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Pit of Vipers

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Brock’s woken up by a bucket of water being dumped on his naked body.

As far as his wake-up calls go these days, this one isn’t the worst. Would’ve been better if he wasn’t aching so badly that it makes him wish he could just strip himself of his own flesh and bones. He curls in on himself in the dog crate he’s now living in, every joint and muscle protesting at the slightest movement. The pain centers in his right side, the one he’s been sleeping on. He’s way too old to be lying on the crate’s metal floor for so long.

He watches as Rosenberg unlocks the door. They invested in a heavy duty crate after Brock broke himself out of the cheap, plastic one they kept him in before. He tipped it over and kicked at the bottom until it broke. This one he could kick for eternity and he wouldn’t get out.

He cries out when they grab him by the shoulders and unfold, then forcefully drag outside, the tender skin on his back catching on the threshold.

“Shut up,” Rosenberg barks at him.

“Or we’ll do it for ya,” Guldbrandsen adds.

Brock grits his teeth and lets himself be dragged down the corridor. He’s lost the track of time since he was kidnapped and made Hydra’s sex slave, but he knows there was a time, not so long ago even, when he was ashamed of obeying. He doesn’t feel much of anything now as the agents chuckle at him. He’s always been more pragmatic than honorable, and there really isn’t a good reason to suffer more for showing them he hasn’t broken yet.

Yeah, it’s better if they don’t know he hasn’t. Let them think he’s given in, that he’s harmless and can be left unattended. 

Gone are also the times of him wondering what they planned for him this time. It’s usually either a gangbang or a one-on-one, and honestly, he doesn’t have a preference for one or the other. They both hurt, they’re both humiliating, and they both can be just as long. In the past, there was also a third option: body modification procedures. While different in nature from the other two, Brock hated them all the same.

He realizes they’re taking him to the showers right before he’s shoved inside and pushed onto the gray tiles. He props himself up on his hands and knees while Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen take a shower head each. He’s getting proper washing today, and that can mean only one thing: Rollins requested him.

Despite all this time, it’s still hard to believe Jack Rollins took over Hydra when Brock stops and thinks about it. Rollins was never special. During his time in STRIKE, he was a quiet, not very social guy who was maybe a good sharpshooter and tactician, but that was it. He wasn’t a good fighter, nor did Brock ever notice him having any leadership skills. He also knew Rollins had that weird, creepy thing for him, but despite that, he thought of him as rather harmless. Rollins could never beat him when they sparred, and he was too shy—or perhaps too worried about keeping his job—to try something sketchy.

But somehow he managed to convince the majority of the Washington Hydra cell to follow him, and Brock never saw it coming. They were preparing to launch Insight, and the next thing he knew, Pierce was dead by Rollins’ hand, and he himself was restrained by his teammates, a shock after a shock to the ribs from their stun batons keeping him from fighting back.

A stream of water hitting his face brings him back to reality. He opens his mouth to wet his dry tongue and chapped lips. The water tastes sweet, and he doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until he swallows some of it. He’s gotten good at tuning out the majority of his body’s complaints, the ever-present pain usually overtaking, though some of it has also become a background static. If he focused, he’d feel the dull ache deep inside him, or how his stomach is clenching from hunger. He’d realize his throat is burning, his neck tender, and his swollen pectorals ache. Instead, he’s focusing on the high pressure of water hitting him, how good it feels on his tired muscles, how refreshing it is after hours—days?—of being covered in sweat, spit and cum. He’s almost sorry when it ends and he’s being pulled up to his feet.

Rosenberg presents a choke collar to him, and Brock silently lets him push it over his head. He’s intimately familiar with the thing; these bastards always use it to walk him around. Since it’s one of the least painful things he’s being put through these days, and they let him walk on his feet instead of forcing him to crawl, he’s past the point of complaining.

He’s escorted to Rollins’ quarters. As always, Rollins is not yet inside. Despite everything Rollins always does to him, Brock actually likes being here. The thick carpet is plush under his bare feet and makes it easier to kneel than the concrete floor. He gets to lie on Rollins’ king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress. The sheets are soft to the touch. There’s a jug of water standing on the nightstand he can help himself to, provided his hands are free and no one’s watching.

He’s pushed onto the bed, the collar is pulled over his head, scratching his face, and his arms are wrenched back. He knows what it means even before he sees Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen reach for their handcuffs.

“Don’t!” he says quickly, then adds, “Please.” He looks into Rosenberg’s face, making sure not to eye the jug that’s just a stretch of his arm away. “He won’t be happy if I soil his bed again.”

Rosenberg exchanges looks with his friend. He shrugs, and Brock’s arms are released. They exit the room and lock it behind.

Brock sighs in relief and stretches on the bed. It makes him wince, but at least this time he’s the one controlling his pain. After a moment of straight up resting, he pulls himself up and walks to the adjoined bathroom.

There are no windows, of course. It’s not uncommon for bathrooms, but given the fact Brock hasn’t seen a window for months makes him believe they’re actually underground. It makes his escape more difficult to plan, because with no windows, there may be only a couple certain ways out, and Brock knows none. That, and they’re surely heavily guarded. For now, he’s not going anywhere, and they know it. He bets Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen locked him in here only to avoid the hassle of chasing him down the corridors. They’re not really worried he might escape.

And hell, that sucks.

