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“Hey.” Jack’s voice came out of the shadows of the ruined church sanctuary, making Brock jump about a foot in the air. Brock struck out toward his looming form out of instinct; Jack only just managed to avoid a blistering back-knuckle, and then only because he had known to expect it. He caught Brock’s wrist and twisted it into the small of his back, moving up to crowd into his space.
With his left hand, Brock produced a wicked switchblade from his belt. In half a second, he had it pressed against Jack’s belly, right where his durable tac vest gave way to regular fabric.
“Nice.” Jack purred.
“Fuck.” Brock answered, easing the pressure off the blade. “You’re gonna get yourself killed like that one day.” He pocketed it and spun away, unlocking the arm from behind his back.
But Jack refused to let go, his grip like an iron shackle. And he was leering.
Brock knew that look. “Now, seriously?” he almost laughed
Jack, meanwhile, seemed deadly serious but for the twinkle in his eye. “Uh huh.”
“Why?”
Jack advanced on Brock again, moving in close and backing him up against the altar. “Look around,” Jack rumbled, and Brock did, taking in the ruined sanctum with its toppled lectern, shattered stained glass, and broken statues. “Makes me wanna desecrate something.”
With that, he surged forward, capturing Brock’s mouth in a ferocious kiss. Brock held his ground, pushing back against him, wrapping his hands in the straps of Jack’s gear and seizing him, spinning them until he had Jack pushed up against a pillar. “Sorry,” he hissed, managing to pull back for a moment of breath, “we got an objective.”
Jack let himself be pushed, wrapping one long arms around the commander’s armored waist and coaxing him to stay close. With his other hand, he plucked the comms first out of his own ear, then Brock’s. “It’s a pointless SHIELD mission. So I say you ignore it, and get your sweet little ass up on that on that,” he nodded over Brock’s shoulder to the stone altar, half-covered with a ragged tapestry of Saint Sebastian.
Brock choked out a gravely laugh, tilting his head around to look at portrait of the bloody, arrow-ridden saint as he considered. It was a pointless mission; they’d seen to that by sending the Asset twelve hours ahead of them to recover the artifact they were supposed to be looking for. Even so, they should be keeping their cover up, looking like they’re doing their best to search…
“What’m I gonna tell Cap?”
Jack snorted, “Whatever you want, the kid worships the ground you walk on.”
“Fair enough. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
“Okay then,” Jack teased, breath hot and rumbling as he bent against Brock’s ear, “Lay down and let me treat you like a martyr.”
Something in Brock’s head slipped and it was like the decision was made for him. He should’ve laughed, or rattled off a quick comeback. Instead, a thrill ran up his spine and he bared his teeth, eyes glittering as they snapped back to Jack. “Make me,” he taunted, and shoved backward and away.
Jack’s face split into a razor-sharp smile. He was after Brock in an instant, pushing off the pillar with a serpentine roll of his body and throwing an ambitious right hook. Brock was ready, dodging easily and giving him a look of exaggerated disappointment. That just made Jack grin wider. He liked a fight, just like Brock did, didn’t want someone who tripped over nothing and ripped her dress like a horror movie starlet. Next was a low kick that Brock had to leap to avoid.
He landed a few steps up the altar platform and use the position to go on the counterattack, striking out at Jack with a set of tight jabs designed to get inside his guard. They did the trick and Jack let out a feral growl, using the closeness to wrap his long arms around Brock, haul him in, and deliver a mean knee to his stomach.
Brock let out a frustrated half-yell, realizing his mistake. He let the force of the blow knock him backward, out of Jack’s immediate reach, to regroup.
They traded blows, scraping across the cracked floor, over the broken rood cross that had fallen from the vaulted ceiling. Once, Jack got Brock backed against the unforgiving stone of the altar. But his enthusiasm got the better of him and when he fell on Brock to bury his teeth into the narrow band of skin showing over his uniform collar, Brock had used the opportunity to break his grip, duck down, and slip away.
