You crack open your eyes, unaware of your surroundings. When all you are met with is darkness, the panic sets in. You start hyperventilating, and your bruised, and possibly broken, ribs creak and groan as your lungs all but collapse in on themselves.
You do a quick check over your whole body: you definitely have some fucked up ribs, a big throbbing blob of a bruise on your face, and you’re pretty sure that you’re half naked. You feel cold air on your torso and legs, but you’re certain you have on a bra, underwear, and your work skirt. Your legs and arms are strapped down, and there’s another rope thingy around your hips, holding them down on the table.
What the hell happened?
_______
You had been leaving work, far too late. In your hurry to get the mission report turned in to Coulson--which was completely unnecessary, considering how kind and understanding the man was--you’d worked way past the end of your shift. Before you knew it, it was nighttime.
Of fucking course. New York City after dark, what could be cozier?
You had your keys in one hand, attached to the cat-shaped self defense keychain Coulson had given it to you as a Christmas present. Your other hand was tucked into your purse, wrapped around the lipstick-shaped pepper spray that Natasha had gifted to you the very same day. It was illegal, but what the hell. If the situation arose that it became a necessary weapon, you wouldn’t be the one ending up behind bars.
You made sure to mind the tips that your super soldier boyfriend had given to you day in and day out since the two of you had officially started dating, just over a year ago.
“Stick near street lights and storefronts. No headphones, and remember the defensive techniques I taught to you.” You’d rolled your eyes and chuckled.
“Yes, Mom,” you muttered, moving to turn away. He took your hand in his and spun you back around to him, landing you with both of your hands on his chest. He moved his arms to wrap around your waist.
“I’m serious, Y/N. Be careful.” You pulled away just enough to stare up into his baby blues. You could’ve sworn you saw that pint sized punk from the forties that Bucky was always ranting about. That fierce protectiveness and sincerity. He was ready to bash in as many faces as it took to make sure you were safe. You don’t think that you could’ve loved him any more than you did right then. The determined little dent in his brow. The sincere worry painting his eyes. The downturn of the edges of his mouth.
“I will be,” you promised, going up onto your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his nose. When the pout refused to dissipate, you just continued planting little kisses on his lips until they finally turned up into a smile.
You pulled away again, brushing your nose with his. Reaching up with one of your hands, you rubbed a thumb over his brow, trying to smooth away his concerned expression. “You’re pretty cute when you get all Mother Hen on me.” You smirked up at him.
“Oh, shut up, you dork,” he pulled you in for another kiss and sent you on your way.
There you were, a week later, making your way through the all too quiet, yet simultaneously loud streets of New York City at night. It wasn’t your first time doing so, and you had no doubt in mind that it would not be your last. Shaking off a shiver running down your spine, you quickened your pace.
The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, and you could’ve sworn you heard footsteps behind you. Your grip on your keys and pepper spray tightened. The footsteps tip tap tapped on the concrete behind you, and before you let yourself panic, you reminded yourself that you were in a highly populated city, and it wasn’t all that unusual for someone to run into another human being in New York City. Breathe.
You relaxed a bit, and went to cross the street. Another block down, and you heard that rhythmic tapping again, the same footsteps. All of your senses went on high alert, and you did your best to dissect the situation without slowing your pace or turning your head. Don’t let them know you know they’re there.
Heavy footsteps, long strides. A man. The feet thumped dully; it sounded like boots, maybe combative. He wasn’t making any other sound, not that someone walking home tends to, but you could assume that he was making an effort to be quiet.
Once you reached your apartment building, you didn’t even glance towards the foyer. You continued walking down the sidewalk for another block before you looked back behind you, as if glancing both ways before crossing the street. When you saw no one, you breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Quit being paranoid, Y/N.” you muttered to yourself. You ran your hands through your hair and began walking back to your building. Going in the doors, you waved a hello to the doorman and continued up the stairs to the third floor. You were too focused trying to find the right key to notice the hulking figure leaning against your front door.