With that depressive thought, he relieves himself like an actual human being for once, then washes his hands and looks up in the mirror. For the first second, he doesn’t recognize himself. It’s not that he’s changed that much; rather, he hasn’t seen himself for so long he forgot what he looked like.

But the changes are there, too. He’s thinner now, his cheeks sunken. He’s being shaven regularly, but no one ever cuts his hair. It’s now long enough to be tied into pigtails, which they obviously do. They call them ‘love handles’. Right now, the wet strands fall chaotically around his face. He combs them back with his fingers.

All that doesn’t bother him as much as the piercings. He remembers each time he was held down and pierced—it was early enough for him to still try and fight back—but this is the first time he has an opportunity to see what he looks like with all that metal in his face. The answer is: not good, and to this day he wonders why the hell it was done to him. He sticks out his tongue, covering the vertical labret in his lower lip to scrutinize the piercing there. Those two are the ones he can never forget about, because he always feels them. He hates the former, but he kind of tolerates the latter; he’s decided that, should he become desperate enough, he’ll choke to death on it. He has two in his eyebrows and another two in his ears that he’s happy to cover with his hair and pretend they don’t exist. The one in his ear was actually the first one; something about it being gay, he’s not sure—all the mocking has faded to a buzz in his memories. Brock supposes it just escalated from there. His nose is surprisingly untouched, though the guys threatened they would give him a cow ring and attach a leash to it.

He pulls away from the mirror and looks down at his naked body. He’s lost a lot of muscle mass. His stomach looks sunken; when was the last time he was fed something other than cum? The moment he focuses on it, it rumbles loudly. Perfect. He fingers the piercing in his navel for a short moment, the one he always plays with when he’s bored out of his mind or trying to focus on something else than the pain he’s in. His nipples are also pierced, but they always hurt too much to touch. He knows he also has one—or maybe two?—in his ass crack, but he neither knows nor wants to know what it looks like.

He returns to the bedroom and curls up on the sheets. They’re not exactly fresh, but it’s a major upgrade from the dog crate, and Brock’s dozing off before he knows it. His sleep is light though, and he wakes up as soon as he hears the door open.

He groggily props himself up on his elbows and sees Rollins approaching him. He’s smiling, but he looks tired; the sudden upgrade from a henchman to a head of a Hydra cell is taking its toll on him. Not that Brock feels sorry for him; he can work himself to death for all he cares.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Brock doesn’t come up with anything good to say to that, so he just forces himself to smile back. Lately, Rollins has been acting like Brock is here because he wants to, and it’s easier—and perhaps smarter—to just play along. Who knows, maybe one day Rollins starts trusting him, giving Brock a chance to get the hell out of here.

Rollins kneels on the bed in front of him, grabs his hair and pulls him in for a kiss. He’s the only one to ever do that, and Brock’s sure that in his mind, he’s pretending they’re lovers or some shit. Maybe he imagines Brock’s his dutiful wife that waits naked in their bed for her husband to come home from work. It’s creepy as all hell and keeps Brock guessing at what’s about to happen. It’s not that tricky with the others; they’re driven by titillation, they just wanna fuck something that can’t fight back. Brock isn’t a stranger to the concept. But Rollins? He actually acts like he’s in love with Brock or something, holy shit.

The kiss isn’t nice. It’s wet, and sloppy, and Rollins’ tongue is pushing his spit inside Brock’s dry mouth. It’s absolutely gross and reminds him he didn’t have that drink of water after all. Maybe Rollins will let him get some later if he’s good. 

Rollins’ mouth is on his throat next, and Brock looks past the top of his head at the wall, his mind already getting ready to dissociate. He hears the buckle of Rollins’ belt, and he doesn’t need to look down to confirm that he’s shoving his pants down to his knees. No matter how affectionate Rollins might act sometimes, this is still only about sex. Rollins doesn’t request him here to hang out.

Rollins straightens up, pulling Brock’s head down towards his half-hard cock at the same time. If Brock cared, he’d wonder why he’s not as turned on as usual. As it is, he just acknowledges that fact and doesn’t dwell on it.

Rollins presses at his jaw joints; gently, just to let him know what he wants, but it still hurts, the pain flaring up to his cheekbones, and Brock opens his mouth as wide as he can, wanting him to just let go. He didn’t notice it earlier in the mirror, but it feels like his cheek is bruised, and maybe it is, with how often his face is shoved against something hard and unyielding. Thankfully, Rollins’ fingers stop pressing, but his hand rests on his jaw as he pushes his cock inside his mouth. This time there’s nothing gentle about it; it’s a quick shove, and the head goes easily past Brock’s throat. Rollins’ breath hitches, and Brock’s positive it has everything to do with the piercing in his tongue now teasing the underside of his shaft. If he were to guess, he’d say it was Rollins’ idea.

Rollins keeps his head in place as he fucks his face, his cock swelling gradually, the head pushing farther and farther down Brock’s throat. Brock’s view becomes hazy, and he focuses solely at keeping his teeth away and breathing through his nose. His habit of dissociating is so strong now it’s actually more difficult to stay focused on what’s happening, so he lets himself get lost in his mind. Sometime later, he snaps back to awareness just to realize it’s still happening, with the difference being his jaw is now aching and eyes leaking from the strain, and the hitches in Rollins’ breath have turned into grunts. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he thinks it’s taking longer than usual, and a moment later he’s spacing out again. He doesn’t even register when Rollins’ hips buck and he cums down his throat until his pulling out, and with nothing holding Brock up, he slumps onto the mattress. His saliva tastes of sex when he swallows, and his eyes flick to the jug sitting on the nightstand.

