Schwartz is still eying him warily. In hindsight, his constant feigned suspicion had been an effective tactic in directing attention elsewhere. Brock will have to remember that the next time Rogers starts asking questions.
“Still a little early for me,” Schwartz lies. “I prefer ‘em warmed up and worn in.” Bet you do, creepy fucker. Schwartz takes his time strolling back toward the main ballroom. “You boys start without me,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be around.”
“That’s what we’re worried about,” Rollins mutters, but the tension drops out of his stance. Brock catches the barely audible clicks of what could be safety pins being switched back on outside the door.
“Now,” he says, pitching his voice long and crisp like he’s running a briefing, “This is threatening to turn anticlimactic. That won’t do.” Brock searches the bystanders. Kildare is keeping his distance from the crowd, his glass clutched in a death grip. “You up to breaking in the asset, rook?”
The kid’s lips go pale. He glances to the door vacated by Schwartz, back to where Brock’s palm rests over the dip in the soldier’s spine. He’s never seen the asset in anything but full battle gear, Brock realizes. Never even glimpsed its face until now.
The Winter Soldier is a thing felt more often than seen. Hard to look at directly, but it radiates a power that makes its presence impossible to ignore. It both draws and repels attention, like an aching cavity. Kildare creeps toward the asset. Without the dampening effect of the armor, he’s struck by the full, naked force of its unnatural life.
Physically, they could be the same age.
By the time Kildare joins Brock beside the divan, his fists are clenched in skittish bravado. “How?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Brock says, “and assume you’ve had someone else’s mouth around your Johnson.” He let his smile turn unpleasant, daring. “If not, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures. You can figure out the mechanics.” To the kid’s credit, he flinches but doesn’t squeal when Brock cups a rough hand to his crotch and gives him a squeeze. “See? You’re halfway there.”
Kildare’s face goes from bloodless to flushed. He bats Brock’s hand away, earning a rumble of amusement from Rollins, “Who’s breaking in who?”
“I know how to take head,” Kildare snaps. But when he fumbles with his belt he shoots a nervous glance at Cross. God help him.
“Oh, I am takin’ notes,” she crows, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He blushes harder when Cross wolf-whistles before he’s even finished pulling himself out. Kildare grabs a chunk of hair at the asset’s crown and cranks its head back. Its pupils are huge and swimming, mouth slack. Pumped full of drugs, Brock thinks. Far from this plane. Still, Kildare hesitates before lowering his cock to rest on its plush lower lip, and this, at least, is a reasonable fear.
The asset always remembers how to do this part. It gets to work immediately. Kildare’s head rocks back in a decent impression of a Pez dispenser, his hips snap forward to fill its throat. “God,” he chokes. “Fuckin’… ah god.” The asset is not a creature of moderation. As with all missions, it executes directives with brutal efficiency, risking no half-measures or foreplay. Its cheeks hollow around Kildare’s base, it works his length with an urgency that mimics enthusiasm.
Kildare grabs at it like a man struggling for balance against the tides. His hands are fisted in its thick, clean hair, more to steady himself than the asset. He hauls himself back into coherence.
“This ain’t a proper breaking in yet,” Cross says. “You forgot to pop the soldier over the head with a champagne bottle.”
The kid’s half-lidded eyes snap open.
Brock snorts. “That was a joke.”
“Hmm,” Kildare affirms, falling back into a daze. Fear forgotten in the wet rhythm of its mouth. His own voice joins in breathy little half-moans and cut-off grunts. He starts to curl around the soldier.
“Don’t let it fool you,” Cross purrs. She breaks from the onlookers and saunters closer, close enough to wrap her fingers over one of the asset’s plated ankle cuffs. “Even like this, it’s wily. You’re gonna want to think it’s stupid, but the longer you leave it out of cryo, the more its brain has time to heal. Then you’re really in trouble. By the time you figure out it might even be pretty smart, that’s too late. You could lose a piece.” She clicks her teeth. “Been known to happen.”
