Brock had stopped listening to what Jack was saying right after Jack punched Palmer so hard a tooth flew across the room and Jack pulled his fist back bloody. That was nearly ten minutes ago.
It’s not that he isn’t interested-- he’ll have to write up a transcript of the situation later, he has to be interested-- but his hearing whited out for an entire ringing minute, heart pounding, and when he’d checked back in, Jack was sucking a split knuckle and standing over Palmer with his feet planted wide like a belligerent bull, and… and, well, Brock has seen that stance before. He’s seen it from Palmer’s position, tied into a chair and swollen with bruises and gasping for breath. He’s seen Jack leaning over him, big hands bright with blood, grinning mean like that with the corner of his mouth, the muscles of his shoulders and chest fighting his t-shirt.
But where Jack had put his foot up on the chair between Brock’s legs and nudged his toe into the straining crotch of Brock’s jeans, Palmer gets that foot straight in the belly. It sends the chair over backward and Palmer makes a strangled, wet sound when the weight of his body comes down on his bound hands.
Jack lets him squirm on the cement floor for a long moment, rocking casually on his heels, before bending to drag him back up, set the wobbly chair back on its legs. Brock watches Jack lean in close, hair slick and raked back with a hand more bloody than not, and murmur something low. Palmer shakes his head. He’s been crying for a while now, but he hasn’t said a word. Hydra trains them too well, Brock thinks. Hydra trains them too well and fucks them up too deep.
But the thought passes before it can take root, and Brock thinks instead how glad he is he’s not sitting down right now. There’d be no way to hide the solid raging presence of his hard-on if he were sitting. It’s bad enough standing, Thomas and Chen and Swarovsky at his back, only a wall of glass between them and Jack and the salty smell of blood that must be thick as molasses in the interrogation room. There are cameras in that room, but also in this one, and even if Brock could sneak a hand under his waistband to adjust the throbbing ache of his dick without his colleagues seeing, there are at least another half dozen agents glued to a video screen down in the security room.
Brock swallows, sticky. He needs a fucking drink. He needs to get out of this room. He needs to put his hand down his pants, he needs Jack to--
Palmer screams, a sudden burst of sound that makes the observatory room speakers squawk. Brock doesn’t jump, but only because he’s got every muscle on quivering lockdown already.
“Shit,” Thomas murmurs at Brock’s left, because Jack’s gripping Palmer’s jaw, spanning the whole square of it in one hand, and reaching into his mouth with the other. Brock watches Jack pull Palmer’s tongue out of his mouth, not far enough to do damage but far enough to hurt, and he can’t hear what Jack’s saying, can’t see anything but the strength of Jack’s fingers and the frantic bulge of Palmer’s eyes and the breadth of Jack’s shoulders-- He can’t breathe, he can’t--
“Gotta make a phone call,” Brock says. He turns on his heel without waiting for acknowledgement, shoulders past Swarovsky, shoves out into the hallway. The door shuts behind him and he catches himself on the opposite wall, slaps his palm there hard enough to sting. He lets himself pant for a second, catching his breath. The hallway is empty this far in the lower levels of the Triskelion, nearly below the Potomac. Only badges get people this deep. Plenty of privacy to lose his shit, but not enough for what he really wants to do.
He has to reach into his boxers and move his dick until it’s not too painful to walk, and then he takes off for the bathroom. He’s probably got at least another five minutes until Palmer spills his guts, and another fifteen after that before anyone comes looking for him. Lots of time to brace himself against a stall wall and jerk off into the toilet, flush and wash his hands and straighten his clothes. Jack will know what he’s been doing, because Jack always knows, but no one else will suspect. He can be in and out in no time, he can--
He rounds the corner and walks right into Steve. It startles him, the sudden presence of a tall figure in dark clothes, and he throws a punch before he realises what he’s doing. It whistles harmlessly over Steve’s shoulder, because Steve’s about a thousand times faster than even Brock’s startled reflexes, and Brock catches his balance falling back into a defensive crouch, adrenaline bursting like fireworks in his blood.
“Whoa, whoa,” Steve yelps, righting himself and lifting both hands, palms out. “Just me, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
Embarrassment makes Brock go even hotter all over than he already was. It takes a second, unwinding the aggressive clench of his body, but he manages to drop his fists and his stance. He takes a couple fast breaths and forces himself to grin, shaking his head. “Jesus, Rogers, you better watch yourself. You could get hurt sneaking around like that.”
“Didn’t think I was,” Steve replies. He’s in his tac gear, no cowl or shield. There’s sweat in the dip of his throat and his hair is messed up like he’s scrubbed his hands through it. He looks pink and golden and full of life, relaxed and sweet, the quirk of his mouth fond as he regards Brock. It makes something vicious uncurl in Brock’s belly.
“What are you doing down here anyway?” he asks, voice dropping into something a little dark, a bit threatening.
