pov: упрямый и невыносимый брок рамлоу, которому плевать, что ты не хочешь видеться с ним.
это с самого начала стало невыносимо. тебе казалось, что работать с такими опытными солдатами было чуть ли не подарком с небес. новичку, который еще не участвовал ни в каких операциях, даже при работе на полицию.
"эй, принцесса, у нас тут не бал-маскарад. хорош вытанцовывать передо мной и дерись."
сколько же раз хотелось дать в морду своему новому капитану.. трудно было сосчитать. пальцев на руках и ногах не хватит. но даже в тренировочное время, когда вы вставали в спарринг друг против друга, у тебя никак не получалось ударить его, как следует. будто он просто издевался над тобой, как над ребенком.
спустя время и пару месяцев брок остепенился. вас бросили на три бесконечные недели в пустыне, в которой произошло слишком многое для каждого из отряда. для кого-то эта операция, эта война стала последней.
"ублюдки." он рычал, словно от его голоса, ненависти и эмоций все встало бы на свои места. "даже не дали похоронить его, как следует."
когда брок несколько раз подставляется под удары, погрузившись в свои мысли, ты срываешься. словно накопив всю обиду и боль, которые терзали и тебя из-за произошедшего, ты выбиваешь из его всю дурь, пока мужчина не падает на паркет под твоим весом.
"какого хрена?!.."
"это я хочу спросить, какого хрена с вами происходит, капитан." новый удар по лицу, после которого рамлоу уже не решается говорить.
вы расходитесь, словно ничего и не происходило.
начальство, узнав о произошедшем, пользуясь тем, что обстановка в стране стала более-менее стабильная и мирная, выделила всему отряду отпуск. небольшой, но вполне достаточный, чтобы отдохнуть друг от друга, переварить свои воспоминания и не сойти с ума.
тебе кажется, что у судьбы довольно специфический юмор, когда на пороге квартиры оказывается пропитанный спиртом насквозь рамлоу.
"принцесса."
от его голоса, явно прокуренного, у тебя невольно бегут мурашки по спине.
"впустишь?.. я, конечно, не принц, не рыцарь, но тоже вполне неплох.."
"валите к джеку, пусть он будет вашей нянькой."
дверь с хлопком запирается, не позволяя солдату ступить и шагу. вообще ситуация довольно забавная, учитывая, сколько понтов обычно сыплется со стороны их капитана. ты на секунду задумываешься, стоит ли вернуться в коридор и заснять на видео брока для будущего шантажа на запас, но все же вздыхаешь и уходишь вглубь квартиры.
тебе самой трудно определить причину своего поведения: то ли бесило, что такой упертый натренированный баран позволял себе раскисать, то ли просто его симпатичная рожа так приелась.
и сколько бы ты не думала о том, что с этого дня все наладился, он просохнет, встанет обратно в колею, на следующий день ситуация повторяется вопреки всем твоим ожиданиям. стук в дверь, затем еще, затем какое-то неразборчивое кряхтение на испанском.
ты открываешь дверь с максимально недоумевающим выражением лица. больше уставшим, чем удивленным.
"боги, вы еще и другие языки знаете.."
улыбка рамлоу расплывается чуть ли не от уха до уха. алкоголь в бутылке шумно переливается, когда он пытается выпрямиться.
"я вообще много что могу. показать?"
"спасибо, обойдусь. что надо?"
"о, принцесса, не будь такой грубой. прояви уважение к гостю."
ты едва сдерживаешь себя, чтобы не закатить глаза.
"здесь пьяных гостей не любят. пусть приходят, когда протрезвеют."
но брок так искренне строит глазки, так непривычно смотрит, что в животе невольно все скручивает от накативших эмоций. хочется приложиться лбом о стену, чтобы прийти в себя.
в итоге, стоит ему сделать лишь одно касание, своей рукой к твоей, ты сдаешься. вся крепость, которую ты терпеливо выстраивала с самой первой встречи, рушится, будто карточный домик.
