistband to tug trousers and underwear down in one fell swoop.

Rumlow feels his head and neck throbbing red-hot embarrassment in time with his pounding heart. Already there are spots on his arms and thighs and torso turning into raised bruises. He can only imagine what his bloody pulp of a face looks like now.

He gets what’s happening, even if he can’t— doesn’t want to —fathom how far it will go. And he’s ashamed, deeply humiliated: he should be stronger than this, strong enough to fight one other man; he shouldn’t feel ashamed that he’s been bared if it's against his will, and that he feels shame when he shouldn’t only leads to more of the same. He’s never felt so powerless since he joined the military at age 18 and they trained him to conquer. Now he is being conquered. That’s the point, he knows, as his eyes wildly cast around the room, taking in the satisfaction of Pierce, the quiet disapproval of his commander, Vorges, and the sickly amused laughter of his teammates.

“Fuck off!” Rumlow screams again. It isn’t really Pierce he’s angry at, but the rest of them— so shameless and bade and hungry—There’s a waterfall of fury roaring in his ears. “Fuck you all!” He lifts his hips, thrusting his dick limply into the light. “That what you wanna see, you freaks? Fuck—”

As he shouts himself hoarse, the unnamed soldier drags Rumlow’s trousers around his knees, and there tightens the belt again, cinching it until Rumlow knows the circulation to his feet is compromised. He tugs at the ends painfully a few times, checking just how far it needs to go, and then folds it back upon itself and through the metal loops, effectively tying the restraint. That done, Rumlow is flipped over like a sack of spuds, ass in the air. He flings out his arms to crawl away, but he’s dragged back into place roughly.

The soldier is on him, then, heavy with metal and muscle and thick layers of unshed leather, the straps and bits of which dig into Rumlow’s back uncomfortably. Rumlow is crushed beneath his might, pressure stealing breath from his damaged chest. He flails his uninjured arm backwards, thumping weakly at whatever bit of the man he can reach, but it does nothing. Then he shimmies his hips, trying to wrangle free of the belt, but all it does is rub his ass against the rough fabric of the other’s pants.

Rumlow squeezes his jaw tightly shut at that— it shouldn’t be any different from any other type of hold, he tries to convince himself; but it is. The soldier’s knees are planted on either side of his own, shins cupping shins, and the bowl of his hips curves around the swell of Rumlow’s ass. Something very feral about it all makes itself known. Rumlow notices how quickly he is breathing— can hardly notice anything but his own body now.

The unnamed soldier wraps his arms around Rumlow, strong and unforgiving as the restraints of a thrill ride. Rumlow’s arms are pinned to his side, his chest now under a constant state of distracting burning. Rumlow’s vision goes white for a moment with the pain of it, and when he comes back, he finds himself rocking back and forth from dry little animal humps, and there are two metal fingers shoved uncomfortably under his tongue.

The steel is not affected when he attempts to bite down; rather, the whole hand grips his face now, forcing open his jaw. He can’t gulp, he can’t suck up the saliva— as he is rocked, more is knocked loose, and it comes dribbling out of his mouth, over the metal fingers and down his chin. Rumlow lets out a wordless growl, and, startlingly, the soldier replies with one of his own. When he seems to be satisfied with the wetness of his digits, the soldier shoves Rumlow away, and Rumlow’s cheek hits the floor, resting in a puddle of his own making. He feels that hand trailing down, nudging his cheeks...

"Stop." Rumlow hates his own voice. It sounds weak. The metal hand does not comply, burrowing its way into his body, forcing him open. “Stop,” he demands quietly of the floor.

The soldier leans forward heavily, groin pressed against Rumlow’s side. His breathing sounds harsh through the facemask, but with his unoccupied hand, he reaches up to tip the mask off. The rush of air puffing against Rumlow’s hot face is not entirely unpleasant. The flesh hand comes back down to pin Rumlow’s arm again.

The unnamed soldier whispers to him. It’s English. “Shush. Be good.”

His hair stings at one of Rumlow’s cuts. He’s much too close— face pressed to Rumlow’s face—

He brushes his red lips behind Rumlow’s ear, so slightly, so very delicately.


Rumlow chokes back an undignified sob and violently turns his face away. He presses his forehead to the ground as if that will distract him from the sensation below. It takes its spotlight over Rumlow’s pain for its sheer novelty. The fingers are writhing, stroking inside of him. He knows he isn’t split, but it stings like a papercut at his entrance. That minor pain melts quickly, overshadowed by the probing deeper inside.

He only realizes he should have expected it after it comes: like a bolt of electricity straight from those fingers to the tip of his dick— The soldier curls his fingers downwards, towards the front of Rumlow, and finds his prostate. It’s almost too sensitive. Rumlow squirms.

The rustling of the team becomes more noticeable as Rumlow’s breathing changes. It’s thicker, headier; the crowd takes tiny steps forward, interested. Rumlow glares through the many pairs of circling legs; Pierce, the absolute bastard, is barely paying attention. He glances up every now and then but otherwise is steadily typing something into his PDA, relaxed in his chair with his ankle crossed over his knee.