Steve’s brows pinch together. A subtle change comes over the open posture of his body, folding back in on itself a little. “Looking for you, actually,” he says. “Romanoff said you were working down here.”
It dawns on Brock in a rush just how bad it would be for Steve to get a look in that interrogation room. The door’s not even locked. He can’t begin to imagine what kind of line he’d have to spin on the spot to explain why Agent Palmer is getting worked over so thoroughly by his own teammates.
“Just heading back up,” he says.
“Uh, yeah.” Steve’s eyes flick down. “I can see that.”
It takes a slow instant for Brock to get it, and then he does, and the direction of Steve’s gaze lights his nerves on fire. It makes his cock jump too. He can tell when Steve sees that, because his cheeks darken three shades and the pulse in his neck starts hammering.
“Oh, yeah?” Brock feels a smile spread over his face. It’s not a nice smile, which just means Steve goes even redder seeing it. “Was it really important, what you needed me for?”
Steve’s still glancing at Brock’s crotch, but he swallows hard and answers, “Not really, I just--”
“Good,” Brock says, and takes three steps forward into Steve’s space. “Come with me.”
Steve goes with him, hardly any hesitation despite-- or maybe because of-- the way Brock grabs his elbow and yanks. The main bathroom is only another thirty feet away, but that won’t work now; those itty bitty stalls aren’t big enough for two guys the size of Steve and Brock to squeeze inside. Brock knows that from experience.
But there is a separate bathroom, just past the main one. Brock drags Steve toward it and reaches for the handle, but Steve balks at the last second. “Wait,” he says. Brock looks back to see him eyeing the blue placard with a wheelchair symbol on it. “What if someone actually needs--”
Brock rolls his eyes, pulling the door open. “There’s another one on the next floor, it’s fine.”
The bathroom has motion-sensor lights that flicker on cool and fluorescent when Brock pushes Steve inside. There’s plenty of room for both of them once the door is closed, only a toilet and a low counter with a sink to get in the way. Brock uses his hold on Steve’s elbow to twist him around, pull him in close. “Get on your knees.”
He realises his mistake as soon as the words are out. Steve’s forehead crumples and his mouth thins. They’re only a couple inches apart, Steve taller than Brock with his spine ramrod straight and his chin tipped up. The difference between them makes all the hair on Brock’s neck prickle upright, like when his dad’s rottweiler used to stare him down across the yard as a kid.
“I don’t think this is really the time,” Steve says slowly. There’s an edge to his words, a haughty, borderline-hurt snippiness. He’s getting that firm-jawed ornery look to him, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. Brock’s about three seconds from losing him.
“Hey, now.” Brock makes his voice get softer, lower. It’s an effort, wrangling down the burn of incipient cruelty that’s making his head swim. “This is definitely the time. I’m here, you’re here. This is here…” He pulls Steve’s hand down and presses it against his erection, which flexes appreciatively. He feels Steve’s fingers shift around it, incrementally. “You can give me fifteen minutes,” Brock says, with the bite of an order. Steve might outrank him in every other way that counts, but they both know which of them is in charge right now. Or who will be, anyway, if Brock plays his cards right. He learned a while ago that Steve’s made of steel; sharp and hard as nails, but putty when he gets hot enough.
Brock makes his cock twitch again, so Steve can feel it, and squeezes Steve’s wrist until the bones grind. “You want this in you, don’t you? Been thinking about it all week?”
Last time they’d fucked had been in Steve’s apartment, on the living room floor. Brock had made Steve call him daddy and beg for dick, smacked him around until Steve started gasping loud and wet, shivering and sweating on the floor at Brock’s feet. Brock had said, “What? Speak up, I can’t hear you,” because he knew exactly where all the mics were hidden in Steve’s apartment and he wanted a decent mp3 rip to take home at the end of the day. He’d said, “What do you want? Tell me,” and Steve had ground his teeth and sniffled and said, “I want you to put it in me,” like the words were being dragged out of him by a herd of horses.
Brock drops his voice even lower, intimate, crowding Steve close to the counter. “You want me to put it in you?” he murmurs. “You want to get fucked sloppy?”
Steve’s breath hitches then, just a tiny catch in the strong rise and fall of his chest, and Brock knows he’s got him. He strokes his thumb along the length of Steve’s wrist, lifts his other hand to touch the side of Steve’s neck. It’s hot there, damp with sweat, fluttering with a heartbeat that’ll keep Steve’s big animal body going for eternity.
“Yeah, you do,” Brock says. He doesn’t bother hiding the smugness; he likes the way it makes Steve’s eyes flash. He tightens his hand on Steve’s neck, gripping the back of it. “Get on your knees,” he says again, and this time Steve obeys.
He folds down so easy, trapping himself in the space between Brock’s legs and the sink. Brock lets go of his arm but keeps the other hand on his neck. “Good boy,” he says. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
Steve doesn’t answer, either because he knows he’s not supposed to, or because all that pride is getting stuck in his throat. Brock doesn’t care either way. Steve’s mouth has better things to do.
