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Hydra Husbands Birthday Bonanza

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He’s so close. All he needs is- just a little more- there- fuck- just like—

The man underneath him jerks suddenly and then lays completely still, his hands slipping off Brock’s hips as his entire body goes limp.

“You jealous fuck,” he growls, glaring at the dark-robed figure standing by the bed, a cut length of silvery thread dangling from one deathly pale hand. “I wasn’t done.”

The hood is pulled so far over the figure’s head that nothing of its face can be seen, but Brock hears the smirk in its rasping voice when it says, “You are now.”


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Brock wakes to soft sheets under his face and human fingers smoothing ointment over the wounds on his back.


For a moment he’s happy to enjoy the attention, but then Jack touches a nasty gash, and he hisses. “Leave ‘em alone,” he murmurs, without turning his head. His voice is hoarse from screaming.

“But they're so deep,” Jack whispers, shame at having lost control colouring his words.

“And they're already healing.”

Brock hungers for danger; and the wolf is fun to fuck. The pain is exquisite, the fear a drug.

But it's the man he’s fallen in love with.


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“Hello again, Detective.”

Jack’s expecting it, but the low, rough voice on the other end of the line still sends shivers down his spine. He holds up a hand and the bullpen falls silent.

“Why haven’t you found me yet, Detective? Don’t you care about saving lives?” There’s a hint of an accent. Italian. Second generation, then. Nothing they didn’t already know.

“We’re getting closer,” he says, and the laughter he hears is genuinely amused.

“No, you’re not, and I’ve been leaving you all sorts of clues.” There’s a sigh and then, “It's okay. Maybe I’ll come to you instead…”


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He wants to call Brock beautiful.

Wants to kiss him and tell him how perfect he looks; how good he feels stretched around his cock.

Wants to run his palms up the hard planes of his abdomen and over the swell of his ass and worship him the way he deserves.

He wants to say I love you.

But he can’t.

He pins him down instead; slaps that beautiful face, chokes him until he gags, digs his nails into skin until it bleeds, calls him dumb slut, fucking whore, dirty little fag.

Because that’s all Brock will accept, since Pierce.


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Jack’s been waiting for 30 minutes before the door opens.

He wasn’t told who to expect, but a man with a SHIELD patch on his uniform sure as hell didn’t top his list of possibilities.

“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Corporal,” he says, taking the seat opposite.

Jack snorts. He knows how this spiel goes. “With all due respect, Sir? I’m not interested in joining your particular outfit.”

The man grins and shrugs his jacket off to reveal the physique of a special forces soldier. “Good, because I’m not here to talk to you about SHIELD.”


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The shouting is so loud it echoes down the corridor.

Brock would feel bad for the guy getting his ass kicked if a) he wasn’t a Red Cell bastard, and b) he hadn’t been such an arrogant little shit.

So no, he doesn’t feel bad when he hears the asshole getting demoted. Just as he doesn’t feel bad for having left him trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey for his CO to find.

Still buys him a drink when he spies him across a bar that night though. He’s always been a sucker for the tall, dark, and handsome types.


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Hydra issues orders; Jack only ever asks.

Do you like that? How does it feel? Can you take more? Is it too much or not enough? 


Hydra punishes failure; Jack only ever rewards success.

That’s it, just like that. Deep breath. Yeah that’s right. You’re doing so good.


Hydra breaks him down; Jack only ever builds him up.

Hands on his hips and lips against his forehead. You’re so perfect, breathed into his skin.


Hydra owns him, body and the tattered, blackened scraps of his soul. But it will only ever be Jack that Brock belongs to.

I love you.

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Scrape ... thump ! Scrape ... thump !

Jack raises his gun at the sound of heavy combat boots dragging over the rough concrete steps leading up to his backdoor.

He takes a deep, deep breath and opens fire as the door explodes inwards in a shower of wood splinters and glass. Each one hits dead centre of mass. Each one would be fatal if the thing stepping forwards was still human.

Little of Brock’s lower face remains intact, bone and broken teeth gleaming through pulpy, bloody flesh as the thing that used to be his husbands smiles. “Hi honey,” it rasps, “I’m home.”

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Jack Rollins is tall and good-looking, with an athlete’s body and a fighter’s natural grace. He has an easy smile and a wickedly talented mouth, and eyes that burn right through Brock’s soul.

He’s everything Brock’s ever wanted because he’s also a spy.

Jack Rollins is older than he looks and deadlier than he lets on. He’s there to keep an eye on them, and when the times comes, Brock knows he will tear down this meagre empire without a moment’s hesitation.

He knows all this, but he’s nineteen and in love, and he can’t quite bring himself to care.

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“I deserved to know,” is all Jack says by way of explanation. “As did you.”

Brock reads the memo again. He doesn’t know what half the terms mean, but he understands the gist of what was done to him.

To them.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he says, and almost believes it. But Jack doesn’t. He disappears into their bedroom and Brock follows. “We’ve been together for ten years. Whatever else happened... That’s real.”

“No, Brock. It isn’t," Jack replies, setting the suitcase down. “You didn’t choose me. You didn’t even want me. Not until they put you in that Chair.”

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Rollins’ breathing evens out soon after he lays down, but Brock lets the minutes tick away, just in case.

No second chances.

He grits his teeth against the pain and remains silent as he drags himself up so he can reach the gun Rollins stashed by his pack. “Fuck you, you ugly piece of shit,” he breathes. There’s a click as the hammer drops, and then Rollins is moving—

He’s pinned to the floor a moment later. Hands around his throat, a knee digging into his mangled thigh. Rollins’ eyes glitter in the dim light.

“Naughty, naughty, Commander,” he says.

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The thing about Rumlow is that he needs control.

To be able to exercise it, and to lose it. Deep down, he likes to submit.

Onscreen, Rollins steps in close, one hand curling around the nape of Rumlow’s neck as he leans down to whisper something in his Commander’s ear.

Pierce doesn’t need to see it to know exactly how Rumlow’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare at that casually possessive touch, how he leans into it, and smiles.

He knows how this will end, if it is allowed to play out.

He will not allow it to play out.

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Brock still tries for normality, sometimes.

Tries to pretend he’s a normal guy with a normal job and that he doesn’t live with sentient plants that used to be a person before they pissed off an Asgardian sorcerer.

Like now; sprawled out on his couch on a Friday night with a cheap paperback and lots of booze.

He doesn’t look up when he hears the door open or when the floorboards creak, or even when he feels something smooth and cool slap against his leg. “Get your leaf off my thigh, Jack,” he warns, “or I will fucking prune you.”