Rollins stands up and walks away towards the closet to change into something comfortable. Brock watches him just out of the corner of his eye, his full focus blatantly set on the jug. He wants it. He earned it. What would happen if he just took it? Would Rollins punish him for it?

Slowly but deliberately, he pushes himself up to his knees and hands, then eases himself back against the pillows. He lifts the jug and almost grunts—it’s heavier than he expected—then fills a glass. At the sound of the pouring water, Rollins turns to look at him, and Brock freezes, the jug almost falling out of his hand. He manages to keep a firm hold of it and carefully puts it back down, his eyes fixed on Rollins. His pulse kicks up when Rollins approaches him, and when he reaches out, Brock flinches. Rollins freezes.

Then, slowly and somewhat awkwardly, Rollins slips his long fingers between the still damp strands on Brock’s head. He rubs his scalp as Brock sits tight as a string, bracing himself for a hit. But then Rollins turns and walks away, and Brock takes a few calming breaths before he finally presses the glass to his lips. He intended to drink the water slowly, but then it’s gone before he realizes. Keeping an eye on Rollins who’s now looking for something in his desk drawer and seemingly not paying him any attention, Brock pours himself another, and drinks it, too. He sighs. Sweet, sweet water.

Rollins walks back to him, and Brock’s gaze settles on the tablet in his hands. 

“I have something to show you.” 

Rollins sits down beside him, but Brock can’t tear his eyes away from the tablet. He hasn’t seen any piece of electronics in months. Rollins shows him the screen, taps one of the icons, and the vivid colors turn to black and white. He knows immediately it’s a video feed, but it takes him another moment to figure out what he’s looking at exactly.

It’s Cap. Captain freaking America, sitting with his knees drawn up in the corner of a room that would have been bare if not for a simple, small table welded to the floor in the very center. Brock stares at him wide-eyed, and maybe his jaw goes slack a little, too.

Rollins’s watching him like a hawk, and he must like his reaction, because he smirks.

“We’ve had him for days,” he explains, closing the feed and putting the tablet away. Brock tracks it to the opposite nightstand, then snaps his eyes up to Rollins’. He can’t let him notice his interest in it. “He’s a tough nut to crack. You’re going to help me.”

“Crack him?” Brock asks, confused, because well, this is new.

“Like the Asset was cracked,” Rollins explains. “He was forced to torture and kill until he became obedient.”

He must notice how completely stiff Brock goes at that, because he lets out a soft chuckle and his big hand is back on his head, stroking. 

“Not like that,” he assures, his voice laced with amusement. “I have no intention of getting rid of you.”

Then it becomes clear: sex. That’s what he’s here for. They will force Cap to rape him, maybe multiple times. He lets himself relax. That he can take. It happens every day anyway; it doesn’t make much of a difference if it’s Cap or a guy Brock thought was his friend.

Rollins smiles when he sees Brock relax, a gross stretch of his lips. He stands up again, retrieves something from the desk, and comes back to hand it to Brock. Two white pills land on his open palm. 

“Take them. Get some rest.”

Sleeping pills. Relief washes over him when he realizes what it means: there’ll be no round two with Rollins fucking his ass this time. He’s still chafed after the last gangbang, or maybe torn even, he can’t tell the difference anymore. If Rollins decided to take him, it’d be a very literal pain in the ass, one that perhaps would even make him pass out. He’s so fucking grateful this won’t be the case that he doesn’t even wonder about the pills, just takes them, washes them down with another glass of water and settles on the bed, curling into a ball. Rollins covers him with a blanket, and it’s so soft and warm around him he can’t suppress a smile, but he turns his head to hide it in the pillow. He falls asleep to Rollins petting his hair.

He wakes up on the floor. He groans unhappily, still groggy from the pills, and tries to prop himself up. That’s when he realizes he’s not alone; two pairs of hands grab him to hold him down, and he thrashes on instinct. Something cold and hard is shoved down his head and rests heavily around his neck. He feels the metal spikes tease his skin and freezes. He takes in a shaky breath as he comes back to reality and realizes that for a moment there, he forgot in what situation he is in. 

The metal collar digs into his throat and his upper body is jerked up. He takes in a ragged breath and slumps back on the plush carpet when the pressure loosens, then he’s jerked up again.

“Move!” Someone barks at him, and then he’s turned around to face them. “We don’t have all day.”

Four guys hover over him, and Brock’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes his old team. It always hurts more when it’s them, even after all this time. The men he fought with, protected, and considered his friends turned on him, becoming his torturers. 

The biggest one, Foster, is holding the leash. He pulls again, apparently determined to drag Brock out of the room if he won’t cooperate. And despite knowing it's a lost cause, Brock doesn’t want to cooperate. He doesn’t want to go back to the dog crate. Now that he’s more awake, he can feel the old pain set in his muscles and bones, and he can’t imagine spending another night crumpled in the tight space. He grabs at the carpet when Foster keeps dragging him towards the door, digs his nails in, but they’re too weak to hold and break. His front burns from the friction, and he tries to get on his feet, but it’s hard when he’s relentlessly pulled forward. He cries out for them to wait, and miraculously, they do. Shaking all over, he picks himself up on his hands and knees, only to lose his balance when Foster pulls the leash harder than expected. He whimpers as he’s mercilessly dragged over the carpet to the door. He looks around feverishly, seeking out Rollins, then mentally kicks himself when he realizes what he’s doing. Rollins wouldn’t help him; fuck, he’s the reason Brock’s here. No matter how he acts and what he does, Rollins is not his friend.