"хрен с тобой.." ты вздыхаешь и одергиваешь ладонь. прежде чем закрыть дверь, оставляешь небольшую щель и говоришь тихо, едва слышно. "завтра в шесть. я люблю кактусы и белое полусладкое."
злишься еще какое-то время на себя. ходишь по комнатам, ругаешься вслух и осыпаешь всеми возможными проклятиями этого невыносимого мужчину. такими, которые даже самостоятельно выдумываешь, лишь бы не замолкать.
потом прощаешь абсолютно все, когда минута в минуту он стоит на пороге с горшком в руках и своей фирменной дурацкой улыбкой на лице.
TRIGGERS: Human Trafficing, drinking, religion, working the street, runaway from home, some sex talk
This is a dark story. DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE UNDER 18, OR IF YOU GET TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING BDSM, TORTURE, DARK MATERIAL!
HAPPY READING!
CHAPTER ONE - GRACE!
“You can still back out,’ Sasha's voice rings out beside her. Grace keeps looking down on the slick black tiles on the floor. They could be used as a mirror, they were that shiny and well taken care of. “Grace?” Sasha tries again.
Grace shifts her attention from the floor and over to Sasha. “No,” she replies. “I don’t want to go back out there again. I don’t want to sleep on cardboard boxes in parking garages anymore,” she continues.
“Good,” Sasha continues. “Because this is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” she adds. “My friend got through last year, and now she lives in a mansion, a mansion I'm not kidding,” she delivers the information with an enthusiasm that Grace can't quite understand. “Although she still does the ‘work’ and the guy is like really old,” Sasha's enthusiasm dies off a bit along with the really old part, but it doesn't take long before her enthusiasm is back with renewed force. “But aaa, she lives in a mansion, a mansion,” she continues, clapping her hands together and her eyes take on this dreamy look, as if she can see the mansion in front of her.
Grace can't understand the enthusiasm at all. Yeah, a bed to sleep in would be great; and a lot better than cardboard boxes, parking garages and angry cops following them. And, yeah, a mansion with a fireplace and a working kitchen sounds amazing after about ten years on the street. But the price to pay for all of it; it seems a bit steep for her liking. Not that she wasn't used to it. She had been living on the street since she was sixteen, and you know, selling oneself was an easy and quick way to get her hands on some money. But, even if she saw the price as steep, the price to pay for her other option was steeper. It was like choosing between bad and worse, and she already knew what worse looked and felt like. Sasha had given her a chance to get off the street, and she was going to take it; no matter how steep the price was.
“They're not all old,” Sasha opens her mouth again. “Some of them are business men, or mafia guys just looking for someone to own,” she tries; not succeeding to ease Grace's nerves.
“Someone to use, you mean?” Grace cuts her off. She was used to that too. When you sold yourself, like she did, the norm was sorta to be used. To be honest, she didn't know what was worse; to be owned and used by one person, every day for the rest of her life. Or, to have to go out and search for a new one who could use her every night for the rest of her life. At least with the one person option, she would have a roof over her head.
Sasha shrugs. “Poteto, potato,” she says, and Grace knows she's right. And if someone were to actually pay a fair amount of money for her, they wouldn't ruin her in any way; she hoped.
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Every year in April, Xander Feldbank Investments held their annual underground auction. It was renowned in the underworld, getting attention from Mafia leaders, shady casino owners, filthy rich and powerful businessmen and other people with way too much money and a narcissistic personality disorder. The entry fee alone was $500, and the starting bid was always somewhere around $100.000 to $150.000; meaning you had to have deep pockets to even get a foot in the door.
The screening process was just as strict for the girls as it was for the participants. It was an honor to even get into the first round of auditions, and to advance from that was an even bigger honor. Grace had almost felt like she was a part of Miss United States during the whole thing. And now she was here, at the Feldbank Hotel & Conference center; indulging in the comforting luxury.