When you finally looked up, you nearly jumped out of your skin. “Oh my god, Rumlow!” you slapped him on the arm, laughing off the heart attack he’d almost given you. He flashed his signature cocky smirk your way, and you rolled your eyes, a good-natured smile in place. “What the hell are you doing here? Isn’t it your off day?”
He breathed out a laugh and ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Uh, yeah. I came by so I could get an update on the mission report, and when you weren’t home, I got a bit worried.” He bit his lip and glanced to his feet, then back up to you. “This city isn’t exactly the best place to be roaming around in a skirt and heels.” He gestured towards your work clothes, and you nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, well,” you jingled your keys, wiggling the stabby cat head. “I came locked and loaded.” At that you both shared a laugh. “Wanna come inside for a drink?” He looked off down the hallway and bit his lip again. Damn, if I were single, you thought, and then mentally kicked yourself for it.
“Yeah, why not?”
***
A handful of beer bottles later, the both of you were decently tipsy, laughing and sharing stupid stories about all of the weird shit that went down at SHIELD. You glanced to the clock, seeing that it was nearly midnight. Time really does fly when you're having fun. You stood up, about to lead Brock to the door when he put a hand on top of yours.
You turned to him, immediately worried. Brock wasn’t one for touchy feely stuff. Hell, you were pretty sure you were the only person that was allowed to touch him. “What’s up?” You sat back down, folding your other hand on top of his, tracing your fingers across his knuckles. He looked really nervous, licking his lips and glancing about the room. His eyes finally flickered back to yours.
“I just, ah,” he scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat, starting over again. “I just wanted to know if we could do this again?” You smiled softly and pulled him out of the chair and towards the door, scoffing.
“‘Course, dummy. This was fun. I like spending time with you.” He laughed uncomfortably and scratched the back of his head again. You leaned against the front door, blocking his exit and raising a brow accusingly. He was hiding something. Eyes narrowed you poked him in the chest. “Alright Rumlow, spill.” Your arms crossed over your chest and you stared him down.
He cleared his throat again, and kept glancing up at you. “I'm just, uh,” he paused and turned towards the wall, breathing deeply. You were starting to get legitimately worried. You stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun around quickly, too fast for you to process it, and grabbed your face in both his hands. Before you even got the chance to be confused, his lips were on yours.
You yelped into his mouth, hands instinctively reaching to grip his shirt at his sides. You began kissing back, pushing your body even closer to his. Brock nipped at your bottom lip and you whimpered quietly, allowing him to slide his tongue into your mouth. A groan rumbled lowly in his chest and you felt the vibrations through your whole body. You were officially in making out territory, and you honest to gods enjoyed it for a minute, up until your brain started screaming “STEVE, STEVE, STEVEN GRANT ROGERS”.
You hesitated a moment but then your brain started working and it forced you to press your hands to his chest, pushing him backwards just before you took a step away from him. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, and your eyes were as wide as saucers as you stared at Brock. “Oh my god,” you mumbled to yourself, covering your eyes and running your hands back through your hair. “No, no, no.” You looked up at Brock to see him not looking even the slightest bit guilty.
“I had to, Y/N. You needed to know.” He moved forward to touch your face and you barely reacted in time to step away. You moved backwards, head shaking vehemently. He stepped forward again, but you moved away. Dodging around him and into your living room--yours and Steve’s living room--you pointed towards the door.
“Y-You should leave.” Your voice was shaky, and you were close to tears. How could you do that to Steve?
Brock stepped forward again, arms reaching out to you. You let him put his hands on your waist but a chill runs up your spine when you spot a framed photograph of you and Steve on the wall. Without saying a word, you stepped back even further, shaking your head at Brock. He looked utterly dejected, and you felt a pang in your chest. You didn’t want to hurt him, it’s just that you loved Steve, and you couldn’t do this to Bro--Steve! You couldn’t do this to Steve.
His downcast eyes looked watery, and you wanted to comfort him, tell him that it wasn’t his fault, probably just a bit too much drinking for the both of you. You stepped forward, an arm raised to lay on his arm. As soon as your hand made contact with his bicep, he shifted away.
