You spot a sweet piece of tail while on a mission or on leave, and it’s all juicy and vulnerable, you damn well make a report on it when you get back.
Because hell, the higher-ups are always looking for something that they can use to advance their goals, something versatile, cost-effective and easily hidden from the books of their still oblivious host, and depending on the sitch, sex makes for a good currency.
Really, all HYDRA needs to do is grab that sweet thang you noticed, make sure nobody will ask uncomfortable questions, and then they go and train them up just right.
And if anybody on Hydra’s roster ain’t comfortable with that kind of thing….well….a gentle reminder usually does the trick.
This is a war. One they are very close to winning.
Everybody has to do their part if they want to make the world a better, safer place once and for all.
Anybody who bitches about people getting drafted to help them fulfill that worthy goal simply doesn’t have their priorities straight, do they?
Somebody still not comfortable with it after a bit of reminding? Pity, but that’s what weak-link protocol is for.
And really, they NEED those pretty little bargaining chips.
SHIELD’s good for a LOT of resources and intel, but you can’t just cram everything behind that nicely convenient mask.
Off the book deals with outsiders are an unavoidable necessity, and their allies and contacts are people, and people talk.
Even if they’ve got covers hiding their covers….no sense in playing bull in a china shop to the point where people get upset and maybe start asking questions…maybe start putting the carefully scattered pieces together.
Better to tread gently.
Easy does the trick.
Catch more flies with honey and all that jazz.
So if there’s an arms dealer, a politician, a shady scientists or a crime lord, who’s interested in a deal you’re offering, but who’s playing hard to get?
Well, you just need to know which department to call, and they’ll send you one of those sweet little somethings over, and they’ll do whatever it takes to spice up the deal. At that point, they’re too well trained and house-broken not to.
Never mind that distracting a mark, blackmailing key figures, getting an in with a skittish target and rewarding their own troops are also things that need to be taken care of.
So what if the cutie-pie that got assigned to one of those tasks is none too happy about their new job? Or if they end up getting hurt or killed in the line of their new duties?
If they cry and beg, do you take pity on them?
Seriously? Fuck that noise.
Because you know better than most that the world needs order more than it needs anything else. You’ve seen what happens when there is none.
So yeah…whatever price needs to get paid to get the job done, you’ll see to it that it’s paid in full.
Sacrifices need to be made. Everybody needs to do their bit, whether they want to or not.
(Btw….you didn’t think you were excluded from this, did you?)
____
The first time he’s on leave, Brock drags Jack off to the sleaziest bar he can find, for some pool and so they can get both get properly smashed for what’s the first time in their short lives.
(Because stuff like getting soused behind the home for juvenile delinquents with a single stolen bottle of rotgut Vodka, the label of which they can’t even decipher and which tastes like piss mixed with disinfectant? Just doesn’t count.And neither does your step-dad giving you a few sips of his bourbon until you feel fuzzy, so you won’t struggle too much while he slips his hand in your shorts as you sit on his lap and watch cartoons. It doesn’t, all right?)
Thing is, in the kind of small towns out in the hicks they grew up in, if you liked boys and tried to flirt with a guy, chances were real good you’d end up with a bloody nose and a few broken ribs.
In the big city where they are now, it ends with Brock sucking off five guys in a row in the restroom and then getting fucked hard in one of the toilet stalls, while Jack rolls his eyes and stands guard.
They get thrown out on their ear when the whole thing turns into a fist-fight between two jocks who can’t agree on who gets to tap Brock’s tight little ass next.
To Jack’s great chagrin, they hit another bar after that, and they keep going until Brock’s walking funny, grinning like a loon and licking his lips, while Jack’s looking grim, his knuckles bruised from politely calming down a few of the more enthusiastic of Brock’s suitors. “Polite”, cuz’ they’ll live.
But yeah, when Brock nudges Jack’s side, the edges of Jack’s lips slowly curl up, because fuck, what a way to de-compress after their first real mission, and now they’re both yawning and fighting to keep their eyes open, having a hard time walking in a straight line and leaning into each other for support…..everything is roses….effin’ huge…..bloomin’……wonderful roses.