Situated in the heart of New York City, the Feldbank Hotel & Conference Center presented a facade of luxury and opulence. Unaware of the hotel's shady business dealings, guests were treated to a lavish experience, with 350 rooms, many boasting stunning views of the city skyline. Tourists from around the globe flocked to the Feldbank, drawn by its promise of comfortable and indulgent accommodations.
The hotel lobby was an extraordinary experience. It cocooned visitors in a world of luxury and relaxation, far removed from the hustle and bustle outside. Sleek black tiles lined the floor, meticulously crafted and complemented by the dark natural wood of the walls. Carefully chosen plants and Chinese flower trees added to the ambiance, making the space feel like a separate, tranquil world. A majestic fountain nestled in the center, creating a soothing environment that welcomed guests to relax and leave the outside behind.
Grace, who was about to leave her former life behind, was sitting in one of the dark gray leather couches, sipping her martini while watching all the ‘normal’ people walking around. If someone had told her four months ago that she would be here now, she would've laughed at them. Every girl working the streets in New York knew about Feldbank and his annual auction. Hundreds of girls tried to get through every year, most of which were not successful. But she had marveled at all the nice things they got to keep, even if they didn't go through. Prada bags with tons of expensive makeup and nice clothes,most of the girls sold it of course to pay for their addictions. Drugs were strictly forbidden, if any girl at any point during the audition rounds delivered a positive drug test, they were out. Grace had thankfully managed to stay away from that part of the life she led, though she understood why some of the girls did resolve to that kind of numbing themselfs. Working the street wasn't easy on the mind.
“Ladies,” a voice sounds from the other side of the table. “Your room is ready,” the voice continues. Grace looks up, the man on the other side of the table is well dressed in a black suit, accompanied by a white shirt underneath and a black tie with a gold pin on. He's slightly older, probably one of Feldbank's right hand guys. One of the ones who accompanies guests for his shady business, such as the annual auction. “I am sure you'll be very pleased with your room,” he continues as they follow him to one of the elevators. “It's on the fifth floor, and it has a stunning view over Central Park,” he adds, clinical like he's talking from a script. Grace can't figure out if the clinical part is because he looks down on them, or if this is the way he talks to all the guests.
The soothing elevator music calms her nerves a bit, she watches the elevators display as the numbers go up, indicating that they're climbing. She shouldn't feel nervous, though she didn't know what she was about to walk into. Every night for the past ten years has been like that. New cars, new customers, new places, new kinks. She was used to that, the only difference now was that what she was walking into was most likely for the rest of her life. Oh, and yeah it wasn't like she sold herself this time, she had agreed to be auctioned off at the Feldbank annual auction.
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The concierge's glowing description of their room was entirely accurate. Two plush queen-sized beds with soft, high-quality linens occupied one wall, while the well-maintained carpet beneath their feet featured a striking black and gold pattern that echoed the hotel's decor. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with natural light and framed a breathtaking view of Central Park. Grace couldn't recall ever before experiencing such lavish accommodations, and the sense of privilege it evoked was one she had long forgotten.
The bathroom was a stunning, luxurious oasis. Black and gold accents adorned the walls and floors, creating a cohesive, high-end aesthetic. A jacuzzi tub was anchored against the wall by a large picture window, offering a breathtaking view of the park outside. Gleaming gold faucets stood in contrast to the dark bathroom interior. Overhead, a sparkling chandelier bathed the room in a soft, diamond-like glow.
Grace paused in the doorway, taking it all in with awe. She couldn't wait to indulge in a long, relaxing soak, readying herself for whatever the next day had in store - even if she wasn't quite sure what that might be. One thing was certain, she would need to look her absolute best.
Sasha's voice rang out from the other room, "Champagne!" A pop followed as she opened a bottle. "He said we could help ourselves to anything in the minibar," she continued, pouring the sparkling liquid into two flutes. "And we should definitely celebrate," she finished, draining her glass in one gulp before refilling it.