Foster drags him out onto the cool corridor floor, and Brock’s pleas to let him get on his feet turn into pleas to not take him back to the crate. He goes on for about a minute before Collins takes pity on him and tells him he’s not going to the crate. Brock shuts up at that and fixes his gaze on the floor to avoid the looks of the people they pass—other STRIKE agents and technicians. Some make snide comments his way that amuse Foster enough to laugh out loud.

He’s dragged to a storage room. He’s seen a handful of these; he’s always taken to one of those for a gangbang. Foster drops the leash and doesn’t waste any time to circle him and crouch behind him. It’s Collins who takes the choke chain off.

Brock doesn’t protest when he’s positioned onto his knees, though his muscles tremble slightly. He’s not sure why he’s barely able to keep his balance; perhaps the pills are still working. He rests his cheek on the floor, trying not to wobble as Foster parts his asscheeks and leans in to scrutinize his hole.

“Clean like my grandma’s porcelain,” he comments, and Brock jolts when a gobble of spit lands in his asscrack. “What does Rollins even do to you these days, cuddle?”

“Foster.” Collins’ voice is soft, but the warning is clear. Foster may have no respect for authority, but most of the agents draw the line somewhere, and that’s disrespecting Rollins.

“Hey, you don’t see me complaining.” Foster spits again, and just when Brock feels the wetness reach his hole, he jams two fingers in. Brock’s breath hitches. “Don’t for a second think I enjoy his sloppy seconds.” He wiggles his fingers, and Brock suppresses a sound of discomfort. “Still loose though.” He pulls out. “What’re ya waiting for, pretty him up for the guest.”

Collins rolls his eyes, but takes a hairbrush out of his pocket and kneels at the side of Brock’s head. He grabs his hair, and Brock lifts his head before he tugs. He must have a lot of knots, because the brush pulls his head down with it. Collins grabs his jaw to keep it in place, and Brock cries out when he tugs again. He’s sure Collins just tore out a handful.

“Westfahl, stick a cork in him,” Foster barks from behind him. Brock can hear the rustle of fabric, and a moment later he feels Foster’s big, warm cock gather the spit from his crack. “Bitch’s killing my boner with its whining.”

Westfahl eyes Brock warily. “No, thank you.”

Foster laughs heartily at that. “He won’t bite you again. He knows it’s not worth losing a limb.”

Westfahl’s still eyeing him. Brock uses the fact that Foster can’t see his face, Collins is still distracted with his hair, and King’s busy with his own dick, and smirks up at him. Westfahl steps back.

“He’s smirking at me!”

Collins turns Brock’s face towards him to check, and he gives him his most innocent expression.

“Stop being such a whiny bitch, Westfahl,” Foster snaps.

Westfahl was the first guy who thought shoving his dick inside Brock’s mouth was a good idea, and Brock had no qualms about biting down. Though something did stop him from biting clean through, it might just be the best memory he’s made in this place, and what came next might just be the worst one.

When the guys finally managed to unclench Brock’s teeth from around the base of Westfahl’s shaft (after they were done laughing their asses off), they dragged him to a clean, white room that smelled of antiseptic, pinned him down to a metal table and cut off the circulation in his right arm. Brock was thrashing the whole time, but he didn’t start shouting desperate protests until Rosenberg approached him with an oscillating saw. They didn’t hurt him that day, but they explained very carefully that hurting them would entail losing his limbs one after another until he was nothing more than a fuckpotato. It was positively the scariest thing they’ve put him through, and when they finally released him, he cried in relief.

So yes, Foster’s right; if Westfahl gathered his courage and stuck his dick inside Brock’s mouth again, Brock would suck him off like nobody’s business. But Westfahl’s a fucking idiot, and Brock will use every opportunity to mess with him if he can get away with it.

He’s brought back to the present when Foster shoves his whole cock in him at once. With just spit easing the way and barely any preparation, the burn of the stretch makes his skin light up. His arms and legs give out and he slumps onto the floor with a pained mewl. Collins swears when the sudden fall of Brock’s head yanks the brush out of his hand, and Foster slaps his ass for that, then pulls his hips back onto his cock. 

“Someone fucking shut him up, I swear to god,” he snarls.

King walks around Westfahl and positions himself in front of Brock’s mouth, his cock in hand. Collins flinches. 

“I’m not that into you, get that outta my face.”

King snorts. “Not my fault you’re in the way.”

“This is the last time I’m doing this with you guys,” Foster pants. “You’re all whiny bitches.”

“You’re like a five-year-old that learned a new insult and keeps repeating it,” Collins shoots back.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Foster fucks him in a steady rhythm, causing his head to rock back and forth in Collins’ hands. Brock can sense him get more and more annoyed as he ties the first ponytail. Then, he stands up and circles to the other side of his head, and that’s King’s cue to push his dick past Brock’s lips, muffling his pained little gasps. The blunt head hits the back of his throat, and King lets go of him. Foster's fierce thrusts push Brock's face farther onto King's dick, doing all the work for him. 