As the months pass and they settle into their lives as full-fledged HYDRA agents, Brock's continued enthusiasm for spending his leave in a certain kind of way gets him pulled into the office of the local head of Human Resources.
"Strip." she orders him with a brisk voice, and Brock watches her with a cocky grin as she looks him over.
He obediently opens his mouth as she checks his teeth, bends over on command so she can run her hand over his ass and between his legs, holds still as she runs her fingers through his hair.
Once she's done, she leans back against her desk, eying him over the top of her wire-rimmed spectacles with the kind of speculation a prospective buyer at a horse-market might afford a prize mare.
"Kid, for what I have in mind for you, you have the body and, as a little bird tells me, the inclination to match. You will be getting a new set of additional assignments, which will have you participating in a diverse range of OPs. It will help expand your horizon beyond your usual work, which will make it easier for you to move up in the ranks. However, it will require you to hone and improve the necessary skill set. Right now, you're no more than an ambitious amateur. For our purposes, we need you to be a well-trained professional."
He's not sure what exactly he expected when he got called into her office, but as she explains HYDRA's plans for him, he has to work hard at keeping that cocky smile on his face.
It’s one thing to pick and choose, to have the hottest guys dancing to your tune, putty in your hands but…..
(“Come on you little slut….I know you want it bad….if you’re good, I’ll even give you a twenty….pretty little fag like you.”
Walking home through the dark alleys in his hometown of Bugfuck Nowhere, he’s dead on his feet and his hand is still smartin’ from where he got burned by the hot griddle when the manager shouted in his ear, spittle flying, and he fucking flinched.
The only thing he can think about is how he hopes that his dad ain’t home, or if he is, that at least he won’t be drunk, because then he might get to crash on the couch for an hour or two before needing to head out to his second job.
He’s fucking distracted and no match for the heavy-set guy who seems to have been waiting for him at the corner.
The bruises and scratches and bite marks take weeks to fully fade. His dad doesn’t even ask once about them.
It takes months until he can replace the jeans and the tee and finally burn them. Money’s tight and got even tighter because the folks at the second job didn’t take kindly to a no-show. )
Funny how things change.
Three months of spreading his legs and of keeping his mouth nice ‘n open as he learns the tricks of the trade in a VERY expensive brothel, and he discovers that under the right circumstances, there is a certain power to be found in the word “whore”.
When he comes back, he's learned how to apply his battle-won strength and flexibility to wrap himself around another person's body in in a wide variety of highly pleasing manners and heavens, does that bring all the boys to the yard.
A flaming queen, a suavely groomed pastel princess or a naughty twink, he’s been taught to be whatever his marks are into.
He also no longer has a gag reflex and doesn't flinch anymore when groped hard in delicate places, no matter how sweaty, bony or nicotine-stained the hand doing it is. He has even learned to smile sweetly as it happens and say "Yes daddy, please, just like that."
The missions he goes on because of his newly acquired skill-set ARE as diverse as promised, with great variation in terms of type of target, mission parameters and mission objectives. He likes the ones best where he gets to slit his mark's throat as messily as possible, after.
On rare occasions, there are solo missions, though more often than not, he plays the honeytrap some team needs to meet their goals.
Tonight's special though, because he might or might not end up as a bribe and Rollins is tagging along, so if the prospective associate turns out NOT to be as interested in him as anticipated (and that's entirely possible, the guy's preferences were listed as very variable), there's a good chance him and Rollins can go clubbing together later, celebrate their STRIKE team making "Rho" a week ago. And hey, it's not like they aren't already dressed for the occasion or anything.
Jeff Hanson, a senior special agent with Hydra’s Arm of Acquisition and Allocation, whom SHIELD believe to be one of their mid-level logistics managers, is in the process of negotiating a contract with an independent weapons-dealer in Innsbruck, a lengthy process that involves a lot of "getting to know you" meetings. Apparently the guy had shown a taste for blond little twinks on several occasions, which led to Brock spending a very boring hour in the bathroom that afternoon, messing about with some store-bought hair-dye. Fucking fifth time this quarter. But hey, whatever is necessary to get the mission done.