Kildare looks back to Brock.
“That,” Brock says, “was not a joke.”
Whatever concerns the kid plans to raise are interrupted by another violent gurgling from the asset’s stomach. Which scares up a few frantic chuckles and a “Don’t leave ‘em waiting, rook!” from the inner circle, but Kildare stares down at it in horror, as if he’s broken through the haze of sex long enough to realize he’s chosen to enter a monster, is in it still.
Brock’s considering his own rejoinder when his jacket buzzes. He discreetly flips his suit open to the inside pocket tucked against his chest, but doesn’t take his phone out. Phones aren’t allowed here. Technically. Letters glow pale green in the cave of his jacket. No sender, not even “unlisted,” just a blank phosphorescent rectangle followed by “SERIAL NUMBERS CONFIRMED AS MATCH.”
For a second he can’t hear anything but the thrum of blood rushing through his ears. Only for a second. Serial numbers from the planted weapons they ‘took’ this morning in the raid. He’s gotten used to this flavor of disappointment, acclimatizes quickly. It’s part of what makes him a good soldier.
He types with his thumb: “Proceed?”
The reply is almost instantaneous. “PROCEED.”
There used to be a time where moments just happened, when nobody carried little computers that could interrupt your life at a moment’s notice and snuff out pleasure with ice water. Used to be. But what’s the point of nostalgia?
When Brock looks up again, Kildare’s gotten through his crisis of conscience. Powered through like a trooper, seems like. He’s spraddle-legged over the couch with his elbows propped on the asset’s wide shoulders, nails scrabbling at its hips, terror subsumed by the furrows his fingers can make in that pale hard flesh. He’s all but mounted its face, too far stupid with pleasure to care. Kildare whines. Non-regulation bangs fall in a sandy mess across his eyes, and he jackrabbits into the asset’s mouth until his thrusts go erratic.
The asset drains him and keeps pulling. There is no kill here, it has acknowledged no conclusion or completion. Kildare groans, the asset’s belly rumbles an answer.
“Swallow everything.” Gutierrez rests a hand on its muscled calf, gliding in front of Cross. His tone is conversational. “Liquid protein, amino acids, sugars. It’s good for you.”
If it has an aversion to the taste, the asset shows no reaction. It suckles diligently, eager to please. Eager to make sense of this mission. Even when Gutierrez flips the asset onto its back, Brock can see the sinews of its throat working around Kildare’s cock as it continues to give head upside down.
“Jesus!” The kid has to haul himself away, pulling free with an audible break of suction and a cord of spunk and drool connecting him to the asset’s mouth, shoes stumble-catching on the rug’s edge. He tucks himself back in but doesn’t tear his eyes away from the asset, like he’s worried it might leap across the room to get back at his dick.
The way the asset stays fixed on him, deadly-still even while arched backwards over the sofa? Yeah, maybe.
Kildare takes another step back but forces a grin. “Can’t get enough. Happens every time.” He rakes a hand through his hair as the rest of the room laughs and slaps him on the back. Brock just watches, magnanimous. His phone is a brick in his jacket pocket.
Gutierrez stands over the asset, looking thoughtful with his hands resting on its knees. It’s panting a little, drug-bleary but overcompensating with the intensity of a drunkard. Gutierrez parts its thighs like he’s opening a book. The soldier’s soft, uncut dick lazes against the smooth crook of its leg, and how the hell, Brock wonders, does some poor tech get recruited to wax the asset? Though when he imagines it spread open just like this, blue nitrile gloves slicking it up with scented potions and lotions, carefully inspecting the notch of its hips and the cleft of its ass for any flaws, he thinks the assignment might not be much of a punishment.
Blood rushes downward. Shit. Be cool, Rumlow. Brock adjusts his stance.
He knows from experience that Gutierrez is going take his sweet time, and since he needs to reinforce squad loyalty tonight, Brock’s going to let him. Even though it’s going to be distracting as hell, because Gutierrez is already feathering strokes over its belly and inner thighs, everywhere but its cock. Light, exploratory brushes that have its skin fluttering like horsehide.