Those whiskey brown eyes shifted back up to your face, and they no longer looked upset or rejected. He was livid. You don’t believe that you could recall anyone ever looking at you in such a spine-tinglingly aggressive way. You opened your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off.
“You don’t get to do that!” He screamed, surging forward and grabbing your arms. You let out a surprised yelp and tried to move backwards. He only gripped you tighter. “You can’t just--just fucking kiss me like that, and then say no, Y/N! God dammit, I love you!” He started shaking you, and the last thing you saw was his hand flying towards your face.
_______
You feel tears running down your cheeks as you begin to process what must’ve happened. Hekidnapped me, oh my god. You try to squint through the darkness, but the slightest movement of your head sends a mind-numbing jolt of pain through your jaw.
Settling for just looking with your eyes, you try to get your vision to adjust to the lack of lighting in the room. Just as you begin to make out the shapes of a table and chairs, the lights switch on. They’re horrible operating table lights, florescent as a motherfucker.
You groan loudly, and then whimper when the former causes another headache in your jaw. The exhalation of air makes it feel like you deep-throated a roll of sandpaper.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” a gruff voice comes from your left. You squint open an eye and see the very distinct broadness of Brock’s shoulders. He seems to be speaking gently on purpose, aware of your head wound. His hair is messier than you remember, and he has a wide smile on his face, as if he hasn’t strapped you down to a table in the middle of a cement room.
In his hands are a bottle of water and a beer. He catches you staring at them, and he lets out a breathy laugh when you lick your lips. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure which one you’d want, so I brought both.” He raises them both to you. You try to croak out the word ‘water’ but all that really happens is you mouthing the word whilst clenching your fists.
Brock seems to understand you, so he sets down the beer and unscrews the--pre-opened--cap on the bottle. The creep probably fuckin’ roofied it. It no longer matters, you just really need something to drink right now or else you’re sure you’ll die.
He holds the bottle to your lips, and you greedily gulp down half of it without bothering to take a pause. You try to ignore the chalky taste, pretending you weren't terrified at the possibility of him literally roofying you. Rumlow chuckles quietly, and looks at you...fondly? This cannot be happening right now. When he pulls the bottle from your lips, you rest your head back onto the table and glare up at him.
Rumlow seats himself just to the left of you on the table, and turns part way, so that his hand rests on your bare stomach. With his thumb, he draws tiny circles about your navel. All of his attention looks to be zeroed in on the rise and fall of your chest, but he begins to speak nonetheless.
“I really didn’t think I’d have to do this, Y/N. I just,” he sighs, “I’ve loved you for a really long time, you know? I just never got the chance to show you or tell you.” His eyes flicker up to your own and once he reads the fear and confusion in yours, he smiles sadly.
You open your mouth to speak, but it’s like your throat’s been numbed. Your tongue lays thick and useless in your mouth, and the only noises you can make are agitated grunts and wheezy in/exhalations. You squeeze your eyes shut to try and trap back the tears as your chest begins to heave with noisy, panicked breaths.
“Hey, hey, babygirl,” he moves his hand further up your stomach, and you shiver in fear. When all he does is rest it on your diaphragm, you relax slightly, but it does nothing to cease your hyperventilation. “It’s okay.” Brock leans forward so you can look him dead in the eyes and breathes deeply, exaggeratedly, and you follow his lead.
Once your breaths have finally evened out, you stare up at the ceiling, no longer bothering to hide your tears. Your entire body shakes as you sob silently. “I know, baby, I know.” He smoothes a hand through your hair, and you’re repulsed at the fact that it actually does something to relax you. You stare up into his eyes, trying to communicate wordlessly with him. ‘Why?’ you mouth.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you flinch away. His jaw clenches angrily as he goes to stand, pacing at the end of the table by your head. “I’ve loved you for so long and I just know that if I could spend more time with you, then you’d love me back, I just know it.” Your heart rate picks up as his voice gets harsher, more angry. “I just don’t understand what that fuckin’ All American Boy has that I don’t!” He turns to you and rests his forearms on the table so that his head hovers just above yours.