"Sure," Grace replied, slowly walking over and sitting down next to Sasha. "What exactly are we celebrating?" she asked, lifting her flute to taste the expensive champagne. While she understood that indulging in the luxury was worth celebrating their presence here, she wasn't convinced the celebration was warranted just yet. She could be fortunate, but she could also be disappointed. And she wasn't sure how people who could afford the $500 entry fee typically behaved.
Grace decided not to dwell on those concerns. Instead, she would enjoy this night, which was likely the last she'd spend with Sasha. They could get lucky and be bought by the same client, but Grace saw that as highly improbable. She had to come to terms with the fact that after tomorrow, she would probably never see Sasha again - a prospect that saddened her.
Filled with a sudden pang of regret, she stood up, taking her flute with her over to the window. Standing there, marveling at the amazing view, listening to Sasha laughing and cheering as she pops yet another champagne bottle, Grace thinks back. Memories wash over her as she contemplates how on earth she ended up here.
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Grace Shepherd was born and raised in Lake Charles, located in Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana. Her mother, Leah Shepherd was a stay at home mom, devoted to taking care of her family. And her father, Christian Shepherd was a reverend for the local congregation.
Grace grew up in a well-kept white farmhouse, surrounded by a lush lawn, meticulously crafted flower beds, and apple trees enclosed by a white picket fence. To the outside world, her family appeared to be the picture of piety and devotion, with an unwavering commitment to God and their local congregation. However, behind closed doors, the reality was far from the idyllic facade.
From a young age, Grace had been a challenging child. As soon as she could speak, profanities poured forth, much to the frustration of her parents, especially her mother. Her disruptive behavior extended to church, where she regularly misbehaved, only avoiding expulsion from Sunday school due to her father's position as the reverend.
While Grace performed adequately in school, neither excelling nor struggling, her parents constantly pressured her to do better, to be better, and to wholeheartedly embrace the Christian faith - a path she steadfastly refused to follow.
As Grace entered her teenage years, her acting out escalated, resulting in multiple suspensions from school. At one point, her parents were convinced that the devil had taken hold of their daughter, a belief that Grace herself began to share, though by then, she had simply stopped caring.
At sixteen, she'd had enough of the constant fighting with her mother. One day, after a particularly heated argument, she hastily packed a bag with her phone, toothbrush, some clothes, and the little money she had - everything her teenage self deemed essential. As she opened the door to leave, her mother's words echoed in her mind: "If you walk out that door, don't even think about coming back!" Determined, she never returned home.
After wandering in the rain for a while, she made the decision to hitchhike from one of the truck stops along I-81, her sights set on New York City - back then, she thought the bustling metropolis was the place to start anew. How wrong she was.
Desperate for a ride, she spent her last few dollars on a pink dildo with a black handle. In the truck stop bathroom, she used it to break her own hymen, figuring a lonely trucker would likely want some form of payment for the journey. Afterward, she discarded the dildo, drawing a parallel to how she felt she'd be treated - used and then discarded, though at least this way she maintained a sense of control.
She had no idea if her parents had ever searched for her. After a decade, the state had likely declared her deceased and buried an empty casket. Yet she felt indifferent - whether her parents cared or not was inconsequential. This was the first time in years she had even contemplated them.
So her journey had begun. Once a child of God, she had fallen under the devil's sway. Perhaps her parents were right about the wrath of God punishing her defiance. But nothing could be worse than the cardboard boxes and parking garages that had become her existence. Right?
Warnings: Mention of characters death, interrogation.
Summary: You discovered Brock’s past.
A/N: This is my entry to @multifandom-lover, Annie-1018 & square 2:
"I used to be a sweet kid."
You can read it on Wattpad & Ao3 too.