The asset has been conditioned to withstand tremendous pain, to endure environmental stressors far beyond the human threshold. Torture, war: the steel walls of its training come down, and it suffers behind them.
Now its eyes stop their roaming and clench shut while Gutierrez worries at its nipples, tugging at them until both stand erect – dusky and swollen and used as its lips. He traces down the midline of its body, and the asset doesn’t make a sound so much as break its pattern of breathing. Calloused thumbs rub circles in every hollow of its pelvis. Its dick begins to lengthen with each heartbeat. It finally wheezes, hitching up a knee, when Gutierrez rolls its testicles together in his palm.
Gentleness is incomprehensible to the soldier, soft touches are intolerable. It’s through pleasure rather than pain that the asset peeks out from its body’s shutters, revealing itself in gasps and twitches. Which could be interesting, if you’re into that. Brock’s made a study of its behavior like any good field commander, but it’s the asset’s pleasure, not Brock’s, so it isn’t that interesting.
Gutierrez drags its hips toward the edge of the divan that has no armrest. Its fingers stay clenched in the cushions over its head, anchored so its body stretches out with the whisper of flesh sliding over plush fabric.
“Do you gotta go down every single time, Robbie?” says Rollins.
Gutierrez shrugs. He’s slipped off his dress shoes to kneel more comfortably between the asset’s legs. “Every time is the first time. That’s why I like it.”
“Not really what I was asking, but whatever floats your boat, guy.”
Cross shoves in beside Rollins. “Hey, G. I want its mouth if you’re not using it.”
“Nah. Gimme a minute. I need to see.”
Brock’s never known anyone to get off on giving oral as much as Gutierrez. He’d probably happily service Cross next if she wanted. Hell, might drop to his knees for any squad member in a heartbeat – an intriguing thought if not for the possible conflict of interests screwing up team dynamics. And even if Gutierrez didn’t consider it cheating on Karen, the situation could get pretty fucking gay pretty fucking fast. So there’s that.
Re: Up Close Ache 5.5/5+1
“Still a little early for me,” Schwartz lies. “I prefer ‘em warmed up and worn in.” Bet you do, creepy fucker. Schwartz takes his time strolling back toward the main ballroom. “You boys start without me,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be around.”
“That’s what we’re worried about,” Rollins mutters, but the tension drops out of his stance. Brock catches the barely audible clicks of what could be safety pins being switched back on outside the door.
“Now,” he says, pitching his voice long and crisp like he’s running a briefing, “This is threatening to turn anticlimactic. That won’t do.” Brock searches the bystanders. Kildare is keeping his distance from the crowd, his glass clutched in a death grip. “You up to breaking in the asset, rook?”
The kid’s lips go pale. He glances to the door vacated by Schwartz, back to where Brock’s palm rests over the dip in the soldier’s spine. He’s never seen the asset in anything but full battle gear, Brock realizes. Never even glimpsed its face until now.
The Winter Soldier is a thing felt more often than seen. Hard to look at directly, but it radiates a power that makes its presence impossible to ignore. It both draws and repels attention, like an aching cavity. Kildare creeps toward the asset. Without the dampening effect of the armor, he’s struck by the full, naked force of its unnatural life.
Physically, they could be the same age.
By the time Kildare joins Brock beside the divan, his fists are clenched in skittish bravado. “How?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Brock says, “and assume you’ve had someone else’s mouth around your Johnson.” He let his smile turn unpleasant, daring. “If not, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures. You can figure out the mechanics.” To the kid’s credit, he flinches but doesn’t squeal when Brock cups a rough hand to his crotch and gives him a squeeze. “See? You’re halfway there.”
Kildare’s face goes from bloodless to flushed. He bats Brock’s hand away, earning a rumble of amusement from Rollins, “Who’s breaking in who?”
“I know how to take head,” Kildare snaps. But when he fumbles with his belt he shoots a nervous glance at Cross. God help him.
