When Brock finally managed to yank the macho stick out of his ass for one night, he always needed Jack to fill it back up again, immediately. It was always harsh, shoving Jack up against a wall the second the door was shut, rutting up against him like he was trying to shove him through the plaster. Belts would go next, Brock shoving his hand into Jack’s pants and finding his cock like his hand was laser-guided.
“Fucking knew you were thinking about this.” A growl, soft and full of gravel, stroking a half-dozen times to get Jack hard. It never took long, not when Brock was revved up like this, his sexual energy permeating the air, running through Jack like electricity. Jack didn’t talk; that was part of the unwritten rules, just grunted in response and turned a little towards the door to the bedroom.
Brock thrust him towards the doorway by his shirt, shedding his own clothing in the hall as Jack shoved his off on the way across the room. Finding everything was hell afterwards, but too long of a delay turned Brock from confident to uncertain on a dime. If he had more than a minute to think, he’d get cold feet and run, spending the night on the phone with a 900-number, spilling into tissues, or picking up the nearest willing barhopper or available prostitute and trying to fuck himself back into believing he never wanted Jack in the first place.
Then he’d be twice as much of an asshole to everyone in general and Jack in particular, up until he broke again. Then they’d do this dance once more, and Jack had better not fuck up. Once Brock had gone nearly six months without seeking out Jack, and he’d been such a colossal dick that even their superiors were taking the squad aside and quietly begging them to get him laid somehow.
So Jack didn’t hesitate when Brock climbed on the bed on his knees, gripping the headboard and shoving his ass out. Jack only paused long enough to get a lubed condom on before climbing on behind him. Even in the dim light he could see a faint gleam of lube on Brock’s hole, not a lot, but enough. A few times he’d tried to go without, and Jack had broken the unwritten rules to snarl at him, “You’re not a stupid-ass kid. Do the fucking prep or go sit on your baton.” And left.
The second time Brock had realized Jack had meant it. That had led to the sixth-month drought, but he’d never “forgotten” again.
Jack lined himself up and shoved in slow, hands on Brock’s hips. Brock made a sound like he was being punched, and then a long, low groan that went straight to Jack’s libido. Brock was hot and tight and he just took every inch of Jack perfectly. He could see all the muscles of Brock’s lean back just untense, his head dropping low as he relaxed. He looked fucking gorgeous like this, and Jack savored the slow, snug slide for as long as he thought he could get away with. He was leaning over Brock and had the urge to kiss him in the center of the back, pressing more kisses down his spine.
That would likely get him punched. He hadn’t done it, but he was pretty sure he knew exactly how it would go; Brock turning around violently, yanking them apart, punching at him, snarling at him. Brock wouldn’t say what he’d let out once, “Quit it with that gay shit,” because the single time he had at the beginning of this years before, Jack had felt his face go cold with the kind of expression he got right before he stormed the door and started taking out targets. Brock had read that loud and clear: certain things would not be tolerated.
Certain things Brock couldn’t tolerate either, like softness or tenderness. Jack figured the reason for that from things picked up over the years. Brock Sr. had been a grade-A asshole with a worldview so narrow you couldn’t have fit a piece of paper in there, and a lot of that had rubbed off on his son. Brock had had a lot of that shaken out of him between the Marines and Hydra, but some things ran deep.
Right now, though, Jack was as deep as he could go, and had lingered in that tight, tight heat for as long as he dared. Brock’s head was coming back up, and Jack braced himself, widening his stance on his knees and gripping Brock’s hips firmly. Then he started to fuck. Hard, brutal, relentless, yanking Brock’s hips back onto his cock even as Brock was shoving to meet his thrusts.
“Fucking fuck me! Harder, shit, goddamn fuck me harder!” Jack obliged Brock’s shouted filth, because in between those words were heartfelt moans of deep appreciation. Despite the secrecy and rules, that was why Jack kept doing this, because Brock wouldn’t, couldn’t, go to anyone else. He fucking loved this, and wouldn’t let anyone else but Jack close enough.
Jack bore down as their hips flew, punching sounds out of Brock with every clash of their bodies, waiting until Brock’s head flew back in warning. He shifted himself enough to stay balanced as Brock pushed back from the headboard, twisted, and pulled away. Frantically, he pushed Jack down on his back, and Jack went with it, lying flat. Brock leaned back, bracing one hand on Jack’s thigh and using the other to line up Jack’s dick with his hole. Groaning, he sank down, taking a long, wonderful moment to savor the new angle and depth this position brought. Jack held onto his control with iron will, because the vision of Brock using his whole body to hold himself on Jack, his own dick flushed and hard, pearly and damp with precum, was a beautiful sight.
