fifty-five.
Peter was silent as a hot plate of rice and sausage was sat on the table in front of him. He awaited Rumlow's permission to eat, and as soon as he had it, he dug into it. His body wasn't used to food this good. He'd been eating cold grits every day for at least a month, so this was a treat. Rumlow ate across from him in silence, just watching the boy.
Rumlow was finished before him, and as soon as he finished eating his plate was taken away from him. Rumlow pointed him to the bathroom door and says that the shower doesn't work so he'll have to take a bath. He didn't question it and stood.
Rumlow told him to go ahead and start the water, and the boy managed to do so with his hands still bound with the belt. Just as he was wondering how he'd get his gown off, the door behind him opened and closed and when he turned he was face-to-face with Crossbones... Well, face to chest anyways. He was told to turn around and he did.
He felt Rumlow's fingers undoing the ties on his gown before it was totally pulled away from his body and tossed to the floor, leaving him naked except for the underwear that were now too big for his thin frame... And then Rumlow pushed those down his legs and he was exposed to the bad guy and his hands were still bound.
Rumlow seemed uninterested and told Peter to get into the water. Peter made the mistake of asking if he would be unbound so he could bathe and Rumlow backhanded him like he was the stupidest motherfucker on Earth. He apologized for asking before getting into the hot bath water, hands still together in front of him.
Rumlow was interested in this boy before him. Not because he gave a damn about the kid, but because he'd been under Captain America's wings for so long he turned goody-two-shoes. Well, he wanted to see the Captain suffer, and what better way to accomplish that than to torture the boy he claimed as his own?
He was interested in him for another reason, again, not because he cared, but because there was a serious lack of females on base, and Peter happened to like dick. That, and he was given a new mission. Since Deadpool's DNA wasn't working, and Rumlow was now a successful experiment, then he would serve as the replacement.
It had been easy enough so far to trick the boy into trading himself for his own rewards that doing the rest should be easy.
Rumlow watched as the boy grabbed a bar of soap from the edge of the tub. With his clumsy self and the shakes, it wasn't hard for the boy to drop the soap right into his lap. He reached right into the boy's lap but totally bypassed the soap, instead just settling for wrapping his hand around the boy's dick. This was the only attention it'd had in months, so it was no surprise when it became erect in his hand.
Peter's cheeks flushed and he tried to shift away, asking him, 'What are you doing?'. He paid no mind to the boy trying to wiggle away from his touch. He was in a small tub, there was nowhere to go.
"Listen, Parker. If you shut up and let me touch you, you can have a third reward of my choosing. Maybe a warm bed? Shoes?"
The spiderling tried to scoot away again but was already backed up into a wall, and with Rumlow blocking the only way out of the tub, there was really nowhere to escape to. Rumlow reached out and grabbed onto the boy's greasy, shoulder-length hair and pulled, leaving a near blissed-out expression on Peter's face.
With a smirk, the man pulled again, only he didn't let up. He opted for pulling enough that Peter leaned back to lessen said pull, and he pulled until Peter's head was in the water. All the while, Rumlow was still stroking the boy as he whimpered and fought, thinking he'd be drowned otherwise.
Rumlow let the boy up when his hair was completely soaked through, but he didn't stop touching him, now reaching down past his balls to prod at the boy's puckered hole. The boy squirmed, but once his hair was pulled again he was momentarily compliant.
Rumlow pulled his hand away from the boy's ass, only to grab him around the waist and lift him from the tub. Peter wiggled in the man's grasp but earned a harsh slap on the ass. He decided to just hold still and take whatever was going to happen. If it would be his ticket out of here, it didn't really matter.
Rumlow tossed the small boy onto the small bed and stared back into Peter's wide eyes. How to break a soul? A mind? Start with the body of course, and the rest will follow. He leaned over the child before him, because that's what he was, a child, and smirked. He grabbed the boy's jaw and leaned in close.
"You're gonna be a good boy and let me have what I want, right Parker? And, you should think twice before saying no, because I have authorization to kill you if I have to."
Peter nodded as best as he could with the tight grip on his jaw. Rumlow used one hand to undo his pants again, letting them drop to his knees. He pushed Peter's knees up to his chest, and without a care for how much it may hurt Peter, began to push inside of him. Peter cried out at the pain and the burn of the stretch. Rumlow wasn't exactly small, and this was agony for Peter's fragile body.