“Oh, I am takin’ notes,” she crows, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He blushes harder when Cross wolf-whistles before he’s even finished pulling himself out. Kildare grabs a chunk of hair at the asset’s crown and cranks its head back. Its pupils are huge and swimming, mouth slack. Pumped full of drugs, Brock thinks. Far from this plane. Still, Kildare hesitates before lowering his cock to rest on its plush lower lip, and this, at least, is a reasonable fear.
The asset always remembers how to do this part. It gets to work immediately. Kildare’s head rocks back in a decent impression of a Pez dispenser, his hips snap forward to fill its throat. “God,” he chokes. “Fuckin’… ah god.” The asset is not a creature of moderation. As with all missions, it executes directives with brutal efficiency, risking no half-measures or foreplay. Its cheeks hollow around Kildare’s base, it works his length with an urgency that mimics enthusiasm.
Kildare grabs at it like a man struggling for balance against the tides. His hands are fisted in its thick, clean hair, more to steady himself than the asset. He hauls himself back into coherence.
“This ain’t a proper breaking in yet,” Cross says. “You forgot to pop the soldier over the head with a champagne bottle.”
The kid’s half-lidded eyes snap open.
Brock snorts. “That was a joke.”
“Hmm,” Kildare affirms, falling back into a daze. Fear forgotten in the wet rhythm of its mouth. His own voice joins in breathy little half-moans and cut-off grunts. He starts to curl around the soldier.
“Don’t let it fool you,” Cross purrs. She breaks from the onlookers and saunters closer, close enough to wrap her fingers over one of the asset’s plated ankle cuffs. “Even like this, it’s wily. You’re gonna want to think it’s stupid, but the longer you leave it out of cryo, the more its brain has time to heal. Then you’re really in trouble. By the time you figure out it might even be pretty smart, that’s too late. You could lose a piece.” She clicks her teeth. “Been known to happen.”
Kildare looks back to Brock.
“That,” Brock says, “was not a joke.”
Whatever concerns the kid plans to raise are interrupted by another violent gurgling from the asset’s stomach. Which scares up a few frantic chuckles and a “Don’t leave ‘em waiting, rook!” from the inner circle, but Kildare stares down at it in horror, as if he’s broken through the haze of sex long enough to realize he’s chosen to enter a monster, is in it still.
Brock’s considering his own rejoinder when his jacket buzzes. He discreetly flips his suit open to the inside pocket tucked against his chest, but doesn’t take his phone out. Phones aren’t allowed here. Technically. Letters glow pale green in the cave of his jacket. No sender, not even “unlisted,” just a blank phosphorescent rectangle followed by “SERIAL NUMBERS CONFIRMED AS MATCH.”
For a second he can’t hear anything but the thrum of blood rushing through his ears. Only for a second. Serial numbers from the planted weapons they ‘took’ this morning in the raid. He’s gotten used to this flavor of disappointment, acclimatizes quickly. It’s part of what makes him a good soldier.
He types with his thumb: “Proceed?”
The reply is almost instantaneous. “PROCEED.”
There used to be a time where moments just happened, when nobody carried little computers that could interrupt your life at a moment’s notice and snuff out pleasure with ice water. Used to be. But what’s the point of nostalgia?
When Brock looks up again, Kildare’s gotten through his crisis of conscience. Powered through like a trooper, seems like. He’s spraddle-legged over the couch with his elbows propped on the asset’s wide shoulders, nails scrabbling at its hips, terror subsumed by the furrows his fingers can make in that pale hard flesh. He’s all but mounted its face, too far stupid with pleasure to care. Kildare whines. Non-regulation bangs fall in a sandy mess across his eyes, and he jackrabbits into the asset’s mouth until his thrusts go erratic.
The asset drains him and keeps pulling. There is no kill here, it has acknowledged no conclusion or completion. Kildare groans, the asset’s belly rumbles an answer.