“Look at me,” Brock says.
Steve’s eyes flick up. They’re angry, upset, but hungry. His jaw is still set; Brock slides his thumb behind the hinge of it and presses until it opens. He lets his fingers slip around to touch Steve’s mouth, pull the bottom lip down. It’s so pink and wet in there, the tip of Steve’s tongue visible between his strong white teeth. “That’s right,” he murmurs, pushing in to touch the sleek inside of Steve’s cheek. “Open up.”
Slowly, like it hurts, Steve does. He kneels in front of Brock with his hands folded in his lap and his lips parted, showing his tongue and the dark back of his throat. Brock pulls him forward by the neck and meets his face halfway. He lets his hips ride the perfect beautiful planes of Steve’s face, grinds Steve’s chin into the taut tenderness of his balls. He feels Steve gasp against his crotch, almost pull back, and then go limp and pliable. It chafes Brock’s dick, grinding like that through his pants, but he goes a minute longer, until Steve’s cheeks and chin are pink with rug burn. When he lets a bit of space in between them, Steve’s mouth is swollen, red where the belt buckle bruised it.
“That’s nice,” Brock breathes, his fingers curled at the back of Steve’s neck. “You like feeling that on your face? You like my dick, don’t you?”
Steve swallows. His mouth is still open but his shoulders are tense, ratcheted up under his ears. He meets Brock’s gaze head-on, girly eyelashes and pink cheeks and all. “Yes,” he says, shutting his teeth sharply. “I like it.”
Brock grins. “Want to suck it?”
Steve takes a second to answer, squinting at Brock like he’s trying to think of something smart to say. It’s a second too long. Brock pulls his arm back and whacks Steve across the face. It snaps his head aside, although he must have seen it coming, could have dodged it if he wanted. Brock watches the way Steve gasps out loud, head turned aside. A dark red mark blossoms down his cheek, livid. Brock lets him feel it for a second, absorb it, then hooks his fingers under Steve’s chin and turns his face back. His eyes aren’t half as defiant now; nearly unfocused, pupils big. He looks up at Brock and there’s sweat gathering on his upper lip, at his hairline.
“Do you want to suck my dick?” Brock asks again, deliberately slow, thumbing at the curve beneath Steve’s mouth. “Use your words.”
There’s no hesitation this time. “Yes,” Steve says.
With his other hand, Brock yanks his belt buckle apart and pulls open the vee of his pants. He’s wearing boxers, but they’re old and worn thin. When he brings Steve’s face back to his cock, he can feel every sharp breath Steve takes, the shape of his jaw.
“Smells good, yeah?” Brock says, moving his hips so the tip of his cock rubs Steve’s nose. “Gonna taste even better.”
Steve makes a sound that resonates somewhere between his chest and his throat, a helpless high groan. His hands come up off his lap and touch Brock’s thighs, hard at first and then softer, like he’s remembered he’s not supposed to. Brock doesn’t get after him for it, though. He likes Steve hungry for dick. It’s a good look on him.
“Take it out,” he murmurs, watching Steve nuzzle him. “Put it in your mouth.”
Steve does. He’s quick about it, efficient. He tugs down Brock’s boxers and is gentle lifting Brock’s cock to his lips. Before he can get it in his mouth, Brock holds him off with two fingers on the forehead.
“Slow,” he says. “Take it slow.”
Steve nods. That hazy-eyed look is starting to level out, simmer down into something more stable but less obedient. He needs more. Brock gives it to him, sliding the head of his cock between Steve’s lips and, at the same time, flicking his cheek. It makes Steve flinch, that close to his eye. Brock does it again, harder, so it leaves a mark.
“Slow,” he says again. Steve’s mouth is wet and roaring hot. Brock pushes one finger in beside his cock, digs it under Steve’s tongue. It makes him gag and get even wetter, teeth tightening and then just as quickly relaxing. He looks up sharply at Brock, expecting a rebuke, so Brock gives it to him. He slaps Steve’s cheek with his other hand, open-palmed. Not hard enough to jar his teeth together, but hard enough to sting. “Watch yourself,” he says.
Steve shuts his eyes and puts himself to work. He knows how Brock likes his dick sucked, long and deep, thorough and wet. Brock gives him about thirty seconds to get into the rhythm of it before digging his fingers into the nape of Steve’s neck and pushing his hips forward. Steve gags immediately, the jab of Brock’s cock in the back of his throat too abrupt, but Brock holds him still and doesn’t let up. Steve’s hand on his thigh spasms, like he wants to shove Brock away.
“That’s right,” Brock says under his breath, nudging deeper. “You’re okay, relax.”
The ripple and grip of his throat is so good, clutching the head of Brock’s dick, massaging it. He groans, shuts his eyes tight for a quick second. It plays on the back of his eyelids, sudden and visceral: Jack’s thick arm swinging, the seams of his t-shirt straining, a scatter of blood, the way Jack settles himself firm and coiled after a hit, ready for the next one…
Brock knocks his hips forward, hard. Steve’s head bangs back into the counter. He gasps, or tries to. Brock’s dick gets a little deeper instead, and Steve gags in earnest at that, a snotty wet sound that makes the base of Brock’s spine tingle.