When he saw Brock’s chest move as he took a deep breath, Jack summoned all his strength and held onto the bed for dear life. Brock started thrusting himself up and down, abs and thighs flexing, penis bobbing and scattering flecks of fluid everywhere. Faster and faster, harder and harder, sometimes pausing to grind down and swivel his hips in a way that drove Jack crazy. It was like Brock couldn’t get enough, like there wasn’t enough dick in the world and he had to have more than his share of it before someone took it away, it was frantic and messy and glorious.
Jack held his hands still as Brock finally dropped to his knees, driving himself down in short thrusts as he took one hand and started to stroke himself. The sight was too much, and right on time; Jack groaned in pleasurable agony as he let go of control, orgasm hitting him hard as he filled the condom with heat. Brock swore incoherently, hand flying, and came onto Jack’s belly, his ass clenching around Jack’s still-pulsing cock, milking the last of his orgasm.
Both of them just breathed hard for a few moments as Brock sank down on Jack’s still semi-hard dick with a sigh of contentment. Jack settled his hands on Brock’s hips, knowing he’d suffer the touch for a while.
When he went fully soft, Brock climbed off of him and laid down on his back, rubbing his face with his clean hand. Jack got up and headed for the shower first. That was a politeness he’d stopped questioning. He made it quick, just enough to get the sweat and spunk off of him, and toweled off while walking back to the bedroom. Brock lifted his head to stare, his eyes flickering over Jack’s mostly-naked body with appreciation. Jack took the opportunity to get his own looks in; Brock was sharp and lean, hair long enough to have some style. SHIELD work meant undercover, and that was hard in a military buzz cut. Right now Brock’s style was “sex-mussed”, which Jack appreciated the hell out of. He didn’t move much from the doorway as Brock passed him by, taking in the view of every naked angle.
“Very nice,” he muttered, nearly hidden under the crash of the water. Brock could pretend not to hear him if he wanted, and that would have to suit. This was, after all, the game they’d chosen to play.
The Hydra doctors said Brock was lucky to be alive. When the Triskellion fell, Brock has still been inside. Slabs of concrete had protected him from being crushed, but he’d still broken his legs and had nasty burns over his face, head, neck, and shoulders. Recovery was going to take a while, but at least Hydra was not going to be using the STRIKE team who’d been on camera arresting Captain America in any of its immediate maneuvering. No doubt they’d get action soon enough though, with Hydra trying to control whatever part of SHIELD they could before anyone could regroup.
Which was why when Hydra techs and a smarmy, lawyer-sounding woman in a suit came in with a partial suit of power armor on a stand, Jack was understandably surprised. Brock was barely at the point where he could stay awake without too many drugs, let alone anywhere near operational. It had barely been a month since Insight had gone to hell.
The lawyer flicked her eyes at Jack, but he stared off into middle distance and pretended not to get the message. He was guarding Brock from retaliation; this might be a Hydra facility, but backstabbing was certainly not out of the question, not if anyone was going through the rosters and trying to root out any traitors during this colossal fuck-up clean-up. He’d parked himself by Brock’s side, swapping out with a few die-hard loyalists from their squad when he had to sleep, and made damn sure he’d kept anything else from happening to Brock. Every instinct and bit of training told him to stay put now, and he obeyed the urging.
“Agent Rumlow, I have a proposition for you when the doctors release you. You have proven yourself to be an exceptional leader, talented, strong, and loyal. Of everyone in Hydra’s service, you’re the most likely to bring this mission to completion. You’ll have access to the best healing serums in Hydra’s supplies to speed your recovery. And this,” she patted the armor as the techs fussed and looked nervous. “This will give you strength well beyond your own, and shield you from injury. With this, you’ll be able to lead a team of our elite agents on some choice missions for our leadership. Particularly missions involving the Avengers.”
The techs took over as the lawyer waved at them, pointing at different parts of the armor and reeling off its abilities with nervous energy. The lawyer just looked coolly competent as she pulled out some paperwork for him to look over. Jack couldn’t believe it; their world was falling down around their ears and still the paperwork went on. Unbelievable.
Jack shifted to looking over the armor, his trepidation growing with every word out of the techs’ mouths. Brock’s eyes had lit up as they had read the specifications, how protective it was, what kinds of firepower it could shrug off, the added strength from the power packs and gauntlets that could easily make his punches stronger than Rogers’. The last was the biggest selling point, and Jack hated them for saying it. If there was anything that would get Brock to sign on the dotted line, it was the possibility of revenge on Captain America. The Avengers in general and him in particular were the biggest obstacles to Hydra, and Hydra would do anything to take them out, use any resources to accomplish that goal. Jack realized what was going on, but kept his mouth shut for the moment.