Rumlow’s body clenches and unclenches involuntarily. Whenever it clenches, the fingers spread apart as if punishing that action, and whenever it relaxes, the fingers stroke like a reward, sending jolts of nauseating pleasure through him. The soldier begins to pull his fingers out— the open spaces begin to collapse, and the muscles cling tight, trying to still the intrusion— the stretch is maddening. But as Rumlow starts to think he’s going to get some relief as the soldier is going to pull out, a third, dry finger sets against his anus, and all three are shoved back inside. It burns.

The third finger is ice cold, making Rumlow realize that the metal must have adjusted to the heat inside of his body. Rumlow can’t stop the tiny panting whines that puff out of his nose when those hard fingers start to pump in and out.

Rumlow lifts his unpinned arm, the one with the broken wrist, and slaps ineffectually at the metal. He gives up and rests his fingers on it, savoring the pain as a distraction. The mechanical muscles twitch very minutely under his fingertips.

He wants to get away, far away... Or he wants at least to spread his legs... Reach for his dick and balls and rub away the uncomfortable pressure arising there... He feels himself giving up, losing tension...

It gets to the point where he’s certain he’s never been this open before, and yet his muscles aren’t trying to collapse so quickly. The soldier pulls his fingers out and leans back. Rumlow takes the opportunity to gulp fiery lungfuls of air. Is it over?

Someone says something, something questioning that Rumlow doesn’t catch, and then someone else steps forward. He tenses up again, twisting his neck to see— What are they gonna do to him? It strains his muscles, but he can see Browning, that obnoxious bastard, leaning down.

Rumlow watches in sick fascination as Browning undoes the front of the unnamed soldier’s pants and lifts out his flaccid dick. The soldier does not protest, but looks up at Browning with that same empty consideration he once spared for Rumlow. Just waiting for input, Rumlow realizes, like any machine. And the input Browning gives is a handful of sloppy lube— retrieved from God fucking knows where —and strong pumps of his cock.

“Well, you’re just so fucking prepared, huh?” Rumlow spits. “You guys do this regular? You been waiting? Haze the new guy. I get it. You sick fucks, you shitheads, you—” He dissolves into angry jibes, toxic insults, slurs that would get an office worker in trouble with HR, all of which they shake off with their usual nonchalance.

“You’ve got a mouth on you, Rumlow.”

“I’m glad he’s spunky, though.”

“Tough guy.”

“Calls us what you want, you’re the one about to take it six ways till Sunday—”

“Shut the fuck up—” Rumlow starts, but now the unnamed one traps him around his waist, securing him with a steel bar across his lap. He’s hitched up to his knees, and the soldier, erect and ready, takes his place. The soldier lets Browning rub wet circles into Rumlow’s twitchy flesh, then slides home as soon as Browning backs off.

Rumlow can’t breathe. His mouth stretches open to allow a scream, but the noise stops in his throat, an ember without enough oxygen to be a flame. Someone laughs again— “Look at that face” —but more importantly—

It’s so much worse than thin, flexible fingers— thick and hot and unyielding, an intrusion. The soldier curls up around him, pressing deeper, bringing his face next to Rumlow’s. The curtain of his lengthy bangs must hide his mouth. “Shh.” The tiniest sprinkle of kisses along the corner of Rumlow’s mouth. His flesh hand comes up to pet the back of Rumlow’s neck— and then it tightens, and the soldier uses his leverage to force Rumlow down further, push his ass up higher—

And then he really gets to work.

“F-f-fuck,” Rumlow mutters entirely against his will, stuttering along with the pace of his leaping heart.

The soldier is as controlled and graceful here as he is in all physical endeavors. He rolls his hips smoothly, never jerking or faltering, never tiring. The fucking is as steady as a piston machine. Rumlow can only ride along and thank mercy that in this, at least, the soldier is not savage. It is not gentle by any means, but the soldier is determined to drill into that spot, that spot that makes the whole thing bearable.

Almost more than bearable... and with that thought, Rumlow flushes deep, ruddy red anew. He tries to breath in through his nose, out through his mouth to keep his head cool, but that shaves the edge off the pain, and then...

Rumlow moans— quietly, breathily...

The crowd simmers down for a moment, then ramps back up even louder. “What a freak!”

The absolute murderous rage that assaults Rumlow then makes him forget about the pleasure for a moment— but only a moment. The soldier lifts himself up higher and then doubles down on Rumlow, stroking more deeply, more thoroughly against that area. “Shh,” the soldier whispers, so quiet it might’ve only been in Rumlow’s head. Sick fuck. Hurry and be done!

With every surge of his hips, like a wave rolling against the shore, Rumlow follows. He braces himself with his arms. The wrist throbs, his heart throbs, his ass throbs, and now his dick throbs— all in time, all with the smooth workings of the machine of a man fucking him soundly into the floor.

The pressure is going to drive him insane. He can’t think straight; he can barely keep his eyes open. He has to get some relief—

“Please,” he hisses.

The soldier somehow catches his meaning. Perhaps he’s simply as practiced in humiliating rape as he is in brutal murder. The flesh hand leaves Rumlow’s neck and reaches underneath to wrap around his cock. He’s barely aroused, really, but his dick is as solid as its ever been, and it pushes through the soldier’s fist aided by the slick of his own precum and the rhythm of the soldier’s thrusting.

He tries to hold back the noises, but he can’t: they push out of him with every deep thrust, every breath knocked out of him, until he’s grunting and groaning, low and stuttering. He screws his eyes tightly shut to miss the stupid bastards rubbing themselves all around him.