But every touch, whether it was Jack’s fingers wrapping around his neck or fists cracking against his ribs, made the fight feel more and more like one Brock couldn’t wait to lose. His knuckles were stinging, his muscles sore where he’d been hit, and a heat was starting to pump through his body with every fevered heartbeat. He wanted to lose bad and bloody, in a heap with the rest of the broken things on the floor of the church, but right then he’d settle for quick and dirty.
He was buried in that thought when Jack finally got drop on him, in a form of a punch straight to the jaw. It came at a weird angle – out of nowhere, he’d swear – and knocked him spinning.
He listed sideways and swore as he crashed into a spiked candleholder. Jack’s eyes flared wide and his tongue glided along the sharp edges of his teeth; he was smelling blood in the water. He pressed the advantage, using Brock’s momentum to spin him around, locking both of his wrists this time, and slamming him face first into the ornate wooden reredos behind the altar.
Brock let out a groan as he hit, feeling the ancient, dry wood crack with the force. He felt one big hand circle his wrists, the other seize his hair and then his head was slammed into the figure of some saint or other, knocking her clear of the carving. “Fuck, Jack!” He cried as a few drops of blood spattered across the icons.
“Uh huh,” Jack answered in articulately, stepping closer and pinning him in place with his hips. There was a click of metal as a cuff fastened around Brock’s right wrist, then was hauled above his head. He tried to rip his hand free, but in this position, Jack’s size was too much of an advantage.
“Fine,” Brock panted, body falling slack, “You win. What now?”
“I told you,” Jack purred, his breathing quick and hot on the nape of Brock’s neck as he slipped the chain around a sturdy bar set into the relief carving, “I’m gonna treat you just like a Saint.”
“What’re you gonna do, pray to me?”
Another click as Brock’s free hand was wrenched up and chained, then Jack’s voice, clear and cold. “Baby, I’m gonna nail you to a fucking cross.” He punctuated the words with an abrupt thrust of his hips, jarring Brock forward against the harsh, broken wood. Brock groaned again, tipping his head back.
With a harsh drag of stubble on stubble, Jack’s mouth was on him again, insistent and unforgiving. He started at his neck, just below the hard line of his jaw, working up to lick obscenely around the shell of his ear, before craning to bind him into a plundering kiss.
Entirely too quickly, Jack pulled away, leaving Brock’s lips red, slick, and nearly trembling, but there was no respite to be had. Rough, demanding hands followed, unfastening Brock’s harness and vest just enough to get underneath and drag sharp nails across his skin.
“If I had time, I’d strip you bare, right here,” Jack was rambling, grabbing and tugging Brock’s hips until he was positioned where he wanted. “Lay you out where the whole world could see you, then wreck you piece by piece until there was nothing left. Take hours, make sure you didn’t know your own name by the end.” He slid a hand up Brock’s neck and along his jaw, then dragged the calloused pads of his fingers through the little smear of blood above his eyebrow where a splinter had caught him. He then thrust his fingers roughly into Brock’s mouth. “Maybe I should anyway,” he mused, using his free hand to toy with the webbing on the commander’s belt before deftly unbuckling it and popping the button beneath.
Hurriedly, he shoved Brock’s pants down over his hips, pushed his cheeks apart, and slid first one, then a second spit-slick finger inside. Brock let out a tremulous, unstable growl at the unexpected roughness and the burning it left in its wake. He wanted to tell Jack, not to stop exactly, but to slow down it was all too much. But he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t let that kins of plea pass his lips. Instead, he focused on taking measured, shuddering breaths and allowing Jack to open him up.
Thankfully, it was only a moment before Jack was fishing in some hidden pocket and the cool splash of something slick joined his fingers – whether it was lube, petroleum jelly from a med kit, or something else entirely, Brock didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. After the rough, nearly-tearing burn, it was heaven; so good that, a minute or so later when Jack began scissoring his fingers, stretching him open in earnest, Brock didn’t care to protest.