The lack of air from the cock clogging his throat and pressing against his trachea from the inside helps him check out. For a long moment, he's vaguely aware of Collins brushing his hair and Westfahl jerking off somewhere to his right. Then he's on a completely different plane of existence, ignorant of what's happening to him until a sharp pain deep inside jerks him back to awareness. Foster must have shifted, because he's cock is impossibly deep, stretching Brock in places he didn't know it could reach.

"I hate this room." Foster grunts and keeps shifting. Brock cries out in distress around King's thick cock when he feels Foster's abdomen push against his ass, but it's too muffled to make any kind of impression. King seems to like it even, if the way he braces himself against the wall behind him and grinds his hips with a soft moan is any indication. "I prefer the one with the mattress."

"That one doesn't have any chairs." Collins chimes in from where he's lounging in a simple wooden chair farther back in the room. He's not looking at them, scrolling through something on his phone instead. 

"Like I give a fuck about your fucking chairs.”

"Newsflash: I don't give a fuck about your mattress either," Collins shoots back, not even lifting his head.

"Both of you shut up," King grumbles.

The sharp pain Foster's fucking is causing makes it impossible to space out again. Brock didn't think that was possible anymore, but apparently there are still parts of him that haven’t been thoroughly ruined, well, until now at least. He tries to shift away, pressing his face into King's pubes and swallowing his cock farther down his throat in the process. King whines and tenses, and his thighs begin to tremble.

"What the fuck," Foster pants when he feels his dick slip out of Brock's ass. He grabs his hips hard enough to bruise and jerks him back onto his lap until Brock's half-sitting, causing King's dick to fall out of Brock's mouth.

"No!" 

Brock watches cum shoot from King's slit and dribble down his shaft. He jerks his hips helplessly against the air, but it's too late and it's done. 

"No!" he shouts, tries to jerk himself through the aftershocks, and whimpers. "You ruined my fucking orgasm, you useless fucking whore!"

Foster laughs cruelly behind him, his hips speeding up as if King's misery turned him on more. The laughter is almost contagious, and Brock can't help it; the satisfaction he feels numbs the pain and clouds his judgement, and he smirks. It only pisses King off more.

"I'm gonna fuck you up!" He unholsters his long tactical knife and grabs Brock's jaw. "I'm gonna fuck your throat with that, we'll see who'll be smirking then."

The threat successfully wipes the smirk off Brock's face, and he freezes, paralyzed with fear. King squeezes his cheeks to force his mouth open, but before Brock can even think about breaking out of his grip, Collins pushes himself between them, skillfully knocking the knife out of King's hand, and Brock's face is free again.

"What the fuck?" King snarls, looking at Collins reproachfully.

"I should be asking you." Collins' voice is cold and collected.

"Yeah, you fucked up your own blowjob, so what. Don't ruin the fun for the rest of us," Foster says. His hand twists into Brock's hair, the hair ties pulling on his scalp painfully. He bucks his hips and cums with a choked moan. 

Brock barely pays attention to the wetness in his hole, more interested in the Collins vs. King stare-off. Collins protecting him from mindless violence—that's new. Collins, unlike the majority of Hydra agents, isn't his torturer. He never lays a hand on him. Doesn't hit him, doesn't even manhandle him. He's simply not into that stuff; Brock can get that. And after being tortured and raped every day by almost everyone in the building for god-knows-how-long, he admits that he's unhealthily grateful for that. 

But Collins is also an enabler. He never tries to stop his coworkers from hurting Brock, never even suggests to tone it down a bit. Hell; he might not touch Brock, but Brock witnessed him touch himself to other guys raping him more times than he can count. If he's suddenly defending Brock, it's not because he feels sorry for him or something. Apparently, Hydra agents can't do everything they want to him, there are rules they're limited by.

It's a poor comfort though, considering amputation is apparently fair game.

Foster pushes him off his lap, and Brock curls on the concrete floor, content to just lie there. Fatigue has set into his muscles, and he doesn't think he could pick himself up even if he tried. Unfortunately, Westfahl has other plans for him. He manhandles him onto his knees again, and Brock's too exhausted and sore to do anything other than let him move him however he likes without complaining. He doesn't even realize when Westfahl enters him in one swift move.

"You fucked him lose!" Westfahl accuses Foster. "I can add like, three fingers to my dick!" He does exactly that, and that Brock feels. He closes his eyes and winces, wishing Westfahl would just get on with it.

Foster walks over to take a look, mildly interested. "It was already like this. Not my fault your dick is so small, Westfahl."

King snickers and circles Brock to take a look as well. "I bet it's from all the double fucking. I'd help you fill it if I could get it up again. Hey, Collins, you sure you don't wanna have a go?"

Collins shakes his head, indicating that he's good, and walks back to his chair, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

"I'm starting to think he's just impotent."

Collins flips him off for that and loses interest in what else is happening in the room. Westfahl removes the fingers from Brock's ass, but his relief is short-lived as Westfahl buries himself up to the hilt and, grunting, reaches towards Brock's nipple.

"No, no, no..." he whines, trying to get away, but Foster places his boot on the side of his throat, successfully pinning him in place. He watches in interest as Westfahl pinches one of Brock's nipples and pulls, prompting him to howl.

The pain is indescribable. Brock doesn't just feel it; he is pain. He tenses all over, his muscles trembling, and Westfahl moans when he clenches around him. This time, when he thrusts, Brock feels it and it hurts, but it doesn’t even compare with Westfahl lying on him to have a better access to his swollen tits and fondling them like Brock's a woman. Still watching Brock as if he’s an interesting exhibition in a museum or maybe a zoo, Foster presses harder against his throat. Brock's vision darkens, and for a blissful moment, he feels nothing.