The force of his ejaculation is intense. Rumlow drops his jaw and lets it come, pumping over the soldier’s fist, his world going mindless for just a few moments.

He pants against the white floor. The soldier has immediately arrested his hips.

“He came,” the soldier croaks out loud. Rumlow stews over the definition in his head. It wasn’t much of an orgasm, but the pool of his own semen drying on his belly right now would argue its own point.

“Good,” Pierce acknowledges without raising his voice. “Pull out now.”

And the soldier does, withdrawing from Rumlow’s spent body, still fully erect. But even as Rumlow tiredly watches over his shoulder, that red, swollen hard on flags, as if it’s only purpose was to rape Rumlow. Did the soldier garner any pleasure from that at all?

The man wipes his equipment roughly with the shredded remnants of Rumlow’s shirt and then tucks himself in. The mask is picked up and lovingly replaced, as if he prefers to wear it. Without further ado, he returns to Pierce’s side— Pierce, who stands, and puts away his PDA, and acknowledges the soldier with a smile that Rumlow might have read as warm if he didn’t just learn better. Pierce says condescendingly, “Did you have fun?”

The soldier does not answer.

“Sorry, there, Brock,” Pierce addresses him insincerely. “It didn’t have to go on that long except that I got a little sidetracked.” He pats the pocket where he’d placed that PDA.

Rumlow almost laughs. His body is shaking but he keeps his eyes on Pierce.

“But you get the point, I suppose. You don’t have to be afraid of him.” He tilts his head briefly at the unnamed man. “I could tell him to kill you right now...”

Rumlow swallows loudly. Pierce notices.

“...but I won’t,” he continues. “I hope you’re understanding all of this. He is the perfect soldier. Not a summertime soldier, as the saying goes, but the Winter Soldier. And he exists to be used for the ideal, the cause.

“As will you, Brock.”

“Sir?” Rumlow asks after some hesitation.

Pierce takes a deep breath and looks around the room at the attentive faces.

“Well,” he says. “I’ll let the lesson sink in a little more, I suppose. Go ahead, boys.”

Rumlow opens his mouth in shock, to protest. Pleased grins or expectant consideration light up his comrades’ faces. Before Rumlow can even begin to struggle away, Browning and Mathers are already kneeling, getting their hands on him, turning him over.

“I’ve showed you that I own him,” Pierce says. “This time, understand that... since you decided to be here, and all— since you chose Hydra— ...I own you, now, too.”

Pierce nods to Vorges, and she steps in line with him. Then he raises a hand to the Winter Soldier, gives the man back his gun, and whispers instructions. Pierce leaves with a grim Vorges, shedding his menacing shadow.

The last thing he calls over his shoulder is, “I’ll be expecting you in my office at oh nine hundred tomorrow.”

“The attack dog made sweet love to you,” Browning starts as soon as the door clicks shut. “Ready for real pain?”

Now Browning— that’s a man that Rumlow can clock.

Rumlow puts all his frustration into a headbutt that crashes squarely into Browning’s ugly nose. The bastard yelps and stumbles back, bleeding most satisfactory after Rumlow had to deal with the Winter Soldier.

“You little shit—”

“Hah!” Rumlow spits, already dragging himself back on one arm, the other reaching for the belt killing his legs—

Both his hands are yanked back. He yowls and his head, unsupported, smacks against the floor. Dazedly he looks up into the muzzle of the Winter Soldier. The fight drains out of him; he’s not gonna escape this one.

Browning surges forward again, shoving Mathers out of the way. He’s grinning, blood on his teeth. “You’re mine.”

Rumlow’s legs scream at him as they’re lifted high into the air. Browning pushes his knees to his chest, reveling in the pained contortion of Rumlow’s face. Bare toes brush against the unnamed soldier’s hair. The position is positively crushing Rumlow’s balls.

Dick in hand and already hard enough to work with, Browning pants out, “This lube is shit,” and he forces himself inside— and Rumlow screams at the poor entrance.

He hates it, but it must be true— the Winter Soldier was being sweet. This, on the other hand, is worse than the pain of his wrist by far. Browning’s dick is like iron scraping out his insides as he humps Rumlow artlessly.

“Don’t worry fellas,” Browning says with a lick of his lips, “I’ll slick him up for you more delicate types.”

Rumlow thrashes his head, uncaring of the guttural grunts leaving his mouth. His whole body is burning. He must not let them see his face; the pressure of it all is bringing tears to his eyes. Browning strains above him, hideously male and red with his vein throbbing in his neck.

The contrast between an ordinary man and this so-called Winter Soldier— Rumlow sees just how stark it is. There’s a world of difference in strength, in beauty, grace, control. Browning is not loud, but neither is he quiet; Rumlow looks up into the face of the unnamed soldier and feels, disgustingly, grateful. He only feels it for a fleeting moment, though, in the space between Browning drawing out his dick and then slamming back in, the sound sloppy and nauseating. Then his mind clouds again with hate and pain and a disgust for his weak position, and he’d like nothing better than to get the unnamed soldier, and Browning and Mathers and Davis and Frederick and the rest, damn them all, on their backs, with their legs in the air, and show them in kind.

Browning smacks his ass like a cheap whore, makes his last plunges, and then comes with a wet groan. Rumlow had been hoping he wouldn’t feel the cum, but he does.