“Okay,” Brock says. His voice is shaking. He starts to pull out, slow as he can manage. Steve’s throat squeezes after him, desperate, air-starved. Brock’s cock comes out slick and purple. He gets it nearly free and then has to push back in, just once, hitting the back of Steve’s mouth all over again. On the next withdrawal, the instant his cockhead is safely past Steve’s teeth, he cracks his palm across Steve’s cheek. It smacks his head sideways into the wall, leaves a nice dent in the drywall.
“Shit,” Brock says, admiring.
Steve’s neck swoops, head lolling. His cheeks are flaming, eyes nearly rolling back in his skull. Brock reaches down to fit a hand around his throat and squeeze for a long moment, prolonging the way Steve’s already panting for air, chest heaving.
“Good?” he asks. He doesn’t expect an answer. It usually takes Steve longer to get this far gone, but maybe he’s been horny all day, waiting for it. He’s almost non-verbal, stammering something like “Yes,” when Brock gives him a little shake.
“Get up,” Brock says. “On your feet.”
He has to step back a couple inches to give Steve enough space, and even then Steve’s chest brushes his all the way up, damp hair tickling Brock’s jaw. Brock’s cock, bare and getting chilly despite the hand he has choked around the base, nudges the inside of Steve’s thigh, sensitive against the rough poly-blend of the tac suit. Brock smirks at him, at the lowered eyelashes and ducked chin, the way Steve is looking at him at once distant and hungry. Brock says, “Show me your cock.”
Steve’s hands drop to his waist. The tac suit is a complicated array of hidden buckles and military-grade velcro and concealed snaps, but Steve knows what he’s doing and his pants fall around his ankles. He’s wearing briefs underneath, tight and black and skimpy, and ordinarily Brock might be inclined to play around with that a little, maybe hike them up to chafe in the crack of Steve’s ass, or snap the waistband against the head of Steve’s cock, but he’s running short on patience and time today.
“Open your vest,” Brock says. He likes watching the way Steve blushes during sex, down to his navel and hot around his nipples. Steve obeys, undoing some more concealed fastenings. His tac suit falls open down the front, split in half. Damn, it’s a nice view. Brock takes a second to enjoy it, the vicious musculature of Steve’s He-Man chest and belly, sweat glistening already between the cuts of his abs, in the hollows of his collarbone.
Steve hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his briefs, but Brock makes a soft tsking sound to stop him. Steve’s dick is big and rigid, pushing out the front of his briefs. It’s gotten wet at the tip, angled up into the divot of his hip, and Brock puts his finger there, on that little smear of damp. “Fuck, you’re easy,” he says, rubbing firm circles that make Steve flinch and his hips twitch. “Look at this thing, huh? What do you even want to do with it? Can’t stick it in anyone, it’s too big.”
It’s not true, Brock’s seen bigger, but Steve went so red and stammered so much the first time Brock complimented the size of him that it’s become a theme. Steve’s embarrassed by his cock, and probably by the things he wants people to do to it. But there’s something he’s even more embarrassed by, and that’s his asshole and the things he wants people to do to *it*.
“Turn around,” Brock says.
Steve complies, shuffling in the knot of his crumpled pants. Brock looks at him in the mirror over the sink, the way Steve’s looking back at him sort of sideways, not wanting to meet his eyes. He puts a hand on the dip of Steve’s spine, just under the edge of the tac suit. “Bend over,” he says, pushing.
The counter’s not deep enough for the bend to be comfortable; Steve has to step back a couple inches to do it. It tilts his hips up invitingly, backs his ass nearly into Brock’s crotch. Brock slaps him once, on the high round of his right cheek, a solid blow that makes Steve drop his head between his shoulders, breathing loud.
Brock kicks Steve’s feet apart, yanking down his briefs. They stretch between his knees like a particularly ineffective chastity device, keeping him from spreading any farther. Brock gives Steve’s bare ass a few more smacks, three times in the same place.
“Spread yourself open,” he says. “Get your hands back here, come on.”
Steve has to sink lower and put all his weight on his chest to do it, the edge of the counter pressing into his belly. He reaches back and pulls his cheeks apart, fingers dug into the soft peachy halves of his ass. His hole is fresh and pink and delicate, like Brock hasn’t had his entire fist in there. It twitches while Brock watches, and the red marks from his palms on Steve’s ass seem to spread, mimicking the blush Brock can see creeping down Steve’s neck in the mirror.
“You should see yourself,” Brock comments, casual, bending closer. “Look at this thing, Jesus.” He whistles under his breath. It’s nothing special, really. It’s just an asshole, and he’s seen a few of those in his time, but Steve gets so squirmy and upset when Brock talks about it, it’s worth the effort. Brock touches the inside of Steve’s ass cheek, tracing a finger gently down one side. It’s ticklish, unexpected; Steve’s hole twitches again, his hands tightening to keep himself open.