“I can give you everything he can, but you just don’t want me and I don’t understand, Y/N! What can he do that I can’t?” He’s still just above your face, but it’s as if he’s no longer talking to you. He goes back to pacing, chewing on his thumbnail.
“Money? I have it. Pierce pays well. I have looks, right? God, I spend every day in the gym, of fuckin’ course I do. I have a nice apartment that we could both live in together! I am caring and nice, you’ve said it yourself! What else is there?” You stare at the ceiling and try to keep your full-body shudders to a minimum.
Brock comes back to your side, right next to your head, and rests his forearms on the edge of the table. His chin is propped on the back of his hands, bringing his eyes to the same level as yours. He inspects your features, as if the answer could pop out of one of your pores. Lifting a hand to your face, he dances his fingers across your cheekbones and jawline, in a feather-light fashion. You shiver. When his thumb reaches your lips, he leans over you and kisses you softly. He gently sucks on your lower lip and you have to swallow down a moan. Your back arches up slightly as his fingertips drag down your throat. You can’t hold back the breathy sigh that escapes you. His lips tick up into a triumphant smirk and he pulls away.
“Oh?” His voice drops an octave. “Does the Man with a Plan hold out on you?” He's smiling down at you, eyes wide with astonishment.
You try not to react at all, but the entirety of your spine lights up in tiny firecracker bursts when he traces his index finger over your collarbone, and at that point you don’t even try to bite back your gasp. Brock chuckles darkly, and you feel something knotting up in the pit of your stomach.
“Maybe I can take care of that for you?” You shake your head ‘no’. You don’t want this. You and Steve hadn't done much, only ever going all the way two or three times--both on special occasions--but you didn’t want this to be your ‘fix’. You start to shrink away from Brock's wandering fingers but it’s like he doesn’t even notice.
He moves his hands down to the waistline of your skirt, and you wriggle around a bit, trying to just fucking spit it out. No! Undoing the zipper along the side seam, he seems determined to touch every millimeter of newly exposed skin. You tremble beneath his hands, continuously shaking your head, making indecipherable noises of protest.
“Shhhh,” he shushes you as he pulls your skirt down your legs. When they get caught around your bindings, he pulls a switchblade out of his combat boot and slices right through the material, you gasp, shocked, at how suddenly this all went wrong. This isn’t happening, he isn’t going to hurt you. He’s your Rummy, your Brocko! He doesn’t do these things; he’s a good guy he wouldn’t--his hands are at the front of your bra, cutting through the straps at the front.
The tears start coming faster and faster and you’re shaking all over. Your bra is cut free and you gasp when your chest is exposed to the cold air. If your mouth was working right, you would be saying “Please, stop, don't”, but it ends up sounding like a series of pathetic whining noises and moans. Brock hardly notices as he pockets his knife and ogles at your breasts.
He takes one into each of his gigantic hands, and even though you’re a sobbing wreck, your back comes off of the table and you lean into his touch. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he mutters to himself, removing his hands from you for just long enough for him to discard his shirt. He begins to palm at the growing bulge in his black cargo pants, and you involuntarily moan at the sight.
Fucking great, I’m getting off on my own sexual assault.
He smirks up at you, and leans in close, laying a kiss on your lips, gentle, but meaningful. As he pulls away, he bites your bottom lip, and your mouth follows his as he moves back. No, no, no,no, no. You slam your head back onto the cold metal table, angry with yourself for being so goddamn easy. Your body starts shaking again as Brock removes his pants--going commando, how goddamn fitting--and climbs onto the table. You pick up your head a bit to watch what he’s doing and you nearly moan just looking at him.
He’s crouching over your body like a panther stalking its prey, head low, shoulders rolling. For a moment you wish that your hands could be free just so that you can drag your hands through his hair and scratch your nails over his shoulder blades and lats. You groan internally for the twentieth time in the last minute. Do I want this or not? The world may never know.