“Hey, nice ass, Rumlow,” Browning says with his nasally laugh. He pulls his dick from Rumlow’s innards with a dull, wet pop.

“Must’ve been,” Rumlow manages around rough panting. “Or you’re just a quick shot.”

Browning flushes angrily while the others laugh appreciatively. Rumlow focuses on regaining control of his own breathing, but he’s much too aware of the wetness spilling out of his stretched anus and the awful far-away soreness inside of him. It won’t be so far away tomorrow, or even a few hours from now. Maybe sooner. He’s never been sodomized before, what does he know.

Mathers is taking Browning’s place, now. He smiles crookedly and undoes the belt around Rumlow’s knees, to which Rumlow nearly bites through his tongue trying not to shout.

“Shh.” That damned whisper...

“There, there,” Mathers says with good humor. “Don’t kick me, alright?”

Rumlow can’t, though he wants. Mathers slides off the trousers carefully and throws them aside, in the direction of the boots shed earlier. Rumlow’s shaking, discolored legs fall open. There’s more than just Mathers’ and the soldier’s hands on him, though; Cook is helping to rub feeling back into Rumlow’s lower half. Rumlow almost summons a kind thought about Cook, but then the son-of-a-bitch runs his hands up to cup Rumlow’s junk.

Squirming, Rumlow spits out a few more epithets. “So that girl I saw you got a picture of in your locker— beard, huh? You should really think about coming out, it‘s a new millennia—”

Cook strikes him hard across the face. Rumlow only laughs: that’s nothing compared to what the Winter Soldier did to him earlier.

“No hard feelings, man,” Mathers says. He shrugs at Rumlow’s hard stare. “Just doing what the boss wants, right?”

Rumlow huffs. “And here I thought it was because I’m pretty.”

Mathers grins the same way he grinned back when they first met, gearing up for that mission that seems so close, seems like it never really ended. Mathers had liked Rumlow’s joke about first-timing it.

Mathers lubes up and shucks out of his pants. He settles between Rumlow’s spread legs and sidles up so close that, when he bends his head, his hair tangles with the Winter Soldier’s.

(“Shh.”) Rumlow ignores it. Mathers spares a quick, nervous glance.

Rumlow gets the bright idea to bear down when he enters. It’s difficult to maintain— his body just wants to clench and he has to actively fight —but when he gets it, it makes a world of difference. Heavy breaths in through the nose. Heavy breaths out of the mouth. Push down. He relaxes his arms under the Winter Soldier’s grip, but the man does not let up.

“There you go,” Mather says around a pleasured sigh. “You’re starting to get it.” Rumlow clicks his tongue at Mathers; he’s made his body clench up all over again.

Mathers doesn’t look so bad thrusting above him. He breathes well; Rumlow finds himself breathing just barely out of sync. The flapping hands of a few masturbating men throws him off, but Mathers is level-headed. He sighs rather than grunts and works smoothly so that he doesn’t crash his head into the Winter Soldier’s. In fact he gives the soldier a shaky little smile; the soldier is probably not smiling back, but who can tell when he’s muzzled like that.

Mathers is just starting to falter and moan when Rumlow gets feeling back in his legs. Rumlow lifts them, kicks a little, but all the purpose that serves is to make the penetration painful again. That, and the skin-on-skin friction is new and especially repulsive; Mathers’ legs are nothing like the smoothness of a woman. When he starts to twist instead, Mathers plants his hands firmly on either side of Rumlow’s hips, trapping him. Rumlow lets out a frustrated sigh that sounds embarrassingly close to pleasure.

This is going to take forever, he begins to think idly. He wants to fight, but how can he? And— he goes so far to consider— why? It’s not like they’re going to kill him. He can survive this. Pierce wants to see him tomorrow. They said they wanted to teach him—

Mathers begins to thrust wildly— Rumlow hisses— this isn’t ever going to not hurt— and then Mathers throws his head back and soundlessly ceases. At least the face he makes when he comes isn’t as hideous as Browning’s. He rubs Rumlow’s legs absently for a moment before drawing out.

His dick is streaked white. Rumlow grits his teeth, knowing it isn’t just his own come. Mathers says, “Batter up.”

Cook is next, and his style is more of Browning’s speed. He chooses to straddle Rumlow’s aching chest and jerk off. Rumlow’s never wanted to see a dick so close.

“Damn you! Not on the face!” Rumlow growls.

Cook’s smirk is nowhere near as mock-pleasant as Mathers’ or Pierce’s had been. “On the face,” he confirms.

Rumlow thrashes his head again, refusing to give Cook a clean shot, but Cook grabs his face like the unnamed soldier had earlier, rough fingers digging into bruises and a split lip. Once he settles down, Cook enjoys slapping him a few times; Rumlow viciously enjoys trying to bite him, and snarls triumphantly when he catches Cook’s thumb once, to which the man howls. For that, the slaps come harder, quicker.

His big fist works furiously— has he been aroused and waiting all this time? Should Rumlow be flattered? —sounds wet from lube— when are they going to run out of it? There’s still five more to go after Cook. Rumlow’s stomach flips and his limbs shake minutely. Another slap across the cheek.

“You treat your girl like this?” Rumlow spits. Slap.

