Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brock's had his eyes on him for months. Too long, really. He tells himself it's professional interest. Awareness. Captain America needs someone to keep an eye on him-- Needs a little grounding. But then the missions get rougher, the debriefs shorter, and the shirts tighter. Rumlow starts to clock every bounce of Steve's chest when he runs, every nip of cool air that perks up those nipples under those skin-tight SHIELD uniform tee's.

It was only a matter of time.

So when the mission wraps and Steve peels off his uniform and rounds the corner behind him-- Alone, too trusting-- It's not even a decision. Rumlow just grabs him, shoves him back against the metal wall with a low sound. One hand braces the wall beside his shoulder, the other is already on him. Flat against his chest. Didn't even take his gloves off, first. "Goddamn, Rogers," He muttered, squeezing slow over the soft curve of one pec, tracing the line of it through the cotton. "You ever look in the mirror, hm? Tits like this and you don't think someone's gonna take notice?" Brock feels the flinch when he grazes a muscle that jolts under his hand. "Eyes on me," He said, sharp. "C'mon, baby, don't go and get all shy on me now. You're the one wearin' this tight-ass uniform and just beggin' for it."

Steve didn't move-- Didn't really look at Brock, either, just stared somewhere off over the top of his head. But his throat moves.

And that's permission enough.

"Look at you," Brock grinned, let his hand drift, the rough fabric of his gloves dragging across heated skin. "Fuckin' perfect-- Better than half the broads I've been with. Bet you'd look good under me, yeah? Shirt all pushed up, you'd take it so goddamn sweetly-- How far does that blush go?" He spread his fingers wide, sweeping them across Steve's ribs. Then higher, brushing the slope of a pec, then circling over one of his nipples, stiffening through the thin fabric with a lazy kind of ease that makes Steve suck a breath in straight through his nose.

"Oh, hell, you like that." Brock drawled, "Tryin' real hard not to, but I can feel like. Bet you get real sensitive when you're all keyed up like this. Post-fight, all that adrenaline still pumpin' though you." Steve flinches again when Brock's thumb presses just right, dull naill scraping-- Then just his thumb, working it in slow, lazy circles. Through the thin fabric, then under it. His fingers slip past the hem and drag up.

"Don't--" Steve said, finally, but it's weak. And he doesn't push Brock away-- His hands just hover around Brock's forearms, like he's unsure what to do with them.

Rumlow lets out a rumbling laugh. "Don't what?" He hums, lips brushing Steve's ear, already rolling the pad of his thumb rough over the bare nipple. "Don't stop? Don't tease you? Don't think so, sweetheart, 'cause you ain't doin' a damn thing to stop me."

Rumlow circles back to that nipple again, pinches just hard enough that Steve bites back a sound.

"Oh, that was a whine, babe." He murmured, "You tryin'ta be quiet for me?"

Steve's eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulder crowding hard against the metal, like if he leans back hard enough he'll go right through it. "That's it," Rumlow murmured. His other hand's on Steve's hip, dragging him forward by the belt. "You're breathin' real hard, sweetheart. Shakin'. Say the word, I'll stop."

Steve chewed hard on his lower lip and glanced away. "No word," Brock says, softly, mouthing lightly over the exposed skin of Steve's throat. "You want me to play with those tits like they're fuckin' mine."

Steve makes an actual sound, this time-- It was half-breath, half-moan. His head dropped back against the wall with a muted thud, like he's close to giving up trying to hide how much he's feeling this.

Brock's other hand slides lower, dragging fingertips down the ridges of Steve's stomach, tucking back into the waistband of Steve's suit. Not in. Just resting. "You act like you don't want it," He let his teeth scrape along Steve's throat. "But your body's fuckin' honest."

He squeezed Steve's nipple hard between two fingers, enough to make his knees lock.

"Bet you're hard already," He whispered. "Bet you've been hard since I backed you into this wall."

Steve twitched, a flicker of his eyes, just for a second. Like he knows this is wrong. But not wrong enough.

"Still ain't stoppin' me," Rumlow hummed, tilting his head as he pressed the heel of his hand just over the outline of Steve's cock. His grin turned sharp. "Might even let you ride my thigh and show me how back you really need it."

Steve still doesn't say no.
And that's the prettiest permission Rumlow's ever gotten.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t ask the next time—He just catches Steve by the wrist in the hallway and drags him through the half-jammed door of some old storage closet. It was cramped, dark, stacked to the ceiling with broken gear and boxes of old uniforms.
Steve huffs as his back hits the shelves and he opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid.
Brock doesn’t let him.