He's brought back to consciousness with a sharp sting in his cheek. He blinks blearily. No one's fucking him anymore, and all four agents are hovering over him. Collins is holding his face, turning it to the light to see better.

"Rumlow, you with us?" Foster asks, and it's so weird to hear him call Brock by his name instead of one of many gross nicknames they all came up with for him.

"For a moment there, I thought you actually killed him," Westfahl says.

"Shut the fuck up, idiot. I did nothing."

"You stomped on his throat," King points out.

"I did no such thing!" Foster snaps. "Just massaged him there a little. He's been through worse."

"When was the last time he ate?" Collins asks.

The rest exchanges looks. 

"How should I know?" Foster asks in lieu of the answer.

Collins sighs. "And you're surprised he passed out."

"Should I bring something from the kitchen?" Westfahl asks tentatively.

Foster scrutinizes Brock for a moment. Brock hopes he can't tell how his heartbeat kicked up at the mention of food. 

"Nah," he says finally. "Maybe if he passes out again with Cap, he'll think he killed him with his fucking."

King snickers and throws Collins the collar.

Cap. That’s the guest they mentioned earlier, Brock realizes. He should've known since the start, Rollins told him about his plan after all. Brock noticed that his thinking has slowed down significantly and he's not as sharp anymore, but it's not that surprising since he's only fed enough to survive. 

Still holding his face, Collins wipes his mouth with his sleeve and then fishes a pink lipstick out of his pocket. He applies it to Brock's lips with care and precision to Foster's amusement. Then the collar is placed back around his neck, and he's jerked up when Foster tugs on the leash.

"Use your legs, whore, I ain't dragging you all the way there." 

They give him time to get his hands and feet under himself, but he can't get up. His muscles are trembling too much, and he just can't find the strength to do that.

"Maybe we should feed him," Collins muses.

"No time," Fosters says, checking his watch. "The guys are already running out of patience. Do you wanna piss Rollins off? Didn't think so."

"Well, he's not gonna make it there on his own, so it's either that or you drag him."

Foster rolls his eyes. "What are you, a medic?" But he waves at Westfahl. "Fine, get him something, but fast."

Brock collapses on the floor. He could cry in relief, but keeps it all in. He doesn't know yet what Westfahl will decide to feed him, it might be something completely inedible. They like to torment him with their choice of food just as much as they do with anything else. Newspapers and toilet paper are one of the better things he ate. Once, they had the time of their lives watching him cry while chugging a bottle of extremely hot sauce.

They don't have to wait long; Westfahl soon comes back with a single protein bar that Brock shoves into his mouth right away in case they change their mind and try to take it away from him. His mouth waters when the taste of honey and strawberries explodes on his tongue. His jaw clicks as he chews slowly, wanting to make it last, but eventually it's gone, and it does little to appease his empty stomach.

"And water?" Collins asks.

"You didn't say to bring any," Westfahl points out.

"Well, wasn't it fucking obvious? Can't you think on your own for once?"

"Both of you shut up." Foster tugs on the leash again. "You better fucking walk now."

Brock doesn't know if it's the food, the rest he got, or a placebo effect, but this time he manages to stand. His gait is faltering, so Collins grabs him by the arm to secure him. He tries to remember the way they lead him in case it comes in handy in future. It's long and full of turns, and when they finally stop in front of a door, he's not sure if he'd know how to get back to his crate on his own.

King unlocks the door, and Foster and Collins shove him inside. He trips over his own foot and loses balance. He flinches when the door is slammed shut behind him. He doesn't move from his place on the floor for a moment, catching his breath and checking his surroundings.

He only now notices it's an interrogation room with a huge one-way mirror on one wall. Brock eyes it, wondering how many people are currently gathered on the other side. Probably enough to fill the small room to the brink. Even more people must be watching the live footage. Captain America breaking under pressure is a hell of a show after all. He looks up; there's a camera in every corner. 

Speaking of Cap; he's sitting curled in the same corner Brock saw him in on the footage. He has looked up when the guys opened the door and is now watching Brock. Brock's skin breaks out in a sweat as he becomes hyper aware of the state he's in: the messy pigtails curling around his face, the piercings, the lipstick; the bruises and cum dribbling out of his gaping asshole. Hydra saw him in worse states, but Cap...

Cap averts his eyes as if he can't look, and Brock feels his face burn.

"Hey, Cap," comes a voice from the speakers Brock haven't noticed earlier. He doesn't recognize it. "We thought you're getting bored in there, so we brought you our sextoy. You're welcome to use it however you like."

"No, thank you," Cap responds.

"You either fuck him or we kill you both," the voice says, the polite tone now turning cold. "Your choice."

Brock swallows thickly at that, his heart rate kicking up again. Cap is an idealist, he knows, he'd rather die than rape a person, even someone he hates as much as Brock, but would he also sacrifice Brock's life? 

And then it hits him: they won't kill them. They're not allowed to even permanently damage Brock's fuckhole. It's highly unlikely they're allowed to kill him. And it's going to be another long while before they kill Captain America, too—Brock imagines he provides plenty of entertainment. 