The sight of his fully hard member causes your hips to tremble. He notices and smiles at you. Starting at your legs, he presses kisses up your body, the insides of your thighs, a soft lick to your sex over top of your underwear. He moves up, across your torso, licking at the dip in your navel, dragging his lower lip across your stomach and ribs.
When he reaches the valley between your breasts, he turns his head up, dragging his scruff across the sensitive skin there. You throw your head back into the table with a loud bang, unintentionally baring your neck to him.
Brock immediately goes in for the kill, biting and sucking on your neck as if his life depends on it. You're trembling again, your thighs quivering in tense anticipation. A strangled whimper slips out from between your lips, and you can feel Brock smiling against your clavicle.
He shifts his body up so that his face is hovering just above yours. Those whiskey colored eyes of his stare deep into yours, and your brain flashes to a horrible thought. Maybe I do want this to happen. Your gaze flickers down to his lips, and then back up to his eyes. Do I want him to kiss me? You watch as his own eyes trail down to your mouth, and when he bites his lip, your breath catches. I really do.
Without allowing yourself enough time to feel guilty, you tilt your face up and press your lips against his. You can feel the slight flinch of surprise that Brock’s body takes on, but you choose to ignore it, instead completely and wholly focusing on Brock's warm--and surprisingly soft--lips on yours. It takes a moment for him to catch his bearings, but he begins to kiss you back, enthusiastically.
Brock’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you lean into his touch. You move to bring your hands up around his shoulders, but your bindings keep you from moving. Yanking at the straps, you jostle the table a bit, drawing Brock’s attention. He reluctantly pulls away and looks at you, eyes glassy. You nod your head towards your tied wrists, and his eyes follow your gesture.
“You want me to untie you?” His voice is soft, and low in his throat. You nod your head quickly, squirming a bit and letting out a breathy whine. Brock chuckles airily. “You gonna be good for me?” A shiver runs down your spine at his tone. The words themselves held something of a sexy sentiment, but the dip in his voice reminds you that you're his captive, and that he's ordering you to behave. You nod again. “Okay, baby girl.” He moves off of you, quickly undoing your wrists, your hips, and your ankles.
You immediately sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the table. Ignoring the head rush, you reach a hand out, and grab Brock’s dog tags to pull him back towards you. When his hips are fitted between your legs, you reach up to cup the side of his neck, smashing his mouth back onto yours. His huge hands are immediately on your hips, gripping on tight, and no doubt leaving hand-shaped bruises.
You don't care.
You trace his bottom lip with your tongue, asking permission. He fucking growls, and he bites down on the tip of your tongue lightly, pulling a groan out of your chest. Brock smirks against your lips, and in retaliation, you roll your body against his, your clothed heat dragging along his bare member.
“Fuck, baby doll,” he grits out. You shudder and push yourself against him again. Sliding a hand up your back and to the nape of your neck, he wraps your hair around his fist, yanking your head back and baring your neck to him.
You gasp loudly, and a whimper follows as soon as he latches his lips onto your pulse point. Your hands slide down his chest, over his abs, and stop just at his hips. As your thumbs trace his V-line, you can feel his hips twitch towards you and he lets out a needy moan.
Dancing your fingertips over his hipbones, you bring your hand to rest at the base of his shaft. His entire body tenses and he releases your hair, both hands returning to your hips, his forehead resting against your own. Taking him into your hand, you give an experimental stroke, keeping your focus on his face, which is currently scrunched up in pleasure.
Brock's lips are just barely parted and you can see the tip of his pink tongue partly sticking out between them. Giving his member another tug, you watch in fascination as he bites down on his lower lip and chokes back a groan. Bringing your hand to his tip, you squeeze it and run your thumb over his slit, resulting in his body being wracked with tremors.
Smirking triumphantly, you begin to fully jerk him of, hand beginning to move faster, twisting your wrist a fraction of an inch when you come back to the head. You never take your eyes off of Brock’s face, watching every single twitch of his masseter muscle and each furrow of his full brows.
“God damn, sweetheart, you're gonna be the death of me,” he grunts out, a bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose. You tilt your face up and press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. He pushes back against you with almost desperate urgency, and you go to speed up your ministrations.