“Hungry little cunt,” Brock says. “Want dick in there, don’t you?”
Steve doesn’t answer, so Brock slaps him, right on the tender inside of Steve’s thigh where it turns into his ass. “Hey, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Steve says. His voice echoes into the sink. He still doesn’t meet Brock’s eyes in the mirror.
“That’s what I thought.” Brock runs two fingers up the middle of him this time, skipping his hole. “Want me to shove my cock in it and fuck the hell out of it?”
“Yeah,” says Steve again. Brock thinks he can hear a bit of a whine to it. The blush that had started on Steve’s neck is down to his chest now, visible between the lose halves of his open suit. Brock can see in the mirror where it’s reached his nipples. They’re hard, tight little things that make Steve lose his mind when Brock messes around with them. Brock reaches past the suit and touches the right one, rubs his thumb over it.
“Look at these tits, huh?” he murmurs. “Go nice with your cunt.” He pinches, digging his thumbnail in. Steve flinches, the muscle jumping under Brock’s hand. He kneads the whole solid swell of Steve’s tit, jiggles it. “Pretty girl,” Brock says under his breath, like it’s not intended for Steve at all. He lets go, looks down between them at the pale vulnerable valley of Steve’s ass. Steve’s hole, bare, clenching. Brock puts his thumb on it without warning. Steve’s breath catches and his hips jerk, hole spasming hard under Brock’s touch.
“Fuckin’ slut,” Brock says. He makes himself sound amused, nonchalant, rather than grievously turned on. He digs his thumbnail in, the way he had to Steve’s nipple. Steve’s hole squeezes, defensive, but Brock shoves his thumb in anyway, just past the rim.
“Ow,” Steve gasps, like it’s been shocked out of him.
“Ow,” Brock mocks, snorting. “Like you haven’t taken a hell of a lot more than that, suck it up.”
Obediently, Steve falls silent, and his hole pushes against Brock’s thumb, relaxing.
“That’s more like it,” Brock says. “Let me in there.” He pushes deeper, to the first knuckle. He knows it’s uncomfortable; no matter how often Brock fucks him, Steve tightens back up like a virgin every time. He starts corkscrewing his thumb, pulling at the sensitive skin just inside. “That’s good,” he says. “You’re tight. Like a kid.”
Steve’s shoulders jerk, but he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes Brock likes to drop shit like that on him, just to see what he’ll do. So far, in the heat of it, nothing, but Brock’s sure there must be something out there raunchy enough to override even Steve’s enormous capacity for being in the moment.
Brock starts pulling sideways, stretching Steve’s snug rim. His own cock has gotten a bit soft, but it firms up again at the peek of Steve’s pink insides, damp and raw under Brock’s thumb. He pulls out. “Spread,” he says, because Steve’s grip has loosened a little. “Push it out.”
Steve obeys, his asshole screwing briefly tighter and then wider, pulsing open. It exposes the delicate inner parts. Just a bit, but enough that, when Brock flicks it hard, it spasms shut immediately, squeezing down to nothing but a pinprick. Steve gasps loud.
“Hey, hey,” Brock says. He slaps Steve’s ass, right in the middle between his hands. “Push it out, let me see.”
Steve does, again, although it takes him a second longer, his hole fluttering unhappily. That sweet private ring Brock could make feel so good, if he had the inclination. Instead, he flicks it again, and before it can clench itself up, he shoves his middle finger in. Steve’s hips pump away, reflexive, but Brock follows, jamming his finger deeper. He puts his other hand on Steve’s thigh, holding him in place, and rabbits his finger in and out.
“There you go,” he says, leaning in so his voice is just breath and heat on the back of Steve’s neck, jabbing at him fast and mean. “There it is, that’s it, you like it?”
Steve moans, choked. He’s still holding himself open, but his ass is trying to get away all on its own, pushing his crotch into the front of the counter. If Brock knows him at all, Steve’s dick is hard as nails, crushed up cruelly against the wood. He rubs his finger in and out, slower, screwing it around inside. “Need to get my dick in you,” he growls. He lets go of Steve’s hip to squeeze at himself, shifting closer so he can push the head of his cock against the back of Steve’s thigh, slap it there. “Feel that? You want it?”
“Uh huh.” Steve sounds like he’s talking through gritted teeth.
Brock mimics the motion of his hand with his hips, rubbing his cock against the inside of Steve’s thigh in time to the steady rhythm of his finger fucking. “It’s not gonna feel so great,” he warns. His own voice is a little rough, but that’s okay; the meaner he sounds, the better Steve behaves. “I’m going in you dry.” Or dry as he comfortably can, anyway; no reason to skin his own dick. “I could go down on you,” he says, like he’s actually contemplating it. “Eat you out a bit, so you’re sloppy.”