Grinning in front of the restroom mirror, Brock adjusts his too tight t-shirt, applies an almost imperceptible touch of pink lip-gloss and musses up his now golden tresses, bedroom-style, before heading back into the club, where their little conference is taking place in one of the private booths at the back.
As he makes his way across the dance-floor, twisting and turning his body to the beat, sliding past all those deliciously sweaty, gyrating bodies, he can't help but chuckle, because man, once he and Jack get back stateside, their team is SO going to rib him about going goldilocks. It’s gonna be even better than when his hair was redder than Whelan’s. He’s pretty sure there’s a betting pool about what color he’s gonna turn next, but despite a valiant attempt at bribery with his patented home-made snickerdoodles, Jack’s being a tease and not tellin’ him, damnit.
Rollins is standing in front of their booth, a little to the left, playing "tough security guard", and as Brock slides past him, he winks at his STRIKE brother, snickering gleefully as Jack glares back all disapproving, half in character and half for real.
Looks like Brock’s not entirely forgiven yet for using the VIP-pass to that Diamondbacks’ game Rollins got him as a birthday gift to sneak into the locker room after the game and give No. 41, No. 45 and No. 84 a very special thank-you for winning the game. But hey, wasn't him having fun the point of getting a birthday present?
Rolling his eyes a bit at Jack’s snittyness (he’ll come around, he always does), Brock sidles up to Hanson on the soft leather seat and snuggles up to him, preening and displaying his wares.
Steinmann, the weapons-dealer, gives him a short grin and salutes him with his gin tonic and Brock licks his lips slowly and suggestively, taking care to get them all nice and glistening wet.
Sliding back in his seat, Steinmann's expression turns all sharp teeth and hungry anticipation and his gaze flicks downward, to his crotch.
Brock knows this song and dance, and in one fluid motion, he slides beneath the table and slips in between Steinmann’s thighs, while Steinmann is already wrestling with his belt-buckle with fat fingers.
It takes just a second to gently nudge the man’s hands aside, stopping for a moment to suckle on the guy’s fingertips and lick the palm of his hand, and then deftly open the weapon-dealer’s pants, baring his dick and balls.
As Brock runs his lips over Steinmann’s rapidly engorging cock, ducking down low so he doesn’t bump into the man’s beer-belly, he sighs inwardly.
On one hand, he’ll probably be free to go partying with Jack after this evenings’ negotiation is over, since Steinmann looks too fat and too easily out of breath to go more than this one round tonight….on the other hand, the funky smell around the guy’s nether regions could take down a moose and Brock’d rather get fucked by the guy, with hopefully a nice protective condom between them.
Ah well….his orders are clear and it is not his place to bitch about minor annoyances like this.
Hail Hydra.
It takes Steinmann ages to come and Brock really has to work for it, putting his tongue and mouth in places he’d much rather he didn’t have to. His scalp smarts, because fuck, of course the jackass is REALLY into hair-pulling, and Brock’s mouth now tastes like a nest of slugs died there. He can’t wait to hit the next bar together with Rollins after this. Fuck, he needs a drink. A whole bottle of a nice Irish Whiskey if possible, to wash away this godawful taste and fuzz out the memories.
At least listening in on the negotiation was interesting. Hydra’s offer isn’t half-bad, but Steinmann really did his homework and is a skilled networker, so he has a cushy little BATNA to fall back on if his demands aren’t met. Hanson isn’t willing to fork over more money, but he’s offering a few nice perks that almost nobody else would be able to supply.
Brock slips back up into his seat, resuming his position at Hanson’s side, making sure to throw a long, slow, wanton smile in Steinmann’s direction before he settles down. Never hurts to flatter his marks a bit.
Steinmann doesn’t bother to smile back. After all, the “cute twink hooker” that Hanson brought along has fulfilled his purpose.
Instead, Steinmann seems a bit distracted, trading some final pleasantries with Hanson, his gaze fixed…..on Rollins.