He grabs two fistfuls of that tight gray undershirt and drags it up, bunching it up against Steve’s throat. His hands were right back on that chest, fucking greedy, his palms full of firm muscle, fingers teasing over his stiff nipples just to feel the way Steve trembles against him.

And, this time, Steve’s moving, too.
This time not trying to push him away.

He twists a fist in Rumlow’s vest and tugs him in close, panting softly.
“Fucking knew it,” He murmured, grinning into Steve’s neck. “Act like tough shit all y’want, sweetheart. The second I get you alone, you’re just tits and thighs and pathetic fuckin’ sounds.”

“Shut up,” Steve rasped out, but he’s sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, head tipped back against a shelf, letting Brock nip a bruise into the side of his throat.

“Oh,” He laughed, softly. “Now you talk, when I’ve got my hand halfway down your pants.”

And he does, he’s got Steve pants shoved halfway down around his thighs, boxers caught under one leg. His fist’s wrapped tight around Steve’s cock, working in long, slow strokes. Steve is gasping against his neck, hips twitching up into Brock’s grip.

Steve’s got both hands on him now.
One’s braced on Rumlow’s belt, the other still twisted into his vest like if he lets go, he’ll fall.

It was supposed to be quick. Five minutes, give or take, just enough time for them both to get it out of their system.
But Steve bit down on a whimper, moans low into his shoulder and Brock knows that five minutes wasn’t going to cut it.

He yanks Steve forward, spinning him around and slamming him back up against the shelves. They clatter hard against the wall, sending a small shower of drywall into Steve’s hair.
His cock is thick against the swell of Steve’s ass, and he grinds down hard against him. Steve rocks back, muttering something about debriefs and time.
Brock shut him up again by sticking two fingers in his mouth. “You could’a gone straight to the meeting room, walked the other way.”

Steve closed his mouth around Brock’s fingers, sucking hard for a moment before Brock withdrew them. He trailed his hand down Steve’s back, pushing both fingers inside without much prep.
Steve hissed through the pressure, the wire of the shelf creaking softly under his grip. “Hush,” Brock bit hard at Steve’s shoulder, twisting his wrist and curling his fingers until Steve shuddered. “You earned this- Flaunting around with tits like that—”
Brock’s holding him steady, his other hand digging deep into the flesh of his hip as he drags his fingers back, nice and slow.
“God you’re fucking perfect,” He was fucking Steve at a stewady pace, now, “Gonna come for me, Rogers? Bent over in a goddamn storage closet?”

He's close already, Brock can feel it—He’s twitching on his hand, muscles locking up and the shelf he’d been clinging to was already dented.
So Brock keeps going, leans in, breath hot against Steve’s ear.
“Yeah, go ahead, come for me, baby, lemme hear—"

Click.
The sound of the door’s latch made both their heads shoot up.

Light flooded into the tiny closet, damn near blinding.
Rollins, leaning in the doorway, he looked them both over, once. Slow.
He raised a brow, one hand still on the doorknob.
“Cap,” He hummed, “Bit warm in here, hm?”

And Steve scrambled, trying to tug his shirt down and his pants up over his ass—But he’s stuck, still trapped under Brock’s arms and Rumlow doesn’t move.
Just pushes him back down with one hand in the middle of his back, watching Rollins with a dark look.

“They’ve been trying to page you, moved the debrief up.” Jack said, voice smooth. “Commander.”

Brock let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Not a great time, Jack.”

Steve glared at the wall, looking like he wanted to die.

“No shit,” Jack rolled his eyes, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even throw a glance towards Steve. He just pinned Rumlow with another long stare. “You really gonna throw a mission schedule over a goddam handjob?”

Steve’s shoulders shook, and he’s mortified—Red-faced, trying to shrink down into himself, like he could phase through the wall if he tried hard enough.

Brock still had Steve pinned down, hand flat between his shoulder blades.

“You planning to finish in front of me, or..?”

That set him off, Brock cursing under his breath and stepping back, letting go of Steve.

Jack was quiet, watching Steve flinch, watching Steve finally managed to tug his clothes back to where they were supposed to be like that fucking mattered.

He turns to Rumlow.

“Get cleaned up, they’re waiting.”

Something in Brock’s jaw ticks at the order, his cock’s still hard, and he wants to finish it—Wants to drag Steve down, make him cry for it right in front of Rollins just to prove who was actually in fucking charge.
But he doesn’t.

Jack opened the door again, letting more light filter in. “Two minutes,” He adds, looking over his shoulder. “Next time you sneak off, lock the goddamn door.”