Steve’s breath catches and his head turns a little, so Brock can see the edge of his lashes. His mouth is half-open, red from his teeth.
“I’d bite you, though,” Brock says. “Right here.” He pinches the rim of Steve’s asshole, middle finger on the inside, thumb on the outside. Steve jerks away, automatic, but his hips bang into the counter and he can’t get farther than that. Brock doesn’t let up. He digs his thumb in, moves it around with his middle finger stretching Steve’s hole to the second knuckle. Squeezes his fingers together with Steve’s tender flesh between them, tugs and rubs too hard, pinches his nails. “Put my teeth in you,” he says, “get you a bit bloody, maybe. That’d make it wet.”
It’s tempting. He’s done it before, eaten out Steve’s sensitive little ass until he was crying for it, down on his belly with his face in the mattress and his whole body shaking, tearing Brock’s sheets with his big hands. And then Brock had scraped him with his teeth, quick and unexpected, like an accident, and Steve had sobbed out loud and clenched up and come all over the bed. It had been everything Brock could do not to keep going, keep biting his throbbing wet hole until it didn’t feel good anymore, but those had been early days, when Brock still had to be careful about just how nasty he got in bed.
He doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He wants to get his rocks off up Steve’s ass, and he wants to do it soon. He pulls his finger out too fast, without warning, and smacks the backs of Steve’s thighs when they move automatically to follow. The slap lands close to Steve’s balls, the cup of Brock’s palm just brushing their heavy weight. He slides his hand into that hot space, before Steve can try to shut his legs, and grabs the hanging sac, circles his fingers tight at the top. “Hold still,” he warns, and spits in his other hand. He fondles it over the head of his cock and spits again, strokes that mouthful down the shaft. It’s probably enough, but he works up some more and lets it drop between Steve’s white-knuckled hands onto the sore-looking pucker of his ass. It flutters open like it’s hungry, sucking the spit in.
“Good girl,” Brock murmurs. He uses Steve’s balls like a leash, tugging until Steve’s hips drop and tilt up, exaggerating the curve of his spine even further. It brings his ass back right where Brock wants it; he holds his dick steady at the base and feeds it straight inside. The first push makes Steve hesitate, moaning, but Brock pulls his balls again and gets in another inch, then another. When he can’t fit his wrist between them anymore, he lets go of Steve’s balls and grabs his thigh instead, dragging it back until his cock slides all the way in and his crotch is snug to Steve’s ass. Steve’s knuckles dig into Brock’s pelvis, still holding his cheeks open.
Brock takes a second just to enjoy it, the blazing flush of Steve’s insides wringing down on him. He nudges forward and back a few times, makes his dick flex so Steve can feel it. “How’s that?” he asks, although he doesn’t much care about the answer. “Makes your pussy feel nice, doesn’t it, having a big man in it?”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He’s never liked Brock talking to him like that, calling him girly things and being crude about it-- or rather, he doesn’t like to like it. Brock’s never missed the way it makes him spring wood every time.
Brock gives a hard thrust, bottoming out, and pulls back to do it again. It’s tight, that’s for sure, the spit drying quick, but he knows Steve will loosen up after a minute. He always does, goes hazy and starts enjoying it, getting into it. It doesn’t take long this time, either; less than ten thrusts later, he’s moaning steadily, breathing hard. When Brock pulls nearly out and pauses, waiting, it’s only a second before Steve pushes back against him, wanting it.
It’s hot, it’s cute, but Brock doesn’t want him too enthusiastic, that takes all the fun out of it. Once Steve starts trying to straighten, making movements like he wants to let go of his ass and touch his cock, that’s when Brock knows he has to switch things up.
“Put your head down,” he says.
Steve obeys, but not enough.
“More.” Brock reaches up and grabs the back of Steve’s head, shoving it into the sink. “Down there, stay.”
It hunches Steve’s shoulders tight, looks uncomfortable as hell, his neck craned. Brock grins where Steve can’t see him, and turns on the water tap. The unexpected blast of it makes Steve jump, banging his head on the faucet.
“Hey, watch it,” Brock says, cuffing his ear. “Don’t move.”
It’s the cold tap, icy and good pressure this far in the basement. It pours over the back of Steve’s head and neck, a waterfall down the sides of his face. Brock hears him gasp for breath, panting, a drowning man’s reflexive struggle for air.
“Good,” Brock croons, to keep him down there. “Good boy, there you go. Just relax.”
Steve’s entire body is trembling, muscles torqued and ready for escape, the clutch of him inside nearly too much. Brock reaches around with his left hand and finds Steve’s cock. To his total lack of surprise, it’s still ragingly hard, the foreskin pulled back and veins throbbing under Brock’s fingers. He starts rubbing it, massaging the tip with his thumb.
“This thing’s ready to fuck,” Brock says, making sure Steve can hear the amused pride in his voice, like a dad complimenting his son’s pitching technique. “Ready to bust a load in someone, aren’t you?”