Now, Jack is a well-trained black-ops operative.
His focus is on the room and the people beyond their private booth, but yeah, he’s also keeping an eye on the people talking in the booth he's guarding. And like most trained soldiers, he also has an instinct for when somebody is watching him.....and here and now, there’s a subtle tension in the way that his STRIKE brother is holding himself that does not bode well and which wasn't there before.
Fuck….there’s been stuff going on up here that Brock didn’t catch because he was blowing Steinmann under the table, and this looks bad.
There’s not much that will faze Jack, who is usually the epitome of being chill and keeping your cool under fire, but something Steinmann has done where Brock couldn’t see has rattled the tall soldier.
No, not good at all.
Brock glances at Steinmann from underneath his eyelashes, a languid smile on his lips, trying to find a hint that will tell him what the weapons-dealer has been up to, while determined not to betray his worry. And yeah, the shark-like expression that has sprung up on the weapons-dealers’ face, all fish-cold eyes and bared teeth, is by no means reassuring.
Steinman turns to Hanson, pointing in Jack’s direction with his Cohiba, almost smoked down to the stump, and grins nastily.
“You know something Jeff? Bringing a sweet little twink like yours to heel, fucking them hard as they cry and try to squirm away is one thing…..but you know what I’ve always wanted? To fuck a wolf-pup like that one. One that could break your neck in a second, but that won’t, because they’ve been told to be a good little pet for you. A deadly fighter with blood on their hands, but they have to lie there and take it, whichever way you want them to. Now THAT’S a power-rush.”
And Hanson grins, secure in the knowledge that he just cinched the deal.
“Gee, Max, why didn’t you say so right away. Just sign the contract, and he can be yours for a week.”
Steinmann and Hanson start haggling about the details and Brock feels like he's gonna puke all over the table.
Jack doesn’t have many hang-ups, none of them do, HYDRA either beats them out of you or kills you if they become an obstacle…..but this? Yeah, this is about the biggest hang-up Jack still has.
And he knows, because in that supervised living group home for young delinquents, where Brock met Jack for the first time, people's past was a secret about as deeply buried as the fact that Santa isn't real.
Brock was fresh out of prison, his parole come early on the word of one John Garrett, and Garrett had dropped him off there, told him to heal up and train hard, get himself into a good starting position for greater things, and to keep his eyes peeled because there were others like him here, other potentials ("No kid, not telling you which ones, wanna see just how good your observation skills are.")….and then Brock had been shown into the common-room by the house-mother, sauntering in, the battered pack with his meagre belongings slung over his shoulder and acting like he owned the place, and he’d looked at the young, lanky kid who’d parked his behind in the middle of the thread-bare couch while he was re-taping a hockey-stick…..and both of them had just known.
Hail Hydra.
Turned out Jack’s stint in prison had been a lot longer than his own. Jack was eighteen, just like himself, but he’d been behind bars since he'd barely turned thirteen.
Rollins’ mom died when Jack was just seven, and apparently, his step-dad had felt that the brat he’d been settled with, and which wasn’t even his own, should earn his place in the household by doing a bit more than just the dishes.
And yeah, the fucker had made Jack earn his keep, regular like a clock-work. Each evening he got home from his job, ate the supper Jack had cooked, and then dragged Jack to the couch, where he’d hold Jack down and make him cry and writhe in pain, stretched beyond bursting around the bastard’s cock pumping into him.
When Rollins was thirteen, dear ol’ step-dad forgot to lock the gun-cupboard. Jack got out his mom’s Colt M1911 and shot the asshole when he came in through the door after work.
Regardless of the circumstances, the local judge and jury had put Jack behind bars, making nasty noises about "premeditation" and "excess of force". If those dipshits had had their way, Jack would have been left there to rot, but just like Brock, he’d gotten out on early parole.
For both of them, breathing air that didn’t come filtered through iron bars for the first time in too fucking long was a damn blessing, and they both had Garrett to thank for that.