But Cap doesn't know that. And that's why Rollins gave him the heads up. Brock's expected to play along. To literally beg Cap to fuck him to save their lives. The heat from his cheeks spreads down his neck and chest when he thinks about it. His throat becomes so tight he doesn't think he can utter a single word.

Minutes pass as they sit still, eyeing each other. Then Brock hears the characteristic sound of the suppressed gunshot and concrete explodes in front of his face. He shouts when a chunk hits his eye.

"That was a warning shot," the voice from the speakers says.

Brock presses the heel of his palm to his hot, watering eye. His mind works quickly. They won't kill him, but they will shoot him. In a leg, in an arm, or hell, in the back. Maybe they'll damage his spine and cripple him. He doesn't want to beg—fuck, that's the only thing they haven't managed to force him to do. They wanted him to, but the punishment for his refusal wasn’t bad enough for obeying to be worth it. Now though, he's looking at bleeding out while being fucked by Cap, because he will eventually, Brock's sure of that. If Brock is shot at enough times, and that's the only way to save his life, he will.

So before Hydra gets any more frustrated with them, Brock raises his head and, looking straight into Cap's eyes, says, "Just do what they say." He swallows and, reluctantly, adds, "Please. I don't wanna die here."

The vision in his hurt eye is blurry, and it's still leaking tears. Brock suspects that it helps Cap make his decision. He assesses Brock for another long while though, and Brock nervously eyes the mirror. "Any second now," he says. "Before they start shooting again. Unless you're into that."

"Not helping," Cap growls through gritted teeth. "Fine," he says louder. "Because I don’t want to be their reason for murder, not because you’re asking me to."

"I couldn’t care less about what you’re telling yourself to sleep better at night," Brock grumbles.

Cap ignores him. He drops his gaze to his pants and undoes them with slightly trembling hands. He's still in his star-spangled suit. It's torn in few places, but Cap himself looks unharmed. Brock imagines no one dared to rough him up; even captured, Cap's extremely dangerous. He was probably thrown in here and left alone. Probably hasn't been fed once since then. Otherwise, he’d be ready for them opening the door.

Brock watches as Cap pulls out his soft cock and starts stroking it. After about a minute, he realizes it's a lost cause, that he's not going to get it up, not on his own at least. He takes a deep breath, pulls himself to his hands and knees, and crawls over.

"Lemme help you with that."

Cap scowls, but doesn't react when Brock pushes his hand away and leans in to take his whole cock into his mouth. He's worked soft cocks before, of young agents that were peer-pressured into fucking him, so he knows what to do. He could write a thesis on sucking dick at this point; he knows all the sensitive spots and how much pressure to apply. In less than a minute he has Cap swelling in his mouth, fast and so much that his jaw aches again. Cap has his eyes shut tight, but Brock doesn't care—if not looking at Brock helps him, then it's all the better.

Brock pulls back, the cock slipping out of his mouth and standing at attention against Cap's stomach. It's... big. Bigger than anything he's had to take so far. It doesn't look natural—the effect of the soldier serum, for sure. Brock gulps as he wonders if the notes he had read on the super soldier stamina were true, especially the part that one orgasm isn't enough to sate them.

Cap blinks his eyes open. They're glassy when he looks at Brock. Then they darken as he undoubtedly realizes that was just a beginning, and he has to do the rest himself. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looks briefly around like there's anything to look at, then nods at the table.

Brock assesses it and decides that's probably the best option. His knees won't hurt, his skin won't get any more chafed. He can rest his head if he feels like it. It'll be strenuous for his legs, but Cap can hold him up.

At least he hopes so.

Holding onto the edge of the table, he pulls himself to his feet and bends over. He hears Cap stand up and walk over, then he feels the fabric of his pants brush against his legs. For a long moment, he does nothing. Perhaps he needs to mentally talk himself into it. Then there's a tell-tale sound of sucking, and wet fingers press against his hole. Brock sucks in a breath; his rim is sensitive after the fucking it just took. He is not looking forward to accommodating that monstrous cock.

Maybe he'll pass out again.

Cap slips in three fingers at once and rests his other hand on the table beside Brock's face. When he leans over him, Brock can't see the mirror anymore. 

"I thought it was a trick at first," Cap hisses into his ear. "But you can barely stand up."

"Wow, thanks for rubbing it in my face," Brock shoots back.

"The only reason I'm doing this is, I don't want to have you on my conscience. You're not worth it."

"That's fantastic, Cap. Now get on with it so it'll be over sooner, or I'll think you're actually getting off on this."

He doesn't see his face, so the only reaction he gets is the fingers slipping out and a blunt head of Cap's cock pressing against his entrance.

And then the push.

"Fuck!" Brock can't help the loud cry that tears itself out of his mouth. He thought he knew the pain of being split open. He knew nothing. 

Cap stills and hisses an apology into his ear.

"Doesn't matter," Brock snarls, his voice shaking. "Just—" he trails off, unable to force the words past his lips. He wants Cap to keep going so it'll be over sooner, but he also really doesn't want him to keep going.

Cap seems to understand as he thrusts again, sinking farther inside. Brock chokes back a pained moan this time. He's tense and shaking, and his eyes are burning with unshed tears. When he can finally feel Cap's abdomen against his ass, his rim is stretched impossibly, and he's never been so filled up. It's too much, his body is screaming at him to abort, but he's pinned down to the table, and besides, there's nowhere to run.