The spy didn't care, Peter's pain just made him laugh. He promised that he was 'going to do what that 3rd degree motherfucker could never do'. Peter's pained cries got to be loud enough that Rumlow grabbed the closest thing he could use to shut the boy up. A pillow. He kept it over Peter's face while he sobbed. Peter knew there would be no point in calling for help- nobody would come. Nobody cared.
There would be no end to this until Rumlow decided it was supposed to be over. That time didn't come fast enough, and neither did Rumlow. This was one of those moments where Peter wished the man above him would put more pressure on the pillow and just end his fucking suffering.
The next morning, Peter was pulled from his cell once again and led back to the room with the tools. Again, he was told what to use and what to do with them and once again the imaginary man with the metal arm was there, suggesting different ways to kill Rumlow and escape... There were over 200 men down here, and God knows how many floors were really above him.
Even if he escaped Rumlow, there was no promise that he would make it all the way out. Not by himself. In order to escape here, he'd need the masked man they called Deadpool. Peter had been wondering what'd happened to the man since they'd seen one another last. He knew the man had tried to save him once. He desperately wished that he'd let him break them out.
He glanced to the man with the arm, who reminded him that the man couldn't die. He'd make a poor shield, the bullets they had would go through him easily, but he'd do everything in his power to get Peter to the surface... He just needed to know where they were keeping him.
"Mr. Rumlow... What would I have to do to get extra special priviledges?"
The assassin across from him looked more than intruiged at the question and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What kind of privileges?"
Peter knew how to play the game. He rose from his chair, not missing the way that the assassin tipped his gun towards him, and slid over to the other man. He straddled the man's lap and as seductively as he could, said, "I want to see what they're doing to the masked man."
Rumlow smirked and slid his hands up Peter's thighs. "That one's going to cost you at least three days worth of hurt for you, Parker. How bad do you want to see?"
Peter didn't miss the way the man's grip on his gun relaxed, or the way that the man pulled him closer. The metal-armed man stood in the corner, chuckling as he watched the scene before him.
"He's a spy... It won't take him long to figure out your game. You're going to have to be a really good actor, паук." That last word, spider, was the first word out of his hallucination's mouth that didn't sound like a monotone recording. Was he remembering? He didn't think so. Every day he strayed farther from whoever he used to be, but this was a tactic taught to him by Natasha, not that he remembered her.
He knew that if he had a chance of getting out, he needed to find that man, that Deadpool. The line of a Michael Jackson song from his childhood made it's way into his thoughts, and he knew that it was the thought he needed to hold onto. It was the mentality that would earn him his freedom one day.
So when Rumlow grabbed his butt and handed him a knife, he waited for instructions like the obidiant boy he thought he was pretending to be. He was given instructions, and he obeyed them. He dragged the knife across the skin of his shoulder roughly and agonizingly slow, not once, but four times. The pain dragged little whimpers from his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Peter was told to stand and clean the knife before putting it back down, and he did so without question. He heard a zipper and glanced over to see it was Rumlow unzipping his pants and Peter could still feel the ache in his ass and thighs from what happened last night and he wasn't sure he could handle that again so quickly, but if he wanted to survive, he had to adapt.
So Peter grabbed the next instrument he was meant to grab, a small scalpel in his left hand, and sat back down on the man's lap as he was told. He purposefully pushed his ass against Rumlow's hardening cock with a smirk.
Rumlow took the scalpel from Peter and used it to cut away the hospital gown the boy wore before pulling Peter's oversized underwear to the side. Peter braced himself by grabbing onto the assassin's shoulders, hissing once again at the less than gentle penetration. While the boy was distracted, Rumlow digged the scalpel into his skin, dragging it along the underside of his collarbone.
Peter cried out. Maybe pain was pleasurable, but not like this it wasn't. This was horrible, the blood trickling down his chest. The burns from so long ago, now bleeding from yet another wound that wouldn't heal.
When he was pushed into his cell that night, the cold overtook him... Some thought in his mind appeared, information from a class he once attended. Somehow he knew that his wounds would not heal in the slightest in the cold, and here they were open to being infected. He was never given the means to dress his wounds, so they would remained opened and damaged, paining him with every breath he took.
He curled up in a corner, the metal-armed man sitting in the one across from him, and he cried.