It’s getting claustrophobic with three more men kneeling close. He can’t see with Cook’s red, heavy cock in his face, but he can feel the hands on him again, violating him in new ways. A thick, calloused hand pumping his soft dick, trying to get it up again. A different hand teasing the rim of his spasming anus. Yet a different set of fingers pushing past the teasing set and plunging inside. Those clever, long fingers— who has long fingers? He can’t remember— crook just right, stroke Rumlow’s prostate again. But as they hook, they push out little globs of semen; Rumlow feels it dripping thickly down his skin.

Cook licks his lips, twisting his head to see the action and enjoying it. Soon he follows suit, alternating his free hand between slapping Rumlow’s face and pinching his nipples. Rumlow purses his lips and holds down his unwilling noises until he feels his head go hot.

Rumlow can’t close his legs; there’s a body between them. He can’t twist away; there’s a body on top of him. There are men on either side, and then there’s the damn Winter Soldier above his head, still holding him by the arms, seemingly unaffected. Rumlow feels his entire body aching and tight and straining and stressed— and now his cock is stirring against all odds. It’s painful.

In shame, Rumlow tries to look anywhere but at the team— but if it isn’t Cook and his cock, then he’s seeing the flanks of either man on the side, and if it isn’t them, he’s looking up into that dead expression of the unnamed one.

Rumlow choses to squeeze his eyes as tightly shut as his mouth. Slap. His face hardly moves with them anymore.

The drawback to closing his eyes is that he can hear so much better. He didn’t realize it before, but people are chattering in the background: Browning, noticeable for his distinctly irritating voice, and some others, possibly the other two not yet involved. He doesn’t know what they’re saying beyond deducing from the tone that it’s something filthy. He doesn’t hear Mathers, but he might be faintly smelling tobacco. He hears the slick plunging sound of the fingers dipping into his asshole. He can hear, too, the thick panting of four of the five on him, and— (“Shh.”) —the fleshy twist of Cook’s fist.

And he can hear himself, whining just below the layer of noise, panting and groaning and grunting internally. Like an animal. Like a slut.

“Hold still,” Cook grunts quietly, trying to keep control over a voice wavering with the strength of impending orgasm.

Slap. Then that stinging hand cups his jaw strongly, squeezing— trying, like the Winter Soldier before him, to pry open Rumlow’s mouth. And he succeeds.

Cook is a man of few words until he’s blowing his load on Rumlow’s face. He calls Rumlow things that Rumlow himself likes to call the girls he meets for hookups. He’d always found the crassness to be sexy, to be primal and powerful. Rumlow knows exactly how good it feels to have your cum mark their face, to have them beneath you and open. Cook must be feeling that power now at the expense of Rumlow's weakness.

The worst bit is that it gets in his mouth, just like Cook wanted. He works his tongue madly to spit the foul taste back out, cum and drool sliding down his cheek, but he can’t help but reflexively swallow some small amount. He feels it on his forehead, too, and is afraid to open his eyes. Cook groans at last, finished, and wipes his dick on Rumlow’s chest. When Cook lets go and his weight has lifted, Rumlow turns his head to try to wipe the rapidly cooling streaks off on his shoulder.

He's cold. He's tired. He's in awful pain. The hands around his wrists have faded into a background numbness. Somewhere above him, there's a conversation happening about who gets to rape him next and how. He can't summon the energy to close his legs. And somehow he's sporting a semi— he could almost laugh.

Okay, as he thinks about it more, he can laugh. Lowly, bitterly. No one acknowledges it, and so he feels safe to carefully peel open his eyelids.

The Winter Soldier stares back down. Rumlow senses he's about to make noise again—

"If you hush me one more goddamn time," Rumlow growls with all the violence in his heart. It's not much of a threat, but he feels it deeply. He can even work up enough strength to spit onto that hateful muzzle, and the saliva is thicker than usual, whiter than usual. A deep crease appears between the soldier's brows and his eyes flicker with light in a way Rumlow hadn't seen from him before. He almost seems confused. Did he perhaps not realize...?

The soldier retracts his grip at last, leaning back and shuffling away, but Rumlow's flesh feels the ghost of his strength still. His wrists feel like they weigh a ton, and he doesn't move them. He just lies there, waiting.

Frederick does not leave him alone for long, having apparently won the little argument. He announces his presence by giving Rumlow's waning erection a little slap. A startled shout answers. Before he can cross his legs from the pain, however, Frederick dives between them, covering Rumlow's body with his own, and Rumlow's legs close around the man's waist in a terrible mock of a lover pulling one closer.

A very strong wave of revulsion curdles Rumlow's stomach. Frederick is buck-ass naked, and the feeling of a man's body against his own... Frederick is all hard muscles to mirror Rumlow's; wiry hair scratching his pecs, his stomach, his pelvis; dick pressed to pained dick— and then that ugly hairy mug is burying itself in Rumlow's neck, pressing wet licks up his throat.

"Enjoying yourself?" Frederick asks, hand slipping between them to squeeze Rumlow's cock too tightly. "Sorry to leave you waiting." And then he laughs, derisive and loud, making Rumlow's temples throb. Rumlow bites his tongue and lets his gaze drift elsewhere— just lets the sick fuck do what he wants to Rumlow's exposed neck. Frederick sucks bruises into his collarbones, along his veins, upwards, behind his ear. Down again, all the way down, to suck on sensitive nipples. He seems to have an insatiable need to wag his stupid fucking tongue.