Cap pulls out, and Brock hears the hitch in his breath when he slams back in. He shuts his eyes closed, but the pain is too great for dissociating to be possible. Maybe when he gets more used to the blunt force Cap's handling him with. The previous fucking turns out to be a small mercy—Cap's cock would have been much more difficult to handle without Foster and then Westfahl opening him up and filling him with their spunk. 

Just as he's thinking about him, Westfahl's voice fills the room.

"Cap, if he's too loose there's a neat little trick—" There's the sound of a scuffle, and the speakers fall silent again.

"Dammit, Westfahl," Brock breathes, and he can't be sure, but he thinks he can hear Cap smile behind him. Westfahl has always been the butt of the joke in STRIKE, and he made even the perfect Captain run out of patience sometimes.

It should be him here instead of Brock, really.

After a few slow, almost tentative thrusts, Cap picks up the pace. Brock clenches the edge of the table so much his hands hurt, and it takes his mind off what's happening behind him at least a little. His body gets used to the super soldier cock and goes a bit slack. Brock's on the verge of spacing out when suddenly he feels Cap's hand on his junk. It makes him jerk.

"No!" he says involuntarily and Cap backs off. Perhaps he wanted to alleviate the pain this way, but it'd just be an additional torture. 

Perhaps he's not even aware how much pain he's putting Brock in exactly. Has he fucked anyone before? Brock's willing to bet that no. He's Cap's first. What a fucking honor.

He really has no idea what he's doing, does he?

He's hissing behind him now, the odd sounds a result of his attempts to suppress his moans. Brock can feel his cock pulse inside him, and it must be it. It must be soon. Right now. Please.

And sure, soon enough Cap pulls out and doesn't go back in. Warm wetness dribbles down Brock's thighs, and his hole twitches around nothing. Cap's panting, bracing himself on the table, but when Brock's knees buckle, he presses one hand to the small of his back to keep him from falling. It hurts, but nothing can compare with being split in half with that monster cock, so Brock doesn't even wince. He's trying to catch his breath with his sweaty cheek sticking to the metal surface, feeling more relieved than ever. It's over. He can't wait to be taken to his crate where he can lick his wounds in peace and pass out.

"What's the matter, Cap?" comes a voice from the speakers, the same one as the first time. "You're still hard. We want to see you fuck him until you can't get it up anymore. Or we'll shoot you both."

Brock doesn't know how he manages not to squeak at that. "How many times is that?"

Cap sighs behind him. "Another couple at most."

Brock swallows dryly. He can take a couple. Really, he's been through worse, and the second time won't be as bad now that he's stretched. He can take it. 

"Do it fast," he says.

But Cap doesn't move for a longer while, still bracing on the table and panting. Brock twitches nervously. He wants to tell him to hurry up, but he can't force the words past his throat. He doesn't want to be shot at, but he also doesn't want that cock in him again. But then it's slipping back in, and damn, the guy wasn't kidding, it's still as rock hard as Brock remembers. He closes his eyes and winces when Cap moves; it burns, he must be quite chafed. But he was right—it's not as bad the second time, so he can take his focus off it and let his thoughts flow freely.

He wonders what Hydra's plan is here. Surely more than entertainment; Rollins told him it was about breaking Cap. But do they really believe this will do it? Cap doesn't seem broken in the slightest. He does what he has to keep both of them alive. During the war, he must have made tons of decisions like that, Brock's sure. So this is just the beginning. He'll go through the same process the Asset did, ending with the Memory Suppressing Machine.

Only Captain America isn't the believed-to-be-dead James Barnes, right? The Avengers will come for him. They have to, that's how it always works, Hydra running the world or not. Seeing an opportunity to free himself, Brock forces himself to come back to reality. Cap is bent over him, and if Brock lifted his head and whispered, he'd undoubtedly hear him, but would also everyone else? He wonders about the possible quality of the mics installed in the room. It's an old base, and it's unlikely they were ever replaced, so they must be rather cheap ones. If Brock’s lucky—and he really isn’t nowadays—they won’t pick up his whisper, especially over the loud slapping of skin on skin. 

So Brock lifts his head and whispers, “Is someone coming for you?”

Cap doesn’t answer; perhaps he didn’t hear. Brock can’t reach him with his elbow, so he grits his teeth and thrusts his hips back to get his attention. A small distressed sound tears itself out of his mouth, and he must be about as surprised by it as Cap is about his sudden moan. But at least now he can feel Cap’s smoldering gaze at the back of his head.

“Is someone coming?” he repeats. “I might have the means—” he cuts himself off. If Hydra hears him talking about a possible access to a tablet, he’s done.

He’s sure Cap heard this time, but there’s still no answer. It makes Brock nervous; he’s been already sweating, but now he can feel it drip down his back and arms.

“Cap?” he prompts, desperation sneaking into his voice.

Cap slams into him so hard that he jerks, and he growls into his ear, “I don’t know.”

Brock’s eyes widen and he drops his head onto the table. And that’s how reality breaks his door of delusion that has been keeping him sane: with Captain America’s dick so far up his ass he can taste it on his tongue, watched by countless Hydra agents.

All this time, he was convinced his situation was temporary. That he’d somehow get out. He’s been waiting for something, maybe a rescue, or an opportunity, or maybe for a plan to form itself in his mind on its own.

But hearing the despair in Cap’s voice, he realizes that no one is coming. There is no way out. This is his life now, and he will most likely die here.

He covers his face with his hand and for the first time since he was captured and made a sextoy, he sobs.