Maybe he should have. All too soon, Jack’s careful fingers were gone, and he was pressing tight up against Brock. He needed more to be ready to take Jack, knew he did, but he didn’t want it. What he wanted was the hot, blunt heat that he felt pushing against him, the insistent pressure and the—
“Ah!”
He cried out as Jack breached him and his voice bounced off the high ceilings. Then, Jack rammed forward, jostling Brock into the rapidly splintering carvings and forcing another loud cry out of him and god, he was just so big and then fuck, he was drawing his hips back, nearly pulling out, and even that slow, clawing drag was agony.
This time, Brock gritted his teeth to hold back the cry.
“It hurts, I know.” Jack’s voice was loud and rough in his ear. Brock nodded needlessly. “Yeah,” Jack purred, “It’s okay.” One of his hands stayed fastened to Brock’s hip while the other arm wound around Brock’s torso, circling around his waist and crossing to grip his shoulder from the front. He pulled him back until his back was arched painfully, then thrust in again.
Brock kept his mouth shut, noise dying in his throat.
“Yeah, good. Just like that,” Jack praised, rocking his hips almost gently, starting up a rhythm. Brock let Jack’s strong arms support his weight as he closes his eyes and focused on relaxing his body, unlocking his muscles one by one.
Jack’s movements got smoother and silkier as, slowly, Brock began to adjust around him. Soon, he was sliding in with a practiced ease, using the momentum to adjust his strokes, pick and chose his angles until Brock’s pained little moans transitioned toward pleasure. Jack adjusted his hold again, bending his knees and kicking his hips upward, finding the spot the shot sparks through Brock’s vision and a stuttering gasp from his throat.
And goddamn was that something else. Brock’s head fell forward, forehead pounding against the wood as his body convulsed in an attempt to contend with the new onslaught. He was full of an infuriating, diffuse pleasure that was everywhere and nowhere at once, filling him from head to toe. “Fuck, Jack!” he gasped, voice sounding alien in his own ears.
All his nerves seemed to be firing, blooming and flaring in time with the motion of Jack’s body against his. He tugged unconsciously at the cuffs, wanting to reach down, touch himself, get some friction to match the beautiful rhythm and fullness Jack was giving him. God, it was so fucking perfect, all he needed was—
“Not enough.” Jack’s bark interrupted his thoughts and the cuffs were suddenly unfastened. “Down,” He ordered.
Without the support, Brock sagged, but kept his feet until Jack’s fingers dug punishingly into his shoulder, forcing him painfully to his knees, then hands-and-knees, then, with Jack’s boot planted between his shoulder blades, folded over with his hips raised, hands braced against the flagstone, and face pressed into the wreckage littering the stone floor.
He heard Jack kick a broken brick out of the way and get to his knees behind him, looming over his bent back. Then, a broad palm smoothed over the hot, flushed skin of bare ass before drawing back and delivering a blistering slap.
“Yeah, nice,” Jack purred appreciatively over Brock’s strangled yelp. He massaged the red print of his hand before abruptly hooking a thumb inside Brock and tugging, this time drawing a startled whimper as Brock’s hips jerked and tried follow his hand just alleviate some bit of the cruel pressure.
“Uh uh,” he tutted, free hand fastening onto Brock’s hip like a vice, locking him in place, “Stay still.”
When he swapped out his thumb for two fingers, they slid easily inside. Even when he began scissoring back and forth, it didn’t hurt, it felt good, even, but just left Brock searching for more. Then Jack added a third finger and splayed his fingers wide and fuck, that got Brock’s attention. He froze up, breath catching in his throat as he tried to keep as still as he could.