Frederick grinds down on him, engorged cock dragging itself along Rumlow's own, to which Rumlow can’t help but to groan. Long fingers— those fingers! —reach up to trail along Rumlow's biceps, tickling his armpits, almost soothing when they take off higher, softly alighting to cup Rumlow's sore wrists. Rumlow can't help but to start squirming, but that presses his dick more firmly up into Frederick's skin.

"That's right," says a different voice. It's Davis, who looks down on the both of them with a controlled sort of amusement. "You ain't gotta fight. Just take what we give you. Control yourself and it won't hurt so much—"

"Fuck you," Rumlow says, pure reflex carried on a sigh.

"You're doing well, though—"

"Please," Rumlow says. It's a mindless accident. He clicks his tongue at himself.

Frederick chuckles his response. "You got it, babe. Turn over."

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, 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 of Frederick's small thrusts 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. If the bastard pushes, Rumlow's liable to bite.

“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.”

Rumlow darts his eyes, considering his options. The figures that had been shifting casually at the edge of his vision still themselves, awaiting Rumlow’s decision. Frederick’s hand rubs little circles into his shoulder and his hips follow suit. Even Davis backs off an inch to give Rumlow the space of his choice.

Hydra is not something you just quit. He knew that coming in. What Pierce said, and what Davis is saying now— Rumlow chose to be here. He fought tooth and nail, followed all the right orders, showed himself true, won the trust of the right people. Now Pierce is the man with the grand plan, and this— this torture, or rather, this lesson —is what Pierce wants for him.

He can fight, and they will give him pain. He can fight until the end— what is the end? More and more of this, until his body gives out? Until he’s broken and— an involuntary shudder runs through him —impotent and unimportant and unneeded and useless. A worthless thing in possession of too much valuable privilege. He would not live long. He would not even want to, he thinks.

Or he can… submit.

Submit to the ideas of those higher than him. Fall in line in the march to Hydra’s future. And he thought he’d already committed himself to that ideal, but he’d been found to scare off too easily. A new type of shame sneaks a tendril around his brain: shame at being so weak that this ordeal was necessary. They’ve shown him how limited his options really are; it was the very disciplined approach that initially drew Rumlow to Hydra: you conform, or you die. There’s no room for half-heartedness. No room for chaos.

Rumlow looks up into the face of Davis, the man coaxing him into safety, and slowly opens his mouth.

A grin dances on Davis’ lips. “Good. Good boy.”

Rumlow wets his lips with a dart of his tongue. Davis leans his hips in, catching his dick on that tongue. After some final hesitation, Rumlow gets the idea and gets to work.

He flicks out his tongue to lave Davis’ cock root to tip as Davis angles himself for the inert Rumlow. It smells, tastes different from a woman, but not altogether dissimilar. He can at least breathe through his nose, except the fist compressing his airways is making things difficult. With some encouragement— “There you go, that’s it, take it” —he closes his mouth around the head. It’s unwelcome and unwieldy in his mouth. Not that he had any questions about himself before this experience, but now…

Davis is soon erect and impressively so, and Rumlow needs to open his jaw wider, but the Winter Soldier doesn’t ease the way at all and Rumlow cannot move to get a better angle. Behind him, Frederick seems to be enjoying the view, as he does not try to mask his open-mouthed moaning. “Oh, yeah…”

Rumlow works his lips until Davis pops out. “Go faster!” he hisses at Frederick.

He meant, Be done! but the rest exchange hearty laughter. Frederick asks, “Like this, baby?” and pumps his hips in briskly. Rumlow gasps in sync.

Davis exchanges some sort of nonverbal communication with the unnamed soldier, and their hand positions change. Davis fists his hand in what little hair Rumlow has; the unnamed soldier juggles Rumlow's body between his two arms, ungentle with the way he shifts the wrists and knocks into the chest; in short order, Rumlow's throat is free and he can breathe and move, and the unnamed one is holding him up by the shoulders with his steel arm. How effortlessly the soldier supports Rumlow's entire body...

Davis steps forward again and simply waits. With a sigh, Rumlow works up a mouthful of spit and takes him in again. Davis chuckles a little breathily.

"Good, that's good. This your first time sucking cock? You're doing fine, you know how, you know what a guy likes. Come on, move a little, take a little more, that's it..."

He uses his grip on Rumlow's hair to lightly nudge his head forward. An involuntary noise of distress arises from Rumlow when the cock seems to go too far, but Davis puts his other hand on the back of Rumlow's neck. He strokes the short bristle of Rumlow's crew cut soothingly, but that doesn't disguise that he won't let Rumlow back.

"Just breathe. You've hardly got any of it in. I won't choke you. Breathe."

It's hard to breathe when he's on fire. There's no hint of pleasure anymore; Rumlow's insides burn and itch and twitch with no reprieve. Not the hand on his neck or Frederick's roaming hands, as they are petting down his flanks and dipping between his thighs to massage his limp genitals, can soothe him. When he tries to breathe out, a sob of pain vibrates his nose, high and whiny. They misinterpret it and it drives them hotter; or maybe they didn't misinterpret at all.

"You look good, Rumlow," Davis groans. "Good look on you, debauched."

Raped, a small, angry voice corrects in the back of Rumlow's mind. At least call it what it is. The louder voice inside of him convinces him to ignore the comments; just get your work done and move on.