“Swallow everything.” Gutierrez rests a hand on its muscled calf, gliding in front of Cross. His tone is conversational. “Liquid protein, amino acids, sugars. It’s good for you.”
If it has an aversion to the taste, the asset shows no reaction. It suckles diligently, eager to please. Eager to make sense of this mission. Even when Gutierrez flips the asset onto its back, Brock can see the sinews of its throat working around Kildare’s cock as it continues to give head upside down.
“Jesus!” The kid has to haul himself away, pulling free with an audible break of suction and a cord of spunk and drool connecting him to the asset’s mouth, shoes stumble-catching on the rug’s edge. He tucks himself back in but doesn’t tear his eyes away from the asset, like he’s worried it might leap across the room to get back at his dick.
The way the asset stays fixed on him, deadly-still even while arched backwards over the sofa? Yeah, maybe.
Kildare takes another step back but forces a grin. “Can’t get enough. Happens every time.” He rakes a hand through his hair as the rest of the room laughs and slaps him on the back. Brock just watches, magnanimous. His phone is a brick in his jacket pocket.
Gutierrez stands over the asset, looking thoughtful with his hands resting on its knees. It’s panting a little, drug-bleary but overcompensating with the intensity of a drunkard. Gutierrez parts its thighs like he’s opening a book. The soldier’s soft, uncut dick lazes against the smooth crook of its leg, and how the hell, Brock wonders, does some poor tech get recruited to wax the asset? Though when he imagines it spread open just like this, blue nitrile gloves slicking it up with scented potions and lotions, carefully inspecting the notch of its hips and the cleft of its ass for any flaws, he thinks the assignment might not be much of a punishment.
Blood rushes downward. Shit. Be cool, Rumlow. Brock adjusts his stance.
He knows from experience that Gutierrez is going take his sweet time, and since he needs to reinforce squad loyalty tonight, Brock’s going to let him. Even though it’s going to be distracting as hell, because Gutierrez is already feathering strokes over its belly and inner thighs, everywhere but its cock. Light, exploratory brushes that have its skin fluttering like horsehide.
The asset has been conditioned to withstand tremendous pain, to endure environmental stressors far beyond the human threshold. Torture, war: the steel walls of its training come down, and it suffers behind them.
Now its eyes stop their roaming and clench shut while Gutierrez worries at its nipples, tugging at them until both stand erect – dusky and swollen and used as its lips. He traces down the midline of its body, and the asset doesn’t make a sound so much as break its pattern of breathing. Calloused thumbs rub circles in every hollow of its pelvis. Its dick begins to lengthen with each heartbeat. It finally wheezes, hitching up a knee, when Gutierrez rolls its testicles together in his palm.
Gentleness is incomprehensible to the soldier, soft touches are intolerable. It’s through pleasure rather than pain that the asset peeks out from its body’s shutters, revealing itself in gasps and twitches. Which could be interesting, if you’re into that. Brock’s made a study of its behavior like any good field commander, but it’s the asset’s pleasure, not Brock’s, so it isn’t that interesting.
Gutierrez drags its hips toward the edge of the divan that has no armrest. Its fingers stay clenched in the cushions over its head, anchored so its body stretches out with the whisper of flesh sliding over plush fabric.
“Do you gotta go down every single time, Robbie?” says Rollins.
Gutierrez shrugs. He’s slipped off his dress shoes to kneel more comfortably between the asset’s legs. “Every time is the first time. That’s why I like it.”
“Not really what I was asking, but whatever floats your boat, guy.”
Cross shoves in beside Rollins. “Hey, G. I want its mouth if you’re not using it.”
“Nah. Gimme a minute. I need to see.”
Brock’s never known anyone to get off on giving oral as much as Gutierrez. He’d probably happily service Cross next if she wanted. Hell, might drop to his knees for any squad member in a heartbeat – an intriguing thought if not for the possible conflict of interests screwing up team dynamics. And even if Gutierrez didn’t consider it cheating on Karen, the situation could get pretty fucking gay pretty fucking fast. So there’s that.