Here and now, standing guard in front of a private booth at a fashionable club in Innsbruck, Jack's holding it together remarkably well, considering, but Brock can see the fine tremors running across Rollins’ back, which started up the moment Steinmann made his proposition, and yeah, it's not like his STRIKE brother was deaf or anything.
Fuck. Brock would do anything, even a week back in Hydra’s SERE training, if he could just pull the Osborne Folder knife he’s got tucked away in a sheath on his ankle and spill Steinman’s guts over the floor.
But that’s not an option, is it?
Because they are HYDRA and they will do whatever it takes to get the mission done.
They have spilled innocent people’s blood for the purpose of bringing about order and peace in the chaos that is the world today.
Complaining about it when it’s their own blood being spilled would make them hypocrites.
And they might be liars and con-men and killers, but hypocrites they ain’t.
So this?
This is nothing.
Steinmann might decide to get kinky enough to send Jack into surgery, with maybe a week or two in recovery, but the man has an established business and he’s about to close a contract with people he instinctively knows to be very, very dangerous….even if he doesn’t know who they really are.
He won’t risk the nice cushy get-up he has going here by disrespecting their organization and violating the terms of use that Hanson is setting up right now for Jacks’ upcoming little tour with the guy.
THIS is a nice and easy way for Hanson to get a good deal for HYDRA, Brock knows it and Rollins knows it, so yeah……..Jack will be doing this.
Or rather, will spend three weeks getting done by Steinmann, as it turns out.
Brock brushes Jack’s hand as he leaves with Hanson, a brief touch that might just as well have been an accident, and he doesn’t turn around to look at Rollins as they leave, instead whispering “You don’t know what you’re missing, sweetie” in Steinmann’s ear as he passes him and then laying on thick the sensuous swish of hips as he and Hanson head for the exit.
He prays that Steinmann will come to regret his choice, will find an large, muscular soldier with a bit of hair on his chest a less satisfying choice for a bed-companion than an lithe and well-groomed twink……and fuck, Brock can play wounded and scared and crying with the best of them if he has to……but he’s felt Jack’s hand tremble beneath his as he touched it and he knows Steinmann will keep Rollins for the full three weeks.
While writing up his report for the mission later on, he upgrades Steinmann’s profile in the “sexual preferences” category from “very variable, with a slight preference for blond little twinks” to “degradation of others, the higher the challenge, the better. Has an instinct for homing in on vulnerabilities even with unlikely targets”.
The same day, he goes and buys the booze Rollins’ likes, cheap Kentucky bourbon.
The day Rollins’ gets back from Steinmann and goes straight to medical, just as expected, Brock gets cooking: mac ‘n cheese, sour cream noodle bake, muffin melts and mocha brownies….all of Rollins’ favorites.
He puts all of it in the freezer, save for one mocha brownie, which he takes to Jack as he goes for a visit.
Jack’s trading raunchy jokes with the nurse as Brock shows up, but won’t look Brock in the eye or say more than three words when his STRIKE brother sits down by his side and takes his hand.
The day before Rollins is due to get released from medical, Brock cleans his apartment until everything is fresh and pristine, and then burns some delicately scented candles, mainly vanilla and cinnamon, nothing too strong, so the comforting scent will linger a bit without being too obtrusive.
The day Rollins is cleared, Brock picks him up at the base and brings him home.
The moment he pulls Jack inside, across the threshold of his apartment, and the door clicks shut behind them, Jack huffs quietly, brokenly, as if his throat were stuffed with thorns and glass, but he lets Brock tug him down onto the large, well-worn couch and wrap himself around Jack’s shaking form.
It’s a good thing Brock saw to it that his living quarters are well insulated and that this morning, he got Delgado’s help with discreetly jamming and manipulating the ever-present bugs their superiors use to keep tabs on them, so no intel about the awful, choking sounds Jack makes in his arms will get out.
It takes hours.
They both know they will be o.k. and live to see another day when Jack, his head buried at the crook of Brock’s neck, mumbles more than whispers “Hail Hydra?” and Brock chuckles and ruffles his STRIKE-brother’s hair, the answering “yeah…….Hail Hydra” light on his tongue for the first time in weeks.