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. Rumlow rocks between the two, spitroasted, slurping down Davis, meeting Weaver with a wet slap. When did his body start moving on its own? When did his dick get hard again?

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: the angry roll of his hips only serves to work himself pleasurably along 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, and the oxygen pumps his blood and takes him higher than the worst of his pain.

"What was that?" Davis asks. "I didn't quite catch that. And make sure you’re properly respectful."

Rumlow says reluctantly, "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. Head clouded and nerves singing, he comes weakly, semen dripping thinly to the floor. 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."

Porter stomps ahead of him, pulls out a chair, and sits with his legs spread wide. He rubs crudely at the bulge in his pants.

"Then get to work."

Rumlow hesitates. It's going to take a minute to stand up and walk over there—

Stone slaps him hard on the ass. Ignoring Rumlow's hiss, he orders, "Get over there! We don't have all damn day." And then when Rumlow sits perfectly still, hating him and entertaining revenge fantasies, he grabs hold of Rumlow's hair and starts dragging him towards Porter.

Rumlow doesn't even try to raise his hands to bat at Stone. He shuffles along on his knees, neck bent, but when he reaches Porter, Stone does not let go. Porter doesn't smile with his teeth; his power is all in his eyes, hard and domineering. He says, "Ask me for it."

"What?" Rumlow squeezes out between clenched teeth.

"Don't get shy now. You sucked Davis like a good little whore. Ask me for the privilege of sucking my cock."

Rumlow wants to tell Porter, in varied and explicit ways, what absolute human garbage he is. But then his more practical voice comes back: Get it over with. Move on. So he licks his lips and asks with a voice like sharp gravel, "Please let me suck your cock."

“Address me with respect, newbie.”

“...please let me suck your cock— sir.”

"Good job," Porter says. He opens his zipper and shoves his pants down around one ankle. Then he settles back, hand steadying his erection. "Make it worthwhile, I've been waiting."

Stone lets Rumlow free, then, moving around to take his wrists and pin them in a firm grip behind his back. It's actually helpful to have them secured rather than swinging. Rumlow doesn't fight the hold or even care to, just gets to work as fast as he can.

This time there's no one forcing his pace and so he feels at a slight loss as to how to get going. It's a deceptively simple task; it had always looked easy when he was watching from above. As he takes the cock in and lathers it with saliva, Porter immediately shows his approval with a stream of soft groaning. Rumlow’s faltering pace eventually falls into an acceptable rhythm.

He pulls off more than once to spit on it or to lick his own lips, to get a breath or to rest his jaw. No one stops him. He's free to bob his head as he sucks, and Porter doesn't try to fuck his mouth. As long as he doesn't fight them, as long as he plays by their rules, they let him move freely.

He’s only vaguely aware of the way he must look, giving himself easily like this, sucking another man’s dick just because he was told. Like a whore, probably. There must be worse things, though— there are. Coward is one of them.

Porter whispers his encouragements— "Just like that" —over the slurp of Rumlow's messy technique. Rumlow feels a slight tug at his anus; Stone might be fingering him, but he doesn't even notice anymore. Towards what he later realizes is Porter's end, Porter lifts himself up and exposes his balls. Rumlow doesn’t need to be told; he even sort of appreciates kissing them as a break from having his mouth stretched wide.

Determined to push Rumlow to his limits, however, Porter guides him downwards. Rumlow chews on the inside of his cheek in stomach-roiling disgust, but eventually sticks his tongue out to lick at Porter’s anus. Satisfied by his easy capitulation, Porter doesn't hold him there long but allows him to resume sucking cock.

When Porter's thick length jerks in his mouth, he is held to take the load. “Swallow.” He does, making a face like he’s taking medicine.

“Well?” Porter prompts.

Rumlow breathlessly responds, “Thank you, sir”, to which Porter smirks, tucks himself back in, and vacates the chair.

Stone helps Rumlow lean back and brushes his face with his knuckles, uncaring for the filth as his hands are already dirtied. His voice in Rumlow’s ear vibrates low like quiet thunder. “All worn out, Rumlow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You done fighting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gonna do what you’re told from now on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Stone says. “Prove it. Last one.”

He helps Rumlow to his feet by letting Rumlow lean heavily on one thick arm, never letting go of Rumlow’s wrists; at this point, such is kindness. They shuffle around each other, Rumlow swaying, until Stone can take the chair Porter had just vacated. Rumlow spaces out a little; it feels like a dream when he’s gently guided moments later to sit on Stone’s dick. The finished men gather closer, the occasional hand darting out— not hurting him, not anymore, but steadying or bracing.

“Bounce on it, Rumlow.”

Rumlow flexes his thighs, already feeling like he’s run for miles and miles. He’s too tired to keep his eyes open, and so he closes them; he’s too tired to keep his mouth shut, and so he wheezes and moans with his exertion. Hands close around him without squeezing, helping him rock. Stone’s free hand settles broadly on his hip.

At the point when Stone begins to drive upwards, Rumlow’s eyes open sluggishly. His comrades nod curtly or smile briefly, approving, but mostly they are straight-faced soldiers. Davis mutters soft appreciation. Frederick strokes his arm. Cook stares hard into his eyes. Mathers doesn’t really look at him at all.

Rumlow looks around. The Winter Soldier is gone. Since when? Oh well. He supposes they didn’t need him anymore. He was there to enforce; mission completed.