Steve doesn’t answer, he’s too busy trying to breathe. Brock knows exactly how Steve scored in the field-stress tests SHIELD put him through a couple months back: high in anything involving pain or physical endurance, alarmingly low in the simulated drowning and ‘crushed by a landslide’ scenarios.
There’s water splashing on the counter, on the mirror, but that’s fine. Most of it’s going over Steve’s head and face. Brock strokes his cock from base to tip a half dozen times, tight and slow. Despite the water, despite the contortions his body’s going through, Steve’s still a miracle of biological engineering. His cock spurts precome into Brock’s hand on the fourth stroke, and again on the sixth. It probably helps that Brock’s dick is up on his prostate, riding it firm and steady.
“Gonna get off in you,” Brock tells him a minute later, when he’s starting to get close. The line of Steve’s spine, the stretch of his arms, and the bitten-off panicky sounds he’s making are going straight to Brock’s balls. He puts his free hand on the back of Steve’s neck, forces it farther under the water even though Steve’s already being so obedient. He likes the tension in Steve’s tendons, the way he knows Steve could throw him off in an instant, but doesn’t. Brock digs his fingers in, cruel, and fucks Steve’s ass even more cruelly. He starts squeezing the head of Steve’s cock in time with his thrusts, almost without meaning to, his attention split between too many captivating things all at once.
“Oh, here we go,” Brock moans, when he feels the tell-tale tingle, the slow intense tightening of everything in his pelvis. “Here it comes, it’s coming.”
He hears Steve sob, like his cock is connected to Brock’s, their pleasure linked, although maybe that’s just the way Brock’s twisting the tip of his prick and jackhammering his asshole. His own cock throbs, jerks. “Aw, fuck,” he growls, “there it is, you ready? Ready for it?” Whether Steve is or not is irrelevant; Brock starts coming and doesn’t stop for a long time, forcing his cock deeper and deeper, until Steve’s hands slip off his own ass and Brock lunges over him, screwing him like a fleshlight, using his body. He pants nonsense, filthy garbage, calls Steve every name he can think of, humps him through it until the last aftershocks finally, finally pass and his cock slowly starts to go soft.
It’s overwhelming to pull out, too sensitive. He has to brace himself on Steve’s back with one hand, the one that’s wet from the tap, and ease his cock out with the other. It emerges coated in jizz, flushed with chafing. He tucks it gently into his boxers and does up his pants, and only then reaches over to shut off the tap. Steve gasps, loud and ragged in the small room, his shoulders heaving. He might be crying. It’s hard to tell.
“Aw, baby, you did good,” Brock says, putting his hand on the bare small of Steve’s back, pushing up the suit. He does it under the guise of soothing, of comfort, but it’s the cold wet hand and Steve flinches hard at the touch of it on his spine. There are marks there, Brock notices, thin silvery lines still visible from last week, when Brock had whipped him bloody with an improvised crop and then put him on his back to get fucked. Steve had cried then, too, and asked for more lashes afterward.
“You did good,” Brock says again. He rubs his hand down Steve’s back, to the wreck of his ass. His hole is red and stretched, open where it hadn’t been before. Brock sticks his fingertip in, gentler than last time. He strokes the rim of it, coaxing. “Show me,” he says. “Show me all that spunk I just gave you, come on.”
Steve keeps his head lowered. He doesn’t want to look at Brock, not even in the mirror. His hole clenches, pushing, and Brock pulls his finger away in time for a trickle of jizz to leak out. It’s thick, because it’s been three days since Brock got off last, and it gathers on the back of Steve’s balls. Brock murmurs, “Nice, look at that,” before collecting it with his thumb and pushing it back inside. “Keep it in there,” he says. “That’s where it belongs.” He sinks into a crouch behind Steve and reaches up underneath him. Cold hand again, and he wraps it snug around Steve’s erection.
“Shit,” Steve breathes, the first thing he’s said in so long that it makes Brock grin.
“You’re fine,” he says. “You wanna get off?”
Steve nods, the back of his head soaked and dripping, bobbing beside the faucet.
“Fuck my fist, then,” Brock says. He makes an encouraging pumping motion, getting Steve primed. “Come on, give it to me. Get your nuts off in my hand.”
The first thrust is stuttery, Steve probably embarrassed by Brock’s face right down by his ass, and the little-kid nature of what he’s doing, no better than humping a pillow in bed late at night. But the second one is stronger, and the third desperate, and the fourth makes Steve groan long and low into the sink, one of his hands coming up to slap the wall. He doesn’t have much room to move, crowded into the counter. The head of his cock bumps the wood every couple thrusts.
Brock lets him go at it for a solid minute, his rabbity motions getting firmer, more selfish. Making himself feel good, calming down from the rush of fear adrenaline and taking off again on a tangent of arousal. His arms start flexing, braced on the counter and the wall, his ass pumping away close enough for Brock to lick, if he wanted to taste his own jizz. Right in the middle of another loud groan, Steve’s cock starting to jerk in anticipation of orgasm, Brock takes his hand away and stands up.