“It’s uniquely suited to your talents and temperament. We’ll just need your signatures and we can get started,” she said, neatening the papers on the bedside table and starting to lean over Brock’s heavily-bandaged body.
“Sorry, ma’am, Hydra regulations prevent any operative from signing anything while under the influence of narcotics or psychotropics,” Jack said, keeping his voice flat and robotic as possible while angling his body to make it hard for her to push past him.
The lawyer gave him a black look for that. “Part of this would involve healing serums-.”
Jack had plenty of experience in keeping a straight face so he wouldn’t laugh out loud at that outrageous statement. Those “healing serums” were a Hydra fairy tale, told to gullible agents who first joined up. Oh, they existed, no doubt about that, but they were unstable, experimental, and with more side effects than anyone sane wanted to deal with. They used that stuff on agents who had critical skill sets who were on the edge of death, or on irreplaceable commodities like the Asset.
Not agents on the shady side of forty with blown covers who wouldn’t be able to work for months.
“Ma’am, let Agent Rumlow rest. He’ll look over your paperwork once he legally can,” Jack said, taking a step forward to force her away. Behind him, Brock was being quiet, but it was the quiet of a volcano slowly getting ready to blow.
He waited until the techs left with the huffy lawyer, and just before Brock angrily opened his mouth, Jack started talking.
“They’re trying to kill you.”
That took the wind right out of Brock’s sails. “What?” he asked, blankly astonished.
“Look at that shit,” Jack said, gesturing to the heavy armor on the stand with contempt.
“’That shit’ is going to make me into a walking tank,” Brock said, scowling impressively. His new scars made his scowl very impressive indeed, even through the bandages.
“Iron Man’s been active for what, eight years, and this is the best they can come up with? You’re going to be waddling around in this damn thing.” There were heavy boots and heavier shin armor, but otherwise nothing from the waist down. The armor plates, gauntlets, and power packs made the suit incredibly top heavy. No matter how hard Brock worked at rehab, he was always going to feel the effects of getting a building dropped on him, and this wasn’t going to help his mobility was tiny bit. “It’s slow as fuck. You might be able to punch hard, but unless someone is standing dead still, fuck if you’re going to connect. Forget trying to beat Rogers, you’ll be lucky someone doesn’t sneak up behind you and knife you in the neck. You sure as hell aren’t going to be able to see or hear them in that helmet,” Jack said. A closed-mouthed, fully-head helmet with eyeholes smaller than he’d seen in a Halloween mask. Intimidation was all well and good, but this was supposed to be for fighting, not a fun house.
Brock blinked, and then scowled again, opening his mouth to argue.
“There’s not even any distance weapons in this thing. There’s no guns, no flamethrowers, not even a fucking taser. You’re going to be a big, shiny target. If you want to take out Rogers in that thing, the only way is lure him close and then blow both of you up.” Jack waited a beat, and then said the rest of what he’d been thinking when the lawyer had been talking. “Hydra doesn’t want you active, they want you as a living bomb to kill Captain America. They know you hate him enough to do it, and they think you don’t have anything to lose. Win-win for them.”
Brock was silent, breathing angrily through his nose for several long moments, shifting his gaze between the Crossbones armor and Jack.
“Then what the fuck do I do now?” he asked, keeping his voice down. There was something behind the pain and frustration and anger, the little hint of despair that Jack knew Brock had been trying to keep tamped down.
“Heal up. Then we bug out,” Jack said succinctly.
Brock looked astonished, but amazingly, didn’t argue.
Six months later they were in a non-extradition country with no active Hydra presence. Brock was back on his feet, and they had found a job working security for someone with “diverse” business interests. Neither of them gave a shit what the boss did or sold, and that made them extremely employable.
Despite the good salary, they had just one apartment between them. Originally it had been out of necessity in order to preserve their cash reserves from running. When the paychecks had started rolling it, they upgraded to a better apartment. A single, better apartment. Neither of them commented about it.
Brock had kept himself indoors or at work for the first five months, never looking in the mirror, rarely meeting Jack’s face. Brock had wanted to fuck a few times, just like before, but Jack could tell he had still been hurting and there had been no way Jack was going to go all out on him, no matter what his ego wanted. They were either going to do that stuff safely, or not at all. Brock remained quiet, brooding, and woke up at least five times a night either out of pain or some kind of damn nightmare. Jack would know, considering they were in the same bed, if annoyingly chaste until Brock got his health and head figured out.