@saiyanprincessswanie
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Brock kept the small locket with your photo; no one but him knew of the existence of that object. That day, maybe it would be his last mission, his last chance to see you. He had a feeling about what would happen, although he could not discern whether it would be good or bad.
He loves you, and he knew that you loved him too, but neither of us dared to take the first step, nor would he forget the look on your face when you discovered who he really was.
He cursed when Steve forced him into the vehicle; indeed, the mission had not gone as he had planned. He knew what would happen, but he would manage to escape.
He had always liked interrogations, but he preferred to carry them out and not be asked the questions himself.
He was sure that Rogers would be the one interrogating him, so he would do everything he could to make him mad and not get any answers. Steve had ruined his life.
Twenty minutes before the door opened, Brock settled into his seat, though he was suddenly confused when he saw you come in instead of Steve.
"It's been a long time," you said, looking at him.
"I can explain," Brock commented, pretending to be disinterested. He wasn't going to let you realize that you had surprised him; he was completely sure that Steve wouldn't miss the opportunity to get information from one of his enemies.
"What are you going to explain to me, Brock? Why were you trying to steal a highly dangerous substance? Or why were you part of HYDRA? " you scoffed.
"Whatever you want, although I guess you're more interested in knowing the former, I guess you're going to record it." Brock's voice sounded sarcastic.
"No one knows I'm here; in fact, no one suspects it, so no cameras," you commented.
Yes, you had used your powers for that; no one would notice that you were talking or anything that happened there. You could even be there for hours and they wouldn't notice it; in reality, it would only be less than a second.
"I know you like me," he said suddenly.
"You don't know anything, Brock."
"I know how you feel about me; I know what you thought about me that day; I saw everything in your eyes; I know too many things... "
"Don't try to be funny, Rumlow; I didn't come here to talk about that," "you said.
"I used to be a sweet kid."
"What? "
"I had a good childhood; my father was military, kind of strict, but still. You know, sometimes things happen for a reason; I didn't expect to be an orphan at sixteen."
"Did that make you what you are now? Is that how you justify everything you've done? "
"Not exactly, but that's how I ended up in the HYDRA facility."
Brock kept telling you everything that had happened in his life as you tried to decipher his intentions. In the end, he was right; you were in love with him, but you needed to know what his plan was. Anyway, it seemed like it was a forbidden love, but how many things hadn't you already done in hiding from the organization?
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"As soon as you said it, I realized, we're not in the cell at the base, are we?"
"Do you really care where we are?"
"No, of course, we could do other things," Brock suggested suggestively.
You smiled. They wouldn't do anything there, but somewhere else.
"Don't worry, I'll show you the plan later, but in the meantime, you must be ready; at any moment, I'll take you out of here," you told him.
Before Brock could say anything else, he was already alone in the room again; however, this time he was smiling. He was going to get out of there, and in the best way possible, with your help.
He looked up when he heard the door open again; this time it was Steve, so he smirked.
Crossbones by Ron Lim, Terry Austin and Paul Mounts (1992) . What did you think about Crossbones in the MCU? . #crossbones #captainamerica #captainamericathewintersoldier #captainamericacivilwar #mcu #terryaustin #paulmounts #90s #ronlim #brockrumlow https://www.instagram.com/p/CihL4YasfZx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
[ok so i read fanfics where brock is like a merfolk and im absolutely in love with that idea so here’s a circus ticket advertising ‘Brock Rumlow the Merman’]
👊 Cape Bros 🦸 . . . (It took a long time to acquire Ittybittys Doctor Strange. He was sold only online and recently has Hallmark sold out. Had to get him through eBay, but he's had a big welcoming to the family party!) #doctorstrange #drstrange #benedictcumberbatch #cape #cloakoflevitation #hallmark #fancypurplecapecrossbones #ittybittys #bittystrange #mopeez #funko #crossbones #frankgrillo #avengers #brockrumlow #cute https://www.instagram.com/p/Bstgx1Dn81w/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=165jsg8gg2qqg