“Felt that?” Jack’s voice thrummed, holding his hand still, fingers wide, listening as Brock’s breathing started to go unsteady. Eventually, Brock felt a fourth finger brushing at his tender, tightly stretched rim. A shudder passed through his body, along with a mess of contradictory sensations. His skin felt so hot but the swear breaking on the nape of his neck was cold; He needed more sensation, needed more of something, but couldn’t bear the thought of Jack stretching him further.
The sound that crawled out of his chest when Jack’s fourth finger slipped inside and flexed managed to say all of that and more. “I know, baby.” Jack hummed, pumping his fingers once, twice, and tenting them carefully.
“Fuck, Jack, I- Come on.” Brock panted, wiping sweat off his brow and turning to look over his shoulder in what he hoped was a persuasive way.
“Fucking love when you beg.” Jack rumble through gritted teeth. He withdrew all but one finger, earning a needy little whine that Brock tried to bite off, adjusted his hips, and buried himself with a single brutal thrust.
Brock cried out, partly with the force of the move, partly at the stretch of Jack’s cock – a challenging fit as it was – combined with the thick finger seated alongside it. He only got a moment to adjust before Jack rocked his hips forward again, flexing his finger alongside, pulling another moan out of him.
Over his shoulder, Brock could see Jack’s eyes dark with lust, watching enraptured as his length disappeared inside Brock. Jack swore under his breath, pulling about halfway out then plunging in again, slower this time. Then he looked up long enough to meet Brock’s barely-focused eyes with a dangerous, glittering grin and added a second finger back alongside the first.
This time, Brock’s noises were quiet; his head sagged forward and his mouth fell open, lips moving in tiny little almost-words that amounted to no more than half syllables.
“Look at you, so fucking full,” Jack marveled, rolling his hips experimentally, searching for just the right angle.
“It hurts,” Brock whined through gritted teeth, eyes screwed shut. It’s not that he wanted it to stop – god, if Jack stopped, he’d fucking kill him – but the words simply fell out of his mouth before his endorphin-flooded brain could do anything about it.
“I know, baby, but you can take it. God, I wish you could see yourself like this.” Jack groaned above him, pumping out long, slow strokes that made sure Brock felt every inch of him.
Brock started to lose track of time. He got lost in each moment, each second feeling like the last one he could possibly endure. Jack’s motions were too slow to blur together into a pleasant haze but too intense to hold in his head all at once. He felt unhinged, tugged back and forth between the painful stretch and the euphoric bursts of pleasure as Jack stroked over that one impossible spot.
Eventually, the motions became infinitesimally easier and the rhythm began to speed up. Finally, in a fluid movement, Jack drew his fingers out, leaving Brock to gasp as his muscles convulsed reflexively around Jack’s cock. A split second later, those same fingers wrapped around Brock’s own desperate, straining length as Jack’s free arm snaked around his neck and hauled him up until Jack’s chest was pressed against his back. He fucked into him brutally fast now, sliding back and forth over all the right places and with Jack’s hand on his cock, that was all it took for Brock to cum, body arcing, thick white ropes shooting out to land across the faces of a half dozen tiny wooden saints. Jack was only a moment behind, fucking his through it with ragged strokes as he reached his own peak, holding on tight as he spilled deep inside with a sub-verbal roar.
The sound of their labored breathing bounced off the cold stone, filling the empty air. “Jesus Christ…” Brock whispered, crumpling splay-legged and sagging forward as soon as Jack’s gripped on him loosened. Jack pushed himself, a little unsteadily, to his feet and stood, looming over Brock, staring intently like he was trying to memorize every detail of the beautifully defiled picture he made. Brock looked over his shoulder to gaze up at his through flickering eyelashes. The late-afternoon light pouring through a broken window arced off his slick, unruffled hair so that just for just a moment…
“Perfect,” Jack whispered, voice rough. He tore a piece off of the tattered altar cloth and used it to clean himself off before tucking himself away. “Fucking perfect.” He tore off another and knelt down to clean Brock up.