Stone finds his completion with a thunderclap cry. Rumlow is pushed back into his chest by many, and Stone’s thick arm winds around to his front; exhausted, Rumlow thoughtlessly leans back into him.

“That was wonderful. You’re all done, Rumlow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re strong. Are you still with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Stone says. Maybe he meant something more than just being conscious. The answer is still yes.

He continues, “Because you don’t have to hesitate.” He whispers it to Rumlow, so close to his ear, in a tone something like intimacy. “There’s only two options. You’re either with us, no matter what, or you oppose us. You wanted to be part of Hydra. You accepted our vision. One day the world will be brought in hand, just like you’ve been today. Right?”

Stone feels like a balm after lashings. He pets Rumlow’s chest, his stomach, his dick, and Rumlow nods weakly to his purring. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

“You’ve given up your freedom willingly.”

“Yes, sir.” He’d given it up a long time ago, to lesser extents, to the military and to Shield. It’s easiest to give in to Hydra now. Out from his pain they give him a great clarity, an order to his churning thoughts, his churlish temper. The swirling, incomprehensible pain of the world resolves itself into black and white.

“Hail hydra,” Stone growls in his ear.

“Hail hydra!” Rumlow responds.

“Hail hydra,” repeat all gathered.


The night in medical is long. Rumlow is questioned, but not about his injuries. He gladly answers, “Hail Hydra!”

They put him to sleep, but he wakes sometime in the small morning to ponder. His pain is underneath a blanket of drugs; he takes up the button hanging at his bedside and pumps as much more as the machine will give him.

He thinks in hazy, loose turns. He’s going to go back to the team eventually. He’s okay; he’s brave; and if they don’t respect him yet, well, he’ll get back at them… somehow. Can’t plan properly right now.

He thinks about Pierce. It’s only a few hours until he’s supposed to get out of this bed and out of this dressing gown and go see Pierce. He’s not sure if he’ll be good to walk by then, but he’ll do it anyway.

Pierce had said there was a reason Rumlow was selected for Strike, and then he had ordered Rumlow’s rape. Said he didn’t want to lose Rumlow, and then tossed Rumlow to the wolves.

Rumlow is a soldier. He understands what tests look like.

He wakes again without being aware he had fallen asleep. Browning’s face resolves in front of him out of the morning brightness.

“You dumb shit, you gonna let yourself be late for Pierce?”

“Fuck no,” Rumlow says, mostly to himself.

Browning gives him that shit-eating grin. Rumlow seems to remember it once being bloody. He liked it better that way.

“Right on, brother,” Browning says jovially, and he extends a hand. Rumlow watches his face for a moment before taking it.

In fast time, Browning has helped Rumlow into his uniform without any wandering hands or suggestive comments. He may, however, hide a smirk when Rumlow walks himself to the door and shows himself to waddle. Rumlow isn’t stopped by medical staff at all. Browning all but shoves Rumlow into his personal vehicle and speeds away from the training facility. Rumlow slumps in the seat, grimacing at the vibrating hum of the engine.

“Stiff upper lip,” Browning says once they arrive at the Triskelion. Rumlow rolls his eyes— as if he needed to be told by Browning, of all people! Browning seems to find it funny, though.

He escorts Rumlow to the elevators but no further. Rumlow takes the ride alone halfway up the building, leaning against the glass. At the fortieth floor, a group of suits board. They glance at Rumlow’s pulped face, then down to his uniform, and afterwards they ask no questions, not even with their eyes. Rumlow entertains a brief bout of angry paranoia.

At two past nine, Pierce is still standing in front of his office. Merciful.

“Glad you could make it, Brock.”


Pierce’s chairs are comfortable. Rumlow doesn’t want to leave them at the moment. Pierce doesn’t torture him any further, though, and lets him sit with his legs splayed wide. Pierce talks at length about his plans for Hydra and for Strike and about a project they hope to fulfill in the next ten years. He talks about where he eventually sees Rumlow.

“You’re strong,” he says, striking in its simplicity, warmed with an approving gaze he casts over the tops of his reading glasses. “Vorges is being turned over to a more administrative function; she’s lost her taste for the drudgery.”

Rumlow takes a moment to wonder what that will mean for her. He doesn’t actually think it’s anything good.

Pierce continues, “Stone will head Strike now, but I want you to replace him. Sooner rather than later.”

At the end of the meeting, chest glowing with a new pride, Rumlow stands gingerly to leave. Pierce stops him with a hand.

“One more thing, Brock,” he says. “It can wait until you’re more… rested—” Here he sends an amused glance up and down Rumlow’s body, the first overt acknowledgment of the damage he ordered yesterday. “—but I do have something I want you to take charge of almost immediately. I’ll introduce you in the proper way when the time is right. A certain asset needs a firm hand.”

“I understand, sir,” Rumlow says confidently.

Pierce half-turns away, smiling at some grim internal amusement. “I hope he wasn’t too gentle on you yesterday. After his long history of use, we’ve started applying him to ever more diverse tasks now that our goals are in sight. But as for this one— seems there might be a bug in the system. We’re trying to train it out of him.”

Rumlow clenches his jaw against an unbidden wave of rage. He thinks of those deadened blue eyes. He says, “I can help you with that.”

Pierce smiles broadly and nods.

“Good man.”