Steve’s still mid-thrust, and he bangs his cock hard into the counter without Brock’s grip as a buffer. He yelps and curls up, sliding halfway to the floor.
“Changed my mind,” Brock says, stepping back. It takes a second, uncoordinated and off-kilter, but Steve finally looks up at him over one shoulder. His face is bright red, dripping, eyes huge. He looks like he wants to protest-- loudly and vehemently-- but can’t find the words. He looks wrecked.
Brock shrugs. “You’re getting lazy,” he says. He hooks his thumb into the front of his pants and pats his own cock through them. It makes him want to shiver, oversensitive, but he doesn’t. “Had to do all the work myself today. Don’t want to make a habit of that.”
Steve’s brows furrow. He’s thinking fast, Brock can tell, trying to figure out what he can say to make Brock change his mind. Brock keeps talking, before he can decide on anything. “You look a little jumpy,” he says, “like you’ve got a lot of energy. You need to go upstairs to the gym and work it out, okay?” He curls a fist and does a little shadow boxing, showing off his lean muscles as much as illustrating. “Put on a pair of those tiny shorts, you know the ones.”
Steve does know the ones, because Brock had fucked him in them once, pulled to the side, up against a wall in the shower. Someone had walked in on them. It had been Jack, and he’d smirked at Brock before turning on his heel to leave, but Steve didn’t know that, he’d been face-first into the tile. He’d just heard the door open and shut, and Brock say, “Uh oh,” and had nearly lost it. That had been fun, talking him into staying put, Brock promising he would handle it, protect their reputations.
The point being, it’s impossible to hide an erection in those shorts, and from the look of him, Steve’s going to be hard for a good long while.
“Go work out a bit,” Brock continues. “Walk around like that. Show it off.”
The blush on Steve’s face darkens a couple shades. He puts one hand down between his legs, touching at himself, but doesn’t grab like he’s going to masturbate. He knows better, with Brock watching.
“And then go home,” Brock says. “Put your fingers up your ass. Feel my spunk in there, play with yourself. Don’t come.”
Steve’s eyes shut. Brock can nearly see the mental gymnastics going on, caught between doing as he’s told and telling Brock to go fuck himself. It’s a narrow battle, Brock can tell. Needs intervention. He kneels down in front of Steve and reaches for him, takes his chin. Steve’s eyes open in time for Brock to lean forward and kiss him. He melts for it, like he always does, mouth opening immediately. His body curves toward Brock’s, needy, softening. He makes a hungry noise. He’s a good kisser usually, although a bit slack right now, but Brock doesn’t do it for that. It’s just a leash on a dog.
He pulls back, slow, Steve swaying after him.
“If you’re really good,” Brock murmurs, “I’ll come over later and help you out. Okay?”
Steve regards him, no less unhappy but already looking more settled about it, determined. He nods. It’s jerky. “Okay,” he says.
Brock stands up, ruffling his hand through Steve’s damp hair. “I’ll see you around, then. Maybe soon.” He steps away and reaches for the knob, giving Steve the sort of grin he knows makes people weak in the knees. When he shuts the door, Steve’s still staring after him, crumpled on the floor with his pants off and his cock bare, dripping wet.
The hallway is empty, so Brock takes a minute to stretch and groan appreciatively at the fresh smoothness of his muscles, the lax smugness vibrating all through him. He could eat a horse right now, and run a marathon. He can’t keep a dumb smile off his face, satisfied all the way through. He starts to head back toward the interrogation room, but someone says, “Hey!” behind him and he turns to see Jack coming from the stairwell.
“There you are,” Jack says. When he gets close enough, he takes an exaggerated sniff of the air around Brock, wrinkling his nose. “Off fucking the dog again, huh?”
Brock snorts. Jack looks good, settled and bright the way Brock feels. There’s no blood on him anymore, but he’s radiating an aura like a well-fed carnivore, lounging in the sunshine to digest a meal. He’s got a fresh shirt on, but it’s snug. Brock can see his nipples through it.
“Palmer give it up?” he asks.
Jack tips a shoulder. He reaches out and touches Brock’s bottom lip with his thumb, head cocked. “About as easy as Rogers did, from the look of it.”
Brock gives his own shrug. His gaze slides over Jack head to toe, and although Jack’s pants aren’t nearly as tight as his shirt, Brock’s pretty sure he can see the swell of an untended hard-on inside. “What can I say? Rogers is a pussy, he likes getting smacked around. Just doing my civic duty.”
Jack takes a slow, deep breath. “I hear he’s not the only pussy around here who likes getting smacked around.” He drops his hand to slide one finger through Brock’s belt loop. “Come on, we’re clocking out early.”
Brock says, “Hell yeah,” under his breath, and follows Jack toward the stairs, cock already starting to rise again in his own shorts. Looks like Steve isn’t going to get to come today, after all.