Finally, after three months on the job, Jack managed to coax Brock out to a bar for the first time since Insight, willing to do anything to get him out of the house, even willing to vacate the apartment for a night if Brock found some barhopper or pro who’d be willing to do exactly what he said. Except that hadn’t happened. Brock hadn’t even looked at any of the women, even those who hadn't flinched at his scars. Anyone who gave Brock so much as a sideways look of disgust Jack just stared down, sometimes letting the butt of his gun show to get them to take their judgmental eye elsewhere. Brock kept stealing glances at Jack as they’d drunk their beers, unbent enough to laugh at the shit jokes going on one table over, and nailed his eyes on Jack’s lips wrapped around the bottle for a longer time than Jack had ever seen him before. He had to know Jack was warding off anyone who might make a comment or ask a dumb question, but he was quiet about that as Jack was.
“Want to go back?” Jack asked. It was a question liable to get him punched, because that was one of the rules. Don’t talk about it. Brock was a damn Fight Club about his rules. But he’d accept the punch if that mean that Brock was getting back to normal.
But this time Brock nodded, stood, threw down money, looking like he couldn’t wait to get out of here. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Well, that was something new.
Jack pushed a little more as they groped in the hallway inside their front door, letting Brock move him a little, but refusing to be tossed around and slammed into walls. Brock didn’t shove Jack into the bedroom, but instead lingered to watch him get naked. Jack drew it out a little, and pretended not to notice Brock hesitating over taking off his shirt. To hell with that.
“Come on,” Jack said, not giving Brock time to get shy. “Get up here.”
Competitive spirit did what ego wouldn’t, and Brock was soon at the headboard, ass out and head down, more than ready for Jack.
Brock felt like he always did, hot, tight, fucking amazing, and Jack savored the closeness between them. Inches away, Brock’s unburned skin of his back smelled of warm musk and salt. Without thinking, Jack closed the gap and tasted his skin. Brock flinched, usually a warning sign, but Jack just kissed the middle of his back, light as a feather. At the same time, he thrust slightly, circling his hips just a bit.
“W-What the hell are you doing?” There wasn’t any of the panicked heat that usually accompanied a question like that, so Jack let himself answer leisurely.
He kissed Brock again, just an inch lower, soft and light.
“Kissing you,” Jack said into his skin, and did it again, gentle, moist pressure, a little lower.
“What the hell for?”
Jack thrust his hips again, and Brock shoved back to meet him, more slowly this time. Deeper.
Another kiss, this time higher. “Do you want me to stop?”
A pause, a few gentle thrusts together as Jack laid down a few more kisses. Nothing from Brock yet. Feeling bolder, Jack brought up a hand to caress across Jack’s hard belly, trailing up his nipples, and giving them a little tweak.
Brock bucked underneath him in surprise, but didn’t actually try to move away. Jack kissed his way up and down Brock’s spine as they found a lazy rhythm together. After long moments, Brock started to relax, and Jack slowly pulled out.
Brock looked frantically over his shoulder, his bad eye wet, and Jack smiled reassuringly. “Turn over,” he urged, tugging on Brock’s hip.
Something like terror flashed over Brock’s burn-twisted features. He’d never gone for face-to-face sex, not even before the collapse of the Triskellion. It was… It had been too much of a reminder of what he’d been doing. He would have been forced to acknowledge a lot of things. And now…
“I do,” Jack said firmly, fixing his eyes on Brock’s face and giving a small smile.
There was a terrible, long moment of stillness, a hard swallow, and then Brock yielded. Jack slid his hands under Brock’s thighs and tilted him back until he could sheath himself back inside Brock’s heat. Brock groaned at that, eyes fluttering shut and head tilting back.
“That feels… so good,” he whispered, scarcely audible. Jack thrust in, slow and easy, as he leaned forward. Brock could feel him looming, but kept his eyes shut. When Jack brushed his lips against Brock’s scar-shiny ones, Brock inhaled fast, bucking against him in a start.
“Gonna kiss you,” Jack said.
“The fuck why?” Brock sounded like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“’Cause I want to.”
Brock’s hand came up and clutched at Jack’s shoulder, squeezing hard. Jack brought his hand over and circled it around Brock’s dick, jacking it slow and easy.
“Why you want to kiss hamburger?” Brock asked, his voice weirdly small. His body was undulating with Jack’s thrusts, Jack’s hand, in strange counterpoint to his questions.
“’Cause it’s you,” Jack said. He closed the gap between them to barely an inch. “I want you.”
Brock kissed him with sudden passion, one hand snaking out to hold Jack close, chasing their high together as Jack thrust and stroked, groaning into Brock’s mouth as his orgasm overtook him. Brock held him through it, thrusting into the tight space of Jack’s hand and their bodies, spurting his own pleasure between them.
“I want you too,” Brock said right into his ear, his arm a solid strength around Jack, unwilling, for the first time, to let go.