His hips start thrusting into your hand and you begin to move even faster, eager to please him. Just when his moans begin to get breathier, he pulls back, one of his hands pulling yours away from his crotch. He takes a step back, scrubbing a hand over his face. Eyes wide, he gapes at you, shoulders heaving with every breath.
“Christ, I need to be in you,” his hands are back on your face, cupping your jaw and bringing your mouth back to his. Biting down on your lip, he growls and pulls back. “Now.”
Before you can fully register what’s happening, he’s twisted you both around so that your back is flat against the table again, and he’s standing between your shaking thighs. Reaching down, Brock rips your panties off of you, and you gasp as your sex is met with a wall of cold air. In seconds, Brock is above you, forearms on either side of your head, his firm chest resting against yours.
Your shaky hands are gripping onto his sides, the heels of your palms digging into his rib cage. If you could speak right now, you would probably be begging for him. Scratch that. You would definitely be begging for him. You need him inside you, right now, or else you’re sure you'll pass out. It's as if he can read your mind.
“You need me, baby?” He asks huskily. You nod your head fervently, your whole body beginning to tremble. “Don't worry, beautiful, I've got you.”
A shaky moan slips through your lips just as Brock starts sliding into you. Your back arches off of the table, and your grasp on his sides tightens. The hair around your face flutters around as he huffs out a breath. “Fuck, you're tight,” he grits out. You moan and twirl your hips as much as you can whilst trapped beneath his densely muscled body, encouraging him to slip in further.
What feels like hours later, Brock is fully seated in you, breathing heavily in a strained attempt to stay still as you adjust to the feel of him filling you up. When the dull stinging ebbs away, you nod your head and squeeze at his sides. He kisses you delicately as his hips begin to move, slowly, gently.
You can feel each and every inch of him as he thrusts in and out of you. Moaning against Brock’s mouth, you move your hands up to grab onto either side of his face, pulling him impossibly closer to you as you wrap your legs around his hips, changing the angle. He’s able to hit you right where you need it most, and you can feel your walls beginning to flutter as you let out a needy, high pitched moan against his lips.
He angles an experimental thrust just a bit harder, grinding against you more forcefully. You thump your head back against the table and let out a groan from deep in your chest. Brock ducks his head down to press a kiss to your clavicle, and then against the space between your breasts.
“You like that baby?” he rasps out, sounding suspiciously close to his own climax. “You feel good?” You nod your head--or at least you hope it resembles a nod. Brock chuckles darkly and speeds up, hips snapping forward with much more force than before, and you let out a breathy whimper each time he hits your spot.
He props himself up from his elbows onto his hands, now able to get a better look at you. Reaching up to run a hand over his torso, you feel his abs bunch and coil beneath your fingertips as he pistons into you. His breathing is getting choppier and his gasps are getting higher and higher, blending into whines as he leans back down to press his lips against yours again.
“Fuck, Y/N, fuck! I fucking love you, shit.” His words buzz against your lips as his thrusts begin to grow sloppier and he chases down his peak.
Your orgasm hits you like an eighteen-wheeler, your muscles seizing up and your vision whiting out. Grasping weakly and wildly at his shoulders, you yank Brock back down to you, kissing him with all that you're worth. Biting down on his lower lip, you roll the swollen appendage between your teeth and watch as all of his features tense and then relax and then tense again, and you feel his warmth filling you up.
“Shit, fuck, fuck, god damn baby girl,” he groans out. You smile minutely against Brock's lips, pressing a gentle kiss against them. When he returns the favor, you smile again. He pulls back and stares down at you, those eyes taking in every line and curve of your face. “God, you're gorgeous.” He dives back in for another kiss. "I can't believe you're finally all mine," he murmurs against your mouth.
As your lips fold against Brock's, your traitorous brain begins whirring with all of the wrong things about what just happened, but you ignore it in favor of all of the right things that your body is telling you just occurred. The task is simple up until one specific thought begins echoing around in a vicious whisper.
Steve.